An email landed in my inbox a few weeks ago from The Arts Council – subject: ‘Hold the date for a special bye bye event!’ Our organisation is to leave the Arts Council – heading out from under its umbrella to face the elements alone.
There seemed to be an excessive interest from other teams in the region in whether or not I was attending this event.
Trevor, regional Chief Executive and bard, is known to write a valedictory poem for all those lucky enough to escape. I have often suspected that the form and length of the poem indicate how favourably the leaver is viewed. This policy has now been extended to the departure of organisations and our collective was to be the first lucky recipient of a goodbye poem in which we could all share and delight.
The poem was to be read at 6.30pm
‘6.30, mind! Don’t miss Trevor’s poem!’
This was how the arrangement was left as I quit the office – the poetry reminder ringing in my ear.
Being a busy working father I regularly find myself weighing up the possible uses of my precious time. I sped out of Sunderland, as usual, on the evening of the ‘special bye bye event’. The event had obviously knocked many lesser possibilities out of my diary and I could:
A) Shower, comb my hair, wear my best shirt, dab on some cologne and dash into town to join the happy throng of my colleagues to hang on every word of the Chief Exec’s finely wrought and delicately witty poetic take on our time under the aegis of the Arts Council.
B) Watch Aurora fling miniature meatballs across the kitchen, have a snack, take my cardigan out of the wash basket to wear one last time and show up a fashionable couple of hours late at the ‘bye bye.’
B won.
The event was in the basement of a boutique hotel. Newcastle’s Grey Street was teeming with noisy revellers and I was feeling relatively upbeat until I walked into the buffet. I was greeted by a long moment of silence and a 'welcome' from Trevor.
‘Oh, we didn’t expect you to come. You’ve missed my poem.’
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
A ‘Hoo!’ and a ‘Hah!’ and the land is ours
I was at the first day of another all staff event today – this time in Bristol. I suspect that I have now notched up more of these events than any other member of staff in the organisation. As I ducked out of the afternoon workshops (to do some real work) and headed over a footbridge towards my hotel, I was accosted.
‘You are the Chocolate Sandwich guy aren’t you?’
This question came from a regional director to whom I have never really spoken. We were in the middle of a footbridge in a strange town. It felt like espionage. I paused and strongly fought the urge to reply furtively in ‘spy’ code – something like ‘The Eagle Flies on Friday’.
I had been getting funny looks all morning from colleagues who had obviously wasted time reading something I’d written about the last all-staff event - or ‘family gathering’ as it is now known. It seemed a little futile to launch any kind of denial.
‘Yes I am. How are you?’
He didn’t really tell me how he was, but said some kind words about my writing. He then raised his eyebrows, looked around conspiratorially, and intimated:
‘You really did cause quite a hoo-hah you know.’
He darted away over the bridge and disappeared into the crowd. I was left wondering quite what an English middle class person means when they use the term ‘Hoo-hah’. Does a ‘hoo-hah’ in our ‘family’ include any of the following components:
‘You are the Chocolate Sandwich guy aren’t you?’
This question came from a regional director to whom I have never really spoken. We were in the middle of a footbridge in a strange town. It felt like espionage. I paused and strongly fought the urge to reply furtively in ‘spy’ code – something like ‘The Eagle Flies on Friday’.
I had been getting funny looks all morning from colleagues who had obviously wasted time reading something I’d written about the last all-staff event - or ‘family gathering’ as it is now known. It seemed a little futile to launch any kind of denial.
‘Yes I am. How are you?’
He didn’t really tell me how he was, but said some kind words about my writing. He then raised his eyebrows, looked around conspiratorially, and intimated:
‘You really did cause quite a hoo-hah you know.’
He darted away over the bridge and disappeared into the crowd. I was left wondering quite what an English middle class person means when they use the term ‘Hoo-hah’. Does a ‘hoo-hah’ in our ‘family’ include any of the following components:
- The National Director shouting. I witnessed this once when our former ‘manager’ riled him in our office. He is hard to ruffle, but she was sat very close to him and talked loudly straight into his ear. His shout could actually have been a cry of aural pain.
- A close perusal of the section covering ‘Gross Misconduct’ in the Human Resources handbook.
- An agreement that my meteoric rise through the ranks of the organisation had to stop.
- A member of the Senior Management Team saying ‘Do you want me to whack him boss?’
Friday, February 06, 2009
Archie lives!
It’s a sign of the times. Poor, desperate men loiter on city street corners. They stand and smoke roll-up cigarettes. They look furtively up and down the street – as though on the lookout for creditors. I was on the fringes of Newcastle’s Chinatown – walking past a cluster of ‘bohemian’ pubs. At the end of the block I could see one of the desperate, slumped beside a pub door and puffing on what was possibly a found cigarette end. I rarely give money to people on the street, but I was moved to pity by this sad figure although the man was not obviously demanding money from passers-by.
As I drew closer, I realised that the figure was portly and bearded. The sandal and shoe ensemble in the middle of winter was a giveaway and I was shaken to my very core to see little Archie in such straitened circumstances.
‘Hiya!’
It would have been impossible to ignore his greeting and heartless to walk on. I hurriedly put away my loose change and shook the little chap’s hand. He extinguished his cigarette on the door jamb of the pub supporting him and put the miniscule remainder into his pocket. I worried about the combustible nature of his crumpled jacket.
‘Is that wise Arch? You could set yourself alight…..’
Archie smiled and beckoned me to look into his sagging pocket. It was filled with sand.
‘I got the idea from one of those old-fashioned fire buckets I saw in the village hall. Leap put some extra stitching in.’
I smiled at Archie’s ‘ingenuity’. He was taking the smoking ban in his tiny stride. I accidentally continued to stare into Archie’s built-in ashtray and created an awkward pause.
'This is, er….awkward.’ Archie’s smile was a little strained and I could see a few strands of tobacco protruding from his teeth.
‘I’m sorry’, I said, ‘Why don’t we go in and have a drink for old time’s sake?’
‘Brilliant. I’m already in a round, mind. I’ve been out since work with Other Archie.’
Archie and Other Archie first met when they were gay bachelors sharing a static caravan on the allotments in Newcastle’s West End. They have maintained a friendship ever since – although Other Archie’s wife, Mona, prefers not to let Archie into her house. The old friends make do with after work drinks.
I asked Archie for his news and he told me that he had acted as a ‘best man’s assistant.’ I told him that I had never heard of such a thing. Apparently Sandy had jetted back into town to perform as best man at Lucien’s wedding. Not one to do things according to convention, Sandy spotted the chance to create a piece of performance art. The format of his speech was based, surprisingly, on the Radio 4 show ‘Just a Minute’. Archie was equipped with a miniature bicycle horn and had to sound it whenever Sandy was guilty of hesitation, deviation or repetition. I was a little surprised that Lucien agreed to this – his life is governed by a slavish adherence to an austere aesthetic which allows only for purely abstract visual art and avant-garde German electronic music.
‘It was really funny...’, said Archie, but his enthusiasm for the story trailed off a little,’...at first’.
I could only imagine that Lucien had trusted Sandy to come up with something appropriate and did not get the time to check beforehand.
Archie continued.
‘Then people seemed to lose interest and I could hear some of them sighing. Oh, and Lucien started to cry.’
As I drew closer, I realised that the figure was portly and bearded. The sandal and shoe ensemble in the middle of winter was a giveaway and I was shaken to my very core to see little Archie in such straitened circumstances.
‘Hiya!’
It would have been impossible to ignore his greeting and heartless to walk on. I hurriedly put away my loose change and shook the little chap’s hand. He extinguished his cigarette on the door jamb of the pub supporting him and put the miniscule remainder into his pocket. I worried about the combustible nature of his crumpled jacket.
‘Is that wise Arch? You could set yourself alight…..’
Archie smiled and beckoned me to look into his sagging pocket. It was filled with sand.
‘I got the idea from one of those old-fashioned fire buckets I saw in the village hall. Leap put some extra stitching in.’
I smiled at Archie’s ‘ingenuity’. He was taking the smoking ban in his tiny stride. I accidentally continued to stare into Archie’s built-in ashtray and created an awkward pause.
'This is, er….awkward.’ Archie’s smile was a little strained and I could see a few strands of tobacco protruding from his teeth.
‘I’m sorry’, I said, ‘Why don’t we go in and have a drink for old time’s sake?’
‘Brilliant. I’m already in a round, mind. I’ve been out since work with Other Archie.’
Archie and Other Archie first met when they were gay bachelors sharing a static caravan on the allotments in Newcastle’s West End. They have maintained a friendship ever since – although Other Archie’s wife, Mona, prefers not to let Archie into her house. The old friends make do with after work drinks.
I asked Archie for his news and he told me that he had acted as a ‘best man’s assistant.’ I told him that I had never heard of such a thing. Apparently Sandy had jetted back into town to perform as best man at Lucien’s wedding. Not one to do things according to convention, Sandy spotted the chance to create a piece of performance art. The format of his speech was based, surprisingly, on the Radio 4 show ‘Just a Minute’. Archie was equipped with a miniature bicycle horn and had to sound it whenever Sandy was guilty of hesitation, deviation or repetition. I was a little surprised that Lucien agreed to this – his life is governed by a slavish adherence to an austere aesthetic which allows only for purely abstract visual art and avant-garde German electronic music.
‘It was really funny...’, said Archie, but his enthusiasm for the story trailed off a little,’...at first’.
I could only imagine that Lucien had trusted Sandy to come up with something appropriate and did not get the time to check beforehand.
Archie continued.
‘Then people seemed to lose interest and I could hear some of them sighing. Oh, and Lucien started to cry.’
Monday, November 24, 2008
A man is nothing without regimentals
I could hear the sound of Elgar with a Dimbleby voiceover – it could only be the television coverage of Remembrance Sunday. I came downstairs from some of my chores to find Maude marching Aurora up and down the living room in time to one of the slower movements of ‘Pomp & Circumstance.’
‘I do love Remembrance Sunday! It should be compulsory in schools. Never mind ‘Lest we Forget’, most of them don’t know anything about it in the first place.’ Aurora mimicked Maude as she saluted the Chelsea Pensioners.
‘We really must take Aurora to the Menin Gate when she’s older. Oh, and bring back plenty of cheese and coffee of course….’
Maude enjoys a bit of military pomp. I joined her and Crawford on a pilgrimage to the Edinburgh Tattoo a couple of years ago. All went well until Crawford got over-excited and showed his enthusiasm for the Royal Irish Regiment by discharging his Luger into the air. The police didn’t press charges – Maude successfully argued that her father had exposed their woeful approach to stadium security. I had only previously seen the Luger when I asked for Maude’s hand in marriage. Augusta assures me to this day that Crawford only fired into the fireplace on that occasion to express his delight at the prospect of my joining the family.
‘Men look so splendid in uniform don’t they?’
I guessed that this was rhetorical and left my wife to her reverie.
‘All of them. They all look so…..impressive.’
I smiled across from the Norton Recliner – happy that Maude could derive so much pleasure from such simple things. In my peripheral vision, however, I could see that her attention was breaking away from the television and turning towards me.
I was still in my dressing gown and sandals (I couldn’t find my slippers). My fungal big toenail was, sadly, visible. I knew also that I had not found the time to remove the porridge that Aurora had rubbed into my hair earlier: the little poppet had shown off her dexterity by tugging Daddy’s hair on end with porridge as ‘product’. I looked like Stan Laurel relaxing. Maude’s gaze grew heavier and more discomfiting – I could tell that she was about to speak. I suddenly felt tense and returned the recliner to its upright position.
‘Couldn’t you at least join the TA?’
‘I do love Remembrance Sunday! It should be compulsory in schools. Never mind ‘Lest we Forget’, most of them don’t know anything about it in the first place.’ Aurora mimicked Maude as she saluted the Chelsea Pensioners.
‘We really must take Aurora to the Menin Gate when she’s older. Oh, and bring back plenty of cheese and coffee of course….’
Maude enjoys a bit of military pomp. I joined her and Crawford on a pilgrimage to the Edinburgh Tattoo a couple of years ago. All went well until Crawford got over-excited and showed his enthusiasm for the Royal Irish Regiment by discharging his Luger into the air. The police didn’t press charges – Maude successfully argued that her father had exposed their woeful approach to stadium security. I had only previously seen the Luger when I asked for Maude’s hand in marriage. Augusta assures me to this day that Crawford only fired into the fireplace on that occasion to express his delight at the prospect of my joining the family.
‘Men look so splendid in uniform don’t they?’
I guessed that this was rhetorical and left my wife to her reverie.
‘All of them. They all look so…..impressive.’
I smiled across from the Norton Recliner – happy that Maude could derive so much pleasure from such simple things. In my peripheral vision, however, I could see that her attention was breaking away from the television and turning towards me.
I was still in my dressing gown and sandals (I couldn’t find my slippers). My fungal big toenail was, sadly, visible. I knew also that I had not found the time to remove the porridge that Aurora had rubbed into my hair earlier: the little poppet had shown off her dexterity by tugging Daddy’s hair on end with porridge as ‘product’. I looked like Stan Laurel relaxing. Maude’s gaze grew heavier and more discomfiting – I could tell that she was about to speak. I suddenly felt tense and returned the recliner to its upright position.
‘Couldn’t you at least join the TA?’
Friday, November 07, 2008
Idle Eric
Our house is not overlooked, it faces a dene with a babbling brook and energetic squirrels. This vista is spoiled, however, when we descend our front steps. To the left of the dene is Eric’s house. Most of the houses in the neighbourhood are rendered and painted white and gardens are colourful and well-tended. Eric’s house is painted grey and he has paved over his garden. We have lived in close proximity to Eric for a full three years and nothing – smiles, offers of ‘good morning!’, even the birth of our child – has ever elicited a word from him.
As I locked the house on Tuesday morning, I noticed that Eric was in his front garden/yard, gripping his picket fence. There was nothing unusual about this – he does take occasional breaks from watching the television to put pizza boxes into his wheelie bin, or watch his wife carry the shopping in from the car.
‘Excuse me!’ I was amazed to hear Eric’s voice for the first time.
‘Morning!’ I took this as neighbourly contact of some sort. Unfortunately Eric then launched into a tirade about thoughtless parking blocking his gate on a regular basis and insisted that he should be treated with a little more respect as the street’s resident of longest standing. I offered an apology and vowed to be more thoughtful in future. This did not placate him and he began to literally jump up and down and wave his arms in rage. I didn’t think he had such energy and his animated form reminded me of an old public information advertisement in which a hopping mad farmer is viewed through binoculars by some litter louts from the city. If I remember rightly they mistake his rage for ‘country dancing’. Eric’s ‘country dancing’ was followed by some incomprehensible mutterings as he stormed out of view and back to his TV.
I drove away through the leafy bends of The Villas, but my morning had been tainted by such unpleasant intercourse. I turned back and gave Eric’s door a firm, but unconfrontational, knock.
He seemed a little taken aback and instinctively raised his fists and assumed a boxing stance. His SKY remote control fell from its holster at his hip and spilled its batteries. The batteries rolled off the step and came to a stop on the paving.
I picked the batteries up and handed them back to their owner.
‘Eric, I really don’t want us to fall out about parking. Let’s talk about it.’
Eric had clearly not shaved for a couple of days and I felt a bit sorry for him. He relaxed a little and seemed happy to have a chat. I was soon apprised of the parking crimes of the last 20 years on the street. I assured him that we were accidental offenders and never intended to cause him any upset. I toyed with the idea of asking him if he remembered the public information film with the hopping mad farmer, but thought better of it.
Yesterday morning I was in the usual hurry to get Aurora to the childminder. I wished Desmond good morning and he said some kind words to the baby. I couldn’t help noticing that the nose of Desmond’s van was just encroaching on Eric’s drive. I presumed that Eric was not at large and that a resident of Desmond’s long standing might be able to impose a little.
I installed the baby in her car seat and got into the driver’s seat. As I did so I heard the rumble of a wheelie bin – this was strange as our rubbish is collected on a Tuesday. The noise was coming from Eric’s drive and I adjusted my rear view mirror to see the poor man flying down the slope towards Desmond’s van. Eric had smeared his face with dirt and was wearing a bandana – he was pushing the wheelie bin as a makeshift battering ram.
Desmond is a little deaf and didn’t notice a thing.
Desmond waved a little wave at Aurora as he pulled out into the road and made off for another day of cheerfully fitting carpets. Eric’s momentum took him across the road and into Desmond’s garden wall. He didn’t appear to lose consciousness. I thought it best not to draw attention to such indignity. Aurora and I set off with our usual sing-song start to the day:
‘The wheels on the bus go round and round…..!’
As I locked the house on Tuesday morning, I noticed that Eric was in his front garden/yard, gripping his picket fence. There was nothing unusual about this – he does take occasional breaks from watching the television to put pizza boxes into his wheelie bin, or watch his wife carry the shopping in from the car.
‘Excuse me!’ I was amazed to hear Eric’s voice for the first time.
‘Morning!’ I took this as neighbourly contact of some sort. Unfortunately Eric then launched into a tirade about thoughtless parking blocking his gate on a regular basis and insisted that he should be treated with a little more respect as the street’s resident of longest standing. I offered an apology and vowed to be more thoughtful in future. This did not placate him and he began to literally jump up and down and wave his arms in rage. I didn’t think he had such energy and his animated form reminded me of an old public information advertisement in which a hopping mad farmer is viewed through binoculars by some litter louts from the city. If I remember rightly they mistake his rage for ‘country dancing’. Eric’s ‘country dancing’ was followed by some incomprehensible mutterings as he stormed out of view and back to his TV.
I drove away through the leafy bends of The Villas, but my morning had been tainted by such unpleasant intercourse. I turned back and gave Eric’s door a firm, but unconfrontational, knock.
He seemed a little taken aback and instinctively raised his fists and assumed a boxing stance. His SKY remote control fell from its holster at his hip and spilled its batteries. The batteries rolled off the step and came to a stop on the paving.
I picked the batteries up and handed them back to their owner.
‘Eric, I really don’t want us to fall out about parking. Let’s talk about it.’
Eric had clearly not shaved for a couple of days and I felt a bit sorry for him. He relaxed a little and seemed happy to have a chat. I was soon apprised of the parking crimes of the last 20 years on the street. I assured him that we were accidental offenders and never intended to cause him any upset. I toyed with the idea of asking him if he remembered the public information film with the hopping mad farmer, but thought better of it.
Yesterday morning I was in the usual hurry to get Aurora to the childminder. I wished Desmond good morning and he said some kind words to the baby. I couldn’t help noticing that the nose of Desmond’s van was just encroaching on Eric’s drive. I presumed that Eric was not at large and that a resident of Desmond’s long standing might be able to impose a little.
I installed the baby in her car seat and got into the driver’s seat. As I did so I heard the rumble of a wheelie bin – this was strange as our rubbish is collected on a Tuesday. The noise was coming from Eric’s drive and I adjusted my rear view mirror to see the poor man flying down the slope towards Desmond’s van. Eric had smeared his face with dirt and was wearing a bandana – he was pushing the wheelie bin as a makeshift battering ram.
Desmond is a little deaf and didn’t notice a thing.
Desmond waved a little wave at Aurora as he pulled out into the road and made off for another day of cheerfully fitting carpets. Eric’s momentum took him across the road and into Desmond’s garden wall. He didn’t appear to lose consciousness. I thought it best not to draw attention to such indignity. Aurora and I set off with our usual sing-song start to the day:
‘The wheels on the bus go round and round…..!’
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Ring of Fire
We had a barbecue on Saturday. Friends and babies milled around the kitchen. The babies took to the floor for a crawling competition and created the added bonus of an assault course for adults moving to and from the barbecue on the terrace with plates full of piping hot food. The barbecue was sat on bricks from an aborted bricklaying project of last year. (I had read a Sunday supplement piece about the joys of raised beds for growing your own vegetables. Deluded by the memory of a day’s bricklaying on a conservation holiday twenty years ago, I’d ruined the Mazda’s shock absorbers with a load of cheap bricks.)
Between the barbecue assembly and the fence was a shelf of small gardening equipment. I had looked at it earlier in the day and dismissed it as innocuous: terracotta pots; twine; unplanted seeds in sachets; a highly combustible plastic propagator.
The whole neighbourhood seemed to be enjoying the sunny day. I could hear Desmond and Celia giggling on the other side of the fence and the sound of splashing water suggested a water fight. We have often admired the youthfulness of Desmond and Celia. Whenever Celia does get out of her rocking chair they get along like teenagers.
Maude was enjoying the company and waving away the praise for her marinade.
Chad had, once again, 'forgotten' to bring any wine. Maude had set him to work on chores as a penance. I looked in to see him shelling peas. I was surprised by this, as peas were not on the menu. When Maude looked in his direction he laughed his theatrical laugh or beamed a smile back at her. As soon as she looked away his bottom lip obscured the peas he was trying to shell.
The propagator explosion was much louder than one could have imagined – even if one had been aware of the hazard. Maude screamed and jumped into the air with such force that her glasses were skew-whiff when she landed. Aurora followed suit and set off a chorus of screaming babies. Not wanting to be left out, Chad fired a shower of peas across the kitchen as he screamed too.
It was then that I realised that the explosion had blown an almost perfectly circular hole in the fence and had sent burning debris flying onto our neighbours’ property – more accurately, onto our neighbours. Celia was screaming. I looked through the burning aperture to see Celia stood naked in a newly acquired hot-tub. Desmond had the look of a man desperately bailing out as he scooped water onto her rear and burning splinters sizzled on the water’s surface around her.
It didn’t seem like a good time to offer an apology.
I extinguished the fence with the watering can and closed the French windows behind me as I went back into the house. The room fell silent as I calmed Aurora in my best Max Wall voice:
‘It’s alright dear, Daddy’s put the fire out.’
Between the barbecue assembly and the fence was a shelf of small gardening equipment. I had looked at it earlier in the day and dismissed it as innocuous: terracotta pots; twine; unplanted seeds in sachets; a highly combustible plastic propagator.
The whole neighbourhood seemed to be enjoying the sunny day. I could hear Desmond and Celia giggling on the other side of the fence and the sound of splashing water suggested a water fight. We have often admired the youthfulness of Desmond and Celia. Whenever Celia does get out of her rocking chair they get along like teenagers.
Maude was enjoying the company and waving away the praise for her marinade.
Chad had, once again, 'forgotten' to bring any wine. Maude had set him to work on chores as a penance. I looked in to see him shelling peas. I was surprised by this, as peas were not on the menu. When Maude looked in his direction he laughed his theatrical laugh or beamed a smile back at her. As soon as she looked away his bottom lip obscured the peas he was trying to shell.
The propagator explosion was much louder than one could have imagined – even if one had been aware of the hazard. Maude screamed and jumped into the air with such force that her glasses were skew-whiff when she landed. Aurora followed suit and set off a chorus of screaming babies. Not wanting to be left out, Chad fired a shower of peas across the kitchen as he screamed too.
It was then that I realised that the explosion had blown an almost perfectly circular hole in the fence and had sent burning debris flying onto our neighbours’ property – more accurately, onto our neighbours. Celia was screaming. I looked through the burning aperture to see Celia stood naked in a newly acquired hot-tub. Desmond had the look of a man desperately bailing out as he scooped water onto her rear and burning splinters sizzled on the water’s surface around her.
It didn’t seem like a good time to offer an apology.
I extinguished the fence with the watering can and closed the French windows behind me as I went back into the house. The room fell silent as I calmed Aurora in my best Max Wall voice:
‘It’s alright dear, Daddy’s put the fire out.’
Monday, July 14, 2008
Making an Impression
Last week I was back at the theatre where I used to work. I’d arranged a meeting there – thinking that I would get preferential service as a former employee. The Duty Manager welcomed me with a big smile and I felt the warm glow of a kind of homecoming. It was only when he said ‘It took a minute for me to recognise you without your fedora’ that I suspected a case of mistaken identity. I have never worn a hat in my life.
I let this pass and enjoyed the fact that the man’s voice was almost identical to that of the late great Max Wall. When Maude was carrying Aurora she would often ask me to speak to the baby:
‘All the books say that the father should talk to the baby in the womb. That way you’ve partially bonded even before birth. They come out knowing their father’s voice.’
I felt self-conscious about speaking to an unborn baby and decided to do my Max Wall voice.
‘Hello, are you in there? It’s your father here….’
As usual, Maude was amused at first and then annoyed.
I argued that the deep resonance of the ‘Max Wall’ voice probably made for very comforting vibration by the time it reached the baby. Maude changed her position on the sofa at that point – placing the bump out of the reach of ‘Max’.
I let this pass and enjoyed the fact that the man’s voice was almost identical to that of the late great Max Wall. When Maude was carrying Aurora she would often ask me to speak to the baby:
‘All the books say that the father should talk to the baby in the womb. That way you’ve partially bonded even before birth. They come out knowing their father’s voice.’
I felt self-conscious about speaking to an unborn baby and decided to do my Max Wall voice.
‘Hello, are you in there? It’s your father here….’
As usual, Maude was amused at first and then annoyed.
I argued that the deep resonance of the ‘Max Wall’ voice probably made for very comforting vibration by the time it reached the baby. Maude changed her position on the sofa at that point – placing the bump out of the reach of ‘Max’.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Larry has left the building
Maude and I went on a date last night – to a 'gig' in Newcastle.
We hadn’t seen Larry since Maude’s birthday back in December and just presumed that he had hibernated for the winter.
‘Perhaps he’s having an extra long sleep this year. Perhaps he’ll burst out into the world with more energy than ever and, well, a direction.’
Maude is always admirable in her optimistic take on her friends’ capabilities and motivations.
There was the usual long gap between the moment when the support act finally succumbed to boos and groans and left the stage and the moment when the main act deigned to appear. It was during this window that the familiar figure of Larry came into view through the chattering crowds around the entrance to the hall. Maude had inadvertently spilled her drink on a huddle of sixth formers to create some space for us at a rail on the mezzanine. We could see the stage and the door from one vantage point.
Larry has a distinctive gait – part shuffle, part swagger. He rarely looks where he is going – preferring instead to scan the room for familiar faces and pretty girls. On this occasion, though, he seemed fixed on a point in the distance and his movement was more shuffle than swagger.
Maude waved. Larry, however, didn’t respond or deviate – instead he maintained a steady pace in his shuffle into the room.
‘The idle swine is ignoring me.’
I tried to reassure Maude that Larry didn’t seem to be himself. Maude rapidly called Miles, a mutual friend.
‘I just saw Larry in a public place and he ignored me! Have you spoken to him lately?’
I detected something slightly odd about Larry. As he drew closer I could see profound irregularity in his outfit. Larry habitually wears black – he expends less energy on choosing outfits that way. Tonight, he was a riot of stripes.
Maude nudged me. ‘Miles wants to know what he’s wearing…’
Larry emerged through a wave of dry ice and came into clearer focus.
Maude passed the phone to me:
’The last time I was fixing Larry’s Teasmaid', Miles said, ‘he told me about the ‘pyjama caper’. Whenever he needs to get into a club, a gig - or anywhere really - without paying and he can’t get Dink or Helmut to pay, he puts on pyjamas and ‘sleepwalks’ in. Glazed eyes, pyjamas. While the bouncers are laughing and pointing he's in past them and runs into the crowd.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Maude was unfazed by the cool attitudes of those around her and thought it best to adopt her grandmother’s way of attracting the attention of a passer-by.
Maude’s cry roused Larry from his ‘sleepwalk’ and queered the timing of his routine. The house lights dimmed. As the crowd began to show its appreciation for the imminent arrival of the main act, Larry’s muffled whimpers could just be heard under the weight of a heavy man who had proved himself to be deceptively light on his feet. The conqueror rose to his feet and a broad back showed the legend ‘STEWARD’. Larry was leaving the building - with his head held high, and his feet held higher.
We hadn’t seen Larry since Maude’s birthday back in December and just presumed that he had hibernated for the winter.
‘Perhaps he’s having an extra long sleep this year. Perhaps he’ll burst out into the world with more energy than ever and, well, a direction.’
Maude is always admirable in her optimistic take on her friends’ capabilities and motivations.
There was the usual long gap between the moment when the support act finally succumbed to boos and groans and left the stage and the moment when the main act deigned to appear. It was during this window that the familiar figure of Larry came into view through the chattering crowds around the entrance to the hall. Maude had inadvertently spilled her drink on a huddle of sixth formers to create some space for us at a rail on the mezzanine. We could see the stage and the door from one vantage point.
Larry has a distinctive gait – part shuffle, part swagger. He rarely looks where he is going – preferring instead to scan the room for familiar faces and pretty girls. On this occasion, though, he seemed fixed on a point in the distance and his movement was more shuffle than swagger.
Maude waved. Larry, however, didn’t respond or deviate – instead he maintained a steady pace in his shuffle into the room.
‘The idle swine is ignoring me.’
I tried to reassure Maude that Larry didn’t seem to be himself. Maude rapidly called Miles, a mutual friend.
‘I just saw Larry in a public place and he ignored me! Have you spoken to him lately?’
I detected something slightly odd about Larry. As he drew closer I could see profound irregularity in his outfit. Larry habitually wears black – he expends less energy on choosing outfits that way. Tonight, he was a riot of stripes.
Maude nudged me. ‘Miles wants to know what he’s wearing…’
Larry emerged through a wave of dry ice and came into clearer focus.
Maude passed the phone to me:
’The last time I was fixing Larry’s Teasmaid', Miles said, ‘he told me about the ‘pyjama caper’. Whenever he needs to get into a club, a gig - or anywhere really - without paying and he can’t get Dink or Helmut to pay, he puts on pyjamas and ‘sleepwalks’ in. Glazed eyes, pyjamas. While the bouncers are laughing and pointing he's in past them and runs into the crowd.’
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Maude was unfazed by the cool attitudes of those around her and thought it best to adopt her grandmother’s way of attracting the attention of a passer-by.
Maude’s cry roused Larry from his ‘sleepwalk’ and queered the timing of his routine. The house lights dimmed. As the crowd began to show its appreciation for the imminent arrival of the main act, Larry’s muffled whimpers could just be heard under the weight of a heavy man who had proved himself to be deceptively light on his feet. The conqueror rose to his feet and a broad back showed the legend ‘STEWARD’. Larry was leaving the building - with his head held high, and his feet held higher.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
A bit of a cheek...
I have a mystery ailment. Every once in a while I will get up, look in the bathroom mirror, and see that my right cheek has swollen to make me look battered – or slightly more battered than usual.
‘Perhaps it’s stress related.’ Maude does her best to be sympathetic. I pointed out that if stress were at the root of it, then it would be a permanent fixture.
‘Oh, is it not?’ Maude doesn’t actually look at me much these days.
The doctor was sympathetic, typed a great deal and looked perplexed, but didn’t actually have an inkling as to what the problem was.
‘Perhaps you should try the dentist – it is near your teeth.’
Heartened by such thorough attention to my ballooning face, I made my exit through the guard of honour of coughing pensioners in the surgery waiting room. The dentist referred me on to the Dental Hospital in the centre of town. in the waiting room some had similar swellings to my own and some had teeth so protrusive it was hard not to look at them. It was also hard to imagine what on earth an x-ray could reveal that wasn’t on show to the world.
My turn came and I realised that I was being shown into a room full of students, who were about to observe my x-ray experience. Apparently I had signed a form which included my consent to this. They all looked very young and slightly bogus in their white coat & trainer ensembles.
The qualified radiologist smiled at me and nodded towards her acolytes.
‘We’ve got company this morning.’
The radiologist trainer was one of the smallest women I have ever met. The x-ray machine was vertical and designed to work as the patient stood.
The tiny woman turned to her students:
‘Hey, we’ve got a big one here! How’s little me going to manage?’
The radiology expert then rummaged in a low level cupboard and produced a footstool.
‘Be ready for every eventually when x-raying.’
It struck me that a resourceful boy scout could perform x-rays if this is the level of expertise required.
I tried to smile as the little woman teetered on her footstool and raised the height of the machine to its limit. I stepped forward and the top of my head still hit the frame, just.
‘I could stoop ever so slightly’, I offered.
‘No, I’m sorry sir. Stooping would affect your posture and impair the x-ray.' She then turned to the students to reiterate this last point: 'Stooping, not good'.
The room fell quiet for a moment as the students made zero useful suggestions and the little woman’s brain whirred as her resourcefulness was tested once more. I then saw her expression brighten as an idea struck her. She lowered the apparatus to the level of my groin. I was perplexed by this and thought I caught a titter from one of the male students.
‘One sec!’ The radiologist darted from the room with some purpose.
I stepped away from the x-ray machine and briefly put my hands in my pockets to try and look relaxed and unembarrassed. I thought better of this and took my hands out – only to send a pound coin skidding across the buffed floor. One of the students trapped it under his trainer and offered it back to me in silence. I thanked him and he nodded slightly. I guessed that the ‘communication with patients’ module was later in their course.
It was then that the silence was challenged by a regular squeak in the corridor. The squeak drew closer. The double doors then flew open and the tiny radiologist entered the room with an expression of triumph and a battered wheelchair.
‘Perhaps it’s stress related.’ Maude does her best to be sympathetic. I pointed out that if stress were at the root of it, then it would be a permanent fixture.
‘Oh, is it not?’ Maude doesn’t actually look at me much these days.
The doctor was sympathetic, typed a great deal and looked perplexed, but didn’t actually have an inkling as to what the problem was.
‘Perhaps you should try the dentist – it is near your teeth.’
Heartened by such thorough attention to my ballooning face, I made my exit through the guard of honour of coughing pensioners in the surgery waiting room. The dentist referred me on to the Dental Hospital in the centre of town. in the waiting room some had similar swellings to my own and some had teeth so protrusive it was hard not to look at them. It was also hard to imagine what on earth an x-ray could reveal that wasn’t on show to the world.
My turn came and I realised that I was being shown into a room full of students, who were about to observe my x-ray experience. Apparently I had signed a form which included my consent to this. They all looked very young and slightly bogus in their white coat & trainer ensembles.
The qualified radiologist smiled at me and nodded towards her acolytes.
‘We’ve got company this morning.’
The radiologist trainer was one of the smallest women I have ever met. The x-ray machine was vertical and designed to work as the patient stood.
The tiny woman turned to her students:
‘Hey, we’ve got a big one here! How’s little me going to manage?’
The radiology expert then rummaged in a low level cupboard and produced a footstool.
‘Be ready for every eventually when x-raying.’
It struck me that a resourceful boy scout could perform x-rays if this is the level of expertise required.
I tried to smile as the little woman teetered on her footstool and raised the height of the machine to its limit. I stepped forward and the top of my head still hit the frame, just.
‘I could stoop ever so slightly’, I offered.
‘No, I’m sorry sir. Stooping would affect your posture and impair the x-ray.' She then turned to the students to reiterate this last point: 'Stooping, not good'.
The room fell quiet for a moment as the students made zero useful suggestions and the little woman’s brain whirred as her resourcefulness was tested once more. I then saw her expression brighten as an idea struck her. She lowered the apparatus to the level of my groin. I was perplexed by this and thought I caught a titter from one of the male students.
‘One sec!’ The radiologist darted from the room with some purpose.
I stepped away from the x-ray machine and briefly put my hands in my pockets to try and look relaxed and unembarrassed. I thought better of this and took my hands out – only to send a pound coin skidding across the buffed floor. One of the students trapped it under his trainer and offered it back to me in silence. I thanked him and he nodded slightly. I guessed that the ‘communication with patients’ module was later in their course.
It was then that the silence was challenged by a regular squeak in the corridor. The squeak drew closer. The double doors then flew open and the tiny radiologist entered the room with an expression of triumph and a battered wheelchair.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Father of the House
A common feature of Friday afternoons in the office is the arrival of one or two ‘goodbye everyone’ emails. No, these messages are not electronic suicide notes from the more highly-strung members of Arts Council staff. The organisation has an all staff email facility and leavers are apt to share their glee and remind everyone of their existence in a final message peppered with exclamation marks and usually featuring phrases like ‘wonderful experience’ and ‘Ciao everyone!’ Most of the time, the message is the first one I have ever had from the person concerned and reading it feels a little bit like reading a newspaper obituary for someone whose name and achievements had never reached one’s consciousness while they lived.
Today was unusual in that I knew one of the liberated. Monique had been with organisation since its inception and like me had become a knowing old hand at all staff events, smiling at the naïve enthusiasm of all the Johnny-come-latelys who were avidly attentive and asked perky questions on the intricacies of our programme and vision.
It was at such an event last year that a meeting organiser decided to put a new spin on the convention of all attendees announcing who they were and which team they represented. He decided to compound the ignominy of reciting name, rank and number by arranging us in order of time with the organisation. As we consulted and arranged ourselves I realised that I was moving very near the front of the line – when the dust settled I was in second place.
Monique had started a month earlier than me and she stood at the head of the line. The whole manoeuvre happened very quickly. I could see that Monique’s eyes were slightly moist with tears - as though the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs and she had been left chairless and exposed. The whole room looked at her, waiting for her to once again tell everyone who she was and how long she had been lucky enough to work as an ‘Operations Manager’. I felt for her – I could almost empathise. A part of me, however, thanked God that she had been placed in that searchlight of everyone’s attention.
I digested Monique’s email and the significance of this particular departure.
‘God, Monique’s leaving. She’s been there for, like, forever’ observed Original Susan with characteristic tact.
I didn’t respond and then a second email from Monique landed in my Inbox. Monique’s last act as an Operations Manager was not to be her valedictory email to ‘all the wonderful people’ she had worked with. Instead, it was an email specifically to me:
‘Head of the line sucker!’
Today was unusual in that I knew one of the liberated. Monique had been with organisation since its inception and like me had become a knowing old hand at all staff events, smiling at the naïve enthusiasm of all the Johnny-come-latelys who were avidly attentive and asked perky questions on the intricacies of our programme and vision.
It was at such an event last year that a meeting organiser decided to put a new spin on the convention of all attendees announcing who they were and which team they represented. He decided to compound the ignominy of reciting name, rank and number by arranging us in order of time with the organisation. As we consulted and arranged ourselves I realised that I was moving very near the front of the line – when the dust settled I was in second place.
Monique had started a month earlier than me and she stood at the head of the line. The whole manoeuvre happened very quickly. I could see that Monique’s eyes were slightly moist with tears - as though the music had stopped in a game of musical chairs and she had been left chairless and exposed. The whole room looked at her, waiting for her to once again tell everyone who she was and how long she had been lucky enough to work as an ‘Operations Manager’. I felt for her – I could almost empathise. A part of me, however, thanked God that she had been placed in that searchlight of everyone’s attention.
I digested Monique’s email and the significance of this particular departure.
‘God, Monique’s leaving. She’s been there for, like, forever’ observed Original Susan with characteristic tact.
I didn’t respond and then a second email from Monique landed in my Inbox. Monique’s last act as an Operations Manager was not to be her valedictory email to ‘all the wonderful people’ she had worked with. Instead, it was an email specifically to me:
‘Head of the line sucker!’
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Send Only
If I go straight from work to the house I find that I have been handed the baby before I have even had the chance to remove my coat. I took my seat for dinner on Wednesday after the baby was asleep, for instance, without realising I was still wearing my coat and hat. Maude giggled until pudding.
‘Me time’ then is very hard to come by and, when it occurs, I savour it. I sat in a layby yesterday doing a crossword. Passers-by must have wondered why I smiled so broadly from such a simple pastime – not knowing that it was the joy of being off- radar that gave me such a rush. I then set to work on a task I had been meaning to get around to for some time – my text message templates. I tire of texting the same things over and over again – so templates seem the way to go.
I began with a few templates for Original Susan:
‘Probably working from home today, trouble with the old boiler – plumber called.’
‘Running late – childcare issues. Hope you don’t mind holding the fort.’
I then began work on the template messages for Maude.
The practical:
‘Traffic v.heavy. Feel free to hand over baby in hall on my arrival.’
The contrite:
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m so very sorry – forgive me.’
‘I am more sorry than I have ever been – please let me back into the house before the frost sets in.’
‘Me time’ then is very hard to come by and, when it occurs, I savour it. I sat in a layby yesterday doing a crossword. Passers-by must have wondered why I smiled so broadly from such a simple pastime – not knowing that it was the joy of being off- radar that gave me such a rush. I then set to work on a task I had been meaning to get around to for some time – my text message templates. I tire of texting the same things over and over again – so templates seem the way to go.
I began with a few templates for Original Susan:
‘Probably working from home today, trouble with the old boiler – plumber called.’
‘Running late – childcare issues. Hope you don’t mind holding the fort.’
I then began work on the template messages for Maude.
The practical:
‘Traffic v.heavy. Feel free to hand over baby in hall on my arrival.’
The contrite:
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m so very sorry – forgive me.’
‘I am more sorry than I have ever been – please let me back into the house before the frost sets in.’
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A Woman's Touch
Maude and I called to see Benny this afternoon. Benny was keen to show Maude the progress he has made in his DIY efforts. His living room has improved tenfold – with shelving, a rug – even a new pouffe with internal storage.
Maude flattered Benny on his achievements, but I could tell that she was unsure about some of Benny’s general approach to décor.
‘You’ve done remarkably well Benny….in the circumstances. I do think the place could do with a few small touches though. For instance, what about the fire?’
Benny has a new fireplace. A local carpenter made the surround and a new hearth was fitted at great expense. Benny, however, has shied away from setting a fire since his elderly neighbour, Florence, expressed her fears for the safety of his property and of hers. In fact, when she spied Benny with a box of matches at hand she called the Fire Service.
Maude suggested that Benny made a pot of tea. As he left the room Maude caught his heel as she closed the door behind him and held it shut with the pouffe.
I could hear Benny’s voice in the hall – it had the quality of a cry from someone trapped down a well.
‘What are you doing Maude? It is my house you know.’
‘Don’t worry Benny – you’ll thank me.’
Maude likes to hang pictures and keeps a small stock of tacks in her purse. Benny had received a couple of small landscape prints from a well-meaning sister at Christmas. He had been using them as tea trays, so Maude took the opportunity to make them focal points on either side of the dormant fireplace. Using a heel as an improvised hammer, she made light work of the job.
I then helped Maude as she repositioned most of the furniture. Benny could hear the movement from the hall.
‘Tea’s ready. Can I come back in now?’
‘Not just yet dear.’ Maude pressed on and found a new spot for more or less everything in the room. The movement of the furniture revealed lost socks and mislaid Y-fronts. Maude looked away. I felt obliged to protect Benny’s dignity and swiftly found a temporary home for the smalls in the new pouffe.
I was then sent out into the hall to prepare Benny for the ‘reveal’. My friend was sat on the bottom step of his own staircase like a banished naughty child. I reassured him that there was nothing to worry about and he agreed to wear my cravat as a blindfold as I led him back into his living room.
‘Ta-da!’ cried Maude as I uncovered Benny’s eyes.
Benny was a little disoriented and remained silent for a minute as he surveyed the changed environment. His expression was inscrutable, until his face gradually warmed into a smile.
‘It’s wonderful Maude. I needed a woman’s touch.’
‘Quite,’ said Maude.’I also thought that it was time for you to ‘put away childish things’ – so I got your fire going with that balsa wood Messerschmitt from the shelf. It really didn’t go with those books anyway.’
Benny looked a little stunned. We heard the model crackle in the grate and I could see the flames reflected in Benny’s glasses.
‘You just need to keep it tidy dear – we found lots of newspapers and ‘bits and bobs’. If the place gets untidy, you don’t necessarily need a woman’s touch, you could just dump your mess in the pouffe.’
Maude flattered Benny on his achievements, but I could tell that she was unsure about some of Benny’s general approach to décor.
‘You’ve done remarkably well Benny….in the circumstances. I do think the place could do with a few small touches though. For instance, what about the fire?’
Benny has a new fireplace. A local carpenter made the surround and a new hearth was fitted at great expense. Benny, however, has shied away from setting a fire since his elderly neighbour, Florence, expressed her fears for the safety of his property and of hers. In fact, when she spied Benny with a box of matches at hand she called the Fire Service.
Maude suggested that Benny made a pot of tea. As he left the room Maude caught his heel as she closed the door behind him and held it shut with the pouffe.
I could hear Benny’s voice in the hall – it had the quality of a cry from someone trapped down a well.
‘What are you doing Maude? It is my house you know.’
‘Don’t worry Benny – you’ll thank me.’
Maude likes to hang pictures and keeps a small stock of tacks in her purse. Benny had received a couple of small landscape prints from a well-meaning sister at Christmas. He had been using them as tea trays, so Maude took the opportunity to make them focal points on either side of the dormant fireplace. Using a heel as an improvised hammer, she made light work of the job.
I then helped Maude as she repositioned most of the furniture. Benny could hear the movement from the hall.
‘Tea’s ready. Can I come back in now?’
‘Not just yet dear.’ Maude pressed on and found a new spot for more or less everything in the room. The movement of the furniture revealed lost socks and mislaid Y-fronts. Maude looked away. I felt obliged to protect Benny’s dignity and swiftly found a temporary home for the smalls in the new pouffe.
I was then sent out into the hall to prepare Benny for the ‘reveal’. My friend was sat on the bottom step of his own staircase like a banished naughty child. I reassured him that there was nothing to worry about and he agreed to wear my cravat as a blindfold as I led him back into his living room.
‘Ta-da!’ cried Maude as I uncovered Benny’s eyes.
Benny was a little disoriented and remained silent for a minute as he surveyed the changed environment. His expression was inscrutable, until his face gradually warmed into a smile.
‘It’s wonderful Maude. I needed a woman’s touch.’
‘Quite,’ said Maude.’I also thought that it was time for you to ‘put away childish things’ – so I got your fire going with that balsa wood Messerschmitt from the shelf. It really didn’t go with those books anyway.’
Benny looked a little stunned. We heard the model crackle in the grate and I could see the flames reflected in Benny’s glasses.
‘You just need to keep it tidy dear – we found lots of newspapers and ‘bits and bobs’. If the place gets untidy, you don’t necessarily need a woman’s touch, you could just dump your mess in the pouffe.’
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
'That was a man thing!'
My best man, Miles, called unexpectedly last night.
‘Could you email a few of your wedding pictures to me?’ he asked. ‘Only I was telling Delilah [his new girlfriend] about your wedding and how Maude gave me a really hard time about my haircut. I just wanted to prove that it wasn’t that bad.’
I said I’d be happy to scan a few images as soon as I got the time.
‘She did give me a hard time you know.’
I was surprised that a grown man was still smarting from a throwaway reprimand of years ago from Maude – the kind of remark I weather on a daily basis, strapped to the mast of matrimony.
‘I think that she was actually more critical of the fact that you hadn’t shaved. Oh, and of the option that you presented to me as we entered the church.’
‘But I offer that to all the grooms I serve and, anyway, you shouldn’t have told her – that was a man thing.’
Miles has been a Best Man on several occasions and stood out as the most capable candidate when Maude and I were planning our wedding. He has a certain charisma and the ability to work a room without showing signs of his massive recreational drug consumption. I did consider Archie, but suspected that the little chap would be mistaken for a pageboy. Larry too was ruled out – his narcolepsy is quite unpredictable.
Miles has a checklist of what he believes to be his duties as a Best Man. He composed the list on a beer mat some years ago and carries it in his wallet. I recall our approach to the church gates on that fateful day. Miles turned to me and raised his hand in a ‘STOP’ signal.
‘Woooah, bonny lad!’
I stopped and said nothing. I thought perhaps he was about to issue some last minute words of advice, or to wish me many years of happily married life. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and produced his wallet. As he opened it I shielded my eyes from a possible outpouring of trapped moths. When I looked again Miles was really concentrating (I could see his nostrils flaring). He was consulting his checklist. He took a small pencil from behind his ear and carefully ticked off the items he had achieved. Miles’ handwriting has always reminded me of ransom notes – I couldn’t read any of the bullet points apart from the very last one on the list. His pencil hovered, as he opened his mouth to speak – it read:
‘GIVE GROOM LAST CHANCE TO RUN AWAY’
‘Could you email a few of your wedding pictures to me?’ he asked. ‘Only I was telling Delilah [his new girlfriend] about your wedding and how Maude gave me a really hard time about my haircut. I just wanted to prove that it wasn’t that bad.’
I said I’d be happy to scan a few images as soon as I got the time.
‘She did give me a hard time you know.’
I was surprised that a grown man was still smarting from a throwaway reprimand of years ago from Maude – the kind of remark I weather on a daily basis, strapped to the mast of matrimony.
‘I think that she was actually more critical of the fact that you hadn’t shaved. Oh, and of the option that you presented to me as we entered the church.’
‘But I offer that to all the grooms I serve and, anyway, you shouldn’t have told her – that was a man thing.’
Miles has been a Best Man on several occasions and stood out as the most capable candidate when Maude and I were planning our wedding. He has a certain charisma and the ability to work a room without showing signs of his massive recreational drug consumption. I did consider Archie, but suspected that the little chap would be mistaken for a pageboy. Larry too was ruled out – his narcolepsy is quite unpredictable.
Miles has a checklist of what he believes to be his duties as a Best Man. He composed the list on a beer mat some years ago and carries it in his wallet. I recall our approach to the church gates on that fateful day. Miles turned to me and raised his hand in a ‘STOP’ signal.
‘Woooah, bonny lad!’
I stopped and said nothing. I thought perhaps he was about to issue some last minute words of advice, or to wish me many years of happily married life. Instead, he reached into his back pocket and produced his wallet. As he opened it I shielded my eyes from a possible outpouring of trapped moths. When I looked again Miles was really concentrating (I could see his nostrils flaring). He was consulting his checklist. He took a small pencil from behind his ear and carefully ticked off the items he had achieved. Miles’ handwriting has always reminded me of ransom notes – I couldn’t read any of the bullet points apart from the very last one on the list. His pencil hovered, as he opened his mouth to speak – it read:
‘GIVE GROOM LAST CHANCE TO RUN AWAY’
Thursday, January 10, 2008
'Good carrots ruined!'
Maude’s father, Crawford, has a very fixed idea of Christmas. The details of his Christmas should not be tampered with – as any deviation from his template has the potential to spoil his entire experience.
It was Christmas a decade ago when Maude’s sister, Lucia, last ‘tampered’ with Christmas. Lucia is a gifted chef and took responsibility for the Christmas lunch dessert – deciding that a departure from the traditional steamed pudding was long overdue. It was to be a surprise for Crawford and a surprise it certainly was. The lights were dimmed and Lucia brought the chestnut mousse into the dining room with some ceremony and not a little pride in her efforts. The rest of the company smiled its approval and a gentle ripple of applause greeted Lucia as she processed to the centre of the table. Crawford was conspicuously quiet until he was served. His assessment of Lucia’s efforts was a little harsh and was issued at the top of his voice:
‘That’s a piss poor excuse for a pudding if ever I saw one!’
Lucia burst into tears, Augusta cast a withering look at her husband and left the room. I turned to gauge the reaction of Maude’s twin brother, Roddy, only to hear the sound of his ignition in the yard. Maude put an arm around Lucia’s shoulder and led her, sobbing, from the room. Maude paused briefly at the door until she was sure that the scene was imprinted on her father’s memory and then comforted her sister back to the quiet sanctuary of the music room.
That memory had seemingly receded this year. Augusta had allotted Christmas Day tasks by handwritten memo. I was asked to look after the baby and make sure that the log fire didn’t fade, while Maude took responsibility for the preparation of the vegetables. As I was carrying Aurora from the kitchen, I noticed Maude ransacking her mother’s larder after some culinary inspiration.
‘Brilliant! Fresh ginger for the carrots.’
I had a sudden flashback to the mousse incident and tried to attract Maude’s attention while she was ushering me out the kitchen.
‘But darling, don’t’ forget about (at this point Maude closed the door soundly behind me) ….the mousse.’
Christmas lunch was not very old when Crawford and I found ourselves alone at the table – as we had ten years earlier.
‘What did I say?’ Crawford straightened his paper party hat and pushed his carrots to the edge of his plate. As he tucked into the remainder of his turkey he looked across at my turkey leg.
‘Do you not want that? There’s a wild load of meat left on it.’
It was Christmas a decade ago when Maude’s sister, Lucia, last ‘tampered’ with Christmas. Lucia is a gifted chef and took responsibility for the Christmas lunch dessert – deciding that a departure from the traditional steamed pudding was long overdue. It was to be a surprise for Crawford and a surprise it certainly was. The lights were dimmed and Lucia brought the chestnut mousse into the dining room with some ceremony and not a little pride in her efforts. The rest of the company smiled its approval and a gentle ripple of applause greeted Lucia as she processed to the centre of the table. Crawford was conspicuously quiet until he was served. His assessment of Lucia’s efforts was a little harsh and was issued at the top of his voice:
‘That’s a piss poor excuse for a pudding if ever I saw one!’
Lucia burst into tears, Augusta cast a withering look at her husband and left the room. I turned to gauge the reaction of Maude’s twin brother, Roddy, only to hear the sound of his ignition in the yard. Maude put an arm around Lucia’s shoulder and led her, sobbing, from the room. Maude paused briefly at the door until she was sure that the scene was imprinted on her father’s memory and then comforted her sister back to the quiet sanctuary of the music room.
That memory had seemingly receded this year. Augusta had allotted Christmas Day tasks by handwritten memo. I was asked to look after the baby and make sure that the log fire didn’t fade, while Maude took responsibility for the preparation of the vegetables. As I was carrying Aurora from the kitchen, I noticed Maude ransacking her mother’s larder after some culinary inspiration.
‘Brilliant! Fresh ginger for the carrots.’
I had a sudden flashback to the mousse incident and tried to attract Maude’s attention while she was ushering me out the kitchen.
‘But darling, don’t’ forget about (at this point Maude closed the door soundly behind me) ….the mousse.’
Christmas lunch was not very old when Crawford and I found ourselves alone at the table – as we had ten years earlier.
‘What did I say?’ Crawford straightened his paper party hat and pushed his carrots to the edge of his plate. As he tucked into the remainder of his turkey he looked across at my turkey leg.
‘Do you not want that? There’s a wild load of meat left on it.’
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Esme, where's your troosers?
We celebrated Maude’s birthday last night. Most of the usual crowd was there. Esme was the first to arrive.
‘You’ve forgotten your trousers’ Maude observed. I looked down and realised that Esme was bravely wearing a ‘shirt-dress’. Maude was easily distracted as Esme proffered a beautifully wrapped birthday gift. The women communicated for a few minutes in a language made up entirely of giggles and high pitched squeals as they admired elements of each other’s outfit and agonised over which cocktail to begin the evening with.
Pierre and Heidi turned up next. Pierre slid into our booth with his usual ease, kissed Maude and straightened his new glasses. I don’t think that he was trying to draw attention to them, but he did anyway.
‘I love your new specs, Pierre.’
Pierre beamed, removed the eyewear and began to explain how he acquired them.
‘Well I was in this thrift shop back in Montreal. I actually went in for some toothpicks, but my Dad was challenged by security for making an inappropriate comment to one of the cashiers. So, anyway, I had some time to kill and started trying on these old glasses and, would you believe I found my exact prescription in these and they were only….99 cents!’
Pierre replaced the glasses and looked at everyone around the table – to illustrate that they did indeed hold lenses with his exact prescription.
‘That’s amazing!’ exclaimed Maude. ‘They do make you look like a lesbian though.’
After several hours of chat and of cocktails taken, Larry appeared.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ joked Maude. ’You look really familiar.’
Larry hadn’t visited to see the baby.
‘Helmut cycled over,' noted the new mother.
‘Well, he was in the area anyway,’ retorted Larry. ’You’ve seen one baby, you’ve seen them all.’
‘Well you haven’t seen ours – so how would you know?’
Larry then spent the usual hour or so defending his neglectful ways and louche lifestyle with remarks along the lines of:
‘Well it’s just the way I am’
‘I’m still your friend.’
‘I’ve been really busy out partying and meeting new people.’
‘The ukulele tuition is really taking off and I’m teaching Alan Shearer some tunes to liven up his after-dinner speaking.’
Maude suggested that Larry performed some minor 'tweaks' on his life:
‘Get a proper job’
‘Learn to drive’
‘Marry Dink and have children.’
‘Buy a house’
Larry was touched by Maude’s concern and the amount of thought she had put into her advice. He then muttered something and left the table. I realised a few minutes later – when he retook his place with glass in hand - that the mutter was an offer to buy a round of drinks.
Esme then squeezed into a space between Larry and I which was far too small for her.
‘Room for a small one?’ she asked. She turned to speak to me with a buttock firmly on Larry’s knee. She smiled at me and then opened her mouth to speak.
‘Oh, I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say to you.’ It was then Esme ‘realised’ that she was sat on Larry.
‘Oh. look who I’m sat on! What a coincidence.’
‘You’ve forgotten your trousers’ Maude observed. I looked down and realised that Esme was bravely wearing a ‘shirt-dress’. Maude was easily distracted as Esme proffered a beautifully wrapped birthday gift. The women communicated for a few minutes in a language made up entirely of giggles and high pitched squeals as they admired elements of each other’s outfit and agonised over which cocktail to begin the evening with.
Pierre and Heidi turned up next. Pierre slid into our booth with his usual ease, kissed Maude and straightened his new glasses. I don’t think that he was trying to draw attention to them, but he did anyway.
‘I love your new specs, Pierre.’
Pierre beamed, removed the eyewear and began to explain how he acquired them.
‘Well I was in this thrift shop back in Montreal. I actually went in for some toothpicks, but my Dad was challenged by security for making an inappropriate comment to one of the cashiers. So, anyway, I had some time to kill and started trying on these old glasses and, would you believe I found my exact prescription in these and they were only….99 cents!’
Pierre replaced the glasses and looked at everyone around the table – to illustrate that they did indeed hold lenses with his exact prescription.
‘That’s amazing!’ exclaimed Maude. ‘They do make you look like a lesbian though.’
After several hours of chat and of cocktails taken, Larry appeared.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ joked Maude. ’You look really familiar.’
Larry hadn’t visited to see the baby.
‘Helmut cycled over,' noted the new mother.
‘Well, he was in the area anyway,’ retorted Larry. ’You’ve seen one baby, you’ve seen them all.’
‘Well you haven’t seen ours – so how would you know?’
Larry then spent the usual hour or so defending his neglectful ways and louche lifestyle with remarks along the lines of:
‘Well it’s just the way I am’
‘I’m still your friend.’
‘I’ve been really busy out partying and meeting new people.’
‘The ukulele tuition is really taking off and I’m teaching Alan Shearer some tunes to liven up his after-dinner speaking.’
Maude suggested that Larry performed some minor 'tweaks' on his life:
‘Get a proper job’
‘Learn to drive’
‘Marry Dink and have children.’
‘Buy a house’
Larry was touched by Maude’s concern and the amount of thought she had put into her advice. He then muttered something and left the table. I realised a few minutes later – when he retook his place with glass in hand - that the mutter was an offer to buy a round of drinks.
Esme then squeezed into a space between Larry and I which was far too small for her.
‘Room for a small one?’ she asked. She turned to speak to me with a buttock firmly on Larry’s knee. She smiled at me and then opened her mouth to speak.
‘Oh, I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say to you.’ It was then Esme ‘realised’ that she was sat on Larry.
‘Oh. look who I’m sat on! What a coincidence.’
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Hats off to the City of Culture
The Arts Council is still conspiring to get rid of me. I recently dropped my mobile phone in the bath and they sent a replacement that looked as though it had been made by Fisher Price: I took this to be the ‘naughty phone’. I thought that being seen using this phone would be ignominy and punishment enough.
Then they sent me to Liverpool.
The all staff love-in for this year was in the ‘City of Culture’ elect. As we drove into the city through Edge Hill I was heartened by the fact that most of the buildings were boarded up. ‘Marvellous’, I thought, ‘Liverpool’s closed, we’ll have to go home.’ My optimism was premature. We moved closer to the city centre and I could see shady, ragged figures shuffling through the streets – Liverpool was, in fact, ‘open’. The Arts Council staff had been booked into a range of swanky hotels around the city. The North East staff, by contrast, had been singled out for some perceived wrongdoing and were booked into what I can only regard as the ‘naughty hotel' – The Adelphi.
The Adelphi was the hotel featured in that early example of the docusoap. Angry scousers screamed and railed at all around them on the slightest provocation… and sometimes the customers were quite cross as well. The woman who gave me my keys was the manager herself ‘off of the telly.’ I recognised her, but didn’t mention it – she still seemed volatile.
My hotel room door was a portal into another era – an era in which stains were left on carpets and bedding, mysterious hands rattled the handles of connecting doors in the middle of the night and bathrooms had rings around their baths that were robust enough to hold mugs of tea. The windows were so dirty, that not a feature of the cityscape outside could be discerned and that was the only positive I could find to mention on the comments card.
In the circumstances of an all staff event, I was glad of a room – even a squalid one – in which I could hide. I’m not usually so antisocial, but I was scared by the hats.
The hat shock began when we were waiting for the bus to the big social event on the first night. One of the regional office grandees was obviously feeling the need to illustrate that he still has the instincts of an artist (he recently blurted out ‘I’m a poet you know’ during an appraisal with Original Susan – she didn’t know whether it was a come-on or a cry for help). He had chosen to do this with an odd grey felt chapeau – which gave him the look of a ginger gendarme. I think he was going for some kind of 80’s indie revival look.
On the second day of the event, there were lots of people shuffling down to breakfast with hangovers and tales of going to bed at 4am after a ‘wild night’. I smiled and forgave their exaggeration – they clearly didn’t get away from home much. If an evening of cheap buffet and middle-aged people ‘on the decks’ qualifies as ‘wild’, then life truly is elsewhere.
After a refreshingly meaty lunch on the second day, we were addressed by our national director. He reiterated his vision for the organisation. I surprised my colleagues by contributing wholeheartedly to our table discussion. I thought that this would pass the time more quickly. Original Susan nudged me at one point. I paused, wondering if my enthusiasm had reached an embarrassing level. She was, instead, drawing my attention to another eye-catching hat. At the neighbouring table, a man sat with his chin in his hand in a contemplative pose. He wore round tortoiseshell glasses, a donkey jacket and topped off the whole arts liberal caricature with a beret at a jaunty angle. My contribution to the flipchart 'thought shower' ceased at that point.
Then they sent me to Liverpool.
The all staff love-in for this year was in the ‘City of Culture’ elect. As we drove into the city through Edge Hill I was heartened by the fact that most of the buildings were boarded up. ‘Marvellous’, I thought, ‘Liverpool’s closed, we’ll have to go home.’ My optimism was premature. We moved closer to the city centre and I could see shady, ragged figures shuffling through the streets – Liverpool was, in fact, ‘open’. The Arts Council staff had been booked into a range of swanky hotels around the city. The North East staff, by contrast, had been singled out for some perceived wrongdoing and were booked into what I can only regard as the ‘naughty hotel' – The Adelphi.
The Adelphi was the hotel featured in that early example of the docusoap. Angry scousers screamed and railed at all around them on the slightest provocation… and sometimes the customers were quite cross as well. The woman who gave me my keys was the manager herself ‘off of the telly.’ I recognised her, but didn’t mention it – she still seemed volatile.
My hotel room door was a portal into another era – an era in which stains were left on carpets and bedding, mysterious hands rattled the handles of connecting doors in the middle of the night and bathrooms had rings around their baths that were robust enough to hold mugs of tea. The windows were so dirty, that not a feature of the cityscape outside could be discerned and that was the only positive I could find to mention on the comments card.
In the circumstances of an all staff event, I was glad of a room – even a squalid one – in which I could hide. I’m not usually so antisocial, but I was scared by the hats.
The hat shock began when we were waiting for the bus to the big social event on the first night. One of the regional office grandees was obviously feeling the need to illustrate that he still has the instincts of an artist (he recently blurted out ‘I’m a poet you know’ during an appraisal with Original Susan – she didn’t know whether it was a come-on or a cry for help). He had chosen to do this with an odd grey felt chapeau – which gave him the look of a ginger gendarme. I think he was going for some kind of 80’s indie revival look.
On the second day of the event, there were lots of people shuffling down to breakfast with hangovers and tales of going to bed at 4am after a ‘wild night’. I smiled and forgave their exaggeration – they clearly didn’t get away from home much. If an evening of cheap buffet and middle-aged people ‘on the decks’ qualifies as ‘wild’, then life truly is elsewhere.
After a refreshingly meaty lunch on the second day, we were addressed by our national director. He reiterated his vision for the organisation. I surprised my colleagues by contributing wholeheartedly to our table discussion. I thought that this would pass the time more quickly. Original Susan nudged me at one point. I paused, wondering if my enthusiasm had reached an embarrassing level. She was, instead, drawing my attention to another eye-catching hat. At the neighbouring table, a man sat with his chin in his hand in a contemplative pose. He wore round tortoiseshell glasses, a donkey jacket and topped off the whole arts liberal caricature with a beret at a jaunty angle. My contribution to the flipchart 'thought shower' ceased at that point.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Wait a minute Mr Postman!
So, rogue postmen do exist. We received an abused item of post in a polythene evidence bag from the Royal Mail – complete with a letter of profound corporate apology. The letter had been filleted by our postman (we think it had contained a voucher) and was the first item to be returned as part of ‘an ongoing investigation’. The case is in court, so we will have to wait for more information on what else the thieving swine took. He had been our postman for several years. Maude thought him very agreeable – as he remembered us from our last address a few miles away and would ask how she was. He would thoughtfully come into the porch (we rarely lock our doors in The Villas) if a parcel was too large for the postbox. Not for him, the leaving of a card causing the inconvenience of a trip to the sorting office. He was more interested in the massive inconvenience resulting from the theft of valuable post.
Since Aurora's birth we have excised several friends who failed to acknowledge the event with an appropriate gift. Now it seems we might have been hasty. Postie has probably had a bumper couple of weeks at the car boot sale – or on Ebay – with much profit made from cuddly toys and baby blankets.
I have begun to wonder what else he might have purloined in his 5 years as our postman. Maybe there was a letter (and cheque) from Archie & Leap – acknowledging their deficiencies and their indebtedness. Perhaps that literary agent did write back on receipt of my novel – with a record advance and an apology for not recognising my greatness earlier.
Since Aurora's birth we have excised several friends who failed to acknowledge the event with an appropriate gift. Now it seems we might have been hasty. Postie has probably had a bumper couple of weeks at the car boot sale – or on Ebay – with much profit made from cuddly toys and baby blankets.
I have begun to wonder what else he might have purloined in his 5 years as our postman. Maybe there was a letter (and cheque) from Archie & Leap – acknowledging their deficiencies and their indebtedness. Perhaps that literary agent did write back on receipt of my novel – with a record advance and an apology for not recognising my greatness earlier.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Des, Burt and me.
The registration of a birth is an old-fashioned process. An appointment is required and a lengthy series of questions are posed by a person who takes the role of registrar very seriously. A sign on the wall warns that the giving of any false information in the circumstances is PERJURY. I was quite reassured by this formality and looked forward to getting a piece of parchment confirming Aurora’s place in the world.
I was a few minutes early for the appointment and the reception office had not actually opened for business. I could see figures moving around behind the frosted window. Women were wishing each other 'good morning' and already discussing what they had brought in for lunch. I could hear a fridge door being opened and closed as the exciting lunch items were stowed away for the morning.
The office opened at 9.30am. I took a seat and waited for the wall clock to tick loudly around to opening time. When it did, I excitedly got up. I was to meet the registrar and our daughter was about to become a citizen of the borough. I approached the counter as a middle-aged woman slid back the window. The hatch looked like one of those serving windows from the 1970’s and the woman who revealed herself had heyday makeup that complemented the look. Sky-blue eyeshadow beamed out from behind large bi-focals. She adjusted her glasses slightly and focussed on me.
‘I have an appointment with the registrar.’ I was formal, but enthusiastic.
I expected her response to be something like: ‘What’s the name please?’, or ‘Oh, yes, please take a seat sir’. When her glasses were at the right angle to survey me through her bi-focals, she said:
‘Is it to register a death?’
I was disappointed by this.
‘No,’ I said weakly, ‘a birth’.
‘Oh’ she said barely containing her surprise. She turned to her colleague and raised her eyebrows before turning an insincere smile on me.
‘You’d better take a seat then.‘
She slid the hatch back into place and I watched her retreat to her desk through the frosted pane.
The waiting room was empty save for me, but I still waited a full 20 minutes. I presumed that the registrar was refilling her fountain pens, or just making me wait to emphasise her importance and the gravity of the registration process. While I waited I felt increasingly insecure as an older father - I obviously looked more like a morose widower than a new dad. This gloom wasn’t lifted by the conversation I could overhear from behind the frosted glass.
‘Des O’Connor - well into his seventies. He’ll probably be dead by the time that kid goes to big school.'
There was a long pause here - during which a ringing phone was steadfastly ignored.
‘Aye. Burt Bacharach, he’s another one. I saw him in the paper. He’s ancient – he’ll be lucky if he sees that kid get to nursery'.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sing the team tune
The team assembled on the sofas today. It was the last time we would do this with our ‘manager’ – as she finishes work with us at the end of the week.
I sat beside our new girl: Anna. She seemed a little nervous – so I smiled reassuringly at her. She scared me a little last week when she used the plural 'knifes', but I know how intimidating it can be in a new office with an established team.
We took turns to share with the team our planned movements and meetings for the week. There was a lot of enthusiasm on the other sofa – as our ‘manager’ was buoyed by the prospect of having a whole new team of people to tell about the exciting things she had in her diary. Original Susan, for her part, was buoyed by the prospect of a quieter office - with even later starts and even earlier finishes.
I related my plans for the week in my usual monotone and all eyes then turned on Anna. The ‘manager’ looked at Anna in the hope that she would revive the mood. Anna overcompensated.
‘My boyfriend works for an American company you know and they begin the week with a ‘team song’. It’s really brilliant and gets them all in a smashing mood for the week.’
There was a heavy pause and I expected our ‘manager’ to dismiss this nonsense and emphasise to Anna that this was a serious meeting and that the team protocol demanded the bald recitation of the facts of meetings and plans for the week.
I was disappointed by the team leader’s disconcertingly shrill reaction.
‘That sounds brilliant! What is it?’
It transpired that Anna’s boyfriend and the rest of his team were forced to begin the week with a kind of corporate humiliation that I did not think existed beyond the Arts Council’s annual get-together and that their teambuilding anthem was ‘Zip-a-dee-do-dah’.
Our team meeting then became a discussion of which songs would befit our ethos and send us out to deliver culture to the masses with a spring in our steps. I resolutely stopped listening and focussed instead on the throbbing pain of my big toe. The sensation was caused by my resurgent fungal nail infection and was a welcome distraction.
There was some noise coming at me from the opposite sofa and I realised that the ‘manager’ was trying to engage me in the debate.
‘Come on! Join in. A team song! Any suggestions?’
I took a sip of coffee and solemnly closed my diary.
‘How about ‘Every Day is Like Sunday’.'
I sat beside our new girl: Anna. She seemed a little nervous – so I smiled reassuringly at her. She scared me a little last week when she used the plural 'knifes', but I know how intimidating it can be in a new office with an established team.
We took turns to share with the team our planned movements and meetings for the week. There was a lot of enthusiasm on the other sofa – as our ‘manager’ was buoyed by the prospect of having a whole new team of people to tell about the exciting things she had in her diary. Original Susan, for her part, was buoyed by the prospect of a quieter office - with even later starts and even earlier finishes.
I related my plans for the week in my usual monotone and all eyes then turned on Anna. The ‘manager’ looked at Anna in the hope that she would revive the mood. Anna overcompensated.
‘My boyfriend works for an American company you know and they begin the week with a ‘team song’. It’s really brilliant and gets them all in a smashing mood for the week.’
There was a heavy pause and I expected our ‘manager’ to dismiss this nonsense and emphasise to Anna that this was a serious meeting and that the team protocol demanded the bald recitation of the facts of meetings and plans for the week.
I was disappointed by the team leader’s disconcertingly shrill reaction.
‘That sounds brilliant! What is it?’
It transpired that Anna’s boyfriend and the rest of his team were forced to begin the week with a kind of corporate humiliation that I did not think existed beyond the Arts Council’s annual get-together and that their teambuilding anthem was ‘Zip-a-dee-do-dah’.
Our team meeting then became a discussion of which songs would befit our ethos and send us out to deliver culture to the masses with a spring in our steps. I resolutely stopped listening and focussed instead on the throbbing pain of my big toe. The sensation was caused by my resurgent fungal nail infection and was a welcome distraction.
There was some noise coming at me from the opposite sofa and I realised that the ‘manager’ was trying to engage me in the debate.
‘Come on! Join in. A team song! Any suggestions?’
I took a sip of coffee and solemnly closed my diary.
‘How about ‘Every Day is Like Sunday’.'
Thursday, August 30, 2007
All Donations Gratefully Accepted
Our neighbourhood has many elderly residents. The area even has one of those ‘Elderly People Crossing’ road signs. I was unnerved by this at first – thinking that I had ended up in a dormitory suburb ‘as it were, for life.’
With old people though, come old customs and manners. This is no bad thing - especially when one of the customs involves the giving of money.
The other day Maude and I took our first promenade with the new baby – Aurora. It was a sunny day so we did a circuit around the leafy, blooming lanes of ‘The Villas’. Maude’s mother, Augusta, walked 30 yards ahead and used her natural authority to divert any traffic or dog walkers from our path.
An elderly lady was busy dead-heading roses in her garden as we passed.
‘Oh, a new baby!’ She exclaimed and leaned precariously over her garden gate to catch a glimpse of the infant.
Maude proudly pushed back the awning on the pram to reveal Aurora’s sleepy face.
‘Oh, she’s absolutely gorgeous,’ continued the old lady. ’So good to see some new blood in The Villas – the next generation, as it were. Wait there.’ She then disappeared into her kitchen. Maude was slightly perturbed. Reappearing moments later, the lady rummaged in her purse.
I realised what was happening and whispered some reassurance.
‘It’s an old custom darling – some older people will give the baby a small amount of money for good luck.’
The old lady reached across under Maude’s watchful eye and pressed a shiny pound coin into Aurora’s tiny hand.
‘Good luck!’ She smiled and returned to her gardening chores. Maude thanked her and we moved on.
I had not seen the giving of money to strangers’ children for many years, but I was heartened to see the warm glow in the old lady’s cheeks as she made the gesture.
I have since resolved to brighten the days of as many of our senior neighbours as possible: early morning walks around the full extent of The Villas (including culs-de-sac) have been highly profitable. Hovering around the trolley return station at Tesco has also paid dividends – the elderly shopper is very likely to be easily distracted after retrieving their pound coin and before you know it another coin has dropped into Aurora’s university fund and the cockles of another old heart have been warmed.
A well-timed saunter past the post office as it opened brought in a remarkable pram haul of £7.59, some Werther's Originals and an Out-Patient appointment card.
With old people though, come old customs and manners. This is no bad thing - especially when one of the customs involves the giving of money.
The other day Maude and I took our first promenade with the new baby – Aurora. It was a sunny day so we did a circuit around the leafy, blooming lanes of ‘The Villas’. Maude’s mother, Augusta, walked 30 yards ahead and used her natural authority to divert any traffic or dog walkers from our path.
An elderly lady was busy dead-heading roses in her garden as we passed.
‘Oh, a new baby!’ She exclaimed and leaned precariously over her garden gate to catch a glimpse of the infant.
Maude proudly pushed back the awning on the pram to reveal Aurora’s sleepy face.
‘Oh, she’s absolutely gorgeous,’ continued the old lady. ’So good to see some new blood in The Villas – the next generation, as it were. Wait there.’ She then disappeared into her kitchen. Maude was slightly perturbed. Reappearing moments later, the lady rummaged in her purse.
I realised what was happening and whispered some reassurance.
‘It’s an old custom darling – some older people will give the baby a small amount of money for good luck.’
The old lady reached across under Maude’s watchful eye and pressed a shiny pound coin into Aurora’s tiny hand.
‘Good luck!’ She smiled and returned to her gardening chores. Maude thanked her and we moved on.
I had not seen the giving of money to strangers’ children for many years, but I was heartened to see the warm glow in the old lady’s cheeks as she made the gesture.
I have since resolved to brighten the days of as many of our senior neighbours as possible: early morning walks around the full extent of The Villas (including culs-de-sac) have been highly profitable. Hovering around the trolley return station at Tesco has also paid dividends – the elderly shopper is very likely to be easily distracted after retrieving their pound coin and before you know it another coin has dropped into Aurora’s university fund and the cockles of another old heart have been warmed.
A well-timed saunter past the post office as it opened brought in a remarkable pram haul of £7.59, some Werther's Originals and an Out-Patient appointment card.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
The wind that shakes the barley water
Someone told me that our local supermarket had a goodwill policy of offering new mothers a free shop if their waters happened to break on the premises. Maude is 3 days away from what has been described as her ‘outside due date’ – whatever that means. She is profoundly bored at home, so yesterday she took me up on the offer of a trip to the supermarket. I used the subterfuge of stocking up on a few of those last minute essentials for the hospital trip – snack bars and magazines, for me.
I thought it best to hover in aisles with supermarket staff in them. That way, the breaking waters would be witnessed and there could be no question of our qualification for the complimentary trolley dash.
‘Why have you taken over 10 minutes to choose flapjacks? You always eat those weird seeded ones there. You are a creature of habit. Just get them and we’ll go.’ Maude didn't seem to be enjoying the expedition.
I suggested that we move on to the alcohol aisles (remembering that those areas are always patrolled by vigilant staff).
‘This could be our last chance to get something to wet the baby’s head darling.’
Maude viewed me with mild suspicion – nothing new – and began to move, slowly. I helped her along from behind – massaging her back in line with the pregnancy help-books I had been reading. Maude had marked the most germane sections for me and left the books piled on my desk – together with a multiple choice test paper for me to fill in at my leisure (it’s so stimulating being married to a teacher).
‘If you don’t stop that I’ll use the last bit of strength in my body to send you flying into those shelves. Those shelves, there, with all the tins.’
I gathered that this wasn’t quite the right time to employ my new massage expertise. Maude joined me in the wine aisle a few minutes later. I’d taken the brief opportunity to gather a bewildering array of champagne, in the hope that we could linger over the choice and improve our chances.
‘That one will do.’ Maude grabbed the bottle with the prettiest label and began to shuffle towards the checkouts. As we were passing the soft drinks and cordials I was beginning to believe that the mission was doomed. Maude reached for her favourite flavour of barley water, but she suddenly stopped short and held the shelf for support. I was heartened and felt sure that we had a result. I raised my voice:
‘Darling, are you ok? Is it…..is it time? Oh god, imagine going into labour at the supermarket of all places, who’d believe it?’
A security guard looked slightly intrigued and approached from the end of the aisle. Maude remained silent until he was within five feet of her.
‘I wouldn’t come any closer,’ she suggested and I now felt pretty confident that we would soon be filling a family trolley with every product I could find from the ‘Finest’ range.
‘Just checking that everything is ok, madam. Would you like me to find a seat for you?’
A long, pregnant, silence ensued and time seemed to stand still as we waited for a response.
As the Tannoy system announced ‘a large range of bakery products at very reduced prices in aisle 7’, Maude broke wind with a volume I have never before witnessed and wouldn't care to experience again.
‘Oh,' she sighed, 'that’s much better.’ She then placed the champagne in my basket and made her way briskly to the car park.
I thought it best to hover in aisles with supermarket staff in them. That way, the breaking waters would be witnessed and there could be no question of our qualification for the complimentary trolley dash.
‘Why have you taken over 10 minutes to choose flapjacks? You always eat those weird seeded ones there. You are a creature of habit. Just get them and we’ll go.’ Maude didn't seem to be enjoying the expedition.
I suggested that we move on to the alcohol aisles (remembering that those areas are always patrolled by vigilant staff).
‘This could be our last chance to get something to wet the baby’s head darling.’
Maude viewed me with mild suspicion – nothing new – and began to move, slowly. I helped her along from behind – massaging her back in line with the pregnancy help-books I had been reading. Maude had marked the most germane sections for me and left the books piled on my desk – together with a multiple choice test paper for me to fill in at my leisure (it’s so stimulating being married to a teacher).
‘If you don’t stop that I’ll use the last bit of strength in my body to send you flying into those shelves. Those shelves, there, with all the tins.’
I gathered that this wasn’t quite the right time to employ my new massage expertise. Maude joined me in the wine aisle a few minutes later. I’d taken the brief opportunity to gather a bewildering array of champagne, in the hope that we could linger over the choice and improve our chances.
‘That one will do.’ Maude grabbed the bottle with the prettiest label and began to shuffle towards the checkouts. As we were passing the soft drinks and cordials I was beginning to believe that the mission was doomed. Maude reached for her favourite flavour of barley water, but she suddenly stopped short and held the shelf for support. I was heartened and felt sure that we had a result. I raised my voice:
‘Darling, are you ok? Is it…..is it time? Oh god, imagine going into labour at the supermarket of all places, who’d believe it?’
A security guard looked slightly intrigued and approached from the end of the aisle. Maude remained silent until he was within five feet of her.
‘I wouldn’t come any closer,’ she suggested and I now felt pretty confident that we would soon be filling a family trolley with every product I could find from the ‘Finest’ range.
‘Just checking that everything is ok, madam. Would you like me to find a seat for you?’
A long, pregnant, silence ensued and time seemed to stand still as we waited for a response.
As the Tannoy system announced ‘a large range of bakery products at very reduced prices in aisle 7’, Maude broke wind with a volume I have never before witnessed and wouldn't care to experience again.
‘Oh,' she sighed, 'that’s much better.’ She then placed the champagne in my basket and made her way briskly to the car park.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Look out kid.....
Every time I leave the house at the moment, Maude reminds me to drive carefully. Whenever I leave the house for work, she states ‘I hope you’re still driving carefully.’ I tell her that, of course I am driving with absolute care.
‘I rarely get to ton-up any more dear’, I said yesterday morning when this ritual took place. ‘I have stopped overtaking on bends while sending text messages – all in the past, that kind of thing. I have even started wearing my seatbelt.’
Maude usually adopts her stern 'teacher face' at this point – the one she uses when trying to outstare a spirited teenager at school.
‘You know what I mean. You wouldn’t want to leave me a widow and this poor child (points at bump) an orphan.’
I usually do my mock-chided face at this point and she lightens up, safe in the knowledge that she has put the notion of safe driving at the top of my limited mental agenda. She does, however, have detailed knowledge of my driving habits.
‘What about the flash cards?’
Last year I watched a Bob Dylan documentary and was quite inspired by the film clip for ‘Subterrannean Homesick Blues’. Like most Dylan songs, it is a bit top-heavy with lyrics, but he whips through them briskly and helps his audience with an armful of placards. He drops or flings aside each card when the line is complete. I spent several hours in the garage composing a similar set of message boards – all with a motoring application. Maude flouts the highway code by frequently using her horn 'as a rebuke' (accompanied by some regrettable gestures). My card system is designed, instead, to encourage fellow drivers to reconsider their driving style.
I travel along the A1 a great deal (apart from the occasions on which I am forced to go cross-country. The A1 often grinds to a standstill at peak times and I am forced to pull myself off to avoid an unhealthy build up of frustration). I find that I often end up sat parallel to a motorist who has recently cut me up, changed lane without indication, or has a mobile phone clamped to his or her ear. At such times I have my handy stock of clearly stencilled flash cards. The most useful cards read as follows:
(for handheld mobile phone users) : QUIT YOUR JIBBER JABBER!
(for non-indicators) : GIVE US A CLUE!
(for boy racers) : GROW UP!
(for emergencies) : YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE COPPER!
‘Very rarely used, dear', I reassured Maude, 'and never in anything above second gear.’
Maude put on her coat and kissed me on the cheek, seemingly happy with this renewed attention to safety. She stalled halfway through the front door.
‘I haven’t forgotten about your replica gun.’
‘I rarely get to ton-up any more dear’, I said yesterday morning when this ritual took place. ‘I have stopped overtaking on bends while sending text messages – all in the past, that kind of thing. I have even started wearing my seatbelt.’
Maude usually adopts her stern 'teacher face' at this point – the one she uses when trying to outstare a spirited teenager at school.
‘You know what I mean. You wouldn’t want to leave me a widow and this poor child (points at bump) an orphan.’
I usually do my mock-chided face at this point and she lightens up, safe in the knowledge that she has put the notion of safe driving at the top of my limited mental agenda. She does, however, have detailed knowledge of my driving habits.
‘What about the flash cards?’
Last year I watched a Bob Dylan documentary and was quite inspired by the film clip for ‘Subterrannean Homesick Blues’. Like most Dylan songs, it is a bit top-heavy with lyrics, but he whips through them briskly and helps his audience with an armful of placards. He drops or flings aside each card when the line is complete. I spent several hours in the garage composing a similar set of message boards – all with a motoring application. Maude flouts the highway code by frequently using her horn 'as a rebuke' (accompanied by some regrettable gestures). My card system is designed, instead, to encourage fellow drivers to reconsider their driving style.
I travel along the A1 a great deal (apart from the occasions on which I am forced to go cross-country. The A1 often grinds to a standstill at peak times and I am forced to pull myself off to avoid an unhealthy build up of frustration). I find that I often end up sat parallel to a motorist who has recently cut me up, changed lane without indication, or has a mobile phone clamped to his or her ear. At such times I have my handy stock of clearly stencilled flash cards. The most useful cards read as follows:
(for handheld mobile phone users) : QUIT YOUR JIBBER JABBER!
(for non-indicators) : GIVE US A CLUE!
(for boy racers) : GROW UP!
(for emergencies) : YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE COPPER!
‘Very rarely used, dear', I reassured Maude, 'and never in anything above second gear.’
Maude put on her coat and kissed me on the cheek, seemingly happy with this renewed attention to safety. She stalled halfway through the front door.
‘I haven’t forgotten about your replica gun.’
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Last Night I Dreamt....
Maude and I share everything – hopes, fears, dreams. She asked me why I hadn’t slept very well on Sunday night and was even more tired than usual for the start of the working week. I explained that I had been distressed by a bad dream. ‘What?’ she asked 'a proper nightmare?’.
‘Worse than that,’ I answered.
I explained that my dream had featured my finally striking up a friendship with Morrissey. (I once declined an invitation to a party in Manchester – unaware that The Smiths were there. This has obviously stayed with me). I went on to describe how Morrissey had brewed his best tea for me. He had poured it from a teapot swaddled in a tea cosy bearing the combative image of Pat Phoenix and then served it in China cups. The cups chimed beautifully when replaced in their saucers. We had lovely muffins, freshly toasted on Morrissey's open fire – all the while talking about our favourite books, the highlights of ‘kitchen sink’ cinema and trying to quantify just how much Manchester had to answer for. The phone kept ringing and he fielded calls from Nancy Sinatra and Alan Bennett – explaining that he had a far more important new friend and it was highly unlikely that he would need their company any more. It was then that the dream took a dark turn. Morrissey had just asked for my help.
‘Please please PLEASE! have a look at the songs for my new album – I’m really not too sure about them.’
Morrissey then crossed the room and rifled through a leather satchel. He produced a large scrapbook with the legend ‘My New Songs’ stencilled on the cover. He fumbled a little, put on his reading glasses and made to return to me at the hearth. My second muffin was very nearly done to perfection. Morrissey’s face now wore an expression of profound relief. He had obviously been carrying a great deal of worry about the quality of the new songs and saw in me a kindred spirit - someone who would add the necessary polish to get the songs to recordable quality.
Morrissey’s body was then struck by a terrible spasm. His hands dishevelled his cardigan and clutched at his chest. He then fell, dead, on the deep-pile carpet.
Of course I awoke at this point.
Maude looked unmoved by the events of my dream.
‘I tend to dream about family and friends,’ observed Maude. ‘You know, the people who matter to me…..you.’
‘I dream about you as well, dear.’
Maude looked unconvinced and continued.
‘I dream about the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.’
I pointed out that I was still upset and she really should keep her threats to herself.
‘Worse than that,’ I answered.
I explained that my dream had featured my finally striking up a friendship with Morrissey. (I once declined an invitation to a party in Manchester – unaware that The Smiths were there. This has obviously stayed with me). I went on to describe how Morrissey had brewed his best tea for me. He had poured it from a teapot swaddled in a tea cosy bearing the combative image of Pat Phoenix and then served it in China cups. The cups chimed beautifully when replaced in their saucers. We had lovely muffins, freshly toasted on Morrissey's open fire – all the while talking about our favourite books, the highlights of ‘kitchen sink’ cinema and trying to quantify just how much Manchester had to answer for. The phone kept ringing and he fielded calls from Nancy Sinatra and Alan Bennett – explaining that he had a far more important new friend and it was highly unlikely that he would need their company any more. It was then that the dream took a dark turn. Morrissey had just asked for my help.
‘Please please PLEASE! have a look at the songs for my new album – I’m really not too sure about them.’
Morrissey then crossed the room and rifled through a leather satchel. He produced a large scrapbook with the legend ‘My New Songs’ stencilled on the cover. He fumbled a little, put on his reading glasses and made to return to me at the hearth. My second muffin was very nearly done to perfection. Morrissey’s face now wore an expression of profound relief. He had obviously been carrying a great deal of worry about the quality of the new songs and saw in me a kindred spirit - someone who would add the necessary polish to get the songs to recordable quality.
Morrissey’s body was then struck by a terrible spasm. His hands dishevelled his cardigan and clutched at his chest. He then fell, dead, on the deep-pile carpet.
Of course I awoke at this point.
Maude looked unmoved by the events of my dream.
‘I tend to dream about family and friends,’ observed Maude. ‘You know, the people who matter to me…..you.’
‘I dream about you as well, dear.’
Maude looked unconvinced and continued.
‘I dream about the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.’
I pointed out that I was still upset and she really should keep her threats to herself.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Mother Knows Best
Maude and I attended our first ‘Parentcraft’ class last night. Maude was quite looking forward to it – she had done a great deal of research and wanted to participate fully.
The midwife introduced herself and was impressively warm and welcoming.
‘That’s Carol,’ whispered Maude. ’She’s our midwife.’
I smiled and Carol suggested that all the couples introduced themselves to the group – since we would be sharing the sessions for several weeks.
The introductions began. Couples squeezed each other’s hands, exchanged smiles, gave their names, detailed how pregnant they were and where they lived. Carol thanked each couple in turn and made everyone feel at their ease – especially the men who shuffled in their seats and fidgeted with the change in their pockets. Our turn arrived and Carol glanced over. I drew breath and shifted slightly in my seat. Before I could say anything Maude took over:
‘Hello Everyone! I’m Maude! I am 36 weeks pregnant and I will be having my baby at the Queen Elizabeth.’
There was a finality at the end of this statement, so Carol smiled again and moved to the next couple. I tapped Maude’s arm gently.
‘Well, they don’t really need to know who you are, do they?’
Maude ‘whispered’ this, so it was audible to the entire room. A diminutive father beside me sniggered. I looked closely at him. He was wearing a waistcoat which made him look like a snooker player and his sideburns were shaped to emphasise his individuality. I began to think that I didn’t really want to surrender my anonymity to this group anyway.
Carol took the group through the 3 stages of pregnancy. Maude answered when Carol asked if anyone knew the names of those stages. Maude also chipped in with various technical terms and suggested at one point that one of Carol’s diagrams was, in fact, the wrong way up.
Carol persevered, but began to offer her questions exclusively to the other side of the room. Maude was undaunted and fired her answers at the back of Carol’s head – repeating them until she turned around and was forced to acknowledge that Maude was right.
‘Maude's being doing her research, hasn't she?’ Carol forced a smile.’If I’m feeling under the weather next week, I'm sure she can take yous all through the rest of the course.’
I swiftly fell off my chair to distract Maude, before she worsened the situation by correcting Carol’s grammar.
The midwife introduced herself and was impressively warm and welcoming.
‘That’s Carol,’ whispered Maude. ’She’s our midwife.’
I smiled and Carol suggested that all the couples introduced themselves to the group – since we would be sharing the sessions for several weeks.
The introductions began. Couples squeezed each other’s hands, exchanged smiles, gave their names, detailed how pregnant they were and where they lived. Carol thanked each couple in turn and made everyone feel at their ease – especially the men who shuffled in their seats and fidgeted with the change in their pockets. Our turn arrived and Carol glanced over. I drew breath and shifted slightly in my seat. Before I could say anything Maude took over:
‘Hello Everyone! I’m Maude! I am 36 weeks pregnant and I will be having my baby at the Queen Elizabeth.’
There was a finality at the end of this statement, so Carol smiled again and moved to the next couple. I tapped Maude’s arm gently.
‘Well, they don’t really need to know who you are, do they?’
Maude ‘whispered’ this, so it was audible to the entire room. A diminutive father beside me sniggered. I looked closely at him. He was wearing a waistcoat which made him look like a snooker player and his sideburns were shaped to emphasise his individuality. I began to think that I didn’t really want to surrender my anonymity to this group anyway.
Carol took the group through the 3 stages of pregnancy. Maude answered when Carol asked if anyone knew the names of those stages. Maude also chipped in with various technical terms and suggested at one point that one of Carol’s diagrams was, in fact, the wrong way up.
Carol persevered, but began to offer her questions exclusively to the other side of the room. Maude was undaunted and fired her answers at the back of Carol’s head – repeating them until she turned around and was forced to acknowledge that Maude was right.
‘Maude's being doing her research, hasn't she?’ Carol forced a smile.’If I’m feeling under the weather next week, I'm sure she can take yous all through the rest of the course.’
I swiftly fell off my chair to distract Maude, before she worsened the situation by correcting Carol’s grammar.
Friday, June 22, 2007
In case of picnics
I was in the bank the other day in Seaburn. An elderly man was at the counter in front of me. He was busy rifling through the pockets of his raincoat. I gathered that he was looking for the origin of his errand: a chequebook perhaps, or some cash bound in an elastic band. He then began to produce all manner of items unrelated in any way to banking. It felt as though I was witnessing a performance by the oldest and worst magician in the world.
Firstly, there came a long piece of string. It struck me that old men do indeed revert to being little boys. What possible use could there be for a piece of string in an old man’s coat pocket on a trip to the shops? Unless he was working as the best disguised assassin since The Jackal and the string was actually a garrotte. A running commentary was inevitable.
‘Oh, sorry Pet. It’s in here somewhere….the doings.’
The next item to appear in the slow motion sleight of hand was a handful of paper. I could see crumpled shopping lists, written in an elderly hand. They were in exasperated capitals and I guessed that this man wasn’t the most efficient messenger in the neighbourhood. He turned and was slightly startled by the steadily growing queue behind him.
‘ Oh, I do apologise. Must find this thing to pay in. I know you’re all busy people...... I do beg your pardon.’
I felt uncharacteristically charitable from this point on. The lone counter person smiled an unconcerned smile. She looked well used to working to the clock of the elderly in the area – all of whom seemed to have retired from everything, including Greenwich Mean Time. I was in no hurry to get back to the office – I never am. The ‘show and tell’ continued and the old man began investigating the deep raincoat pocket on his left side. I heard the rustle of cellophane and then, ‘before my very eyes’, the man was showing the room a small, wrapped set of plastic cutlery.
‘They are a good idea, you know. I carry them in case of picnics.’
Firstly, there came a long piece of string. It struck me that old men do indeed revert to being little boys. What possible use could there be for a piece of string in an old man’s coat pocket on a trip to the shops? Unless he was working as the best disguised assassin since The Jackal and the string was actually a garrotte. A running commentary was inevitable.
‘Oh, sorry Pet. It’s in here somewhere….the doings.’
The next item to appear in the slow motion sleight of hand was a handful of paper. I could see crumpled shopping lists, written in an elderly hand. They were in exasperated capitals and I guessed that this man wasn’t the most efficient messenger in the neighbourhood. He turned and was slightly startled by the steadily growing queue behind him.
‘ Oh, I do apologise. Must find this thing to pay in. I know you’re all busy people...... I do beg your pardon.’
I felt uncharacteristically charitable from this point on. The lone counter person smiled an unconcerned smile. She looked well used to working to the clock of the elderly in the area – all of whom seemed to have retired from everything, including Greenwich Mean Time. I was in no hurry to get back to the office – I never am. The ‘show and tell’ continued and the old man began investigating the deep raincoat pocket on his left side. I heard the rustle of cellophane and then, ‘before my very eyes’, the man was showing the room a small, wrapped set of plastic cutlery.
‘They are a good idea, you know. I carry them in case of picnics.’
Friday, June 08, 2007
First Class Nonsense
Maude received a letter on Tuesday. It is a rare thing these days to get an actual pen and ink letter with all its suggestions of effort and thoughtfulness. I say letter, it was more of a note really – in coloured pen on a page torn from a lined notebook. The ‘letter’ was from Leap and it began warmly enough – asking about Maude’s health at this ‘precious’ moment in her ‘life story’. It was from that point on that the letter’s content fell into a tailspin of utter nonsense. Archie and Leap are still offended at Maude’s suggestion that they should be more proactive and communicative as friends. In other words, that they should behave more like ‘friends’ in the spirit of the dictionary definition.
Leap went on to suggest that Maude is working to a ‘masterplan’ with the ultimate goal of alienating and getting rid of ‘loser friends’. Maude was surprised by such a potent use of language by a vegan and we joked about the idea of Maude in her war room, knocking over toy soldiers as her plan unfolds. Maude has always encouraged the couple to move on with their lives and has never once suggested that they are actual ‘losers’.
Leap is inclined to bottle up her frustration and we have made allowances in the past for her occasional outbursts. Other people vent their frustrations in sober conversations with their partners – or with members of their family. Both options seem closed to Leap – as Archie drinks and Leap does not communicate with her mother at all.
I was surprised by something else – the use of divisive tactics. The bitter missive was in the same envelope as a warmly worded birthday card to me. Leap was bad cop for Maude and good cop for me.
The crescendo of Leap’s letter built up to a demand that Maude treats Archie with the respect that he ‘deserves’. Maude and I discussed this and agreed that to treat Archie with the respect that he ‘deserves’ would be cruel and frankly, beyond decency. Maude did wonder if this edict extended to Leap’s own treatment of Archie. When we were last in their company, Archie reacted badly to something he half-heard Leap say over the blare of a Roy Harper B-side:
‘Did you just call me a spastic Leap?’ Archie was very cross. He put his bottle down with some gravity and the pitch of his voice was squeaky.
‘No, no dear.’ assured Leap. ‘I said that you were spasticated.’
Archie’s grin returned and he resumed his drink.
Leap went on to suggest that Maude is working to a ‘masterplan’ with the ultimate goal of alienating and getting rid of ‘loser friends’. Maude was surprised by such a potent use of language by a vegan and we joked about the idea of Maude in her war room, knocking over toy soldiers as her plan unfolds. Maude has always encouraged the couple to move on with their lives and has never once suggested that they are actual ‘losers’.
Leap is inclined to bottle up her frustration and we have made allowances in the past for her occasional outbursts. Other people vent their frustrations in sober conversations with their partners – or with members of their family. Both options seem closed to Leap – as Archie drinks and Leap does not communicate with her mother at all.
I was surprised by something else – the use of divisive tactics. The bitter missive was in the same envelope as a warmly worded birthday card to me. Leap was bad cop for Maude and good cop for me.
The crescendo of Leap’s letter built up to a demand that Maude treats Archie with the respect that he ‘deserves’. Maude and I discussed this and agreed that to treat Archie with the respect that he ‘deserves’ would be cruel and frankly, beyond decency. Maude did wonder if this edict extended to Leap’s own treatment of Archie. When we were last in their company, Archie reacted badly to something he half-heard Leap say over the blare of a Roy Harper B-side:
‘Did you just call me a spastic Leap?’ Archie was very cross. He put his bottle down with some gravity and the pitch of his voice was squeaky.
‘No, no dear.’ assured Leap. ‘I said that you were spasticated.’
Archie’s grin returned and he resumed his drink.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Eco-lie
I was at Sainsbury’s yesterday evening. We were having some odd guests who didn’t eat meat, but did eat fish. Maude asked me to pick up some fish on the way home from my Sunday trip to the tip. As I approached the checkout I was surprised to see what looked like a miniature Harvest Home celebration on the conveyor belt. A pile of carrots sat beside a pyramid of tomatoes and various other items of fruit and veg followed in their wake. I noticed that four loose apples sat rejected on the ledge at the end of the belt.
‘Do you not want them apples at the end?’ asked the assistant.
I looked to the customers in charge of the fruit and veg parade and then it all made sense. Dressed from head to toe in hemp, they were clearly making a stand against the evils of excess packaging.
‘No, we don’t want those - they’re bruised.’
As the assistant tried to marshal unruly piles of vegetables onto her weighing plate, I couldn’t help asking:
‘Were the apples bruised when you selected them? Or could it be something to do with your unorthodox approach to getting them to the checkout?’
The husband was busy loading the shopping into a hessian sack and looked at me with a pitiful look – as though to say ‘you are an evil destroyer of the earth and we are doing our bit. Shame on you.’
His partner turned to face me and, though liberal, seemed pretty game for a confrontation.
‘Wouldn’t it be better all round if you minded your own business?’
I performed a gesture of zipping my mouth shut. At this point the assistant was sweeping the piles of produce through and was clearly guessing at prices.
‘I just thought you might have had some trouble juggling on your way over to the till, that’s all. No offence…’
The woman turned a steely glare on me. I noticed then that she also eschewed any breast-packaging. Her greying T-shirt was having trouble containing nipples so pronounced that one could have involved them in a game of quoits. She looked down at her purse and handed a payment card over to the assistant.
‘Glad to see you deal in money, at least. I thought for a minute you were about to lead a goat up here and start bartering.’
The assistant giggled at this point.
The eco-couple maintained a perfectly dignified silence. The wife entered her pin-number, and flicked her unconditioned hair in a flounce signalling her disdain for my cheap provocation. The husband launched the sack over his shoulder and placed a protective arm around his wife’s shoulder as they left.
As I carried all my double-bagged shopping back to my car I noticed that the couple had parked a few cars away. I was surprised to see that their vehicle seemed to tower head and shoulders above all the others. It was nothing less than a four-wheel-drive – a ‘Shogun’ in fact. I hurriedly packed my shopping and strolled over for a chat.
‘No cart then? Is the horse lame?’
‘Do you not want them apples at the end?’ asked the assistant.
I looked to the customers in charge of the fruit and veg parade and then it all made sense. Dressed from head to toe in hemp, they were clearly making a stand against the evils of excess packaging.
‘No, we don’t want those - they’re bruised.’
As the assistant tried to marshal unruly piles of vegetables onto her weighing plate, I couldn’t help asking:
‘Were the apples bruised when you selected them? Or could it be something to do with your unorthodox approach to getting them to the checkout?’
The husband was busy loading the shopping into a hessian sack and looked at me with a pitiful look – as though to say ‘you are an evil destroyer of the earth and we are doing our bit. Shame on you.’
His partner turned to face me and, though liberal, seemed pretty game for a confrontation.
‘Wouldn’t it be better all round if you minded your own business?’
I performed a gesture of zipping my mouth shut. At this point the assistant was sweeping the piles of produce through and was clearly guessing at prices.
‘I just thought you might have had some trouble juggling on your way over to the till, that’s all. No offence…’
The woman turned a steely glare on me. I noticed then that she also eschewed any breast-packaging. Her greying T-shirt was having trouble containing nipples so pronounced that one could have involved them in a game of quoits. She looked down at her purse and handed a payment card over to the assistant.
‘Glad to see you deal in money, at least. I thought for a minute you were about to lead a goat up here and start bartering.’
The assistant giggled at this point.
The eco-couple maintained a perfectly dignified silence. The wife entered her pin-number, and flicked her unconditioned hair in a flounce signalling her disdain for my cheap provocation. The husband launched the sack over his shoulder and placed a protective arm around his wife’s shoulder as they left.
As I carried all my double-bagged shopping back to my car I noticed that the couple had parked a few cars away. I was surprised to see that their vehicle seemed to tower head and shoulders above all the others. It was nothing less than a four-wheel-drive – a ‘Shogun’ in fact. I hurriedly packed my shopping and strolled over for a chat.
‘No cart then? Is the horse lame?’
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Archie to take London!
When Archie has a few drinks taken, he is inclined to talk about his plans to go to London. He did so the other evening. He was lying on the patch of carpet which now bears his imprint beside the hearth at the cottage he shares with Leap.
‘I just know that one day I will go to London and do really well. ‘
Maude asked when he planned to do this.
‘Would you like me to organise a send-off for you? Should I call London and tell them to brace themselves?’
Little Arch is inclined to go into a big sulk when Maude says such things. As he sees it, he still has a lot to offer London and his time in the North East is just a planning phase.
‘Your plans must be pretty detailed by now, you’ve been here for 20 years. Is that why you’ve never bought a flat? To make the move to London suddenly – when ‘London’ calls?’
Leap is stalwart in her defence of Arch and his dreams. She was putting a great deal of energy (perhaps all of her energy, she is a vegan) into staring intently at Maude during this exchange. I suspect that she was trying to silence my wife by mind control. As Maude continued to question Arch on ‘Operation London’, Leap moved to the kitchen and banged some crockery around. Maude, of course, was just getting into her stride.
‘So, what exactly will you do in London? Is there a market for ‘ironic’ garden gnomes in Islington? Or do you plan to supply minimalist picnic hampers to the very very busy?’
At this point a large crash of crockery could be heard from the kitchen, closely followed by Leap springing back into the living room/library/bedroom/dining room.
‘Will you stop picking on him!!! You do this all the time. We all have dreams don’t we?’
Maude retreated a little, knowing that hell hath no fury like a vegan scorned.
‘Archie has an impact wherever he goes. People like him and offer him all kinds of things. Just last week in Barcelona, he made lots of new friends and he was even offered a job!’.
Maude was momentarily chastened as Arch took up the story.
‘Yes. Leap had gone off to find some fresh alfalfa and I was really thirsty. Sandy was on the beach selling books, so I thought I’d go and have a drink. I found a really nice little bar. I think they’re a bit traditional still over there – it was all men. Working guys in vests and that…’
Leap was nodding in support and added ‘On his own. In a foreign country.’
‘Yes, on my own, in a foreign country.’ Arch puffed out his chest – like a little preening pigeon.
‘Anyway, where was I? So, I fell in with a really nice crowd of guys. They all had beards, like me, didn’t they Leap?’ (Leap nodded and smiled indulgently). ‘Although there was obviously a bit of a language barrier, we managed to communicate with gestures and I think we had a lot in common. A guy called Bigas even offered me a job. He was an artist and thought I’d make a really interesting model. I was just on my way to his apartment to pose when Leap bumped into us. Bigas then remembered an appointment and said he’d email really soon.’
‘Well that’s really nice,’ said Maude. ‘It’s obvious that there’s no holding you back and you can keep your end up in any company.’
Leap began to smite Maude with her stare again, but failed to silence her.
‘I’m so glad you dipped your toe into the Bohemian world of Barcelona. So nearly a muse! I’m sure there are lots of similar pubs in London where you could make a tidy living as a model for bearded ‘artists’.’
‘I just know that one day I will go to London and do really well. ‘
Maude asked when he planned to do this.
‘Would you like me to organise a send-off for you? Should I call London and tell them to brace themselves?’
Little Arch is inclined to go into a big sulk when Maude says such things. As he sees it, he still has a lot to offer London and his time in the North East is just a planning phase.
‘Your plans must be pretty detailed by now, you’ve been here for 20 years. Is that why you’ve never bought a flat? To make the move to London suddenly – when ‘London’ calls?’
Leap is stalwart in her defence of Arch and his dreams. She was putting a great deal of energy (perhaps all of her energy, she is a vegan) into staring intently at Maude during this exchange. I suspect that she was trying to silence my wife by mind control. As Maude continued to question Arch on ‘Operation London’, Leap moved to the kitchen and banged some crockery around. Maude, of course, was just getting into her stride.
‘So, what exactly will you do in London? Is there a market for ‘ironic’ garden gnomes in Islington? Or do you plan to supply minimalist picnic hampers to the very very busy?’
At this point a large crash of crockery could be heard from the kitchen, closely followed by Leap springing back into the living room/library/bedroom/dining room.
‘Will you stop picking on him!!! You do this all the time. We all have dreams don’t we?’
Maude retreated a little, knowing that hell hath no fury like a vegan scorned.
‘Archie has an impact wherever he goes. People like him and offer him all kinds of things. Just last week in Barcelona, he made lots of new friends and he was even offered a job!’.
Maude was momentarily chastened as Arch took up the story.
‘Yes. Leap had gone off to find some fresh alfalfa and I was really thirsty. Sandy was on the beach selling books, so I thought I’d go and have a drink. I found a really nice little bar. I think they’re a bit traditional still over there – it was all men. Working guys in vests and that…’
Leap was nodding in support and added ‘On his own. In a foreign country.’
‘Yes, on my own, in a foreign country.’ Arch puffed out his chest – like a little preening pigeon.
‘Anyway, where was I? So, I fell in with a really nice crowd of guys. They all had beards, like me, didn’t they Leap?’ (Leap nodded and smiled indulgently). ‘Although there was obviously a bit of a language barrier, we managed to communicate with gestures and I think we had a lot in common. A guy called Bigas even offered me a job. He was an artist and thought I’d make a really interesting model. I was just on my way to his apartment to pose when Leap bumped into us. Bigas then remembered an appointment and said he’d email really soon.’
‘Well that’s really nice,’ said Maude. ‘It’s obvious that there’s no holding you back and you can keep your end up in any company.’
Leap began to smite Maude with her stare again, but failed to silence her.
‘I’m so glad you dipped your toe into the Bohemian world of Barcelona. So nearly a muse! I’m sure there are lots of similar pubs in London where you could make a tidy living as a model for bearded ‘artists’.’
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
You can't hide your famine eyes
Maude is now in the habit of mentioning my physical attributes in the context of our forthcoming child.
‘I hope the baby doesn’t get your big nose,’ for instance.
I know that this is well-meant and I try to not let it trouble me.
‘Yes dear, I hope not too.’
Lately though I do tend to leave the living room and busy myself in the kitchen during the TV commercial breaks. If I forget myself and linger, Maude’s gaze wanders and I can feel her looking me up and down. It makes me feel like an old nag at a horse fair, at the very end of the day’s business.
‘I do hope that the baby isn’t preternaturally tall either….like you. Somewhere in between my normal height and your excessive height would be ideal. I do hope that my genes win out.’
Another trait of my family which has often fascinated Maude is our weary-looking eyes. She dropped many hints when we first dated that perhaps I needed to have my eyes tested - that perhaps I ought to wear glasses. She then met the family, realised we all had ‘Deputy Dog’ eyes and quizzed me about this particularly unfortunate part of my genetic heritage. I suggested that this was just a throwback to The Famine. I also joked that - however indirectly – it was attributable to her community ('your lot', I think was the term I used).
‘Oh yes, we took all your potatoes didn’t we. Don’t remember all the details – I was very young.’
Lately, the ‘Famine Eyes’ have become less an object of banter and more a focus of genuine concern.
‘Seriously though. Freakishly tall, with a big nose and famine eyes. You can explain all that to the child when it is ostracised to its own corner of the playground and pelted with bits of packed lunch. ‘
I suggested that our genetic makeup could well fuse perfectly. We could create an ‘individual’. This individual could indeed inherit some of my burdens, this is true. They could also be blessed, nonetheless, with Maude’s forthright approach. This individual would deal frankly with all challenges in its way – even ‘famine eyes.’ Maude extracted the flattery from this theory and began to smile proudly. I was in my pyjamas and barefoot at the time. Her smiled faded as she looked down and began to scrutinise the imperfections of my feet....
‘I hope the baby doesn’t get your big nose,’ for instance.
I know that this is well-meant and I try to not let it trouble me.
‘Yes dear, I hope not too.’
Lately though I do tend to leave the living room and busy myself in the kitchen during the TV commercial breaks. If I forget myself and linger, Maude’s gaze wanders and I can feel her looking me up and down. It makes me feel like an old nag at a horse fair, at the very end of the day’s business.
‘I do hope that the baby isn’t preternaturally tall either….like you. Somewhere in between my normal height and your excessive height would be ideal. I do hope that my genes win out.’
Another trait of my family which has often fascinated Maude is our weary-looking eyes. She dropped many hints when we first dated that perhaps I needed to have my eyes tested - that perhaps I ought to wear glasses. She then met the family, realised we all had ‘Deputy Dog’ eyes and quizzed me about this particularly unfortunate part of my genetic heritage. I suggested that this was just a throwback to The Famine. I also joked that - however indirectly – it was attributable to her community ('your lot', I think was the term I used).
‘Oh yes, we took all your potatoes didn’t we. Don’t remember all the details – I was very young.’
Lately, the ‘Famine Eyes’ have become less an object of banter and more a focus of genuine concern.
‘Seriously though. Freakishly tall, with a big nose and famine eyes. You can explain all that to the child when it is ostracised to its own corner of the playground and pelted with bits of packed lunch. ‘
I suggested that our genetic makeup could well fuse perfectly. We could create an ‘individual’. This individual could indeed inherit some of my burdens, this is true. They could also be blessed, nonetheless, with Maude’s forthright approach. This individual would deal frankly with all challenges in its way – even ‘famine eyes.’ Maude extracted the flattery from this theory and began to smile proudly. I was in my pyjamas and barefoot at the time. Her smiled faded as she looked down and began to scrutinise the imperfections of my feet....
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Osama bin Ginger
A friend of mine has developed a habit of travelling to dangerous places around the world for ‘holidays’. Over the last five years his passport has been stamped in Pakistan, Iran, Afghanistan and the Lebanon.
Born and raised in Newcastle, Tig never felt part of the local clique of ordinary boys. He cultivated more refined tastes in dress and culture after watching ‘Brideshead Revisited’ as a boy. He took things a little too far when he wandered to the cornershop in a smoking jacket, while trailing a teddy bear. It was during the subsequent month in traction at Newcastle General Hospital that he was first exposed to David Lean’s ‘Lawrence of Arabia’. He then formulated less conspicuous strategy for the acquisition of refinement (I have often thought that only the bedbound would be likely to hang around long enough for Omar Sharif to come into view across the desert).
Foreign travel became Tig's new obsession and not for him the clichéd stopovers of the Grand Tour – T E Lawrence would have balked at such comfort and indulgence. Insurgency, the threat of kidnapping and civil unrest became the big selling points in Tig’s imaginary holiday brochure. (Tig has always claimed to ‘blend in’ with the local community when he goes on his travels. I am still unconvinced by this: he is pale, ginger and stands at 6 feet 7 inches.)
I was recently in his company when he was asked about his predilection for staying in unstable countries.
‘Well it’s a bit like when one was a child and mater would tell one not to touch something because it was hot. One just had to touch it..... didn’t one?’
The fazed enquirer paused for a moment and then simply said: ‘No’.
Tig is also in the habit of returning to Tyneside bearing some suggestion of his latest odyssey. I waited for him recently at the bar of our local, just after his return from Pakistan. The pub has a large glass facade looking out onto the Tyne. It was a summer evening and I had an uninterrupted view through the hazy evening sunshine all the way up the hill to Byker. I could see a speck moving on the brow of the hill and watched it intently as it grew and moved closer. A shimmering figure became discernible and strode closer with some purpose. I recognised the gait – it was Tig.
Another 30 seconds of watching and I could make out that he was wearing some kind of pale cloak. The cloak wafted in the wind as he pushed the button at a pedestrian crossing on a main road. He crossed the road and endured some barracking from a passing car, casting his cloak over his shoulder in a gesture of disdain for the barbarians within. He was now in the home strait for the pub and I was nearing the head of the queue to be served. The pub gives a panoramic view of the river and approaching friends, but is more or less opaque to those looking in.
Tig’s full ensemble was now visible: sandals, a goat-herder’s shawl, a crook and a Pashtun hat. He looked like he was on the catwalk for the Taliban’s spring collection. I edged towards the open fire escape. As I stepped out into the glare of daylight, I heard the pub’s warm Tyneside reception for the returning traveller.
‘What’ll it be Osama?’
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