The early years of the 21st Century have seen an increased awareness and willingness amongst the UK population to save energy in their homes. This has been made possible by a lot of good technology. We can create a micro-climate through the use of control systems from our mobile phones, form different zones on a room to room basis and watch the levels of our own power consumption on a smart meter. Reliance on and to a certain extent dependency on fossil fuels is not now the case with a wider range of alternatives and renewables. There has been a noticeable increase in the number of roof mounted solar panels in our neighbourhoods, wind turbines in the countryside and other innovations are within financial range such as ground source and air source heat pumps and the harnessing of thermal energy and bio-mass appliances. In addition to making our use of energy in cleverer and more economical ways there has been a big initiative to improve insulation and airtightness of buildings, This has been and will continue to be problematic with an aged housing stock of inherently poor thermal efficiency as a consequence of solid wall construction, ill fitting windows, old and open chimney flues and naturally draughty roofs and eaves. It will be an ongoing challenge and some even bigger changes will be required in our lifestyles and attitudes. I find this interesting given that over my 50 years of life our concerns and practical attempts to reduce our own utility costs and by a roundabout route to prolong the ability of the planet to sustain life are not as we may think a fairly recent phenomena. I think back to my childhood in the 1970's when there were periods of quite drastic energy crises and in particular what sort of things were around by which to make economies and compromises. Here are a few of them that I recall.
Put on a thick jumper and an extra pair of socks.
Wear a balaclava in bed at night
Tuck the bedroom curtains up onto the widow cill
Stick sellotape around the inside of the wooden window frames
Use a hot water bottle
Share the bathwater with other family members
Have a wash at a friends house
Go swimming at the council pool regularly
Read under the bed covers with a torch
Collect up the melted candle wax and make a new candle
Just have one bar working on the electric fire
Apply self adhesive draught excluder to every door frame
Put your feet under a warm pet
Make a hot drink with water from the hot tap
Have a bonfire and stand around it as long as possible
Warm up the kitchen with only one gas hob ring
Line your trouser legs with old newspapers
and........dream about something called central heating.
Friday, 7 February 2014
Thursday, 6 February 2014
Tinkle Tinkle
Victorian hand floated glass, in all of its beauty and fragility, does make a lovely tinkling sound when cascading down a stairwell.
This was the unfortunate consequence of my attempt to ease open the large stained glass skylight hatch, high up in the ceiling, with the clumpy rubber foot of my aluminium ladders. It was a second attempt over the course of 4 days.
The first attempt, was always doomed to failure. It was, after all, the last job of the day on a friday and as everyone knows. but may not admit to it, there is a natural relaxation of endeavour, commitment and energy at such a time. My Father always attributed something of poor quality or reliability to the mentality of a friday afternoon assembly line, particularly things like a car built by the old State owned British Leyland.
The inspection of a roofspace is always the final stage of my typical survey work on a house. I look forward to it because the roof void cannot lie, or in other terms, it is often the only original part of a property and always has a tale to tell, unless of course it has been converted into living space, a gymnasium, a sauna, a repository for pornographic magazines or a hydroponic paradise for the cultivation of cannabis. It continues to surprise me that when enquiring of a homeowner of any particular tricks or traits of the access to a roofspace they admit to never having been up there. Every hatch, trap door, opening and wriggle space are different. I never take them for granted and approach each carefully in case I am confronted by a shower of granular insulation, the aggressive attack by a sliding loft ladder, a cascade of dead insects or a dense mist of centuries-old dirt and grime. Loft spaces have revealed a lot of interesting things. A cane wheeled bicycle, a few mannequins, a diary documenting a clandestine relationship between a woman and her brother in law, vintage bottles of wine, archived newspapers, the initials of builders etched into the chimney breast and the date when they worked on bomb damage or re-roofing, discarded vinyl records and many an old steamer trunk that I dare not open to reveal its secrets.
I did not hold out for much with this new adversary of a skylight. It had been concealed for perhaps 15 or 20 years by a suspended/false ceiling. It would originally have streamed coloured light onto the otherwise darkened stairwell and landing from a glass slate in the main roof slope giving a mysterious and soporific effect. It was wholly redundant for that purpose. The suspended ceiling was one of those types salvaged from a 1970's office building and so much out of place in a house. A light metal framework, part supported on wall brackets and wire hangers held in place the large rectangular panels of what may have been a thermo-acoustic material but was, to my mind, just above a thick cardboard, Over the years the material had become brittle and corner sections had snapped off, only to be repositioned like a last, forced jigsaw puzzle piece.
I had asked the homeowners if I could move one of the ceiling panels to try to get to the old skylight which was yet another metre or so higher. Although gossamer light the panel was awkward to ease out of the metal runners and had to be carefully slid back over its neighbours. The grating sound was, I subsequently saw, the friction between the fibrous panel and the petrified droppings of many a large rodent which covered the upper surfaces of the ceiling. It resembled the aftermath of an explosion in a raisin packing plant. I regretted not putting on my Miami CSi latex gloves, safety goggles and facemask at this stage.
I had a better, but not clear view now of the old skylight. A typical example being, in old measurements, a yard and a half in length and a yard wide. The stained glass was dull and lifeless with no backlighting but I could make out the cobalt blue, deep reds with Yorkshire Rose etched motif and a myriad of exotic colours. My ladders in hinged step mode were no way high enough to reach the skylight to see if it would move. Extending the ladders to their full 15 foot height was going to be a challenge in the confined space of the landing, amongst a lot of personal effects, under the claustrophobic former high tech false ceiling and now with an audience composed of the house occupants who had been drawn to the noise of my performance so far.
In contempt of the best safety guidance for ladder work I angled them precariously over the deep stairwell and with the top just about making contact with the recess of the skylight opening. I gave a final push to try to dislodge the skylight and there ensued the sickening sound of breaking glass and a shower of sparkling and melodious shards around me and down the stairs. Fortunately, the family gathering had dispersed out of boredom and I escaped a legal action for potential maiming injuries from the lethal shower.
The hatch was hinged and the next critical stage would be as it rose up, over and fell down in the open position. The thickness of loft insulation cushioned potential for more damage. Now fully inserted into the darkness of the loft the ladder developed a worrying wobble. Health magazines made a useful wedge under the slightly higher leg. It was difficult to progress up the inclined rungs especially with a crowbar in one hand and a torch in the other but I made it to the top and made a few mental notes with which to provide comments in my report.
On reflection and although a difficult exercise I was not prepared for what was required to close up the hatch and make good the fairly extensive damage and disarray I had caused so far. The ladders were tight up against the hinged side of the skylight and although in reach their pressure on the woodwork prevented any movement.
I retreated to the landing to take stock and work out what to do to just get out of there. It was turning into something of an audition for the Krypton Factor and I was running out of time. It took me another 30 minutes to finally refix the last of the false panels and in a hot, sweaty and exhausted state I was at last out of the door and into the street. In slight panic I thought that I had left my torch in the roofspace but it was found lurking in my deepest coat pocket. I would be quite happy to have left it there as a warning to others finding themselves in the same horrible situation.
This was the unfortunate consequence of my attempt to ease open the large stained glass skylight hatch, high up in the ceiling, with the clumpy rubber foot of my aluminium ladders. It was a second attempt over the course of 4 days.
The first attempt, was always doomed to failure. It was, after all, the last job of the day on a friday and as everyone knows. but may not admit to it, there is a natural relaxation of endeavour, commitment and energy at such a time. My Father always attributed something of poor quality or reliability to the mentality of a friday afternoon assembly line, particularly things like a car built by the old State owned British Leyland.
The inspection of a roofspace is always the final stage of my typical survey work on a house. I look forward to it because the roof void cannot lie, or in other terms, it is often the only original part of a property and always has a tale to tell, unless of course it has been converted into living space, a gymnasium, a sauna, a repository for pornographic magazines or a hydroponic paradise for the cultivation of cannabis. It continues to surprise me that when enquiring of a homeowner of any particular tricks or traits of the access to a roofspace they admit to never having been up there. Every hatch, trap door, opening and wriggle space are different. I never take them for granted and approach each carefully in case I am confronted by a shower of granular insulation, the aggressive attack by a sliding loft ladder, a cascade of dead insects or a dense mist of centuries-old dirt and grime. Loft spaces have revealed a lot of interesting things. A cane wheeled bicycle, a few mannequins, a diary documenting a clandestine relationship between a woman and her brother in law, vintage bottles of wine, archived newspapers, the initials of builders etched into the chimney breast and the date when they worked on bomb damage or re-roofing, discarded vinyl records and many an old steamer trunk that I dare not open to reveal its secrets.
I did not hold out for much with this new adversary of a skylight. It had been concealed for perhaps 15 or 20 years by a suspended/false ceiling. It would originally have streamed coloured light onto the otherwise darkened stairwell and landing from a glass slate in the main roof slope giving a mysterious and soporific effect. It was wholly redundant for that purpose. The suspended ceiling was one of those types salvaged from a 1970's office building and so much out of place in a house. A light metal framework, part supported on wall brackets and wire hangers held in place the large rectangular panels of what may have been a thermo-acoustic material but was, to my mind, just above a thick cardboard, Over the years the material had become brittle and corner sections had snapped off, only to be repositioned like a last, forced jigsaw puzzle piece.
I had asked the homeowners if I could move one of the ceiling panels to try to get to the old skylight which was yet another metre or so higher. Although gossamer light the panel was awkward to ease out of the metal runners and had to be carefully slid back over its neighbours. The grating sound was, I subsequently saw, the friction between the fibrous panel and the petrified droppings of many a large rodent which covered the upper surfaces of the ceiling. It resembled the aftermath of an explosion in a raisin packing plant. I regretted not putting on my Miami CSi latex gloves, safety goggles and facemask at this stage.
I had a better, but not clear view now of the old skylight. A typical example being, in old measurements, a yard and a half in length and a yard wide. The stained glass was dull and lifeless with no backlighting but I could make out the cobalt blue, deep reds with Yorkshire Rose etched motif and a myriad of exotic colours. My ladders in hinged step mode were no way high enough to reach the skylight to see if it would move. Extending the ladders to their full 15 foot height was going to be a challenge in the confined space of the landing, amongst a lot of personal effects, under the claustrophobic former high tech false ceiling and now with an audience composed of the house occupants who had been drawn to the noise of my performance so far.
In contempt of the best safety guidance for ladder work I angled them precariously over the deep stairwell and with the top just about making contact with the recess of the skylight opening. I gave a final push to try to dislodge the skylight and there ensued the sickening sound of breaking glass and a shower of sparkling and melodious shards around me and down the stairs. Fortunately, the family gathering had dispersed out of boredom and I escaped a legal action for potential maiming injuries from the lethal shower.
The hatch was hinged and the next critical stage would be as it rose up, over and fell down in the open position. The thickness of loft insulation cushioned potential for more damage. Now fully inserted into the darkness of the loft the ladder developed a worrying wobble. Health magazines made a useful wedge under the slightly higher leg. It was difficult to progress up the inclined rungs especially with a crowbar in one hand and a torch in the other but I made it to the top and made a few mental notes with which to provide comments in my report.
On reflection and although a difficult exercise I was not prepared for what was required to close up the hatch and make good the fairly extensive damage and disarray I had caused so far. The ladders were tight up against the hinged side of the skylight and although in reach their pressure on the woodwork prevented any movement.
I retreated to the landing to take stock and work out what to do to just get out of there. It was turning into something of an audition for the Krypton Factor and I was running out of time. It took me another 30 minutes to finally refix the last of the false panels and in a hot, sweaty and exhausted state I was at last out of the door and into the street. In slight panic I thought that I had left my torch in the roofspace but it was found lurking in my deepest coat pocket. I would be quite happy to have left it there as a warning to others finding themselves in the same horrible situation.
Wednesday, 5 February 2014
Lethal Weapon
It appears that toy guns, weapons, armaments and other items to mimic warfare and conflict have returned to the shops. The stand taken by the likes of Early Learning Centre to ban the sale of weapons may have been for nought and if they are now losing out on market share then their convictions have certainly back fired on them.
In my childhood the receiving of a toy pistol, usually a cowboy six shooter model, was joyous. They were however quite dangerous to use, not so much from the actual firing process but getting your fingers trapped under the hammer or in the hinge if the gun was of a rotating barrel type. The noise from the pistols was two-fold. The loudest noise was the whooping and a-hollering which accompanied just holding the gun. The other but most important sound came from the ammuntion.
Within pocket money range were the small strips of gunpowder spots know as caps. These could be purchased singularly or in a tight packed multi-roll from the local toy shop. A sixpence seems to be a recollection of the price but in those days everything for a child to buy was that amount. They came in small round cardboard packets, rather grainy and coarse with upper and lower sections squeezed together. Inside was a tightly wound roll of paper with perhaps 50 explosive dots. This was carefully transferred into the chamber in the gun and like an old reel to reel tape the leading edge was run up and rested under the open hammer.
Usually the roll would fall out of the container but it was always fun to gather it up and restore it to its tight compact form. A squeeze of the trigger would bring the hammer down to cause a concussive impact on the explosive with a loud bang, a flare of fire and a wonderfully addictive and evocative odour of cordite, sulphur and mischief. If flush for cash then a rapid firing sequence could easily deplete a full strip of caps. There was very little wastage after the combustive process although a few spots of gunpowder did get through unscathed. It was not always possible to wedge these leftovers into the gun so next best was to set them off by banging it with a hammer or scraping it with a nail. Without the confined spaces of a gun chamber the reaction was usually a soft sounding "phut", a puff of smoke and a momentary flash of fire.
The other form of ammunition was what my big sister always referred to as riggamorses but I think were called ringamorses although even Wikipedia cannot source this as an actual word. It may even have been a brand name back in the 1960's and early 70's. These were the next generation from caps although more likely a cynical way of extracting more pocket money from gun happy kids. The system comprised a red plastic moulded circle, like a bicycle wheel but with the equivalent spoke bed to the rim having a small round form filled with an explosive charge. The whole thing was pushed onto the rim of a rotating barrel of the toy gun and the firing hammer hit the back of each to produce the noise of a shot. Compared to caps these were limited to between 10 and 20 shots only.
Typically, the increase in the number of moving parts on a toy gun had a direct and proportionate relationship to what could break off, seize up or just not work for the desired effect.
Some of my schoolmates progressed to actual air pistols and rifles but the temptation to stray from a static bullseye target to a perching bird, next doors cat or the passing traffic was often just too much to resist. The gradual build up of fatalities in the garden was soon noticed by the grown ups leading to inevitable confiscation. Nowadays the reporting of a weapon in the hands of a minor would certainly arouse the interest and response from the tactical weapons group of the local police force with potentially dire consequences.
My own subsequent lethal weapon was very much home-made but for a short time in our street was the most popular plaything for all ages and genders. The nearest that I have seen to this has been a pipe bomb used as a terror weapon in many newsworthy conflicts.
There was always a good supply of nuts and bolts around the workbench in Fathers garage. My first assembly of a weapon from these components was quite modest being a short stubby pair of bolts with a single cap charge eased into the nut before tightening up both ends. When thrown up in the air the impact from hitting the ground would set off the explosion with a very satisfying noise and the accompaniement of cascading metal fragments as the force seperated the three constituent parts. The next logical step in the keen mind of a schoolboy was to scale up the operation.
I assembled a dozen or so of the smaller nut and bolts and threw these up in the air before taking cover around the corner of the house. The process did confirm a number of the laws of physics, such as:
a) What goes up must come down and together if of the same thing
b) noise is directly proportional to setting off the neighbours dog,
c) a loud explosion will always generate interest amongst adults,
and
d) glass in a window is not very naturally resistant to high velocity metal -well that was my explanation if challenged.
Of course there was considerable scope to ramp up both the size of the bolts and the number of cap charges. A very substantial coach bolt was eventually purchased outright from the local ironmongers and packed with almost a whole reel of caps. I threw it high into the air in the street outside the house. Running for cover I heard the extremely loud and echoing sound wave from the detonation but could not afterwards, as the smoke and cordite cleared, find any trace of the pieces anywhere.
That concluded my interest in home made bombs.
In my childhood the receiving of a toy pistol, usually a cowboy six shooter model, was joyous. They were however quite dangerous to use, not so much from the actual firing process but getting your fingers trapped under the hammer or in the hinge if the gun was of a rotating barrel type. The noise from the pistols was two-fold. The loudest noise was the whooping and a-hollering which accompanied just holding the gun. The other but most important sound came from the ammuntion.
Within pocket money range were the small strips of gunpowder spots know as caps. These could be purchased singularly or in a tight packed multi-roll from the local toy shop. A sixpence seems to be a recollection of the price but in those days everything for a child to buy was that amount. They came in small round cardboard packets, rather grainy and coarse with upper and lower sections squeezed together. Inside was a tightly wound roll of paper with perhaps 50 explosive dots. This was carefully transferred into the chamber in the gun and like an old reel to reel tape the leading edge was run up and rested under the open hammer.
Usually the roll would fall out of the container but it was always fun to gather it up and restore it to its tight compact form. A squeeze of the trigger would bring the hammer down to cause a concussive impact on the explosive with a loud bang, a flare of fire and a wonderfully addictive and evocative odour of cordite, sulphur and mischief. If flush for cash then a rapid firing sequence could easily deplete a full strip of caps. There was very little wastage after the combustive process although a few spots of gunpowder did get through unscathed. It was not always possible to wedge these leftovers into the gun so next best was to set them off by banging it with a hammer or scraping it with a nail. Without the confined spaces of a gun chamber the reaction was usually a soft sounding "phut", a puff of smoke and a momentary flash of fire.
The other form of ammunition was what my big sister always referred to as riggamorses but I think were called ringamorses although even Wikipedia cannot source this as an actual word. It may even have been a brand name back in the 1960's and early 70's. These were the next generation from caps although more likely a cynical way of extracting more pocket money from gun happy kids. The system comprised a red plastic moulded circle, like a bicycle wheel but with the equivalent spoke bed to the rim having a small round form filled with an explosive charge. The whole thing was pushed onto the rim of a rotating barrel of the toy gun and the firing hammer hit the back of each to produce the noise of a shot. Compared to caps these were limited to between 10 and 20 shots only.
Typically, the increase in the number of moving parts on a toy gun had a direct and proportionate relationship to what could break off, seize up or just not work for the desired effect.
Some of my schoolmates progressed to actual air pistols and rifles but the temptation to stray from a static bullseye target to a perching bird, next doors cat or the passing traffic was often just too much to resist. The gradual build up of fatalities in the garden was soon noticed by the grown ups leading to inevitable confiscation. Nowadays the reporting of a weapon in the hands of a minor would certainly arouse the interest and response from the tactical weapons group of the local police force with potentially dire consequences.
My own subsequent lethal weapon was very much home-made but for a short time in our street was the most popular plaything for all ages and genders. The nearest that I have seen to this has been a pipe bomb used as a terror weapon in many newsworthy conflicts.
There was always a good supply of nuts and bolts around the workbench in Fathers garage. My first assembly of a weapon from these components was quite modest being a short stubby pair of bolts with a single cap charge eased into the nut before tightening up both ends. When thrown up in the air the impact from hitting the ground would set off the explosion with a very satisfying noise and the accompaniement of cascading metal fragments as the force seperated the three constituent parts. The next logical step in the keen mind of a schoolboy was to scale up the operation.
I assembled a dozen or so of the smaller nut and bolts and threw these up in the air before taking cover around the corner of the house. The process did confirm a number of the laws of physics, such as:
a) What goes up must come down and together if of the same thing
b) noise is directly proportional to setting off the neighbours dog,
c) a loud explosion will always generate interest amongst adults,
and
d) glass in a window is not very naturally resistant to high velocity metal -well that was my explanation if challenged.
Of course there was considerable scope to ramp up both the size of the bolts and the number of cap charges. A very substantial coach bolt was eventually purchased outright from the local ironmongers and packed with almost a whole reel of caps. I threw it high into the air in the street outside the house. Running for cover I heard the extremely loud and echoing sound wave from the detonation but could not afterwards, as the smoke and cordite cleared, find any trace of the pieces anywhere.
That concluded my interest in home made bombs.
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
Wishy Washy
I admit to being a first time water meter customer.
This was with some trepidation after the last 18 years of living in a house on a normal water rates tariff.
That period coincided with all of the major water demands of a family with three children, a demanding garden and constantly grubby cars. We of course had sensitivity to environmental issues and on the rare occasion of a hosepipe ban were the first to cut back. The inflatable bag went into the WC cistern to cut down on wastage in the flushing process and long after it perished we continued the commendable practice with half a house brick.
Nevertheless, being on a direct debit monthly payment there were certainly a few times when I lost control and well, simply, gleefully, left a tap running in between actually cleaning my teeth or added that extra depth to the bathtub and luxuriated in a shameless manner, toe caressing the hot tap as though taunting Yorkshire Water.
It all changed with the house move at the end of last year and the ownership of a water meter.
I had to lie out on the pavement in order to take the final reading in the company of the sellers on the day that we took up occupation and witnessed the slow but incessant revolutions of the counter which instilled that previously mentioned trepidation.
Well, the bill has arrived for our first quarter of metered use and I have been mildly surprised and not a little bit pleased with it.
This is a radical change from my standard reaction in receiving a utility bill which in more recent years has included extraordinarily extortionate demands for gas and electricity consumption.
It appears that in our first 3 months in the new place we have incurred an equivalent daily cost of just £1.33p.
This I find remarkable given that there are three permanent and up to five or more residents bathing, along with water bearing appliances seemingly in 24 hour operation and all other everyday demands.
What fascinated me more however was the amount of water that we used in that period at 37 cubic metres.
I have had to resort to a bit of research to help me to visualise this volume.
Adopting a basic comparison is the fact that a large domestic washing machine has a cubic capacity of 0.6 so extrapolating this means that our useage is the equivalent of nearly 62 full washing machines. I chose to ignore the fact that a fridge freezer on average is 1 cubic metre because the maths is just plain boring.
For those of a couch potato persuasion you may find comfort in the comparison that we used the equivalent of 14.8 three seater sofas.
Beer drinkers may find solace in the statistic that we soaked, rinsed and drank our way through what amounts to 630 brewers kegs.
Those who just like a bath to relax will appreciate that 231 of them could be had in order to match our consumption.
Having just finished watching the Dexter series on TV I have calculated that 37 cubic metres, if in blood, in a homicide crime scene would represent the draining of the contents of 7400 persons.
If of a squeamish nature you may take comfort from visualising our dirty water in 74,000 Starbucks take away Venti cups.
Those in the Egg Marketing Board would be thrilled to know that we have used enough liquid to fill 544,177 standard eggs.
Most comparisons are usually expressed in terms of Olympic sized swimming pools as the easiest visualisation. I will not disappoint although if we had been relied upon to fill the local venue this will have produced a bit of a shallow puddle at only one twenty seventh of normal capacity.
More exciting but equally deflating would be translating water used to say, the equivalent of gas in a hot air balloon, and at only just under 2% of normal capacity it would be more of a whoopee cushion than an elevating experience.
Our flushings and expulsions into the mains drains would fit into the Royal Albert Hall along with 2400 other similar consumers.
In short we have used just over three concrete mixers, being the large lorry based versions and enough to nicely fill a 20 foot long shipping container. All of that and I still share the bathwater with the wife but then again we have to make some concessions in saving the planet.
This was with some trepidation after the last 18 years of living in a house on a normal water rates tariff.
That period coincided with all of the major water demands of a family with three children, a demanding garden and constantly grubby cars. We of course had sensitivity to environmental issues and on the rare occasion of a hosepipe ban were the first to cut back. The inflatable bag went into the WC cistern to cut down on wastage in the flushing process and long after it perished we continued the commendable practice with half a house brick.
Nevertheless, being on a direct debit monthly payment there were certainly a few times when I lost control and well, simply, gleefully, left a tap running in between actually cleaning my teeth or added that extra depth to the bathtub and luxuriated in a shameless manner, toe caressing the hot tap as though taunting Yorkshire Water.
It all changed with the house move at the end of last year and the ownership of a water meter.
I had to lie out on the pavement in order to take the final reading in the company of the sellers on the day that we took up occupation and witnessed the slow but incessant revolutions of the counter which instilled that previously mentioned trepidation.
Well, the bill has arrived for our first quarter of metered use and I have been mildly surprised and not a little bit pleased with it.
This is a radical change from my standard reaction in receiving a utility bill which in more recent years has included extraordinarily extortionate demands for gas and electricity consumption.
It appears that in our first 3 months in the new place we have incurred an equivalent daily cost of just £1.33p.
This I find remarkable given that there are three permanent and up to five or more residents bathing, along with water bearing appliances seemingly in 24 hour operation and all other everyday demands.
What fascinated me more however was the amount of water that we used in that period at 37 cubic metres.
I have had to resort to a bit of research to help me to visualise this volume.
Adopting a basic comparison is the fact that a large domestic washing machine has a cubic capacity of 0.6 so extrapolating this means that our useage is the equivalent of nearly 62 full washing machines. I chose to ignore the fact that a fridge freezer on average is 1 cubic metre because the maths is just plain boring.
For those of a couch potato persuasion you may find comfort in the comparison that we used the equivalent of 14.8 three seater sofas.
Beer drinkers may find solace in the statistic that we soaked, rinsed and drank our way through what amounts to 630 brewers kegs.
Those who just like a bath to relax will appreciate that 231 of them could be had in order to match our consumption.
Having just finished watching the Dexter series on TV I have calculated that 37 cubic metres, if in blood, in a homicide crime scene would represent the draining of the contents of 7400 persons.
If of a squeamish nature you may take comfort from visualising our dirty water in 74,000 Starbucks take away Venti cups.
Those in the Egg Marketing Board would be thrilled to know that we have used enough liquid to fill 544,177 standard eggs.
Most comparisons are usually expressed in terms of Olympic sized swimming pools as the easiest visualisation. I will not disappoint although if we had been relied upon to fill the local venue this will have produced a bit of a shallow puddle at only one twenty seventh of normal capacity.
More exciting but equally deflating would be translating water used to say, the equivalent of gas in a hot air balloon, and at only just under 2% of normal capacity it would be more of a whoopee cushion than an elevating experience.
Our flushings and expulsions into the mains drains would fit into the Royal Albert Hall along with 2400 other similar consumers.
In short we have used just over three concrete mixers, being the large lorry based versions and enough to nicely fill a 20 foot long shipping container. All of that and I still share the bathwater with the wife but then again we have to make some concessions in saving the planet.
Monday, 3 February 2014
Off Road Diversions
It is because of the perversions and peccadilloes of others that my working day has a new source of stress and anguish.
It is enough of a logistical task to plan my day out on the road in the pursuit of business in order to give custom to village shops at critical periods of low blood sugar and light headedness. I work efficiently if I keep well up to date with my workload. My mental capacity is finite at best so if I have completed a large survey inspection then it is always best to park up, coffee in the cup holder, Mars Bar somewhere between the seat and handbrake, crisps everywhere else in readiness for a session of audio dictation..
I have covered my affinity for cliff top car parks before and I still rate these as ideal places for doing paperwork. That is fine and dandy when my route is into coastal areas but that is not always the case. A good proportion of my time is spent driving between the main County towns and larger villages.
Many of these have been by-passed in recent years and a feature of a new roadway is a lay-by.
These, where purpose built for the increased volumes of traffic, can be bleak and desolate places. Vehicles passing on the carriageway at speed can cause buffetting and distraction for someone required to meet a deadline. At other times the lay by can be full of lorries and wagons or has the appearance of a picket line with overalled workers crowded around a smoking burger bar.
The other type of lay-by is where part of the original trunk road is left stranded by the new road course. These are creepy even in the brightest daylight as they invariably include a former accident blackspot bend, coarse rough verges, a clump of trees and an overflowing inadequate waste bin. Many do smell a bit of wee-wee, especially if you do not check the wind direction and speed first.
What on first impression may appear to be a dense patch of snowdrops is usually dumped white goods.After marvelling at a skillfully assembled badger set there is disappointment in the realisation that it is nothing more than someones fly tipping of offcuts from a wayward leylandii hedge. That rolled up lounge carpet wrapped around a shape resembling a body may in fact actually be that. I have discovered the entire stock of rock salt for our County in one rather remote lay-by when they strongly denied having any left last winter.
So, in the hierarchy of places to park up and work the stranded old road lay-by is firmly at the foot of the table. This is fortunate for me because to my utter shock I have learnt from the local press that such lay-bys are frequently used and at all hours of the day for illicit sex and liaisons.
In retrospect, that elderly couple did look a bit startled when I quietly negotiated the potholed course of the old road and passed them with a quick glance. The flash of red from their hasty actions betrayed the fact that they had the latest non-shatter Thermos flask, 1.5 litre capacity and cap-stowed cup and sugar dispenser. I thought to enquire where they had purchased such a hard to come by item but they were by then obviously scribbling down my registration number, car make and colour. Another mature couple, on a warmer summer morning were encamped on an old road lay-by with deckchairs and newspapers by the side of their car. An idyllic scene indeed. I bemused some miles later on my journey that lederhosen and basque were unusual attire, unless they were European visitors just off the Rotterdam Ferry.
I do have a strict policy about parking up. It is important to avoid any educational establishments, day care nurseries and nurses homes. CCTV is all seeing and when coupled with automatic number plate recognition technology my inevitable high annual mileage will statistically mean a higher chance of my registration appearing on a database.
Cliff top car parks and featureless drag strip modern lay-bys will have to remain as best choice for parking-up if only to avoid embarassing questions from the local patrolling constabulary, being photographed by civic minded local residents or propositioned by Gottfried and Lottie who just happen to be visiting East Yorkshire as part of a package holiday covering roadside sex-spots.
It is enough of a logistical task to plan my day out on the road in the pursuit of business in order to give custom to village shops at critical periods of low blood sugar and light headedness. I work efficiently if I keep well up to date with my workload. My mental capacity is finite at best so if I have completed a large survey inspection then it is always best to park up, coffee in the cup holder, Mars Bar somewhere between the seat and handbrake, crisps everywhere else in readiness for a session of audio dictation..
I have covered my affinity for cliff top car parks before and I still rate these as ideal places for doing paperwork. That is fine and dandy when my route is into coastal areas but that is not always the case. A good proportion of my time is spent driving between the main County towns and larger villages.
Many of these have been by-passed in recent years and a feature of a new roadway is a lay-by.
These, where purpose built for the increased volumes of traffic, can be bleak and desolate places. Vehicles passing on the carriageway at speed can cause buffetting and distraction for someone required to meet a deadline. At other times the lay by can be full of lorries and wagons or has the appearance of a picket line with overalled workers crowded around a smoking burger bar.
The other type of lay-by is where part of the original trunk road is left stranded by the new road course. These are creepy even in the brightest daylight as they invariably include a former accident blackspot bend, coarse rough verges, a clump of trees and an overflowing inadequate waste bin. Many do smell a bit of wee-wee, especially if you do not check the wind direction and speed first.
What on first impression may appear to be a dense patch of snowdrops is usually dumped white goods.After marvelling at a skillfully assembled badger set there is disappointment in the realisation that it is nothing more than someones fly tipping of offcuts from a wayward leylandii hedge. That rolled up lounge carpet wrapped around a shape resembling a body may in fact actually be that. I have discovered the entire stock of rock salt for our County in one rather remote lay-by when they strongly denied having any left last winter.
So, in the hierarchy of places to park up and work the stranded old road lay-by is firmly at the foot of the table. This is fortunate for me because to my utter shock I have learnt from the local press that such lay-bys are frequently used and at all hours of the day for illicit sex and liaisons.
In retrospect, that elderly couple did look a bit startled when I quietly negotiated the potholed course of the old road and passed them with a quick glance. The flash of red from their hasty actions betrayed the fact that they had the latest non-shatter Thermos flask, 1.5 litre capacity and cap-stowed cup and sugar dispenser. I thought to enquire where they had purchased such a hard to come by item but they were by then obviously scribbling down my registration number, car make and colour. Another mature couple, on a warmer summer morning were encamped on an old road lay-by with deckchairs and newspapers by the side of their car. An idyllic scene indeed. I bemused some miles later on my journey that lederhosen and basque were unusual attire, unless they were European visitors just off the Rotterdam Ferry.
I do have a strict policy about parking up. It is important to avoid any educational establishments, day care nurseries and nurses homes. CCTV is all seeing and when coupled with automatic number plate recognition technology my inevitable high annual mileage will statistically mean a higher chance of my registration appearing on a database.
Cliff top car parks and featureless drag strip modern lay-bys will have to remain as best choice for parking-up if only to avoid embarassing questions from the local patrolling constabulary, being photographed by civic minded local residents or propositioned by Gottfried and Lottie who just happen to be visiting East Yorkshire as part of a package holiday covering roadside sex-spots.
Sunday, 2 February 2014
Recessionary Britain and the Average Man
I have never taken anything for granted in my life. People who know me have regarded me as being a ‘glass half empty’ type . I do and have always worried about things, I have never liked a change in routine and have tended to take things very personally to the point of becoming quite emotional.
The change in my circumstances have and continue to be the biggest challenge in my life.
I am self employed and have been for the last eighteen plus years in a property related profession.
I co-founded the business in 1992 having been previously in secure employment but with the opportunity to set up being made possible by a loan from my family and with the blessing of my wife and, at that time, very young children.
1992 was a recessionary period but with hard work and a good base of clients the business became established. The cyclical nature of the property market, often described as ‘boom and bust’ was a major influence on the performance of my business. The early to mid 1990’s showed a slow improvement, the mid to late 1990’s were steady and not too dramatic, the early 2000’s fairly constant across peaks and troughs.
From 2005 to late 2008 the huge upsurge in the housing market represented the boom time for my business prior to the rapid decline and recession brought on amongst other influences by the credit crisis.
I have sustained a good living from my business. Profits paid the deposit on a house, supported 2 family cars , paid for a first and then subsequent overseas holidays, seasonal treats and the usual material comforts and everyday running costs of a young and active family.
However, material gain has never been a main motivating factor to me. I have concentrated on developing my business in order to facilitate the employment and support of staff and in peak times I have employed six local people. I have also been able to support and sponsor events and organisations in the community, from a cycle racing team to a local historian, to host events and participate in community initiatives. I have also been able to develop other business interests in themselves supporting and sustaining new colleagues and associates.
I was able and more than happy to pay my way and at the same time was able to make lifelong friends from those met initially as Clients. The ethics of my business were founded on treating people fairly, to give good and cost effective advice and to encourage repeat business in the future.
It is now, with a change in my circumstances that I have truly come to appreciate my network of friends and longstanding loyal clients.
The catalyst of the change in my circumstances, the credit crisis and its affect on the property sector,was not with hindsight totally unexpected, when it became known in late 2008.
However, even with the best made contingency plans and emergency reserves the credit crisis hit me very hard and changed my circumstances rapidly and significantly on both a professional level in business and on a personal level in my family life. Being self employed does inevitably mean that there is no real demarcation between the two activities.
There have been some major and high profile casualties amongst businesses in the property sector at local, regional, national and global levels. I often receive phone calls from contacts and clients whose first sentiment is ‘ how’s business?. Given the trends for failure in my sector I do not think the same callers would be unduly surprised if a subsequent call was met with a disconnected tone.
The decline in the activity of my business was literally overnight with the impact of the credit crisis.
Business activity and as a consequence income levels have fallen by 60% since late 2008 and adjustment has had to be made for basic survival.
In the first wave of enforced but prudent housekeeping and austerity measures went the luxury items including seats at the KC stadium, subscriptions to organisations and publications, health club membership, trading down on cars and related costs, negotiation of better contracts for IT support and services and the running into the ground of equipment rather than regular renewals.
Such measures were not sufficient and with the greatest regret I had to make 3 staff redundant, one a senior professional and two valued support staff. The cost of the change in my circumstances impacts most in human terms.
The ongoing viability of the business was only made possible by a very loyal remaining staff and the support from clients.
I took a large cut in salary to keep the business afloat and also the liability for costs previously met by the business including bills for phone and transport costs. This in real terms has represented a 50% reduction in income.
Cuts in the domestic budget followed with budget shopping and meals, a freeze on home improvements because if started they may not be completed and hesitancy over basic maintenance works. As a family we have not had a holiday or even a meaningful break for the last two years.
Family savings and my wife’s rainy day funds are now depleted out of necessity to meet shortfalls on income to such an extent that any small emergency call on funds cannot be met and are a real cause for concern.
I now feel acute stress and anxiety from outstanding domestic and general bills and outgoings that cannot be paid straight away. From the position of paying my way I am now requesting payment arrangements from those owed monies for gas and electric, council tax and longstanding repayments on which I have never been late in regular payments. I am finding it very difficult to meet my liabilities and obligations and have to prioritise outgoings in order of essential need from the mortgage to the weekly shop and utilities to regular payments.
My wife and myself have been resolute on maintaining our charitable giving which has always been an important channel for family income.
In my professional work I am often required to visit and report on properties under threat of repossession or immediately following the eviction of the family. Each of these cases I have found upsetting representing a family tragedy from loss of employment, overwhelming financial difficulties, lack of credit and family break up. Such properties do have common characteristics of part finished kitchens and bathrooms, neglect of maintenance and general wear and tear. There is a certain atmosphere of a struggle and demoralisation from constant stress and threat of hardship and eviction. I now sense similar in my own circumstances and home situation. When once I tidied the garden and cut the grass and hedges out of pride of home ownership I now do this mindful of making the house look presentable if I need to sell it to clear debts or it is repossessed by a creditor.
Every single day involves juggling income and resources, prioritising outgoings and really pushing the limits of scheduled payments. The mortgage is now paid on the last possible day before a default notice. The penalty of bank charges for unauthorised overdraft or a bounced cheque is ruthless but sometimes inevitable.
I am almost past caring about myself but try to maintain my professional appearance with care for one serviceable suit and a couple of decent work shirts.
I acknowledge and am grateful that I do have options which is much more than others whose circumstances have also changed.
I have a strong support network amongst family and friends, kindness and generosity from current and past clients and these things give me hope and energy.
I do pray, many times in a day but now more in praise for small mercies and miracles than in previous months when I wallowed in depressed self pity. There have been good weeks at work with enough business to cover outgoings and perhaps with a small surplus. Forgotten clients from the early years of business recalled my assistance at that time and express happiness that I am still in business. The loyalty of my longstanding staff has brought my emotions very close to the surface on recent occasions.
Some days I have become fully resigned to my change in circumstances and can fully understand how this can lead to fatigue and loss of direction and even faith.
Relationships in the family do come under acute strain and pressure. I can appreciate the stress of money worries and am guilty of shutting out my wife where important discussions over finances are required. I see this as being a consequence of misguided male pride but above all the embarrassment of not being able to support your own family.
My wife has shown great strength and discipline in keeping the budget and finances in some working order. I cannot describe her anxiety upon being first to open a final notice letter from a creditor for the business or worst of all for an item of home expenditure. I feel sometimes that I am no longer a man capable of contributing to the household income. I have never had that sort of feeling before.I have been aware of my own upbringing being one of five children in a traditional family with stay at home mother and breadwinner father and do recall moments of parental stress over an overstretched budget and was reminded recently by my own mother that midweek meals were only funded by drawing on family allowance.
My wife was brought up in a hard working household and remembers vividly when her father was made redundant and the stress and anxiety of periods between jobs when often the only income was from her mothers part time work. This work ethic background is a very strong element in the approach to the change in circumstances.
Above all, I am hopeful and prayerful that my circumstances will change for the better. Some may call it a siege mentality but day to day existence does feel to be a battle . There are good days and bad days, currently good days are marginally ahead but there is no degree of certainty when an upturn in business and circumstances will take place.
I do not care about or place any importance on any actual or perceived loss of status. What is important and has been more than emphasised by my change in circumstances is the strength and loyalty of family and friends and the power of prayer.
The change in my circumstances have and continue to be the biggest challenge in my life.
I am self employed and have been for the last eighteen plus years in a property related profession.
I co-founded the business in 1992 having been previously in secure employment but with the opportunity to set up being made possible by a loan from my family and with the blessing of my wife and, at that time, very young children.
1992 was a recessionary period but with hard work and a good base of clients the business became established. The cyclical nature of the property market, often described as ‘boom and bust’ was a major influence on the performance of my business. The early to mid 1990’s showed a slow improvement, the mid to late 1990’s were steady and not too dramatic, the early 2000’s fairly constant across peaks and troughs.
From 2005 to late 2008 the huge upsurge in the housing market represented the boom time for my business prior to the rapid decline and recession brought on amongst other influences by the credit crisis.
I have sustained a good living from my business. Profits paid the deposit on a house, supported 2 family cars , paid for a first and then subsequent overseas holidays, seasonal treats and the usual material comforts and everyday running costs of a young and active family.
However, material gain has never been a main motivating factor to me. I have concentrated on developing my business in order to facilitate the employment and support of staff and in peak times I have employed six local people. I have also been able to support and sponsor events and organisations in the community, from a cycle racing team to a local historian, to host events and participate in community initiatives. I have also been able to develop other business interests in themselves supporting and sustaining new colleagues and associates.
I was able and more than happy to pay my way and at the same time was able to make lifelong friends from those met initially as Clients. The ethics of my business were founded on treating people fairly, to give good and cost effective advice and to encourage repeat business in the future.
It is now, with a change in my circumstances that I have truly come to appreciate my network of friends and longstanding loyal clients.
The catalyst of the change in my circumstances, the credit crisis and its affect on the property sector,was not with hindsight totally unexpected, when it became known in late 2008.
However, even with the best made contingency plans and emergency reserves the credit crisis hit me very hard and changed my circumstances rapidly and significantly on both a professional level in business and on a personal level in my family life. Being self employed does inevitably mean that there is no real demarcation between the two activities.
There have been some major and high profile casualties amongst businesses in the property sector at local, regional, national and global levels. I often receive phone calls from contacts and clients whose first sentiment is ‘ how’s business?. Given the trends for failure in my sector I do not think the same callers would be unduly surprised if a subsequent call was met with a disconnected tone.
The decline in the activity of my business was literally overnight with the impact of the credit crisis.
Business activity and as a consequence income levels have fallen by 60% since late 2008 and adjustment has had to be made for basic survival.
In the first wave of enforced but prudent housekeeping and austerity measures went the luxury items including seats at the KC stadium, subscriptions to organisations and publications, health club membership, trading down on cars and related costs, negotiation of better contracts for IT support and services and the running into the ground of equipment rather than regular renewals.
Such measures were not sufficient and with the greatest regret I had to make 3 staff redundant, one a senior professional and two valued support staff. The cost of the change in my circumstances impacts most in human terms.
The ongoing viability of the business was only made possible by a very loyal remaining staff and the support from clients.
I took a large cut in salary to keep the business afloat and also the liability for costs previously met by the business including bills for phone and transport costs. This in real terms has represented a 50% reduction in income.
Cuts in the domestic budget followed with budget shopping and meals, a freeze on home improvements because if started they may not be completed and hesitancy over basic maintenance works. As a family we have not had a holiday or even a meaningful break for the last two years.
Family savings and my wife’s rainy day funds are now depleted out of necessity to meet shortfalls on income to such an extent that any small emergency call on funds cannot be met and are a real cause for concern.
I now feel acute stress and anxiety from outstanding domestic and general bills and outgoings that cannot be paid straight away. From the position of paying my way I am now requesting payment arrangements from those owed monies for gas and electric, council tax and longstanding repayments on which I have never been late in regular payments. I am finding it very difficult to meet my liabilities and obligations and have to prioritise outgoings in order of essential need from the mortgage to the weekly shop and utilities to regular payments.
My wife and myself have been resolute on maintaining our charitable giving which has always been an important channel for family income.
In my professional work I am often required to visit and report on properties under threat of repossession or immediately following the eviction of the family. Each of these cases I have found upsetting representing a family tragedy from loss of employment, overwhelming financial difficulties, lack of credit and family break up. Such properties do have common characteristics of part finished kitchens and bathrooms, neglect of maintenance and general wear and tear. There is a certain atmosphere of a struggle and demoralisation from constant stress and threat of hardship and eviction. I now sense similar in my own circumstances and home situation. When once I tidied the garden and cut the grass and hedges out of pride of home ownership I now do this mindful of making the house look presentable if I need to sell it to clear debts or it is repossessed by a creditor.
Every single day involves juggling income and resources, prioritising outgoings and really pushing the limits of scheduled payments. The mortgage is now paid on the last possible day before a default notice. The penalty of bank charges for unauthorised overdraft or a bounced cheque is ruthless but sometimes inevitable.
I am almost past caring about myself but try to maintain my professional appearance with care for one serviceable suit and a couple of decent work shirts.
I acknowledge and am grateful that I do have options which is much more than others whose circumstances have also changed.
I have a strong support network amongst family and friends, kindness and generosity from current and past clients and these things give me hope and energy.
I do pray, many times in a day but now more in praise for small mercies and miracles than in previous months when I wallowed in depressed self pity. There have been good weeks at work with enough business to cover outgoings and perhaps with a small surplus. Forgotten clients from the early years of business recalled my assistance at that time and express happiness that I am still in business. The loyalty of my longstanding staff has brought my emotions very close to the surface on recent occasions.
Some days I have become fully resigned to my change in circumstances and can fully understand how this can lead to fatigue and loss of direction and even faith.
Relationships in the family do come under acute strain and pressure. I can appreciate the stress of money worries and am guilty of shutting out my wife where important discussions over finances are required. I see this as being a consequence of misguided male pride but above all the embarrassment of not being able to support your own family.
My wife has shown great strength and discipline in keeping the budget and finances in some working order. I cannot describe her anxiety upon being first to open a final notice letter from a creditor for the business or worst of all for an item of home expenditure. I feel sometimes that I am no longer a man capable of contributing to the household income. I have never had that sort of feeling before.I have been aware of my own upbringing being one of five children in a traditional family with stay at home mother and breadwinner father and do recall moments of parental stress over an overstretched budget and was reminded recently by my own mother that midweek meals were only funded by drawing on family allowance.
My wife was brought up in a hard working household and remembers vividly when her father was made redundant and the stress and anxiety of periods between jobs when often the only income was from her mothers part time work. This work ethic background is a very strong element in the approach to the change in circumstances.
Above all, I am hopeful and prayerful that my circumstances will change for the better. Some may call it a siege mentality but day to day existence does feel to be a battle . There are good days and bad days, currently good days are marginally ahead but there is no degree of certainty when an upturn in business and circumstances will take place.
I do not care about or place any importance on any actual or perceived loss of status. What is important and has been more than emphasised by my change in circumstances is the strength and loyalty of family and friends and the power of prayer.
Saturday, 1 February 2014
The Three Brothers Thomson
Twas a wet afternoon in London Town.
The downpour had served to suppress the normal propensity for smoke fuelled fug in the atmosphere and the good citizens were able to partake of their daily chores without stumbling into each other, into the path of a carriage or standing in something deposited by a horse.
In Carey Street the usual be-wigged lawyers flitted back and forth from their chambers to debtors and Royal courts pausing only to catch up on the latest gossip or to ascertain in what sort of humour were the attendant judges and magistrates.
Mr Thomson, the senior as he had assumed upon the unfortunate demise of his father two years and more ago, glanced anxiously at his timepiece. He blinked upon re-assuming the light of day after a turgid meeting with Counsel in the deep bowels of the Georgian establishment that housed a number of barristers at law.
Some hours had elapsed in the uncomfortable environment of a session of cross examination in preparation for what seemed odds on as a future hearing in the full glare of the High Court. He felt that he had presented a reasonable account of himself as an Expert Witness but the experience had been sobering and draining in the extreme.
His day had begun well before the crowing of the cock on a cold station platform some distance up north. The locomotive had been on time but had adopted a laborious course southwards to the Capital seemingly called upon to stop at every major town from Doncaster to Retford, Newark to Grantham and Peterborough to Kings Cross.
Expenditure on a first class seat had been well adjudged in that he had been able to review the depositions and suppositions of the case with files opened and strewn over a small table whilst the countryside passed by his window. The train staff were polite and sensitive to a regular topping up of caffeine and danish pastries and even offered a daily newspaper although it remained folded and unread amongst the more pressing documents of the day.
So to London. Frantically searching his pockets he retrieved the tickets for the underground portion of the journey and descended into the depths of the Metropolis. Jostling commuters and others seemingly on their own mission and agenda swarmed around him on the mechanical staircasing and through the well lit and slightly fumey corridors and tunnels.
After only two stops on that blue designated route it was once more a matter of working a path up to the surface.
Holborn.
Teeming with traffic and the cries of street vendors the scene was everything that he expected of London Town. He was early for the appointment and so undertook a walking reconaissance of the immediate area. First passed was the Old Curiosity Shop of Mr Dickens' fame. The predominantly Georgian and earlier town houses were splendid in their scale and architecture although the majority were no longer the single residences of the gentry but bore the emblems and insignia of various companies and corporations.
In the middle of the built enviroment were the landscaped squares of gardens and parks where many a mortal combat duel had taken place to settle some affront or rude insult. The Porter's Lodge at the gated entrance to New Square was occupied and beady eyes assessed and permitted his passage into the inner sanctum.
So, the interrogation had passed and he looked forward very much to meeting his two brothers in The Seven Stars Public House, Queer Street.
It was an ale house that had not changed in perhaps three or more centuries. A red brick and stucco fronted two storey building dwarfed amongst the Inns of Court. Leaded glass in the old timber windows was pitted and distorted from the original hand floated manufacturing process. The landlady, Roxy Beaujolais was sitting in her own court and company just inside the door. A real character whose own back story was a matter of much fantastical speculation. On her lap sat a pitch black pedigree cat wearing a starched white ruff collar and going by the name of Thomas Payne.
It was into this situation that Mr Thomson senior came willingly for to meet with his two brothers, Mr Thomson the not so senior and Mr Thomson the younger. Not so senior was stood facing the bar and newly senior caught his attention in the mirror hung prominently thereon. They embraced as brothers do so as to give no cause to the other drinkers that they were nothing more than brothers.
It had been some months since they had had an opportunity to meet, at the usual Yuletide gathering at the family home in Yorkshire. There was no dwelling on protocol or tradition and the first of many toasts was made with full ale glasses in hand.
The younger was soon to arrive and the same welcoming ritual was completed with all due regard but not so as to impinge on drinking time. It was, the senior mused, as though no time had passed whatsoever since they had all, at one time, been but nippers.
There was an age gap of 12 years between the three but they were remarkably alike in manner, temperament and sense of humour. It was to be a bawdy and rowdy session under the supervision of Roxy with much reminiscing and musing on times and personalities past. The world was put to rights in the three following hours of elbow resting and imbibing on the gingham covered tables of the lounge bar. A few lawyers wandered in and out, strangely supping without ceremony a short measure of spirits as though to provide Dutch courage for their closing statements or in anticipation of a resounding victory or not.
Mr Thomson, the senior welcomed the chance of a tete a tete with his remarkable brothers and later as they piled him onto the northbound train with a written label with travel arrangements secured to his lapels they swore an oath that the next such gathering would be sooner rather than later.
The downpour had served to suppress the normal propensity for smoke fuelled fug in the atmosphere and the good citizens were able to partake of their daily chores without stumbling into each other, into the path of a carriage or standing in something deposited by a horse.
In Carey Street the usual be-wigged lawyers flitted back and forth from their chambers to debtors and Royal courts pausing only to catch up on the latest gossip or to ascertain in what sort of humour were the attendant judges and magistrates.
Mr Thomson, the senior as he had assumed upon the unfortunate demise of his father two years and more ago, glanced anxiously at his timepiece. He blinked upon re-assuming the light of day after a turgid meeting with Counsel in the deep bowels of the Georgian establishment that housed a number of barristers at law.
Some hours had elapsed in the uncomfortable environment of a session of cross examination in preparation for what seemed odds on as a future hearing in the full glare of the High Court. He felt that he had presented a reasonable account of himself as an Expert Witness but the experience had been sobering and draining in the extreme.
His day had begun well before the crowing of the cock on a cold station platform some distance up north. The locomotive had been on time but had adopted a laborious course southwards to the Capital seemingly called upon to stop at every major town from Doncaster to Retford, Newark to Grantham and Peterborough to Kings Cross.
Expenditure on a first class seat had been well adjudged in that he had been able to review the depositions and suppositions of the case with files opened and strewn over a small table whilst the countryside passed by his window. The train staff were polite and sensitive to a regular topping up of caffeine and danish pastries and even offered a daily newspaper although it remained folded and unread amongst the more pressing documents of the day.
So to London. Frantically searching his pockets he retrieved the tickets for the underground portion of the journey and descended into the depths of the Metropolis. Jostling commuters and others seemingly on their own mission and agenda swarmed around him on the mechanical staircasing and through the well lit and slightly fumey corridors and tunnels.
After only two stops on that blue designated route it was once more a matter of working a path up to the surface.
Holborn.
Teeming with traffic and the cries of street vendors the scene was everything that he expected of London Town. He was early for the appointment and so undertook a walking reconaissance of the immediate area. First passed was the Old Curiosity Shop of Mr Dickens' fame. The predominantly Georgian and earlier town houses were splendid in their scale and architecture although the majority were no longer the single residences of the gentry but bore the emblems and insignia of various companies and corporations.
In the middle of the built enviroment were the landscaped squares of gardens and parks where many a mortal combat duel had taken place to settle some affront or rude insult. The Porter's Lodge at the gated entrance to New Square was occupied and beady eyes assessed and permitted his passage into the inner sanctum.
So, the interrogation had passed and he looked forward very much to meeting his two brothers in The Seven Stars Public House, Queer Street.
It was an ale house that had not changed in perhaps three or more centuries. A red brick and stucco fronted two storey building dwarfed amongst the Inns of Court. Leaded glass in the old timber windows was pitted and distorted from the original hand floated manufacturing process. The landlady, Roxy Beaujolais was sitting in her own court and company just inside the door. A real character whose own back story was a matter of much fantastical speculation. On her lap sat a pitch black pedigree cat wearing a starched white ruff collar and going by the name of Thomas Payne.
It was into this situation that Mr Thomson senior came willingly for to meet with his two brothers, Mr Thomson the not so senior and Mr Thomson the younger. Not so senior was stood facing the bar and newly senior caught his attention in the mirror hung prominently thereon. They embraced as brothers do so as to give no cause to the other drinkers that they were nothing more than brothers.
It had been some months since they had had an opportunity to meet, at the usual Yuletide gathering at the family home in Yorkshire. There was no dwelling on protocol or tradition and the first of many toasts was made with full ale glasses in hand.
The younger was soon to arrive and the same welcoming ritual was completed with all due regard but not so as to impinge on drinking time. It was, the senior mused, as though no time had passed whatsoever since they had all, at one time, been but nippers.
There was an age gap of 12 years between the three but they were remarkably alike in manner, temperament and sense of humour. It was to be a bawdy and rowdy session under the supervision of Roxy with much reminiscing and musing on times and personalities past. The world was put to rights in the three following hours of elbow resting and imbibing on the gingham covered tables of the lounge bar. A few lawyers wandered in and out, strangely supping without ceremony a short measure of spirits as though to provide Dutch courage for their closing statements or in anticipation of a resounding victory or not.
Mr Thomson, the senior welcomed the chance of a tete a tete with his remarkable brothers and later as they piled him onto the northbound train with a written label with travel arrangements secured to his lapels they swore an oath that the next such gathering would be sooner rather than later.
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