It's Hull Fair time again so I dug deep into the lint of my stored archive and pulled out this, covered in a bit of candy floss, brandy snap and liquorice whip...
I gave in to a stereotypical middle aged geek urge to try to calculate the hourly income generation of Hull Fair. This is my calculation based on guesstimate, prejudice, inappropriate stock judgements and not a very detailed knowledge of the economics of a very large, slick and efficient commercial enterprise.
I divided up the Fair into broad groups based on form and function, this covers the multi-million pound Mega Rides right down to the individual hawker with a fistful of helium balloons. I then estimated the average spend of a visitor to each category, how many visitors could be served at a time and how many times the transaction could be done per hour. For example, Bob Carvers Chip Emporium has about 15 servers who could turn around a punter every two minutes from order to payment therefore 30 per hour at an average spend of £7.40 assuming 2 portions of pattie, chips and peas. I applied this across the full range even down to Eva Petulengro Fortune Teller and stalker of Coronation Street Stars who can, I guess, throw considerable uncertainty into the ongoing lives of 6 people per hour for £5 a go.
The full calculation is as follows;
Fast Food Concessions. Average take £3, 5 servings at a time, 2 minutes duration, 30 per hour, 50 stalls
Fortune Tellers. Average take £5, 1 at a time but with 5 caravan based clairvoyants, 10 minutes consultation, so 6 per hour.
Major Rides. £2.50 average fare, 25 per ride, 12 revolutions, cycles or inversions per hour, 20 such high tech marvels of inertia and motion.
Traditional side stalls. £1.50 per chuck, launch, shot, hook a duck, 10 people at a time, 2 minutes of adrenaline soaked enjoyment, 30 per hour across 40 very similar stalls with this years top promotion of Meerkats.
Special category for dart throwing stalls.£1.50 , 10 men, 2 minutes including a cigarette, 30 per hour, 20 anachronistic and chauvinistic booth operators.
Bob Carvers, carried over from the illustrative section above.
Children's rides. £1 fare from grandma's purse. 20 per ride unless the toy cars have not yet been dettol'd so allow for 75% occupancy, 12 sessions per hour, I reckon about 10 old style rides just surviving the high tech expectations of the under-5's.
Amusements/slots/falls. £2 average spend, a lot of 2p's, 50 punters per arcade, disillusionment kicks in with fresh blood every 5 minutes, 5 arcades all possibly operated by the same company.
One-off specials. Difficult to see how these actually pay the operators. Cost of £10 per person, teamed up possibly with a perfect stranger to be elastic-launched no-where and be photographed of how you would look faced with the your worst nightmare or entering the Big Brother House. 10 minute set up and ride time so only 5 boings per hour. Possibly 2 of these ridiculous pieces of showboating equipment.
Traditional stalls selling candy floss, toffee apples, liquorice whips. Average spend £2, well staffed so 10 people served at a time, 2 minutes customer interface time, 30 similar stalls but strong representation from Wrights of Brighouse.
Hawkers with balloons, light-up hats, battery operated pets in baskets, whistles reminiscent of childhood Punch and Judy but cringingly annoying after 5 seconds. £3 per spend, 12 sales per hour with 30 high viz vested sellers.
I think that I have covered all income generating areas but if you can think of any more please fill in the dotted lines and carry over to my gross figure....................................................................................
..........................................................................................................................................................
As the Americans always say incorrectly ' Now for the math'.
My hourly gross figure working through my calculations comes to £105,420 per hour for the peak evening sessions from 7pm to closing time.
This produces a global gross figure for the peak hours and over the 8 nights of the Fair of £3,373,440.
Making allowances for bad weather, exceptionally fine weather and those afraid of the dark who only attend in the daylight hours there is considerable scope for fluctuations in figures.
There are of course significant costs to be offset against this figure which I, no doubt, will ponder in the wee small waking hours of the next week or so.
Friday, 11 October 2013
Thursday, 10 October 2013
The long stretch
The things that you can find out from the internet are astounding.
A question searched for can yield forth a multitude of answers when in the past the wise words of a family elder or just plain old common sense would have to do.
Not just mundane things about removing red wine stains from pale carpets, easing a gusset around a seized pipe, retrieving car keys from a public drain or how to get rid of ant infestation but up to and including matters of life and death.
There is a guide on how to assist in the birth of a child, give CPR and to escape from a multitude of hazardous situations.
I often think back to my childhood when good hard guidance on such things was veiled in secrecy and were even taboo.
A husband was not encouraged to be present at the emergence of his offspring, let alone help out in the post natal period.
Resuscitation was for the likes of geeky, spotty faced and ginger haired youths from St John's Ambulance or if by chance there happened to be someone to answer the cry of "is there a Doctor in the house?".
I often recall the solution proposed by one of my peer group, when I was a Scout, for a nose bleed. The lad willingly put forward the idea of applying a tourniquet to the neck. Perhaps a piece of advice handed down through the generations of his family.
There are of course pitfalls in taking the internet suggestions as being the honest truth.
Urban myths, hearsay and even malicious ideas have seeped into the on line forums which present themselves upon the typing in of the specific keywords. For each seemingly plausible answer given there is some self professed expert who advocates the complete opposite and so on and so forth.
This introduces an element of chance into any advice taken and followed.
I found myself seeking the wise counsel of the world wide community on the subject of how to move a three seater settee from a ground floor garage up to the first floor living room.
I was under the impression that furniture designers were savvy enough to produce an item that would be comfortable, stylish, practical, durable and wipe clean. These basic criteria would I suppose be drummed in at the college or apprenticeship stage of their careers or livelihoods in the interior decor sector. In the case of the settee just purchased from a well known dynamic duo of out of town retailers was it too much to ask that the item be of a size to fit into any house of any age or dimension.
The store deliverymen had unceremoniously dumped the settee in the garage after their initially enthusiastic attempts at an ascent of the staircase had failed. They had by all accounts tried pretty hard. On the first assault off had come the protective wrappings, second go the cushions removed and on the third the hardwood legs were screwed out and off in that order. It had been a bit like a striptease.
The pinch point was the turn at the top of the flight of stairs. No way was the furniture going to be coerced around that angle.
The whole family was disappointed at finding the disassembled seating in the bay of the garage.
We had been living on one good chair and two folding camp chairs for five weeks.
The arrival of the settee had been greatly anticipated as a step towards a more normal way of living.
My son had been present for the duration of the aborted attempt. It was his uncompromised opinion that with a little more logic the settee would reach its destination.
I was again in things domestic, the doubting Thomas and insecurity in my own mind led me to ask the www about how to negotiate a piece of furniture through a house. The line drawing on a forum page, sad as it is to find such a forum, recommended the taking of accurate measurements of the length, depth and height of the item and then comparing them against the space available for the act of manoevring.
I found that the depth and height were ok at 0.9 metres. The length however was a wacking 2.4 metres. At the top of the stairs, notwithstanding the angle of the wall, the floor to ceiling distance was only 2.3 metres.
I could sympathise with the deliverymen.
However, my son remained adamant that it would "go" and I gave him the benefit of my ample doubt.
The actual settee, devoid of soft furnishings and legs, was light which helped in the movement of its bulky form.
Me and my son soon matched the endeavours of the professionals in that we had wedged it firmly into the tight space at the top step of the stairs and on the difficult corner. I noticed a faint scorching smell and with horror noticed that the settee end was touching the hot halogen bulb light fitting above.
A panic on my part, only, saw a strategic retreat to one stair down in order to rest.
Supporting the lower end half way up the stairs my son had been giving a running commentary on issues of angle and clearance. His proposal to start again but with the handrail removed from the left hand side of the ascent was scoffed by me at as extra work but putting my pride aside it was duly done.
In spatial terms this act had opened up a new dimension completely and within a couple of minutes we had surpassed the best efforts of those men.
The vertical impasse could now be wiggled a bit and at an acute angle part of the settee end entered the kitchen door opening. We had lifted off the heavy fire doors earlier on in the day thinking it would have assisted the process. It had not then but with the extra few centimetres gained by unscrewing the handrail we were definitely making headway.
Taking care not to damage the fabric we edged and cajoled the furniture until it was again vertical but clear of the hot light and a downstand beam supporting the second floor structure.
Easier than expected the tight corner was cleared but we were now firmly wedged on the landing and at an impossible angle from the living room opening.
It was time for me to have doubts again.
In a short break I sent an e mail enquiry to a local Crane Hire company on the avialability and costs of a scissor lift. Plan B was to use such lifting equipment in conjuction with taking out a first floor window casement to get the settee in from the back of the house.
My son was keen to resume the puzzle-like challenge.
I could not see how it would be at all possible to be successful but then again common to my age group I could only appreciate and see situations in one or at best one and a half dimensions. My son and his peers are well versed in 3D appreciation having been brought up on video games. This skill came into play.
Bottom panel towards, top panel away, slight twist, flip and slide.
Amazingly the whole thing became pliable and manageable but critically now perfectly aligned with the kitchen doorway. I could not work out how that combination of moves had resolved an apparently impossible problem. Rubik-esque it was.
It was easy from thereon in. Through the kitchen, right turn through the dining room door and then a triumphal entrance into the living room through the wide flat archway. It was as though Caesar had returned to Rome.
All present almost wept with joy and relief. Despair had turned into utter happiness.
That was apart from my son who rightfully claimed the first full length sprawl on the soft and soothing upholstery.
I had a bad dream during the following night about being chased by a sofa with cloven hoof.
The lack of sleep affected the rest of the following day and I was caught off my guard when the Crane Hire Company rang to confirm my order for a heavy duty piece of lifting gear.
A question searched for can yield forth a multitude of answers when in the past the wise words of a family elder or just plain old common sense would have to do.
Not just mundane things about removing red wine stains from pale carpets, easing a gusset around a seized pipe, retrieving car keys from a public drain or how to get rid of ant infestation but up to and including matters of life and death.
There is a guide on how to assist in the birth of a child, give CPR and to escape from a multitude of hazardous situations.
I often think back to my childhood when good hard guidance on such things was veiled in secrecy and were even taboo.
A husband was not encouraged to be present at the emergence of his offspring, let alone help out in the post natal period.
Resuscitation was for the likes of geeky, spotty faced and ginger haired youths from St John's Ambulance or if by chance there happened to be someone to answer the cry of "is there a Doctor in the house?".
I often recall the solution proposed by one of my peer group, when I was a Scout, for a nose bleed. The lad willingly put forward the idea of applying a tourniquet to the neck. Perhaps a piece of advice handed down through the generations of his family.
There are of course pitfalls in taking the internet suggestions as being the honest truth.
Urban myths, hearsay and even malicious ideas have seeped into the on line forums which present themselves upon the typing in of the specific keywords. For each seemingly plausible answer given there is some self professed expert who advocates the complete opposite and so on and so forth.
This introduces an element of chance into any advice taken and followed.
I found myself seeking the wise counsel of the world wide community on the subject of how to move a three seater settee from a ground floor garage up to the first floor living room.
I was under the impression that furniture designers were savvy enough to produce an item that would be comfortable, stylish, practical, durable and wipe clean. These basic criteria would I suppose be drummed in at the college or apprenticeship stage of their careers or livelihoods in the interior decor sector. In the case of the settee just purchased from a well known dynamic duo of out of town retailers was it too much to ask that the item be of a size to fit into any house of any age or dimension.
The store deliverymen had unceremoniously dumped the settee in the garage after their initially enthusiastic attempts at an ascent of the staircase had failed. They had by all accounts tried pretty hard. On the first assault off had come the protective wrappings, second go the cushions removed and on the third the hardwood legs were screwed out and off in that order. It had been a bit like a striptease.
The pinch point was the turn at the top of the flight of stairs. No way was the furniture going to be coerced around that angle.
The whole family was disappointed at finding the disassembled seating in the bay of the garage.
We had been living on one good chair and two folding camp chairs for five weeks.
The arrival of the settee had been greatly anticipated as a step towards a more normal way of living.
My son had been present for the duration of the aborted attempt. It was his uncompromised opinion that with a little more logic the settee would reach its destination.
I was again in things domestic, the doubting Thomas and insecurity in my own mind led me to ask the www about how to negotiate a piece of furniture through a house. The line drawing on a forum page, sad as it is to find such a forum, recommended the taking of accurate measurements of the length, depth and height of the item and then comparing them against the space available for the act of manoevring.
I found that the depth and height were ok at 0.9 metres. The length however was a wacking 2.4 metres. At the top of the stairs, notwithstanding the angle of the wall, the floor to ceiling distance was only 2.3 metres.
I could sympathise with the deliverymen.
However, my son remained adamant that it would "go" and I gave him the benefit of my ample doubt.
The actual settee, devoid of soft furnishings and legs, was light which helped in the movement of its bulky form.
Me and my son soon matched the endeavours of the professionals in that we had wedged it firmly into the tight space at the top step of the stairs and on the difficult corner. I noticed a faint scorching smell and with horror noticed that the settee end was touching the hot halogen bulb light fitting above.
A panic on my part, only, saw a strategic retreat to one stair down in order to rest.
Supporting the lower end half way up the stairs my son had been giving a running commentary on issues of angle and clearance. His proposal to start again but with the handrail removed from the left hand side of the ascent was scoffed by me at as extra work but putting my pride aside it was duly done.
In spatial terms this act had opened up a new dimension completely and within a couple of minutes we had surpassed the best efforts of those men.
The vertical impasse could now be wiggled a bit and at an acute angle part of the settee end entered the kitchen door opening. We had lifted off the heavy fire doors earlier on in the day thinking it would have assisted the process. It had not then but with the extra few centimetres gained by unscrewing the handrail we were definitely making headway.
Taking care not to damage the fabric we edged and cajoled the furniture until it was again vertical but clear of the hot light and a downstand beam supporting the second floor structure.
Easier than expected the tight corner was cleared but we were now firmly wedged on the landing and at an impossible angle from the living room opening.
It was time for me to have doubts again.
In a short break I sent an e mail enquiry to a local Crane Hire company on the avialability and costs of a scissor lift. Plan B was to use such lifting equipment in conjuction with taking out a first floor window casement to get the settee in from the back of the house.
My son was keen to resume the puzzle-like challenge.
I could not see how it would be at all possible to be successful but then again common to my age group I could only appreciate and see situations in one or at best one and a half dimensions. My son and his peers are well versed in 3D appreciation having been brought up on video games. This skill came into play.
Bottom panel towards, top panel away, slight twist, flip and slide.
Amazingly the whole thing became pliable and manageable but critically now perfectly aligned with the kitchen doorway. I could not work out how that combination of moves had resolved an apparently impossible problem. Rubik-esque it was.
It was easy from thereon in. Through the kitchen, right turn through the dining room door and then a triumphal entrance into the living room through the wide flat archway. It was as though Caesar had returned to Rome.
All present almost wept with joy and relief. Despair had turned into utter happiness.
That was apart from my son who rightfully claimed the first full length sprawl on the soft and soothing upholstery.
I had a bad dream during the following night about being chased by a sofa with cloven hoof.
The lack of sleep affected the rest of the following day and I was caught off my guard when the Crane Hire Company rang to confirm my order for a heavy duty piece of lifting gear.
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
Hound of the Huskyvilles
It is one of my favourite films, the Disney true life adventure story that is Eight Below.
The plot is centred on a sled dog team who have to be left in Antarctica after the Scientists and support staff leave due to an injury sustained by one in their party and as the extreme weather closes in.
It is a heart wrenching dilemna for the sled dog handler who after securing the eight faithful animals cannot return, due to a number of circumstances, for more than a year to see what has become of them.
The Disney version is actually based on true events which took place in the late 1950's when fifteen Husky dogs had to be left for more than 12 months and only two survived in the absence of their human helpers.
The Husky is a truly remarkable breed, hardy and resilient as well as possessing considerable stamina and brute strength.
In the harsh snow bound environments of the Poles they are in their perfect element with a dense and insulating coat, reserves of body fat and the genetic ability to resist the extremes of temperature for which Man is poorly equipped even with technology and science on his side.
A large animal such as the Husky can be ferocious and intimidating but that is what is required in a pack society with a strict hierarchy of superiority and dominance.
In the Eight Below movie the patriarch of the sled team, Old Jack, perishes when he is unable to shake off the chain and shackles. The senior female Maya takes over and masterminds the operation of survival against all the odds. There is tragedy, emotional success and salvation along the way as Max, Truman, Dewey, Buck, Shadow and Shorty fight against the elements, hunger and a huge aggressive seal in their search for food and shelter.
I admit to finding myself blabbing uncontrollably as the handful of surviving dogs out of the two Alaskan Malamutes and the six Siberian Huskies are reunited with their handler in a slabberingly joyous moment amongst the snowbound landscape.
I came across a Husky today in someones back garden in a quiet market town.
Named Zeus, he was a huge bulky hound, now getting on in years and not as active as he has obviously been. He was slumped up against the patio doors of the conservatory in the shadiest and coolest part of the garden.
I was introduced to Zeus by the householder. I hesitate to say owner or master because if you too saw the dog you would understand that he was very much his own boss and just tolerated the family that he permitted and tolerated to live with him.
I was initially wary after the homeowner said that although Zeus was quite placid he did, for some instinctive reason, "play up a bit" in the company of human male visitors.
I greeted the Husky and gave him a patronising pat on the head, a tweak of his ear and uttered the usual words of "what a fine dog" in an effeminate sing song voice. In most circumstances and with dogs of lesser calibre and pride that is more than enough to placate and reassure them that I am not in any way a threat.
My mistake with Zeus was to turn my back on him as I set about the purpose of my calling at the house.
This must have been seen as a snub to the Siberian breed and I felt a large clawed paw drawing down the back of my leg from upper thigh to just below the knee. It was a bit like a warning, the equivalent of a shot across the bows.
I turned around slowly to face Zeus who was now very up close and personal indeed. He was silent but his muzzle nuzzled up into my groin area and he took a deep inward breath. In the wilderness of ice fields and tundra that would be expected as a form of reconnaissance, a bit of a getting to know you better type of action. In the back garden of a detached house in Yorkshire it was a little bit sinister and scary.
Making eye contact is, I had read somewhere and at sometime, a good move with an animal of a wild bred background.
Zeus had, although it sounds a bit waffy, the most beautiful eyes that I have ever had the reason to look deep in to. Ice white they were, deep gloss coloured and with a fathomless depth to the dark pupils. I could theorise on their appearance being the result of millenia of natural selection and adaptation to the climatic rigours of their natural habitat.
I was actually thinking more along the lines that he was measuring me up to assess whether he could take me without too much of a fight or girly screaming.
I could see that the homeowner was quite enjoying the ritual, obviously a common occurence in the back garden with casual callers and strangers. I then realised that the ritual was not tribal, hierarchical or just dog versus man but Zeus fancied me.
Trust me to come across the only gay husky in Yorkshire.
We maintained a very close contact thereafter around the patio, the large bungalow sized dog run kennel structure and amongst the lawn and well stocked borders and flower beds. I thought it best to play along, act the patsy and humour the large amorous hound until I was near enough to the conservatory door, his previous resting place, to make an escape. It seemed to take an age to get to a safe refuge. Zeus must have thought it was great sport but his penetratingly ice cool eyes looked sad as I mouthed words to the effect that he was not my type from behind the double glazing of the house windows. I will remember my meeting with such a striking character of a dog for some time . I may even keep, as a momento, the receipt for the dry cleaning of my working suit which had suffered unfortunate collateral damage in the course of the whole encounter.
The plot is centred on a sled dog team who have to be left in Antarctica after the Scientists and support staff leave due to an injury sustained by one in their party and as the extreme weather closes in.
It is a heart wrenching dilemna for the sled dog handler who after securing the eight faithful animals cannot return, due to a number of circumstances, for more than a year to see what has become of them.
The Disney version is actually based on true events which took place in the late 1950's when fifteen Husky dogs had to be left for more than 12 months and only two survived in the absence of their human helpers.
The Husky is a truly remarkable breed, hardy and resilient as well as possessing considerable stamina and brute strength.
In the harsh snow bound environments of the Poles they are in their perfect element with a dense and insulating coat, reserves of body fat and the genetic ability to resist the extremes of temperature for which Man is poorly equipped even with technology and science on his side.
A large animal such as the Husky can be ferocious and intimidating but that is what is required in a pack society with a strict hierarchy of superiority and dominance.
In the Eight Below movie the patriarch of the sled team, Old Jack, perishes when he is unable to shake off the chain and shackles. The senior female Maya takes over and masterminds the operation of survival against all the odds. There is tragedy, emotional success and salvation along the way as Max, Truman, Dewey, Buck, Shadow and Shorty fight against the elements, hunger and a huge aggressive seal in their search for food and shelter.
I admit to finding myself blabbing uncontrollably as the handful of surviving dogs out of the two Alaskan Malamutes and the six Siberian Huskies are reunited with their handler in a slabberingly joyous moment amongst the snowbound landscape.
I came across a Husky today in someones back garden in a quiet market town.
Named Zeus, he was a huge bulky hound, now getting on in years and not as active as he has obviously been. He was slumped up against the patio doors of the conservatory in the shadiest and coolest part of the garden.
I was introduced to Zeus by the householder. I hesitate to say owner or master because if you too saw the dog you would understand that he was very much his own boss and just tolerated the family that he permitted and tolerated to live with him.
I was initially wary after the homeowner said that although Zeus was quite placid he did, for some instinctive reason, "play up a bit" in the company of human male visitors.
I greeted the Husky and gave him a patronising pat on the head, a tweak of his ear and uttered the usual words of "what a fine dog" in an effeminate sing song voice. In most circumstances and with dogs of lesser calibre and pride that is more than enough to placate and reassure them that I am not in any way a threat.
My mistake with Zeus was to turn my back on him as I set about the purpose of my calling at the house.
This must have been seen as a snub to the Siberian breed and I felt a large clawed paw drawing down the back of my leg from upper thigh to just below the knee. It was a bit like a warning, the equivalent of a shot across the bows.
I turned around slowly to face Zeus who was now very up close and personal indeed. He was silent but his muzzle nuzzled up into my groin area and he took a deep inward breath. In the wilderness of ice fields and tundra that would be expected as a form of reconnaissance, a bit of a getting to know you better type of action. In the back garden of a detached house in Yorkshire it was a little bit sinister and scary.
Making eye contact is, I had read somewhere and at sometime, a good move with an animal of a wild bred background.
Zeus had, although it sounds a bit waffy, the most beautiful eyes that I have ever had the reason to look deep in to. Ice white they were, deep gloss coloured and with a fathomless depth to the dark pupils. I could theorise on their appearance being the result of millenia of natural selection and adaptation to the climatic rigours of their natural habitat.
I was actually thinking more along the lines that he was measuring me up to assess whether he could take me without too much of a fight or girly screaming.
I could see that the homeowner was quite enjoying the ritual, obviously a common occurence in the back garden with casual callers and strangers. I then realised that the ritual was not tribal, hierarchical or just dog versus man but Zeus fancied me.
Trust me to come across the only gay husky in Yorkshire.
We maintained a very close contact thereafter around the patio, the large bungalow sized dog run kennel structure and amongst the lawn and well stocked borders and flower beds. I thought it best to play along, act the patsy and humour the large amorous hound until I was near enough to the conservatory door, his previous resting place, to make an escape. It seemed to take an age to get to a safe refuge. Zeus must have thought it was great sport but his penetratingly ice cool eyes looked sad as I mouthed words to the effect that he was not my type from behind the double glazing of the house windows. I will remember my meeting with such a striking character of a dog for some time . I may even keep, as a momento, the receipt for the dry cleaning of my working suit which had suffered unfortunate collateral damage in the course of the whole encounter.
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
White, Van Man
It was a brand spanking new Mercedes Sprinter Luton Body Van.
It was so fresh off the production line that the rental company had not even had time to smear and smooth their liveried stickers onto the bright white panelwork.
The vehicle checker-outer or whatever the correct terminology may be was obviously reluctant for me to take away such a beautiful, virgin vehicle and seemed to linger for an unnecessarily long time around the unblemished tyres, the bonnet devoid of chips and insect remains, the pristineand wood odoured loading bay and something I had not expected to get for my daily hire rate, a powered tail-lift.
It was a matter of pride for the chap to thoroughly scrutinise the van before letting a civilian loose with it on the highway.
The lecture continued on the safe operation of that tail-lift, the whereabouts of the fuel filler cap, switching the engine on and what all the dashboard buttons did. I listened attentively making sure that I did ask a couple of stupidly obvious questions to show that I would be a conscientious user of the fine vehicle.
The representative diagram of the van on the paperwork was handed to me without any annotated or scribbled notes on condition because it was perfect. I felt understandably nervous at being handed such an unblemished thing as this.
My first attempt to drive away failed as I stalled the engine. The most surprising aspect of the Sprinter is its quietness in operation as I had read in some publicity material when considering what type of van to rent out for a couple of days.
It was most car-like to drive even though it felt as broad and as long as a small bungalow.
Vans are very sociable vehicles, they really are. Three seats across the cab and plenty of elbow and leg room make for a very comfortable place to spend a good many hours. The model provided appeared to be top of the range with a LCD display screen with information on the status of vital functions, a good and thumping radio and CD player, air conditioning and perhaps the most useful piece of equipment, a small spring loaded clip under which a wad of papers could be held giving easy access. I was disappointed not to have any suitable paperwork such as delivery notes, maps, McDonalds menu's or a picture of my nearest and dearest.
The elevated driving position was superb to give a long-distance view of the road ahead but also into lorry cabs, touring coaches and to look down at the cleavage of female passengers in the vehicles that overtook the lumbering machine.
It was quite a rapid learning curve in taking stock of the size and presence of a Luton body van and particularly in taking a corner. I adopted a policy of just keeping in the very middle of the traffic lane and crawling at dead slow speed around any turn in the road.
I was concentrating so much on these aspects that on pulling up outside of the house I nearly rammed the high panelled side into the large tree which projected out over the verge.
I should have been very aware of this obstruction having witnessed a collision between a double decker bus and the lower boughs a few years prior. Passengers had been hospitalised by the jarring impact and within a matter of days the offending branch had been severely pruned but was now back to its former size.
Clambering out of the cab was difficult what with stiffened limbs after the drive from the hire depot and I could feel a twinge in my hip as I clattered down onto the pavement. The van, even straddling the kerb still stuck out quite a bit into the road and I was anxious about there being enough clearance for the frequent bus and coach service that used the route as well as our neighbours rubber-necking what was going on.
The tail lift was a significant benefit over the next couple of days of moving furniture and the amassed belongings of 18 years occupation of the same property.
In its first few uses I was careful to follow the operating instructions of the hydraulic lift to the letter as there existed some degree of hazard to trap fingers and toes on the upward and downward movement respectively. After a few hours my approach was a bit more blase and casual and it took a near amputation of the digits on my right hand to bring me back to my senses.
After each bulky load was squeezed in behind the roller shutter door there was the excitement of trying to drive an obviously badly balanced vehicle. The sound of cascading items at each turn or motion of braking was disturbing but handling did remarkably improve with this sort of self adjustment process.
On a full rubbish run the attendants at the local Civic Amenity Site were suspicious about the brand new van with its contents and it took full disclosure of all of the hire documents to prove that we we just on a day to day rental and not running a house clearance or domestic refuse business.
It was with not a little sadness when the tail gate was closed and the tail lift stowed as myself, wife and son made the last journey after clearing out the old house.
Sat three abreast in the spacious cab none of us dare look back at what had been our precious home for all of those formative years.
The chill of the evening called for the very efficient German engineered heating system to be turned up on its settings and in doing so any residue of emotional tears was conveniently evaporated.
It was so fresh off the production line that the rental company had not even had time to smear and smooth their liveried stickers onto the bright white panelwork.
The vehicle checker-outer or whatever the correct terminology may be was obviously reluctant for me to take away such a beautiful, virgin vehicle and seemed to linger for an unnecessarily long time around the unblemished tyres, the bonnet devoid of chips and insect remains, the pristineand wood odoured loading bay and something I had not expected to get for my daily hire rate, a powered tail-lift.
It was a matter of pride for the chap to thoroughly scrutinise the van before letting a civilian loose with it on the highway.
The lecture continued on the safe operation of that tail-lift, the whereabouts of the fuel filler cap, switching the engine on and what all the dashboard buttons did. I listened attentively making sure that I did ask a couple of stupidly obvious questions to show that I would be a conscientious user of the fine vehicle.
The representative diagram of the van on the paperwork was handed to me without any annotated or scribbled notes on condition because it was perfect. I felt understandably nervous at being handed such an unblemished thing as this.
My first attempt to drive away failed as I stalled the engine. The most surprising aspect of the Sprinter is its quietness in operation as I had read in some publicity material when considering what type of van to rent out for a couple of days.
It was most car-like to drive even though it felt as broad and as long as a small bungalow.
Vans are very sociable vehicles, they really are. Three seats across the cab and plenty of elbow and leg room make for a very comfortable place to spend a good many hours. The model provided appeared to be top of the range with a LCD display screen with information on the status of vital functions, a good and thumping radio and CD player, air conditioning and perhaps the most useful piece of equipment, a small spring loaded clip under which a wad of papers could be held giving easy access. I was disappointed not to have any suitable paperwork such as delivery notes, maps, McDonalds menu's or a picture of my nearest and dearest.
The elevated driving position was superb to give a long-distance view of the road ahead but also into lorry cabs, touring coaches and to look down at the cleavage of female passengers in the vehicles that overtook the lumbering machine.
It was quite a rapid learning curve in taking stock of the size and presence of a Luton body van and particularly in taking a corner. I adopted a policy of just keeping in the very middle of the traffic lane and crawling at dead slow speed around any turn in the road.
I was concentrating so much on these aspects that on pulling up outside of the house I nearly rammed the high panelled side into the large tree which projected out over the verge.
I should have been very aware of this obstruction having witnessed a collision between a double decker bus and the lower boughs a few years prior. Passengers had been hospitalised by the jarring impact and within a matter of days the offending branch had been severely pruned but was now back to its former size.
Clambering out of the cab was difficult what with stiffened limbs after the drive from the hire depot and I could feel a twinge in my hip as I clattered down onto the pavement. The van, even straddling the kerb still stuck out quite a bit into the road and I was anxious about there being enough clearance for the frequent bus and coach service that used the route as well as our neighbours rubber-necking what was going on.
The tail lift was a significant benefit over the next couple of days of moving furniture and the amassed belongings of 18 years occupation of the same property.
In its first few uses I was careful to follow the operating instructions of the hydraulic lift to the letter as there existed some degree of hazard to trap fingers and toes on the upward and downward movement respectively. After a few hours my approach was a bit more blase and casual and it took a near amputation of the digits on my right hand to bring me back to my senses.
After each bulky load was squeezed in behind the roller shutter door there was the excitement of trying to drive an obviously badly balanced vehicle. The sound of cascading items at each turn or motion of braking was disturbing but handling did remarkably improve with this sort of self adjustment process.
On a full rubbish run the attendants at the local Civic Amenity Site were suspicious about the brand new van with its contents and it took full disclosure of all of the hire documents to prove that we we just on a day to day rental and not running a house clearance or domestic refuse business.
It was with not a little sadness when the tail gate was closed and the tail lift stowed as myself, wife and son made the last journey after clearing out the old house.
Sat three abreast in the spacious cab none of us dare look back at what had been our precious home for all of those formative years.
The chill of the evening called for the very efficient German engineered heating system to be turned up on its settings and in doing so any residue of emotional tears was conveniently evaporated.
Monday, 7 October 2013
Octoberfest Hull Style
It's that time of the year again. It comes around so quickly from October to October and the arrival on Walton Street of the greatest show on earth.........
Hull Fair is a festival for the City.
It is magnificent that the October Fair retains its status as the largest of its type in Europe and possibly the world.
There are many challengers but I can confidently say that the people of Nottingham in particular have had a fair goose-ing again this year based on the 2011 Hull Fair.
I was going to write about the Fair from an historic and reflective aspect. Something like, I drove my beast and fowl all the way along the Anlaby Road Turnpike for to sell and trade on the showground but got turned away by the Police Community Support Officers and then incurred a penalty fine for inappropriate use of the bus lane for herding or, I travelled to the fairground by hansom cab, cost me a silver shilling which is outrageous profiteering, and proceeded to have my frock coat, gaiters and spats ruined by the many puddles on the rough landed area. Subsequently and to my horror my top hat fell off on the Waltzers and I got stir fry noodle stains on my irish linen shirt front, or I was at the fair in my full Teddy Boy gear cruisin' and a-bruisin' for a bust-up when a large group of Emo's approached and made me feel quite melancholy and gawdily over dressed. They always look so clean and stylish or, my Bay City Roller scarf, tied tightly around my wrist got snagged on the top of the junior roller coaster and I had to be cut free and rescued by the emergency services or, finally, We went, yeah, on the rides, ok, yeah and it was minging, yeah because Chazzer right, tried to take a piccy, yeah, on his i-phone but wicked, right his mam tagged him, yeah and, right,he had to go back to the school, right, yeah to teach a year 12 class, yeah, LOL.
I opted, however, for a more socio-economic approach mainly because there have been many letters sent to the local press in criticism of how, in dire times of credit crisis and cut backs, people still have disposable income to lavish on the attractions of the Fair. Let me be clear on my position on this.
The October week of Hull Fair is as set in stone on family calendars, outlook express and text alerts as nothing else apart from Easter and Christmas and is therefore budgeted for.
In the weeks prior to the arrival of the Fair there is a noticeable shortage of 2p's and 10p's in the local economy because they have been secreted away for the slots and falls. Small children are subversively indoctrinated with Peppa Pig and Toy Story so that they are more than thrilled to be bought a foil based inflatable of their favourite characters.
Menfolk frequently disappear to their sheds to practice throwing darts at playing cards stuck onto odd pieces of melamine kitchen worktop.
The Atkins or other high protein diets are accelerated in preparation for being surrendered to a polystyrene tray of Bob Carvers's gritty chips, mushy peas and a pattie.
Teenagers are seen stretching themselves from door frames or on the climbing apparatus at the reccy lest they fail to reach the minimum height for going on the Hammer of Thor, Upside-Downie, round and roundie Mega ride.
The Fair is for all ages and it is perfectly possible to pass a few hours there with little or no expenditure other than a paper wrapped packet of Wrights of Brighouse brandy snap and a pomegranate.
The whole event is about atmosphere, collective enjoyment of a heritage and feeling shoulder to shoulder with fellow citizens who are also having a difficult time making ends meet or have an unopened letter on their kitchen table from their employer which is just too hard to get around to opening because, odds on, it is not a thank you and a hard earned and fully justified bonus.That is just not plain fair.
Hull Fair is a festival for the City.
It is magnificent that the October Fair retains its status as the largest of its type in Europe and possibly the world.
There are many challengers but I can confidently say that the people of Nottingham in particular have had a fair goose-ing again this year based on the 2011 Hull Fair.
I was going to write about the Fair from an historic and reflective aspect. Something like, I drove my beast and fowl all the way along the Anlaby Road Turnpike for to sell and trade on the showground but got turned away by the Police Community Support Officers and then incurred a penalty fine for inappropriate use of the bus lane for herding or, I travelled to the fairground by hansom cab, cost me a silver shilling which is outrageous profiteering, and proceeded to have my frock coat, gaiters and spats ruined by the many puddles on the rough landed area. Subsequently and to my horror my top hat fell off on the Waltzers and I got stir fry noodle stains on my irish linen shirt front, or I was at the fair in my full Teddy Boy gear cruisin' and a-bruisin' for a bust-up when a large group of Emo's approached and made me feel quite melancholy and gawdily over dressed. They always look so clean and stylish or, my Bay City Roller scarf, tied tightly around my wrist got snagged on the top of the junior roller coaster and I had to be cut free and rescued by the emergency services or, finally, We went, yeah, on the rides, ok, yeah and it was minging, yeah because Chazzer right, tried to take a piccy, yeah, on his i-phone but wicked, right his mam tagged him, yeah and, right,he had to go back to the school, right, yeah to teach a year 12 class, yeah, LOL.
I opted, however, for a more socio-economic approach mainly because there have been many letters sent to the local press in criticism of how, in dire times of credit crisis and cut backs, people still have disposable income to lavish on the attractions of the Fair. Let me be clear on my position on this.
The October week of Hull Fair is as set in stone on family calendars, outlook express and text alerts as nothing else apart from Easter and Christmas and is therefore budgeted for.
In the weeks prior to the arrival of the Fair there is a noticeable shortage of 2p's and 10p's in the local economy because they have been secreted away for the slots and falls. Small children are subversively indoctrinated with Peppa Pig and Toy Story so that they are more than thrilled to be bought a foil based inflatable of their favourite characters.
Menfolk frequently disappear to their sheds to practice throwing darts at playing cards stuck onto odd pieces of melamine kitchen worktop.
The Atkins or other high protein diets are accelerated in preparation for being surrendered to a polystyrene tray of Bob Carvers's gritty chips, mushy peas and a pattie.
Teenagers are seen stretching themselves from door frames or on the climbing apparatus at the reccy lest they fail to reach the minimum height for going on the Hammer of Thor, Upside-Downie, round and roundie Mega ride.
The Fair is for all ages and it is perfectly possible to pass a few hours there with little or no expenditure other than a paper wrapped packet of Wrights of Brighouse brandy snap and a pomegranate.
The whole event is about atmosphere, collective enjoyment of a heritage and feeling shoulder to shoulder with fellow citizens who are also having a difficult time making ends meet or have an unopened letter on their kitchen table from their employer which is just too hard to get around to opening because, odds on, it is not a thank you and a hard earned and fully justified bonus.That is just not plain fair.
Sunday, 6 October 2013
Hullistic Experience in the Bushes
What is a view worth?
The true value is probably not known or appreciated until it is under threat or lost.
Take the residents of a river front housing development in my home area. Granted, it is a slow moving and muddy watercourse so not quite the azure infused outlook of the Mediterranean or Caribbean.
The shoreline is flat and in the distance are the flarestacks of a large petro-chemical and industrial complex so the steep mountainous and forested slopes of Canada have little competition.
Passing river traffic is confined to the occasional tramp steamer or a low slung fuel laden barge rather than comprising the ocean going yachts and cruisers of the rich.
If you are lucky you may get a cuppa and a bacon banjo from a mobile catering trailer and not a Michelin star experience from a swanky bistro or one of those pontoon type restaurants built out over the well behaved lapping waves over crystal clear shallows.
If it is fairly typical weather for our part of the UK then all of the aformentioned would not be visible anyway through a damp rolling mist or smog.
Nevertheless, it is regarded as a view, a talking point for any visitors to the residences and no doubt even a bit uplifting to spirit and soul upon seeing it every morning as the first glimpse of a new day.
Unfortunately, the muddy shallows are the proposed site for a large roll on and roll off freight terminal. If actually carried through to completion the only sight to be marvelled at by the residents of the riverfront properties would be the gaping bay doors of a cross channel ferry and with a soundtrack of clanking vehicles as they hit the ramp as they embark and disembark on a regular daily service. Those once rather snooty homeowners may come to hate the liveried trucks and trailers of Willi Betz, Norbert Dentressangle and the multitude of overseas and home based vehicles on the North Sea routes.
I have inherited a view at the new house.
The outlook over a city parkland was a prime motivation for pursuing a purchase for over two years.
Although only in residence now for just over 5 weeks I am constantly delighted and amazed by the view through the horse chestnut trees onto the manicured flower beds, the well frequented criss-cross pathways, the wide open spaces of regularly mown grass and the white painted hot house conservatory.
In this month of October the leaf canopy has thinned out and I can now see right across to the north side housing, comprising large Villas built after the land was left to the good folk of Hull in 1860 by a philanthropic Lord Mayor.
I am, I find,now in direct view of a long wall of sheet metal security barriers and gates across the front boundary of one of the old properties in the course of conversion to flats. To balance up the semi-industrial outlook I can now glimpse the white marble statue of a seated Queen Victoria. I am a bit amused by it. It stands out quite starkly against the mellowing shades of the broad leaved foliage.
Friends and callers to the house, even the parcel delivery guy, have expressed a liking for the view. A couple of them have applied a personal rule of thumb and called it a "million pound view". That is pleasing but it also invokes a bit of guilt in that we got the place for a mere fraction of that fictitious benchmark of the value of a view.
I have had some thoughts on whether I am a beneficiary of a million pound gift of a view.
Take the 12 acre landed area of the park itself. I would attach a figure of £15,000 an acre for public recreational space less £5000 for the insanitary green lake. I have not counted them but I would estimate there to be around 150 trees. Difficult to value other than if felled for lumber but I have put £10 per vertical foot height to be extrapolated across the species. Average height of tree 30 feet. Roadways, a two way, looping 0.7 miles of tarmac but not very smooth surfaced so I would apply, based on that BBC M25b Motorway Special where £1m a mile is an average cost for 8 lanes, a figure of £250,000 less incrementals for potholes and speed bumps. Cafe building, single storey with one serving hatch and an ice lolly fridge, electric kettle and a staff toilet approximately £60,000. Childrens playground, adventure type with bark ground dressing, plus vandal deterrent paint £95,000 ( guesstimate). The Hot house, less George the Iguana and a few hundred tropical fish (non-negotiable civic assets for relocating), £150,000. The services of two part time park keepers/gardeners at £6 per hour for 25 hours per week each. Maintenance of two miles of wrought iron fencing and sculptured privet hedging and two bowling greens, say £25,000 per year. Given the extraordinary amount of discarded beer cans which infest the park most weekends I would credit a sum for these to be recovered and cashed in at the recycling centre, say £10 per week. Re stocking of the rose gardens, painting the commemorative drinks fountain, buffing up the statue of Prince Albert, cleaning down of graffiti, emptying of the waste bins, say £50,000 a year cost.
It appears I am not a view millionaire as the total only comes to £855,475.
I am not one to quibble though because I have already made up my mind and that is that my view is priceless. Ok Then, I suppose we could include George the Iguana.......
The true value is probably not known or appreciated until it is under threat or lost.
Take the residents of a river front housing development in my home area. Granted, it is a slow moving and muddy watercourse so not quite the azure infused outlook of the Mediterranean or Caribbean.
The shoreline is flat and in the distance are the flarestacks of a large petro-chemical and industrial complex so the steep mountainous and forested slopes of Canada have little competition.
Passing river traffic is confined to the occasional tramp steamer or a low slung fuel laden barge rather than comprising the ocean going yachts and cruisers of the rich.
If you are lucky you may get a cuppa and a bacon banjo from a mobile catering trailer and not a Michelin star experience from a swanky bistro or one of those pontoon type restaurants built out over the well behaved lapping waves over crystal clear shallows.
If it is fairly typical weather for our part of the UK then all of the aformentioned would not be visible anyway through a damp rolling mist or smog.
Nevertheless, it is regarded as a view, a talking point for any visitors to the residences and no doubt even a bit uplifting to spirit and soul upon seeing it every morning as the first glimpse of a new day.
Unfortunately, the muddy shallows are the proposed site for a large roll on and roll off freight terminal. If actually carried through to completion the only sight to be marvelled at by the residents of the riverfront properties would be the gaping bay doors of a cross channel ferry and with a soundtrack of clanking vehicles as they hit the ramp as they embark and disembark on a regular daily service. Those once rather snooty homeowners may come to hate the liveried trucks and trailers of Willi Betz, Norbert Dentressangle and the multitude of overseas and home based vehicles on the North Sea routes.
I have inherited a view at the new house.
The outlook over a city parkland was a prime motivation for pursuing a purchase for over two years.
Although only in residence now for just over 5 weeks I am constantly delighted and amazed by the view through the horse chestnut trees onto the manicured flower beds, the well frequented criss-cross pathways, the wide open spaces of regularly mown grass and the white painted hot house conservatory.
In this month of October the leaf canopy has thinned out and I can now see right across to the north side housing, comprising large Villas built after the land was left to the good folk of Hull in 1860 by a philanthropic Lord Mayor.
I am, I find,now in direct view of a long wall of sheet metal security barriers and gates across the front boundary of one of the old properties in the course of conversion to flats. To balance up the semi-industrial outlook I can now glimpse the white marble statue of a seated Queen Victoria. I am a bit amused by it. It stands out quite starkly against the mellowing shades of the broad leaved foliage.
Friends and callers to the house, even the parcel delivery guy, have expressed a liking for the view. A couple of them have applied a personal rule of thumb and called it a "million pound view". That is pleasing but it also invokes a bit of guilt in that we got the place for a mere fraction of that fictitious benchmark of the value of a view.
I have had some thoughts on whether I am a beneficiary of a million pound gift of a view.
Take the 12 acre landed area of the park itself. I would attach a figure of £15,000 an acre for public recreational space less £5000 for the insanitary green lake. I have not counted them but I would estimate there to be around 150 trees. Difficult to value other than if felled for lumber but I have put £10 per vertical foot height to be extrapolated across the species. Average height of tree 30 feet. Roadways, a two way, looping 0.7 miles of tarmac but not very smooth surfaced so I would apply, based on that BBC M25b Motorway Special where £1m a mile is an average cost for 8 lanes, a figure of £250,000 less incrementals for potholes and speed bumps. Cafe building, single storey with one serving hatch and an ice lolly fridge, electric kettle and a staff toilet approximately £60,000. Childrens playground, adventure type with bark ground dressing, plus vandal deterrent paint £95,000 ( guesstimate). The Hot house, less George the Iguana and a few hundred tropical fish (non-negotiable civic assets for relocating), £150,000. The services of two part time park keepers/gardeners at £6 per hour for 25 hours per week each. Maintenance of two miles of wrought iron fencing and sculptured privet hedging and two bowling greens, say £25,000 per year. Given the extraordinary amount of discarded beer cans which infest the park most weekends I would credit a sum for these to be recovered and cashed in at the recycling centre, say £10 per week. Re stocking of the rose gardens, painting the commemorative drinks fountain, buffing up the statue of Prince Albert, cleaning down of graffiti, emptying of the waste bins, say £50,000 a year cost.
It appears I am not a view millionaire as the total only comes to £855,475.
I am not one to quibble though because I have already made up my mind and that is that my view is priceless. Ok Then, I suppose we could include George the Iguana.......
Saturday, 5 October 2013
Diet Coke TV AD. Harassment of the Working Man
It was my turn.
I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.
My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.
Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer, large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.
My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.
I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.
So, here I was.
My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.
For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.
This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.
The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.
I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.
It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.
The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.
The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had almost ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.
The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.
All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.
The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.
I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.
It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.
My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.
The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.
The machine became an extension of my body.
At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and dispose of the rubbish.
This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.
I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.
I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. To onlookers it may have seemed like one of those dramatic, slow motion eruptions so favoured in film and television but it was actually just an unpleasant experience.
Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.
There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of an honest and hard working man.
I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower.
It was , to me better than sex.
I was the newbie amongst the Parks and Gardens Team and my apprenticeship, or rather endless series of stupid and childish initiations , had seemed to take forever. I had been sent to get a left handed bucket by colleagues who found that almost as hilarious as my fruitless quest for rocking horse manure.
My initial tasks had been mindlessly menial, sweeping out the yard at the Park Compound, washing the vans and pick-up trucks, bagging up the bark chippings and logs for public sale, fetching sandwiches and running every sort of errand you could dream up from collecting dry cleaning to placing a bet on a horse.
Then, gradually I assumed greater responsibilities. I was entrusted with some of the smaller, hand operated equipment including the leaf-blower, the backpack mounted strimmer, large scarifiers and the secateurs for the pruning of the small to medium sized ornamental trees for which our City Park was renowned.
My path into horticulture had been long and tortuous and perhaps, I admit, a bit of a cop-out from my original intentions in the sciences but even with a good class degree and reasonable inter-personal skills I had not been able to find meaningful employment in that sector.
I had always enjoyed being outdoors and I just sort of drifted into the Landscape Gardening scene following some vacation jobs doing labouring for a few companies in my home area. The decision to make Parks and Gardens my career was relatively easy and I took on some night school courses to get relevant qualifications.
So, here I was.
My workplace; amongst the greenspaces of the big City, my work clothes; just jeans, T'shirt and work boots, my workload; everything and anything to do with grass, plants, mulch, trees. bushes and flowers.
For the first time in my life I was genuinely happy and fulfilled. I felt that it could not get better but then again I had not had the pleasure of operating the Dennis Centurion Mower.
This piece of equipment looked a bit dated, after all it was just a lawn mower but in the hierarchy of mowing machines it was the equivalent of a thoroughbred, a heavy duty aggressive beast that just ate up the acres of grass leaving behind it a perfect stripe, regular and impressively rolled under its bulky weight.
The day that I saw my name on the work roster under 'Grass Cutting' was and always will be special to me.
I rushed over to the compound workshop to collect the Dennis.
It had just been stripped down and fully serviced so to be as good as new, even though it was a veteran of the Department. The mechanic, a wild eyed, scruffy almost eccentric looking individual ran through the specification and what he had been empowered to do over the last few weeks.
The running gear had been replaced with new manufacturer supplied parts. This extended to the ball bearings, sprockets, chains, blade, grass box and cables. I stood back in awe of this engineered marvel. The casing and superstructure glistened after a wipe over with an oily rag and the smell of WD40 and clutch oil were heady and evocative of a summers day.
The Kohler engine was a proven workhorse. It was purpose made to just idle for hours and then roar into life when the car type clutches were engaged for that extra power and for the cutting unit to bite into the unruly grass. I had heard a few urban myths about the brutal strength of the engine and transmission which, giving the Dennis its self propelled characteristics, had almost ripped the arms from the sockets of many an unprepared operator.
The flexible drive coupling was durable and functional but infinitely smooth and refined. The distinctive razor sharp cutting unit was made of special steel running on a set of grease lubricated ball bearings and with the slip-clutch was easily capable of exceeding 70 cuts per minute.
All of this raw power was nothing without the sophistication of the front and rear rollers. At the front, a removeable unit, 6 bladed cutting cylinder and at the rear in a 3 piece cast iron with machine cut gear differential running in an oil bath.
The designer knew what he was doing with this marvellous creation but still had a sense of humour by building in the trademark opposed spiral which with the mower in motion produced a mesmeric impression amongst the impressed onlookers. A fairground attraction in its own right.
I started up immediately from the workshop with the cutters retracted so that I did not churn and chew up the gravel dressed pathways leading to the lawned areas of the main public park.
It was about 1pm and a few couples were arranged like sardines on the grass, others were sat on the bench seating taking lunch and up on the crest of the slope I saw a group of female office workers enjoying the sunshine and a brief respite from commerce.
My audience blurred into the scenery as I was completely engrossed in my grass cutting with the pride, the flagship of Dennis Centurion Mowers. It was swift and seamless work but in the heat of the midday also quite tiring and sweat inducing.
The horizontally arranged lovers wisely moved away, lunchers munched on and I caught, in the corner of my eye, some animation amongst the cluster of ladies. They were, I was flattered to see, ogling me. I did flaunt and flirt a bit in overemphasising the sweeps and turns at the end of each rolled length of that stretch of the Civic space.
The machine became an extension of my body.
At my closest passing to the excited ladies I noticed that one of them, egged on by the others, had rolled a soft drink can down the hill towards me. This had happened to me before with lazy park users expecting me to deposit their litter in the bin for them. This always annoyed me but I always behaved as the model City employee and would duly collect up and dispose of the rubbish.
This time, however, the can was moving at some speed indicating that it was full.
I half feared an attempted assault and slowed my pace so as not to be physically struck by the projectile. With horror I realised that I had been selfish and the whirling spiral of the Dennis was under threat of being struck with the full force of the 330ml aluminium encased carbonated drink.
I intercepted it before it could do any damage but in picking it up the flimsy can exploded and showered me with the unpleasantly warm, sticky liquid. To onlookers it may have seemed like one of those dramatic, slow motion eruptions so favoured in film and television but it was actually just an unpleasant experience.
Fearing for my favourite daily use T shirt I hastily pulled it off and cautiously wrung the oozing solution out as best I could without affecting the 100% cotton fabric.
There was no sound from the previously rowdy group of ladies and I put this down to their embarrassment of disrupting the labours of an honest and hard working man.
I did not want to create a scene and so, with only the briefest of back glances in their direction I made my way to the Depot in anticipation of many more hours at the controls of the Dennis Centurion Mower.
It was , to me better than sex.
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