We can learn a lot from the lessons of the past. Take, for example, the rich heritage of the English Language and its fluidity of development over the generations. To illustrate the dynamic nature of words I have dipped into my trusty, thick and fusty edition of the Dictionary of Noah Webster LL.D in its tenth edition from 1866. I acquired the book for a few pence at an auction house some 30 or so years ago and I find myself forever wandering back to the attic to retrieve it to consult on a matter of pronunciation, derivation and spelling or to just cheat at Scrabble. I intend to show the relevance of certain words, long since forgotten in everyday conversation, and champion them to return victoriously into our modern vocabulary.
Abalienated- (transferred from one to another) as in "I went to the Bank to withdraw some funds from my current account in order for these to be abalienated into my savings account"
Beslubbering-(to smear with spittle). "When I purchased the postage stamps from the Post Office I mistakenly purchased the non adhesive type and underwent the public humiliation of beslubbering them in order to catch the last post"
Crizzel-(a kind of roughness on the surface). That Cillit Bang is useless if there is any crizzel in the bathtub.
Deracination (act of pulling up by the roots). I was the victim of deracination when it was discovered that my parents were not members of the nobility.
Effrenation (unruliness). I was involved in a bit of effrenation in Tesco's over a misunderstanding with a very similarly laden trolley to my own.
Fisk (run about). The MOTORS FOR SALE sector in the local paper advertised a Ford Fisk.
Granitification (being formed into granite). In the purposeful resurrection of an old magic spell he intentionally turned himself to stone ie self gratification granitification.
Huck (haggle in trading). After an attempt to negotiate a reduction in some cut price fresh fruit the stall holder told me to Huck Off.
Impurpling (tinging with purple). After walking into the closed door I could feel my nose impurpling on my face.
Jub (bottle or vessel). He was keen on recycling and often took his empties down to the jub centre.
Kerchiefed (dressed, hooded) The sun was beating down on Skegness Sea Front and many of the holidaymakers were appropriately kerchiefed.
Lumbriciformous (Resembling a worm in shape). It was not until the women on the bus pointed and screamed that I was aware there was something lumbriciformus protruding below the front of my zip up jacket.
Mity (abounding with mites). It was a mity problem in our house when nitty-nora arrived on the doorstep.
to be the subject of perduration
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
Flashing Blade or Shitty Stick
There has always been an intense rivalry between us English and our nearest Continental neighbours, France.
I have been thinking about this relationship over recent days with the 20th anniversary now upon us of the Channel Tunnel, that much talked about but secretly resisted umbilical. We do fiercely defend our status as an island nation and without the clear water to Europe we may have certainly been overrun and subject to the more powerful forces of fascism in the 1940's.
There have been many crossovers between the populations and cultures of England and France either peacefully through natural migration or violently from invasion and domination. However, I have always contended that our respective countries are closer than we would care to admit in many activities and prejudices.
We ebb and flow in our mutual respect or hatred. Thankfully this does not take place on the battlefield or in skirmishes as it has in the past but is now more likely to play out in trade sanctions such as the ban on British Meat, in the withdrawal of labour by air traffic controllers just as we are setting off on our holidays, road blockages by farmers and the usual slanging match over culinary fare and personal hygiene.
Each generation goes through the same love-hate process but in varying degrees and persistence. Those in my own age group, shall we say now between 50 to 55 years, may have one of the strongest cases to perpetuate an animosity towards our Gallic cousins.
This is because of a great and notorious injustice and disappointment visited upon us in our impressionable younger years. I am talking about the 1960's TV series of "The Flashing Blade".
In direct contrast to the output of TV stations in more recent years which is heavily dominated by United States sit coms and dramas, mostly police and detective based, the programming during the hours allocated for children's entertainment in the mid to late 1960's were very, very French. I am amazed that I was not fluent in the language by the age of 7.
"The Flashing Blade" was just one of four french originated series that I could enjoy in that period also including, in no specific order, The Aeronauts, Belle and Sebastian and Robinson Crusoe. These other three were based on the adventures and antics of fighter pilots in Mirage Jets, a moon faced boy and his shaggy dog and the much loved creation of Alexander Selkirk. All four series were announced by rousing and melodic, almost singalong title tunes which would summon us siblings to the old black and white valve operated televison set and keep us captivated and thrilled for the following 20 or 30 minutes.
Most catchy and requiring energetic involvement was "The Flashing Blade" theme and even today I can recall without any problem the tunes and lyric. It started with a vibrato beat before that strong anthemic chant of "You've got to fight for what you want, For all that you believe". It was an emotional thing but even better to shout and shriek as you ran about in the garden or street re-enacting the battles that had just been played out on the small screen. The series had been made in 1967 and was evidently regarded to be exportable on the basis that it was high action and big budget and therefore quite rare for a TV production. It was first shown on daytime BBC in March 1969. I was only 6 years old at the time so my recollections must have been from the many subsequent repeats in the schedules. The swashbuckling main characters were The Chevalier de Recci or Francois to his friends, a handsome dark haired horseman and his ugly, gawky but loyal and good natured sidekick Guillot.
The series was based on the period 1628 to 1631 and the War of Mantuan Succession in Castile with the adversary being the Spanish, clearly differentiated for the benefit of black and white viewing in their wholesale sporting of goatee beards and head hugging steel helmets. The French heroes were more flamboyant in their dress sense with epaulettes, big hangey-down sleeves, upholstered doublets and tights.
The action usually centred on our two heroes riding away from pursuers or an artillery barrage as fast as they could or being captured by the Spaniards and then escaping in a most audacious manner. We fancied ourselves as skilled horsemen on our bikes or swordsmen using the garden canes from the back of the potting shed. I will not dwell too much on the dubbing into English suffice to say that we became well practiced in moving our mouths out of sync with our actual speech. In my memory the series went on for ever but in fact had been remorselessly edited down to only 12 episodes each of 22 minutes duration by the BBC who it seems were not overly impressed by the quality of the physical film and manufacturing. This latter point brings me to the reason why many of my age group continue to bear a hatred for the French in spite of the ready availability in our later years of cheap wine, good soft cheese, crusty baguettes and va-va-voom generally by way of compensation.
The notoriety of "The Flashing Blade" lies in the last two episodes of its sole series. The generation of children completely engrossed in the drama were eagerly following the development of the story. It had everything from musket bangs to the swish of rapiers, smoke and mayhem, blood and gore but underneath the special effects was a sound tale of bravery, friendship and ultimately the quest for a safe return to hearth and home for Francois and the underbite afflicted Guillot.
I wanted at one stage a faux leather sleeveless jerkin just like Chevalier but they were not stocked by our local Marks and Spencers.
Episode ten saw a final desperate effort by our heroes to save a besieged garrison but with the dreaded Don Alonso, the Beatle haircut bearded leader of the Spanish determined to bring about a suitably nasty ending and claim overall victory. A thump on the side of our Mum and Dad's Decca TV brought about a little improvement to the quality of Episode 11 which had been building nicely to an ultimate showdown of the main characters. It was difficult to make out any recognisable faces or action in the hazy and interference riddled broadcast. We could however imagine the magnitude of the conflict but had great hopes that we, I mean Chevalier and his intellectually challenged sidekick would ultimately prevail.
Episode 12 lost vision completely due to an inherent deficiency in its quality which the BBC producers had suspected all along. The screen went blank and all was deathly quite apart from a low resonance humming from the hot glass valves inside the teak casing.
I have never, even in this day of the wide availability of boxset releases of old classics, seen the conclusion to the series .
In an illustration of my disappointment still strong after 40 odd years I paraphrase one of the verses of the stirring theme .
And we should never count the cost
Or form our fists in clench
It's better to have fought and lost
Than trust the bloody French
Than trust the bloody French.........and fade out...........
I have been thinking about this relationship over recent days with the 20th anniversary now upon us of the Channel Tunnel, that much talked about but secretly resisted umbilical. We do fiercely defend our status as an island nation and without the clear water to Europe we may have certainly been overrun and subject to the more powerful forces of fascism in the 1940's.
There have been many crossovers between the populations and cultures of England and France either peacefully through natural migration or violently from invasion and domination. However, I have always contended that our respective countries are closer than we would care to admit in many activities and prejudices.
We ebb and flow in our mutual respect or hatred. Thankfully this does not take place on the battlefield or in skirmishes as it has in the past but is now more likely to play out in trade sanctions such as the ban on British Meat, in the withdrawal of labour by air traffic controllers just as we are setting off on our holidays, road blockages by farmers and the usual slanging match over culinary fare and personal hygiene.
Each generation goes through the same love-hate process but in varying degrees and persistence. Those in my own age group, shall we say now between 50 to 55 years, may have one of the strongest cases to perpetuate an animosity towards our Gallic cousins.
This is because of a great and notorious injustice and disappointment visited upon us in our impressionable younger years. I am talking about the 1960's TV series of "The Flashing Blade".
In direct contrast to the output of TV stations in more recent years which is heavily dominated by United States sit coms and dramas, mostly police and detective based, the programming during the hours allocated for children's entertainment in the mid to late 1960's were very, very French. I am amazed that I was not fluent in the language by the age of 7.
"The Flashing Blade" was just one of four french originated series that I could enjoy in that period also including, in no specific order, The Aeronauts, Belle and Sebastian and Robinson Crusoe. These other three were based on the adventures and antics of fighter pilots in Mirage Jets, a moon faced boy and his shaggy dog and the much loved creation of Alexander Selkirk. All four series were announced by rousing and melodic, almost singalong title tunes which would summon us siblings to the old black and white valve operated televison set and keep us captivated and thrilled for the following 20 or 30 minutes.
Most catchy and requiring energetic involvement was "The Flashing Blade" theme and even today I can recall without any problem the tunes and lyric. It started with a vibrato beat before that strong anthemic chant of "You've got to fight for what you want, For all that you believe". It was an emotional thing but even better to shout and shriek as you ran about in the garden or street re-enacting the battles that had just been played out on the small screen. The series had been made in 1967 and was evidently regarded to be exportable on the basis that it was high action and big budget and therefore quite rare for a TV production. It was first shown on daytime BBC in March 1969. I was only 6 years old at the time so my recollections must have been from the many subsequent repeats in the schedules. The swashbuckling main characters were The Chevalier de Recci or Francois to his friends, a handsome dark haired horseman and his ugly, gawky but loyal and good natured sidekick Guillot.
The series was based on the period 1628 to 1631 and the War of Mantuan Succession in Castile with the adversary being the Spanish, clearly differentiated for the benefit of black and white viewing in their wholesale sporting of goatee beards and head hugging steel helmets. The French heroes were more flamboyant in their dress sense with epaulettes, big hangey-down sleeves, upholstered doublets and tights.
The action usually centred on our two heroes riding away from pursuers or an artillery barrage as fast as they could or being captured by the Spaniards and then escaping in a most audacious manner. We fancied ourselves as skilled horsemen on our bikes or swordsmen using the garden canes from the back of the potting shed. I will not dwell too much on the dubbing into English suffice to say that we became well practiced in moving our mouths out of sync with our actual speech. In my memory the series went on for ever but in fact had been remorselessly edited down to only 12 episodes each of 22 minutes duration by the BBC who it seems were not overly impressed by the quality of the physical film and manufacturing. This latter point brings me to the reason why many of my age group continue to bear a hatred for the French in spite of the ready availability in our later years of cheap wine, good soft cheese, crusty baguettes and va-va-voom generally by way of compensation.
The notoriety of "The Flashing Blade" lies in the last two episodes of its sole series. The generation of children completely engrossed in the drama were eagerly following the development of the story. It had everything from musket bangs to the swish of rapiers, smoke and mayhem, blood and gore but underneath the special effects was a sound tale of bravery, friendship and ultimately the quest for a safe return to hearth and home for Francois and the underbite afflicted Guillot.
I wanted at one stage a faux leather sleeveless jerkin just like Chevalier but they were not stocked by our local Marks and Spencers.
Episode ten saw a final desperate effort by our heroes to save a besieged garrison but with the dreaded Don Alonso, the Beatle haircut bearded leader of the Spanish determined to bring about a suitably nasty ending and claim overall victory. A thump on the side of our Mum and Dad's Decca TV brought about a little improvement to the quality of Episode 11 which had been building nicely to an ultimate showdown of the main characters. It was difficult to make out any recognisable faces or action in the hazy and interference riddled broadcast. We could however imagine the magnitude of the conflict but had great hopes that we, I mean Chevalier and his intellectually challenged sidekick would ultimately prevail.
Episode 12 lost vision completely due to an inherent deficiency in its quality which the BBC producers had suspected all along. The screen went blank and all was deathly quite apart from a low resonance humming from the hot glass valves inside the teak casing.
I have never, even in this day of the wide availability of boxset releases of old classics, seen the conclusion to the series .
In an illustration of my disappointment still strong after 40 odd years I paraphrase one of the verses of the stirring theme .
And we should never count the cost
Or form our fists in clench
It's better to have fought and lost
Than trust the bloody French
Than trust the bloody French.........and fade out...........
Monday, 5 May 2014
More Tales from the Green Trunk
We are expecting a great summer.......at least where sport is concerned.
In addition to the annually occurring events there is the FIFA World Cup on its four yearly cycle and with Brazil taking on the challenging role as hosts.
The lead-in to the festival of footie has been a long one. The Panini Collectors Album has been flogged remorselessly by the shops although to their credit it has in my reckoning been more a case of a great free giveaway of the things. There are in excess of 650 self adhesive stickers required to reach that momentous milestone of filling up the pages but anyone attaining that must have money to burn given that the individual cards are 10p each. Even with the freakish prospect of not getting any swopsies or multiple duplicates and with the likelihood of having to chase that sole elusive shiny metal national team emblem the absolute minimum investment would be £65 but in reality considerably more.
I am not in a position to belittle the pastime of card collecting as in the past I have been quite obsessive in my quest to a full album. I did one year send off to the manufacturers an order for those which had eluded my pocket money spending spree.
You can tell when we are in the final few weeks to a World Cup kick off with the release of the branded and officially endorsed products from razors to deodorant, choccy bars to limited edition beers.
However, my World Cup fever only really starts with the publishing of the Radio Times.
I have managed to keep stashed away ,in my green metal trunk, from the ravages of damp, time and children's inquisitiveness a copy of the 1978 World Cup Special.
It is in reasonable condition but carries the scars of constant handling by myself, aged 15, and the recording on the match by match fill in chart of the scores in blue ball point pen. The edition gave the BBC schedules for the period 27th May to 2nd June which only just coincided with the first two opening games, one of which being the traditional curtain raiser for the host nation, Argentina.
The cover brings back very strong memories of that time as the magazine was my constant companion for the duration of the tournament. I in fact kept a very detailed record of all of the games to the extent, ridiculously, of quickly writing down the squad numbers when shown on the TV coverage rather than just waiting for them to be provided in the match report in the following days newspaper.
So what else was happening in that week of 1978 in terms of TV broadcasting? There were the institutional stalwarts, although now known differently, of Rolf on Saturday and immediately followed by Jim'll Fix it. The conspiracy theorists will be having a field day on that fact. Peak weekend viewing included Val Doonican and Kojak.
The usual faces were ever present in Mike Yarwood, Terry Wogan, Noel Edmonds and Michael Parkinson.
Popular children's shows were Play School, Champion the Wonder Horse, Stopwatch, Roobarb (before Custard), Blue Peter and The Flashing Blade (on repeat).
Regular sitcoms, dramas and entertainments included Porridge, Angels, The Liver Birds and It's a Knockout with in that particular week the towns of Cleethorpes, Gainsborough and Lincoln doing daft things with oversized foam suits and inflatables.
It is easy to forget the significance of Argentina's three weeks in the World Cup and global spotlight. There are some parallells to the unrest shown in the 2014 host nation on economic, social and political grounds.
Inflation in the nation was at 165%, guerilla warfare and terrorism was a constant threat and a high proportion of the population were below the poverty line. The estimated cost of putting on the tournament may never be known but a figure of 940,800,000,000 Pesos was an authoritative estimate or £700 million in equivalent sterling.
The President, a military man coming to power in 1976, saw the World Cup as an opportunity to either drag the country out of depression and potential upheaval or provide an effective smokescreen of the real situation. It was a difficult domestic era and the Junta in control were struggling to keep control. Large numbers of government opponents disappeared or were confined in concentration camps. The poster shown encouraged the citizens to lift up their spirits although the sentiment is more of a barked order than a graceful invitation. A French Premier once said that sport was far too important to be left to sportsmen and George Bernard Shaw insisted that there was no greater cause of profound international misunderstanding than sport. Both seemed to ring true in 1978.
England had not qualified and it was left to Scotland to represent the Union. The Tartan Army took up residence and were well received by the locals in Cordoba and Mendoza but as my inked in chart and the record books show the team went home early after losing 3-1 to Peru, drawing 1-1 with Iran but at least with some pride after a stirring 3-2 victory against Holland thanks to a wonder goal by Archie Gemmel.
Argentina had a difficult group, usually termed "the group of death" with France, Italy and Hungary and only lost to Italy. The Tournament was run on two league phases rather than a league and knockout which left Argentina requiring a 6 goal winning margin in their last 8 round of matches to win through to the Final. Peru, the opposition rolled over 6-0 which was a talking point although they had failed to win any of their last 8 matches and were already on the slippery slope rather than being incentivised to jump. Rumours persisted that Peru had thrown the game to help the hosts. Arch rivals Brazil had to settle for third place. I, for some reason, never put in the score for the Final with Holland and have had to just look it up in the history books to see that Argentina beat the Dutch 3-1 after extra time.
The Argentinians made an impression with their style of play and skill which appeased their critics after the thuggish behaviour of the 1966 squad when they played against another host-winner, England.
Leopoldo Luque was a swashbuckling type character in contrast to the diminuitive figure of Osvaldo Ardiles who led the first wave of foreign players along with Ricardo Villa into the English Leagues.
Argentina were awarded the Fair Play Trophy for the tournament in spite of accusations of dirty tactics and time wasting in some games and Mario Kempes was top scorer including two tremendous strikes in the Final.
I very much enjoyed the three weeks and from time to time pore over my teenage scribblings and self penned match reports in that dog-eared notebook. It was an eventful competition but on reflection football won through. That Daniel Killer though, great name for a number 13.
In addition to the annually occurring events there is the FIFA World Cup on its four yearly cycle and with Brazil taking on the challenging role as hosts.
The lead-in to the festival of footie has been a long one. The Panini Collectors Album has been flogged remorselessly by the shops although to their credit it has in my reckoning been more a case of a great free giveaway of the things. There are in excess of 650 self adhesive stickers required to reach that momentous milestone of filling up the pages but anyone attaining that must have money to burn given that the individual cards are 10p each. Even with the freakish prospect of not getting any swopsies or multiple duplicates and with the likelihood of having to chase that sole elusive shiny metal national team emblem the absolute minimum investment would be £65 but in reality considerably more.
I am not in a position to belittle the pastime of card collecting as in the past I have been quite obsessive in my quest to a full album. I did one year send off to the manufacturers an order for those which had eluded my pocket money spending spree.
You can tell when we are in the final few weeks to a World Cup kick off with the release of the branded and officially endorsed products from razors to deodorant, choccy bars to limited edition beers.
However, my World Cup fever only really starts with the publishing of the Radio Times.
I have managed to keep stashed away ,in my green metal trunk, from the ravages of damp, time and children's inquisitiveness a copy of the 1978 World Cup Special.
It is in reasonable condition but carries the scars of constant handling by myself, aged 15, and the recording on the match by match fill in chart of the scores in blue ball point pen. The edition gave the BBC schedules for the period 27th May to 2nd June which only just coincided with the first two opening games, one of which being the traditional curtain raiser for the host nation, Argentina.
 |
So what else was happening in that week of 1978 in terms of TV broadcasting? There were the institutional stalwarts, although now known differently, of Rolf on Saturday and immediately followed by Jim'll Fix it. The conspiracy theorists will be having a field day on that fact. Peak weekend viewing included Val Doonican and Kojak.
The usual faces were ever present in Mike Yarwood, Terry Wogan, Noel Edmonds and Michael Parkinson.
Popular children's shows were Play School, Champion the Wonder Horse, Stopwatch, Roobarb (before Custard), Blue Peter and The Flashing Blade (on repeat).
Regular sitcoms, dramas and entertainments included Porridge, Angels, The Liver Birds and It's a Knockout with in that particular week the towns of Cleethorpes, Gainsborough and Lincoln doing daft things with oversized foam suits and inflatables.
Inflation in the nation was at 165%, guerilla warfare and terrorism was a constant threat and a high proportion of the population were below the poverty line. The estimated cost of putting on the tournament may never be known but a figure of 940,800,000,000 Pesos was an authoritative estimate or £700 million in equivalent sterling.
The President, a military man coming to power in 1976, saw the World Cup as an opportunity to either drag the country out of depression and potential upheaval or provide an effective smokescreen of the real situation. It was a difficult domestic era and the Junta in control were struggling to keep control. Large numbers of government opponents disappeared or were confined in concentration camps. The poster shown encouraged the citizens to lift up their spirits although the sentiment is more of a barked order than a graceful invitation. A French Premier once said that sport was far too important to be left to sportsmen and George Bernard Shaw insisted that there was no greater cause of profound international misunderstanding than sport. Both seemed to ring true in 1978.
England had not qualified and it was left to Scotland to represent the Union. The Tartan Army took up residence and were well received by the locals in Cordoba and Mendoza but as my inked in chart and the record books show the team went home early after losing 3-1 to Peru, drawing 1-1 with Iran but at least with some pride after a stirring 3-2 victory against Holland thanks to a wonder goal by Archie Gemmel.
Argentina had a difficult group, usually termed "the group of death" with France, Italy and Hungary and only lost to Italy. The Tournament was run on two league phases rather than a league and knockout which left Argentina requiring a 6 goal winning margin in their last 8 round of matches to win through to the Final. Peru, the opposition rolled over 6-0 which was a talking point although they had failed to win any of their last 8 matches and were already on the slippery slope rather than being incentivised to jump. Rumours persisted that Peru had thrown the game to help the hosts. Arch rivals Brazil had to settle for third place. I, for some reason, never put in the score for the Final with Holland and have had to just look it up in the history books to see that Argentina beat the Dutch 3-1 after extra time.
 |
| Luque, Argentina number 9 |
Leopoldo Luque was a swashbuckling type character in contrast to the diminuitive figure of Osvaldo Ardiles who led the first wave of foreign players along with Ricardo Villa into the English Leagues.
Argentina were awarded the Fair Play Trophy for the tournament in spite of accusations of dirty tactics and time wasting in some games and Mario Kempes was top scorer including two tremendous strikes in the Final.
I very much enjoyed the three weeks and from time to time pore over my teenage scribblings and self penned match reports in that dog-eared notebook. It was an eventful competition but on reflection football won through. That Daniel Killer though, great name for a number 13.
Sunday, 4 May 2014
You can bank on it.
I followed the tradition of my family. That was the way.
In previous generations and by that I mean way back in history it was always the case.
In Medieval times the eldest son usually inherited what comprised the estate, be it expansive lands and a Manor House or just a hovel and a shrivelled up carrot. In other periods it was more of a situation where the family profession or vocation was perpetuated by the senior male offspring such as in the military, in the running of a business or in general trade and commerce.
The law of succession applied and many a dynasty and prolonged family tree developed. My Father followed his own into the world of banking and by doing so linked the Bank of East Africa in Liberia to branches of Lloyds Bank in the home country. I may have taken this route but to be honest I was terrible at maths, but then again with the benefit of hindsight the whole financial mess of the credit crisis was exacerbated by a pretty poor understanding of simple mathematics by others.
The world was also a very different place by my early years from the 1960's with the prospect of just having one job for the whole of your working life becoming increasingly rare. Many of my peers in the 1970's by the time of leaving school simply expected to follow their fathers and grandfathers into the largest regional employment in the Steel Industry, in deep sea fishing, heavy engineering and manufacturing but within less than a decade those forms of work were under threat and rapidly evaporating. I have not as yet heard of successive generations in, for example, the Call Centre sector but just give it a few more years and it will be pretty much the norm.
So what was the extent of the family tradition left for me to follow?
Well, it was the Cub Scouts and later, the Scouts and Venture Scouts. It was a natural progression having been enthused by the stories and antics of my father and Uncle David in their own times in the movement in the post war period. A treasured possession of my father, kept locked up in a hefty hasp lockable suitcase was his collection of scouting souvenirs and memorabilia. This included his whittled woggle, a string tied bunting of felt flags and emblems from the Jamborees and other gatherings across the UK and in Europe and accumulated merit badges in all of the most useful and practical subjects of woodcraft, campcraft and good citizenship. There were also a few grainy black and white photographs, self processed and developed of figures in floppy shorts, matching shirts, coloured neckerchiefs and large broad brimmed park ranger style hats which tied under the chin.
I became part of the Scouting fraternity happily and willingly and indeed my progression to Chief Scouts Award represents something that I actually managed to persevere in to proper conclusion. There were of course other organisations and causes for a young lad to follow. A few of my friends joined up with the St John's Ambulance Corps, The Boy's Brigade, Army and Navy Cadets, Salvation Army or local clubs such as Martial Arts, Bellringing, Brass Band practice, the Youth Club or more exotic activities including horseriding and rowing.
The town that I lived in at the time would undergo the usual migration of its population at the equivalent of its rush hour or going to and leaving school premises with, in between the movement of housewives (an occupation of that period) and tradespeople going about their business. The streets would then experience a bit of a lull from tea time to early evening now retrospectively seen as a golden time for families with a meal around a table and much communion and communication of the days events.
However, by 6.30pm the town would be on the move again as parents took their offspring to the venues of their respective activities and pursuits. I went on my bike to the Scout Hut and would see carloads of kids clad in their Judo whites, St John's thick and itchy woollen jumpers, combat fatigues, Oxford Bag trousers or tie dye wear making their way across town. It seemed as though the whole population were on the move. Then another quiet period until congestion again at picking up time.
As a parent myself with my own children from the 1990's I forever seemed to be in the car and up and down the road to Ballet Lessons, School activities, Brownies and Football practice.
I look upon those times now that the children are all grown up and making their own way in the world with great fondness, There is also a particular comfort and satisfaction in the knowledge that the traditions remain strong and vibrant and hopefully secure for future generations.
In previous generations and by that I mean way back in history it was always the case.
In Medieval times the eldest son usually inherited what comprised the estate, be it expansive lands and a Manor House or just a hovel and a shrivelled up carrot. In other periods it was more of a situation where the family profession or vocation was perpetuated by the senior male offspring such as in the military, in the running of a business or in general trade and commerce.
The law of succession applied and many a dynasty and prolonged family tree developed. My Father followed his own into the world of banking and by doing so linked the Bank of East Africa in Liberia to branches of Lloyds Bank in the home country. I may have taken this route but to be honest I was terrible at maths, but then again with the benefit of hindsight the whole financial mess of the credit crisis was exacerbated by a pretty poor understanding of simple mathematics by others.
The world was also a very different place by my early years from the 1960's with the prospect of just having one job for the whole of your working life becoming increasingly rare. Many of my peers in the 1970's by the time of leaving school simply expected to follow their fathers and grandfathers into the largest regional employment in the Steel Industry, in deep sea fishing, heavy engineering and manufacturing but within less than a decade those forms of work were under threat and rapidly evaporating. I have not as yet heard of successive generations in, for example, the Call Centre sector but just give it a few more years and it will be pretty much the norm.
So what was the extent of the family tradition left for me to follow?
Well, it was the Cub Scouts and later, the Scouts and Venture Scouts. It was a natural progression having been enthused by the stories and antics of my father and Uncle David in their own times in the movement in the post war period. A treasured possession of my father, kept locked up in a hefty hasp lockable suitcase was his collection of scouting souvenirs and memorabilia. This included his whittled woggle, a string tied bunting of felt flags and emblems from the Jamborees and other gatherings across the UK and in Europe and accumulated merit badges in all of the most useful and practical subjects of woodcraft, campcraft and good citizenship. There were also a few grainy black and white photographs, self processed and developed of figures in floppy shorts, matching shirts, coloured neckerchiefs and large broad brimmed park ranger style hats which tied under the chin.
I became part of the Scouting fraternity happily and willingly and indeed my progression to Chief Scouts Award represents something that I actually managed to persevere in to proper conclusion. There were of course other organisations and causes for a young lad to follow. A few of my friends joined up with the St John's Ambulance Corps, The Boy's Brigade, Army and Navy Cadets, Salvation Army or local clubs such as Martial Arts, Bellringing, Brass Band practice, the Youth Club or more exotic activities including horseriding and rowing.
The town that I lived in at the time would undergo the usual migration of its population at the equivalent of its rush hour or going to and leaving school premises with, in between the movement of housewives (an occupation of that period) and tradespeople going about their business. The streets would then experience a bit of a lull from tea time to early evening now retrospectively seen as a golden time for families with a meal around a table and much communion and communication of the days events.
However, by 6.30pm the town would be on the move again as parents took their offspring to the venues of their respective activities and pursuits. I went on my bike to the Scout Hut and would see carloads of kids clad in their Judo whites, St John's thick and itchy woollen jumpers, combat fatigues, Oxford Bag trousers or tie dye wear making their way across town. It seemed as though the whole population were on the move. Then another quiet period until congestion again at picking up time.
As a parent myself with my own children from the 1990's I forever seemed to be in the car and up and down the road to Ballet Lessons, School activities, Brownies and Football practice.
I look upon those times now that the children are all grown up and making their own way in the world with great fondness, There is also a particular comfort and satisfaction in the knowledge that the traditions remain strong and vibrant and hopefully secure for future generations.
Saturday, 3 May 2014
Heartbreak and Facilities Management
The ultimate test of your own knowledge and comprehension is in trying to convey it to others.
I have never been as disappointed as the time I attended a lecture by a very extensively published technical author.
His books were the bedrock of my learning at the time. I spent many, many hours amongst their pages of well reasoned text on a range of subject matter which in the delivery of others could bring about fatigue, swift boredom and even induce rapid slumber. He had a way of explaining things which was immediately understood being backed up with practical examples and clear schematics.
In the sphere of my chosen discipline that author was the rock-star, guru, oracle, svengali like figure and role model.
That was until I actually came across him.
The first time was on the bus.
I had just finished a day at college and was making my way back to the damp and fetid atmosphere of my shared student house. A group of us on the same course were occupying on the top deck, talking noisily about everything apart from our coursework typically football, music, football, girls, football and music when a sort of whispering calm descended through the double decker.
I do not know where it originated from but recognised it as the reverential silence that was the pre-cursor to something momentous.
In other situations in my experience the catalyst for the equivalent of the world going into slow-motion had included the spotting of a celebrity, the glimpse of a beautiful woman, the same with the rear of her skirt tucked into her knickers, in the witnessing of a crime or a piece of anti social behaviour such as bullying or victimisation of a fat, ugly, ginger haired kid.
We looked amongst each other in the group trying to work out what the signs and portents meant to find the quietest and meekest of our number with finger outstretched pointing towards a bald headed man in a Gaberdine raincoat who had just made his way up the steep, rolling stairs to sit in the front bench seat.
In a quiet and stuttering voice, as though scarcely believing what he was seeing my fellow student muttered a series of words which to me sounded very much like the name of the illustrious author.
I recalled that the covers and sleeves of the numerous chunky reference books had not ever included a mugshot of the writer. This would be commonplace in a novel or coffee table type publication but rarely found in a general work. I had therefore created, for visualisation purposes my own image of the creator of those influential books.
Thinking back my imaginings of a tall, cultivated, eloquent and stunningly handsome persona were a bit homo-erotic but then again I was often alone in my thoughts late at night accompanied only by the pages of the man as though in a one to one relationship. Ooh-err Matron as they say.
It was, I realise a bit of a relationship in that I could be found talking aloud and conversing as though to the actual words on the bright white paper, even arguing and contesting specific issues. In the wee small hours ,after a long day studying, a couple or so pints of Guinness and inadequately sustaining food it was not unusual for me to hear voices as though the pages were talking back to me. I have often felt that I would be, on this basis, an interesting case study in the Psychiatrist's chair or hurtling about like a whirling Dervish in a strait-jacket in a padded cell observed by white clad medical staff.
The focus of our respectful open-mouthed-ness was, on closer squinted assessment of the back of his head, a most ordinary character of the type that you would not ever notice in a crowd or if you did you would immediately stereotype as an accountant, solicitor or lawyer. His identity appeared to me confirmed by others in our group but I found myself in denial. Surely the golden words of wisdom could not come from such a plain and frankly, invisible source.
A few days later the reason for the presence of, until then, my hero on the bus was obvious. He had been visiting the college to make final arrangements for a special, one-off appearance to coincide with his new addition to his catalogue of text books. Sure enough the weekly lecture dedicated to the subject was to be taken in person. I was prepared to give the man the benefit of the doubt given the still overwhelming inspiration of his writing to me.
I sat in my usual seat in the stepped amphitheatre of the lecture hall, about half way up and towards the centre which afforded the best acoustics and vantage point of the stage and white boarded background. I hoped for a fanfare and almost gladiatorial entrance of the author but the same small, stumpy shape shuffled out still clad in the flasher mac and took up position at the lecturn.
What ensued was a dull, monotone and weak delivery of gobbledegook, incoherent ramblings, nervous glances into the audience after prolonged periods of head-down disinterest and the unmistakable sound of someone plummeting from a high pedestal. The 90 minutes of painful witness seemed to me more like a 90 day ordeal, a session of torture and overwhelming embarassment.
I left the auditorium feeling dejected and not a little cheated. It had been, for all of its agony, a valuable lesson in life and with broken heart I was certain that I could never trust another human being, well at least not in the realm of books on plumbing and building services installations.
I have never been as disappointed as the time I attended a lecture by a very extensively published technical author.
His books were the bedrock of my learning at the time. I spent many, many hours amongst their pages of well reasoned text on a range of subject matter which in the delivery of others could bring about fatigue, swift boredom and even induce rapid slumber. He had a way of explaining things which was immediately understood being backed up with practical examples and clear schematics.
In the sphere of my chosen discipline that author was the rock-star, guru, oracle, svengali like figure and role model.
That was until I actually came across him.
The first time was on the bus.
I had just finished a day at college and was making my way back to the damp and fetid atmosphere of my shared student house. A group of us on the same course were occupying on the top deck, talking noisily about everything apart from our coursework typically football, music, football, girls, football and music when a sort of whispering calm descended through the double decker.
I do not know where it originated from but recognised it as the reverential silence that was the pre-cursor to something momentous.
In other situations in my experience the catalyst for the equivalent of the world going into slow-motion had included the spotting of a celebrity, the glimpse of a beautiful woman, the same with the rear of her skirt tucked into her knickers, in the witnessing of a crime or a piece of anti social behaviour such as bullying or victimisation of a fat, ugly, ginger haired kid.
We looked amongst each other in the group trying to work out what the signs and portents meant to find the quietest and meekest of our number with finger outstretched pointing towards a bald headed man in a Gaberdine raincoat who had just made his way up the steep, rolling stairs to sit in the front bench seat.
In a quiet and stuttering voice, as though scarcely believing what he was seeing my fellow student muttered a series of words which to me sounded very much like the name of the illustrious author.
I recalled that the covers and sleeves of the numerous chunky reference books had not ever included a mugshot of the writer. This would be commonplace in a novel or coffee table type publication but rarely found in a general work. I had therefore created, for visualisation purposes my own image of the creator of those influential books.
Thinking back my imaginings of a tall, cultivated, eloquent and stunningly handsome persona were a bit homo-erotic but then again I was often alone in my thoughts late at night accompanied only by the pages of the man as though in a one to one relationship. Ooh-err Matron as they say.
It was, I realise a bit of a relationship in that I could be found talking aloud and conversing as though to the actual words on the bright white paper, even arguing and contesting specific issues. In the wee small hours ,after a long day studying, a couple or so pints of Guinness and inadequately sustaining food it was not unusual for me to hear voices as though the pages were talking back to me. I have often felt that I would be, on this basis, an interesting case study in the Psychiatrist's chair or hurtling about like a whirling Dervish in a strait-jacket in a padded cell observed by white clad medical staff.
The focus of our respectful open-mouthed-ness was, on closer squinted assessment of the back of his head, a most ordinary character of the type that you would not ever notice in a crowd or if you did you would immediately stereotype as an accountant, solicitor or lawyer. His identity appeared to me confirmed by others in our group but I found myself in denial. Surely the golden words of wisdom could not come from such a plain and frankly, invisible source.
A few days later the reason for the presence of, until then, my hero on the bus was obvious. He had been visiting the college to make final arrangements for a special, one-off appearance to coincide with his new addition to his catalogue of text books. Sure enough the weekly lecture dedicated to the subject was to be taken in person. I was prepared to give the man the benefit of the doubt given the still overwhelming inspiration of his writing to me.
I sat in my usual seat in the stepped amphitheatre of the lecture hall, about half way up and towards the centre which afforded the best acoustics and vantage point of the stage and white boarded background. I hoped for a fanfare and almost gladiatorial entrance of the author but the same small, stumpy shape shuffled out still clad in the flasher mac and took up position at the lecturn.
What ensued was a dull, monotone and weak delivery of gobbledegook, incoherent ramblings, nervous glances into the audience after prolonged periods of head-down disinterest and the unmistakable sound of someone plummeting from a high pedestal. The 90 minutes of painful witness seemed to me more like a 90 day ordeal, a session of torture and overwhelming embarassment.
I left the auditorium feeling dejected and not a little cheated. It had been, for all of its agony, a valuable lesson in life and with broken heart I was certain that I could never trust another human being, well at least not in the realm of books on plumbing and building services installations.
Friday, 2 May 2014
One Thousand Days in my Head
Today is the milestone of the 1000th posting on my blog. It has been a part of my daily routine for that number of consecutive days and began back in August 2011. I must say a massive thank you to my loyal followers and also the in excess of 27,000 worldwide pageviewers whatever their motivation or origin, be they humans or mechanical. I have no special wisdom to impart on this posting but am already researching the next phase of my writings and fully intend to keep up my prolific output as long as I remain lucid and loose limbed.
I close with a bit of a brain teaser although beyond the UK it will be fairly meaningless.
Out of the four main English Football Divisions there is only one team that shares none of the letters found in the word "mackerel".
Answers can be conveyed using the comments option.
Have a nice 1000th blog day.
I close with a bit of a brain teaser although beyond the UK it will be fairly meaningless.
Out of the four main English Football Divisions there is only one team that shares none of the letters found in the word "mackerel".
Answers can be conveyed using the comments option.
Have a nice 1000th blog day.
Thursday, 1 May 2014
A Room with a View
It was a dull April morning in town. Dull from the point of view of the weather and my job list which was less than inspiring in that it comprised;
9.00am, a visit to a house to advise its occupants on measures to combat their chronic dampness,
9.45am, tip-toeing through a vandalised property avoiding holes in the floor and booby traps,
10.30am, dodging freshly painted surfaces in a new-build project,
and 11.30am sneaking a photo over a garden fence without alerting the neighbourhood watch to my rather dodgy behaviour.
The motivation to get through the first part of the day was the tantalising prospect of a drive up into North Yorkshire to the evocatively sounding address of "Sea View Gardens, Scarborough".
Most great road trips are exciting enough but if there is the prospect of a panoramic view or breathtaking vista at journey's end then that excursion is elevated to classic status.
The misty and moist low cloud was held firmly in the tight city environment and the usual landmarks of industrial smoke stacks and wind turbines only loomed into sight at the last moment in ghostly silhouette. It was not until I had turned westwards onto the by-pass that the density of the vapour shroud began to thin out with watery sunlight and I could make out the residential tower blocks on the estate in my rear view mirror. Within a couple of miles I realised that beyond the city boundary it was actually a bright and increasingly pleasant spring day. My standard issue company jumper in which I had earlier been mistaken for a Prison Warder and/or Tesco Security Guard began to feel a bit over-warm although I had welcomed its 100% wool mix earlier on in the day.
The daffodils were resplendent on the verge and embankments of the busy trunk road although their previously dazzling radiance was now a bit speckled with exhaust particles and spray from HGV's. Most of the traffic headed off, at the main roundabout junction towards York, and I was left heading up coast with just a few straggler caravans and fast paced, chubby leather clad motorcyclists. The route is one of the most notorious for causing the demise of the 40 to 50 years age group of menopausal bikers and every couple of miles is marked with signage warning of the perils of speed and unrestrained behaviour through tight bends. These appeared to cause no pangs of conscience whatsoever although there was a slight slowing as a mark of respect at each of the flower bestooned shrines marking the accident sites from the early part of the 2014 season.
The countryside above Beverley is open and rolling between the large cultivated fields and dispersed hamlets and villages. If not in a hurry and savouring the prospect of Sea View Gardens it is nice to idle along listening to drama or comedy on the car radio. However, I am not complacent in my driving as I well recall my momentary dozing behind the wheel and the ensuing surprise of finding, upon stirring awake, that I was on the opposite side of the road heading into oncoming traffic. I have ever since avoided any programming involving The Archer's. Just too soporific even at 10am in the morning on that potentially fatal morning.
The road climbs gradually north of Driffield over the chalky Wolds and with views either side to sweeping and dry valleys. The radio reception ebbs and flows through the deep set and sleepy settlements of Langtoft and Foxholes usually at a critical moment of the reveal in the murder mystery. Never mind, BBC4 Extra do repeat the schedule at least four times in a day and I can catch up and assess my own powers of deduction on the return leg of the trip. I am almost word perfect on some of the episodes of Steptoe and Son, Dad's Army and Flywheel, Schyster and Flywheels from the saturation coverage on a day of particularly long driving distances. Yes, I know there are other channels available but fiddling with the tuner is also, I understand, a common contributory factor to road crashes.
Staxton Hill is a twisting descent of 1 in 6 gradient. Engaging a low gear, as advised by the warning notices, is painfully noisy and cumbersome but essential to comply with to avoid the very public spectacle of losing control and ploughing through the deep sand of the escape lane at its base. I have never witnessed a runaway vehicle although it still surprises me to see fresh tyre ruts as though the speed retarding measure gets regular use.
After the ups and downs of the previous 20 miles the flat plain from Staxton into the suburbs of Scarborough is depressing. People must like it on the evidence of the large static caravan parks although I attribute this to the close proximity to a Morrisons Supermarket and a McDonalds restaurant, both important considerations for a vacation stay in the UK.
Scarborough itself, I liken to Rome. They could be candidates for twinning with both being built on a series of hills, some quite steep and imposing with housing clinging on against gravity and resisting the Scarborough-centric phenomenum of soil creep. This is where, usually following heavy and persistent rain, the natural stickiness and amalgam of the clay soils usually good factors for foundation stability just gives up and the consequence of buildings making their way down hill unaccompanied makes the newpapers and national TV coverage.
I skirt around the large mass of Olivers Mount, sometime motorsports race circuit but everyday panoramic viewpoint to get onto the Filey Road which leads to my appointment. There are some tremendous properties along this prestigious axis ranging from large Victorian and Edwardian villas to inter war red tiled detached in expansive landscaped gardens, again hugging close to the closely packed contours. Scarborough follows a typical urban expansion plan and the age of housing becomes progressively younger the farther from its centre. My destination is part of the 1960's growth of by now rather plain and boring dwellings. predominantly retirement bungalows and semi-chalet style houses.
I turn into the series of cul de sacs that make up Sea View Road, Sea View Grove, Sea View Avenue and Sea View Gardens. I feel sorry for the postal service on the basis of potential mayhem and confusion over any vaguely addressed items. Still, they have a one in four chance of delivering to the correct residence. The community spirit amongst the locals must be good if they are for ever popping around the estate making sure the misdelivered correspondence reaches its rightful recipients.
My destination is one of the uninspiring semi detached houses.
The only potential feature to salvage a bit of character would be that promise of a sea view.
From the driveway the only aspect is onto other properties with no distant azure haze. Slightly elevated in the ground floor living room the prospect of an outlook onto clear ocean and the horizon balanced profile of a large vessel plying the lanes to and from Teesport or any of the world's great shipping nations is still thwarted by the rest of the cul de sac. I make my way up the 1960's open tread, almost ladder like, staircase and peer out of the landing window. I am now looking out onto the ridges of rooftops and a few aerial festooned chimney stacks. Still no joy of white caps and sea swell. There is a large double glazed window at the back or the house, facing north and therefore back towards the main Scarborough Town. I move a bit of the bedroom furniture forming a pile from a single bed base, a wicker backed chair and an upholstered foot rest or as they used to be called, a pouffe. They sit well onto each other and provide a stable enough pyramid for me to climb up and ease open the narrow window casement. At full extent and with my head protruding at an uncomfortable angle I at last catch a glimpse of the North Sea.
The day promised much and with a little effort I am happy not to have to report the road naming committee of the Council to Trading Standards for gross misrepresentation.
9.00am, a visit to a house to advise its occupants on measures to combat their chronic dampness,
9.45am, tip-toeing through a vandalised property avoiding holes in the floor and booby traps,
10.30am, dodging freshly painted surfaces in a new-build project,
and 11.30am sneaking a photo over a garden fence without alerting the neighbourhood watch to my rather dodgy behaviour.
The motivation to get through the first part of the day was the tantalising prospect of a drive up into North Yorkshire to the evocatively sounding address of "Sea View Gardens, Scarborough".
Most great road trips are exciting enough but if there is the prospect of a panoramic view or breathtaking vista at journey's end then that excursion is elevated to classic status.
The misty and moist low cloud was held firmly in the tight city environment and the usual landmarks of industrial smoke stacks and wind turbines only loomed into sight at the last moment in ghostly silhouette. It was not until I had turned westwards onto the by-pass that the density of the vapour shroud began to thin out with watery sunlight and I could make out the residential tower blocks on the estate in my rear view mirror. Within a couple of miles I realised that beyond the city boundary it was actually a bright and increasingly pleasant spring day. My standard issue company jumper in which I had earlier been mistaken for a Prison Warder and/or Tesco Security Guard began to feel a bit over-warm although I had welcomed its 100% wool mix earlier on in the day.
The daffodils were resplendent on the verge and embankments of the busy trunk road although their previously dazzling radiance was now a bit speckled with exhaust particles and spray from HGV's. Most of the traffic headed off, at the main roundabout junction towards York, and I was left heading up coast with just a few straggler caravans and fast paced, chubby leather clad motorcyclists. The route is one of the most notorious for causing the demise of the 40 to 50 years age group of menopausal bikers and every couple of miles is marked with signage warning of the perils of speed and unrestrained behaviour through tight bends. These appeared to cause no pangs of conscience whatsoever although there was a slight slowing as a mark of respect at each of the flower bestooned shrines marking the accident sites from the early part of the 2014 season.
The countryside above Beverley is open and rolling between the large cultivated fields and dispersed hamlets and villages. If not in a hurry and savouring the prospect of Sea View Gardens it is nice to idle along listening to drama or comedy on the car radio. However, I am not complacent in my driving as I well recall my momentary dozing behind the wheel and the ensuing surprise of finding, upon stirring awake, that I was on the opposite side of the road heading into oncoming traffic. I have ever since avoided any programming involving The Archer's. Just too soporific even at 10am in the morning on that potentially fatal morning.
The road climbs gradually north of Driffield over the chalky Wolds and with views either side to sweeping and dry valleys. The radio reception ebbs and flows through the deep set and sleepy settlements of Langtoft and Foxholes usually at a critical moment of the reveal in the murder mystery. Never mind, BBC4 Extra do repeat the schedule at least four times in a day and I can catch up and assess my own powers of deduction on the return leg of the trip. I am almost word perfect on some of the episodes of Steptoe and Son, Dad's Army and Flywheel, Schyster and Flywheels from the saturation coverage on a day of particularly long driving distances. Yes, I know there are other channels available but fiddling with the tuner is also, I understand, a common contributory factor to road crashes.
Staxton Hill is a twisting descent of 1 in 6 gradient. Engaging a low gear, as advised by the warning notices, is painfully noisy and cumbersome but essential to comply with to avoid the very public spectacle of losing control and ploughing through the deep sand of the escape lane at its base. I have never witnessed a runaway vehicle although it still surprises me to see fresh tyre ruts as though the speed retarding measure gets regular use.
After the ups and downs of the previous 20 miles the flat plain from Staxton into the suburbs of Scarborough is depressing. People must like it on the evidence of the large static caravan parks although I attribute this to the close proximity to a Morrisons Supermarket and a McDonalds restaurant, both important considerations for a vacation stay in the UK.
Scarborough itself, I liken to Rome. They could be candidates for twinning with both being built on a series of hills, some quite steep and imposing with housing clinging on against gravity and resisting the Scarborough-centric phenomenum of soil creep. This is where, usually following heavy and persistent rain, the natural stickiness and amalgam of the clay soils usually good factors for foundation stability just gives up and the consequence of buildings making their way down hill unaccompanied makes the newpapers and national TV coverage.
I skirt around the large mass of Olivers Mount, sometime motorsports race circuit but everyday panoramic viewpoint to get onto the Filey Road which leads to my appointment. There are some tremendous properties along this prestigious axis ranging from large Victorian and Edwardian villas to inter war red tiled detached in expansive landscaped gardens, again hugging close to the closely packed contours. Scarborough follows a typical urban expansion plan and the age of housing becomes progressively younger the farther from its centre. My destination is part of the 1960's growth of by now rather plain and boring dwellings. predominantly retirement bungalows and semi-chalet style houses.
I turn into the series of cul de sacs that make up Sea View Road, Sea View Grove, Sea View Avenue and Sea View Gardens. I feel sorry for the postal service on the basis of potential mayhem and confusion over any vaguely addressed items. Still, they have a one in four chance of delivering to the correct residence. The community spirit amongst the locals must be good if they are for ever popping around the estate making sure the misdelivered correspondence reaches its rightful recipients.
My destination is one of the uninspiring semi detached houses.
The only potential feature to salvage a bit of character would be that promise of a sea view.
From the driveway the only aspect is onto other properties with no distant azure haze. Slightly elevated in the ground floor living room the prospect of an outlook onto clear ocean and the horizon balanced profile of a large vessel plying the lanes to and from Teesport or any of the world's great shipping nations is still thwarted by the rest of the cul de sac. I make my way up the 1960's open tread, almost ladder like, staircase and peer out of the landing window. I am now looking out onto the ridges of rooftops and a few aerial festooned chimney stacks. Still no joy of white caps and sea swell. There is a large double glazed window at the back or the house, facing north and therefore back towards the main Scarborough Town. I move a bit of the bedroom furniture forming a pile from a single bed base, a wicker backed chair and an upholstered foot rest or as they used to be called, a pouffe. They sit well onto each other and provide a stable enough pyramid for me to climb up and ease open the narrow window casement. At full extent and with my head protruding at an uncomfortable angle I at last catch a glimpse of the North Sea.
The day promised much and with a little effort I am happy not to have to report the road naming committee of the Council to Trading Standards for gross misrepresentation.
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