Neophobes United

This morning I awoke and went downstairs to check for signs of rodent activity. All seemed in order, so I lifted a roasting tin from the drainer to put it away. A mouse fell out of it, landed on my foot and then shot under the nearby washing machine. I pulled the washing machine out to find its bed.

The mouse was clearly quite settled and had been for some time by the looks of it. It was then that I remembered a key part of the Pest Control man’s monologue:

‘They’re neophobes, you know. Hate anything new, any change. It drives them crazy if you block up any holes or move anything. Sometimes just doing that is enough to make them go’

I decided to radically upset chez mouse in the hope that he would feel so discombobulated he would flounce off.

A small part of me (a part of which I am not proud) hoped the mouse would simply cross the road and take up residence at Eric’s. Eric would be unlikely to hear any rodent noise above the sound of his television and his grumbling. Eric would also be unlikely to put any energy into getting rid of the mouse if he did detect it – as this would leave less energy to emerge from his house like a demented weather clock character every time one of his neighbours misparked.

I thought about breaking up the bed, but then decided I could do something far more disturbing. I added some members of Aurora’s Sylvanian Family to the scene:

I mentioned the rodent neophobe theory in the office. Morag admitted to classic neophobic traits – having joined and quit Facebook within the space of a single afternoon.

Morag then left the office to attend the leaving drinks for Clive at The National Clay Pipe Centre. I seized my chance and:

mixed up all the tops on her flipchart markers

changed the order of her desk drawers

adjusted the height of her chair

Worth a try.

Breached

The Pest Control man had a comprehensive knowledge of the behaviour of rodents and a strong desire to share it.

‘It’ll know your routine inside out. It’ll know when you’ve been to the supermarket. It’ll know when you go to bed.’

He continued in the same vein and built a picture of rodents as miniature Stasi operatives. He also seemed pleased that our home had been penetrated by one of the little beasts. He scouted around the building, pointing out glaring gaps in our defences.

‘That’ll be it, there,’ he said with not a little triumph, as he pointed at the gap under our garage door.

‘They could walk right through that gap man – not even have to duck.’

He had an apprentice with him – an enthralled young note-taker. The pair crossed the road. I stood in the bay window and watched as the senior of the two pointed over the hedge at the river and guffawed. He then traced the route he imagined our visitor took straight up the drive and straight through the irresistible large gap under the garage door.

Ben, the two of us need look no more....

Aurora is often in the habit of pinching an apple from the fruit bowl and losing interest halfway through eating it. She is not, though, in the habit of hiding half eaten apples in a neatly ordered cache behind the fridge.

I got up on Sunday morning, looking forward to sharing a banana with Jocasta. I went to the kitchen fruit bowl and noticed the absence of the banana that I clearly remembered seeing there the night before.

Maude and I had been out for dinner with Harriet and Morten. I drove, so Maude drank. As Maude dozed loudly on the sofa at around midnight, I took the opportunity to have a look at the prize crossword. The paper rustled a little, Maude breathed heavily and something made a scratching noise in the kitchen. I investigated, but saw nothing and presumed that our elderly fridge had developed a new rumble.

I thought no more of it until the following morning. It was then that I saw lack of banana in the fruit bowl and presence of protruding banana next to fridge. This banana had been half-consumed by a small animal other than one of my daughters.

At first we thought that the visitor must be nothing short of a rat to be able to move items of fruit. Maude and I agreed to speak in code to avoid any Aurora panic. We dubbed the visitor ‘Ben’ – a reference to Michael Jackson’s lovely ballad.

Hello Dolly

My mother is elderly and, obviously, has elderly friends. These friends are well-meaning and have a lot of time on their hands. Mother mentioned to one of her friends that Maude and I had recently been blessed with another daughter. Mother’s friend was delighted and insisted that she would make a doll. Mother is polite and welcomed the idea.

When the large soft padded envelope arrived, the postman opened our porch door and left it in on the hallstand as he usually does. We don’t mind this postman having this access – he can certainly be trusted more than the last one. Aurora is like her mother and loves presents – even when they are not actually intended for her. At Aurora’s insistence I opened the parcel addressed to her sister. Aurora’s flight was incredibly swift. My daughter’s dashes through the drawing room usually come unstuck by her clumsiness – a stubbed toe or a trip halfway, followed by floods of tears. On this occasion I was amazed by her faultless athleticism – as she vaulted the arm of the sofa and forward rolled into her playtent before the whole doll had even appeared from the jiffy bag. Her manoeuvre was worthy of a 70’s cop show and only lacked a cry midway of ‘cover me!’

‘It’s scary Daddy! Give it back to postman!.’

Jocasta echoed Aurora’s verdict by crying instantly and noisily soiling her nappy when presented with the well-meant doll.

Mother called to check that we had received the parcel.

She was diplomatic.

‘I don’t know how she does it,‘ she observed of her friend.

I was less charitable.

‘I don’t know WHY she does it’.

‘Daddy. Am I a Geordie?’

Our house is at the foot of a hill. Last week we were snowed in for 6 days. I say ‘we’. I was snowed in with 2 small children for 4 of them. Maude soldiered up the hill and went to teach the few damp stragglers who turned up to learn from her.

Each time the snow began afresh Aurora stood at the window and exclaimed ‘It’s Christmas Daddy!’

I found it hard to share her enthusiasm.

On the morning of Day 3 I heard on the news that the police had issued a warning to revellers in Newcastle. The warning went something like: ‘no matter how tough you are, how much money you’ve spent on your new weekend outfit and how much warming alcohol you plan to drink, wear some clothes or you may well die in the sub-zero temperatures.’

‘Those Geordies’ I sighed. As I encouraged Aurora to eat her croissant, I could see that she was preoccupied.

‘Daddy. Am I a Geordie?’

‘No, no, no dear. The Geordies aren’t as tall as we are.’

‘OK. They say  ‘I done’ and ‘I seen’ too. Don’t they?’

‘That’s right poppet.’

Aurora went about her business of drawing more brightly coloured images of pigs with chicken pox with her ‘smooth pens’ (felt tips). Jocasta giggled and did lengths of the kitchen on her walker.

As the snow began to fall again I took to the window seat and wondered how long we would be stuck in this situation. Just how long would I be kept away from the glamour of Sunderland?

I made the mistake of picking up my Blackberry and opening another ‘URGENT – ACTION REQUIRED’ email from Morag.

I pressed ‘delete’.

I then noticed a figure on Desmond’s drive next door. Maude had mentioned that Desmond’s son Bobby had acquired a girlfriend, but this was the first time I had seen her. Against explicit police advice, Bobby’s friend was dressed in a light dressing gown over pyjamas and fluffy slippers. Celia clearly had quite a strict rule about smoking in the house, but the young woman was not to be deterred. She dragged on her cigarette with relish and used her hand to shield the flame. Her hair and shoulders carried a significant dusting of snow – I suspected that she was smoking her second or third cigarette.

I felt a small presence at my elbow.

‘That’s a Geordie isn’t it Daddy?’

On Holiday By Mistake

At the weekend just gone we were ‘on holiday by mistake.’

Various friends with young children were going to experience the ‘Winter Wonderland’ at Centerparcs in Cumbria. The children involved were all Aurora’s playmates, so we thought we would join in, primarily for her sake. The Centerparcs formula is impressively simple:

• Charge a king’s ransom for tired and basic self-catering accommodation in a picturesque woodland setting.

• Make setting remote from any ordinary shops and entertainment.

• Provide shops and ‘entertainment’ with eye-wateringly high prices and hope that holiday spending money delusion works against the generation of too many complaints from customers.

The experience was a bit like joining a cult exclusively for vulnerable and tired people with small children: people stripped of the energy and/or the imagination to organise anything more original for themselves.

The swimming pool was enjoyable – especially for the children. Aurora played with her playmates and Jocasta squealed with joy as Maude carried her and strode into the artificially generated eddies and ripples. Jungle drums signalled the onset of waves on the hour. A digital display flashed WAVE ON to increase the anticipation and Aurora clung to Daddy and yelped as each wave hit.

For me, the best part of the Centerparcs swimming pool experience was the opportunity to survey the woeful physical condition of the other dads. They were, in the main, podgy. It has to be said that their podginess helped them stay steadfast against the waves, but it also created unfortunate ripples and wobbles of flesh as they moved around the space age dome which covered the pool. The dome gave the whole scene a look of ‘Logan’s Run’ in reverse. Only the over 30 and out of shape were allowed to stay. The attractive and under 30 were terminated - unless they managed to crack the formidable boundary defences and reached the bright lights of Keswick.

New Shocks

My mechanic, Paul, is economical with words. He is, after all, a busy man with skills.

Paul calls and doesn’t introduce himself, he just details the problem you currently have.  

‘You need new shocks and bushes.’

This is what he told me a couple of months ago.

‘I know that Paul, but what about the car.’ Paul had sighed his usual sigh and continued ‘£135 plus VAT, do you want us to go ahead?’

I think I actually made Paul laugh, or at least smile, once, in 2006. He’s impervious to my wit, but a comical slip by a tall man on his oily forecourt seemed to hit the spot.  

‘Daddy’s funny little car’ - as Aurora calls it - has been ailing again. The warning lights have been taking turns at coming on over the last few weeks. My morning turn of the ignition key had begun to feel a bit like pulling the handle on a one-armed bandit – with the daily prospect of a jackpot. The jackpot: all warning lights glaring and beeping, car kaput, no way to get to Sunderland, back in the house to help Aurora assemble Mr Potato Head in the most grotesque attitude possible.

I knew as soon as ‘Paul’ flashed on my phone screen again that I was in for a pithy assessment.

‘You’re not firing on all cylinders.’ 

I was unsurprised, almost relieved. I suppose I just needed someone to say it.

Bunk Up

I love camping accessories. I have a garage full of lightweight and well-designed outdoor versions of everything else in the house: a miniature table that folds away into a tiny pouch, a dinky kettle, even special matches that light in Scottish weather.

I don’t like camping.

Maude mentioned the possibility of a camping trip to The Lakes with the girls.

‘Imagine Aurora banging in a tent-peg with a miniature mallet. Her own little billycan of cassoulet. Jocasta giggling in the light of the campfire. It would be enough to melt the cold heart of any cynical, grumpy old anti-camper.’

Our trip to Spain was in the early summer. My wife was quite insistent that she couldn’t possibly endure the rest of the holiday without some excursions.

Maude’s face flashed on my Blackberry screen during a ‘catch up’ meeting with Morag yesterday. I excused myself from Morag’s monologue and answered in the corridor.

‘The silly woman won’t accept my card, so you’ll have to pay.’

Unbeknown to me our bridesmaid, Janice, had recommended a campsite near Ullswater.

‘Oh, perhaps I forgot to mention it. I’ve provisionally booked a campsite in The Lakes for you, me, the girls, Harriet and Morton, their kids, Seth and Bella and their two. The woman who answers the phone is obviously the farmer’s wife and can’t work the card machine. Could you call her and sort it out. The place is called something like Sunny Dell. You’ll have to Google it. You’re paying everyone’s deposit. Bye.’

After calling three campsites with names like, but not, ‘Sunny Dell’ I located the correct farmer’s wife and completed the booking.

Last night I took to my room (the garage) for the enjoyable part of the plan: the equipment check. I replaced batteries, put up the miniature table, counted the tent pegs, located the mallet, inserted a gas canister into our new camping stove and lit it with my special matches, made a cup of tea, sat on camping chair and drank tea, inflated an inflatable bed, lay on it for a few minutes, heard Maude calling, put down miniature table, deflated bed, turned off garage light, re-entered kitchen.

The Girl with the Courgette Tattoo

Maude has decided that having children need not signal the death of our social life.

After reading one of her lifestyle magazines, my wife exclaimed:

‘Cocktails! In the house. No babysitter to pay, no taxi fares. Cocktails!’

A mint patch has been cultivated in the garden and the new drinks cabinet has been stocked.

‘There’s plenty of mint for mojitos and Morten’s bringing the ingredients for a few other recipes. Harriet tells me he’s a wizard with a blender.’

Harriet and Morten are newly coupled. Harriet and Maude met at a mothering group when Harriet was still married to Fred. From very early on Harriet talked about leaving Fred. I took this with a pinch of salt – Maude talks about leaving me on a daily basis.

Then Harriet left Fred and took her daughter, Bronwen, back to The Lakes.

Arrangements were made with Fred and then Morten arrived on the scene – on a very large motorbike. With the speed of a superhero in a phone booth, Harriet donned leathers and straddled Morten’s impressive engine as often as childcare allowed.

Kenny and Simone were also invited for cocktails. Kenny too has a motorbike, but it didn’t seem worthwhile to get Simone into leather for the trip – they only live 2 doors away.

Morten took control of the cocktail preparation and maintained a steady flow of mojitos and strawberry daquiries. Maude and I were happy to delegate and distribute the drinks to our guests on the terrace. The terrace overlooks our kitchen garden. As I arrived with a tray of drinks I noticed Kenny and Simone peering over the fence into the raised vegetable beds.

‘I see your courgettes have failed,’ observed Simone with a faux pained expression.

‘Not in the least,’ I replied. ‘I chose a miniature variety this year, so that Aurora could pick them easily.’

Simone smiled an indulgent smile and reached for her phone.

‘We went for a giant variety’, she said as she flashed an image of Kenny posing with a courgette the size of a toddler.

Kenny is a former soldier. He and Simone share a penchant for tattoos.

‘Simone’s getting a new one on Tuesday – right across her back. A dragon.’

Kenny and I were in the kitchen with Harriet. Harriet was thrilled at all the tattoo talk – she and Morten were contemplating some body art expressing their newfound love in østnorsk.

‘Only problem is‘, continued Kenny, ’she can’t decide what to put in the dragon’s hands. I was thinking Samurai sword in one and a red rose in the other – to symbolise the opposing sides of her personality.’

Thankfully Simone was out of earshot. I could see that she and Maude were stood looking into my vegetable plot with the sombre expressions of funeral-goers looking into a grave. I tried to help Kenny with his quandary.

‘Not sure she would go for that, Ken. The dragon, I believe, already symbolises strength. I’d suggest a design that shows that strength coupled with horticultural skill: dragon proudly holding courgettes of garden fete-winning dimensions.’

'Warm Retards'

You really shouldn't be blasé with spellcheckers on email. Sure, they’ll pick up on misspelt words when the misspelling spells an incomprehensible word, but they don’t notice legitimate words creeping in where they really shouldn’t. Sadie got an email from a colleague who signed off with ‘warm retards’. 

Morag is seemingly unaware of the existence of spellchecking for emails. She writes her emails at speed and the end result could often pass as the work of Stanley Unwin. I could offer to help and make her look less hasty and less foolish, but I never seem to find the time.

Teachers are usually more careful - and quite formal - with their email correspondence. They only let themselves down with their undying attachment to the Comic Sans font. Recently I received an email from a primary school head teacher in Sunderland. Negotiations between her, a filmmaker and our nominated Creative Challenger had been lengthy and a project plan had been hammered out to everyone’s satisfaction over a period of several weeks. She was finding it hard to contain her excitement and made my day by writing that she was ‘moist excited’ at the prospect of working with me.

Back in my Box

‘In you go then,’ said Norman, ‘I haven’t got all day.’

‘Are you sure, Norman?’

‘Well, you’re on the inventory, so you’ll have to go in one of the boxes. This one’s big enough and there’s plenty of bubble wrap in it. I’ve drilled a couple of air holes – you’ll be fine’

Sometimes I write things down that really I shouldn’t.

When I entered myself on the inventory for our office move, it was more out of bored mischief than anything else:

Month purchased: 11.02
Item description: Communications Manager

Norman is a stickler for procedure. I respect that. I was cc’d into his 3 page email to the university porters detailing access and egress points and I was reassured that nothing at all was being left to chance. Perhaps it was in an attempt to emulate Norman’s efficiency that I completed the inventory. Perhaps it was an unconscious sense of horror at this need to emulate Norman that compelled me to add myself to said inventory. Perhaps it was Norman’s recognition of this motivation that compelled him to insist that I got in the box.

There’s nothing like being in a tea crate for several hours to encourage reflection. My year at The National Clay Pipe Centre began badly – I was palpably less welcome than the dowry I brought with me of office furniture and modern stationery. I recall how the Pipe Centre staff marvelled and gasped as Norman demonstrated the many benefits of the newly arrived post-it notes.

In time, though, the Pipe people warmed to me. I began to be included when tea was brewed – sometimes they even washed my cup. After only a few weeks, my name was added to the signing in sheet. I was even offered staff discount in the Pipe Centre shop (pipes make marvellous Christmas stocking fillers).

A few of my new colleagues even offered kind words when Jocasta was born in January. A poor substitute for a gift and/or a card, but small steps in the right direction. It’s almost a shame that I won’t be sharing their cramped, malodorous, windowless office space any longer.

The Fall and Rise of 'Irrepressible Don'

So it was this morning that we awaited our first Christmas card ever from Miles.

I suggested that we should brace ourselves for something lewd – given his track record. Maude told me that I was being unkind and that she expected something quite tasteful – in the light of Miles’ recent company record-breaking earnings in commission.

Indeed Miles has proved to be quite a hit with his new employers. His silky South Shields tones are much in demand to close double-glazing deals across Wiltshire and North Somerset. He proudly told us that he had been highlighted as ‘Salesman of the Month’ in the company magazine.

‘They called me Irrepressible!’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Maude.

‘Unfortunately…’ he continued, ‘they got my name wrong and called me ‘Don’, but that was just a mix-up’.

The ‘card’ duly arrived. It was a picture of a naked Miles running into the sea, signed ‘Don x’.

I didn’t gloat. I just pegged it to the string of more conventional Christmas cards which stretch up the banister.

Aurora now insists on a range of toys and nick nacks before she will go up the wooden hill to bed:
'Piggy!' (cuddly toy)
'Baby!' (spooky, battered doll)
'Cards!' (an already incomplete set of miniature playing cards from a Christmas cracker)
along with her collection of monster figures:
‘Green Monster’
‘Blue Monster!’
‘One-Eye!’

Daddy acts as beast of burden for all of the above.
As we ascended the stairs tonight Aurora stopped midway and began to grimace. I thought that I had forgotten something.

‘What is it darling? Has Daddy forgotten something?’

‘Give me monsters Daddy, now!’

I considered the request and decided that she could be trusted to carry her own monster figures without tumbling down the stairs. She reached out and collected green, blue and one-eye. She didn’t, however, continue straight up to bed. Instead Aurora paused by the image of ‘Don’. Poppet looked through her handful of monsters and decided that ‘one-eye’ was the man for the job. Assuming the stance of a priest exorcising a malevolent spirit, she held 'one-eye' at arm's length in front of the image and shouted:

‘Sea Monster, go home!’

A Star for Daddy

We realised last week that Aurora had reached a difficult stage in her development. Maude did some research and discovered that it was quite a common development for 2 year old children and was generally referred to as ‘negativism’.

‘Do you want to put your coat on?

‘No’

Do you want to go to the park?’

‘No. Don’t want to go park!’

And so on.

Further research suggested that a reward system was the way forward. Small toddler treats were placed in a jar and a star-chart placed on the fridge door. Maude used a flipchart to demonstrate how the system worked:

Behave well
Get star
Collect 5 stars
Get pretty thing from jar

The system soon paid dividends. Aurora got dressed without complaint and stopped hitting Daddy over the head with the heaviest storybook she could find – all for the promise of a star.

Imagine my lack of surprise when I came down to breakfast earlier this week to a new star chart on the fridge. No, Maude was not making very early preparations for our next child (due in the new year). The new reward sheet was entitled ‘Daddy’:

Agree with Mummy/make tea/don’t tarry on way home
Get star
Collect 10 stars
Have one pint (no crisps) with Benny

Old Dog

Miles called again this morning.

'Did you get my Christmas card yet?’

I explained that we hadn’t had the post, but looked forward to getting the card about which he had called several times.

‘It’s because he has turned over a new leaf this year and sending us a Christmas card is highly symbolic.’

Maude always respects the turning over of new leaves.

Miles did recently change career. Being a drug liaison worker in the West Country had lost its allure and he made the natural switch to the selling of double-glazing.

His drug liaison colleagues had judged him harshly after a misunderstanding involving a digital camera at a civil partnership ceremony. Miles had been using his girlfriend’s camera for the day. After what he thought was a particularly handsome shot of the happy couple, Miles passed the camera to the new partners to review his efforts. Unfortunately he had forgotten that the camera contained some intimate documentary footage of his relationship with Gloria. The groom and groom held the camera together, flanked by their mothers and genuinely moved by Miles’ interest in their big day (the unkind office consensus persisted that Miles was an unreconstructed Geordie who had 'fallen into' social work).

It is so easy to scroll the wrong way through someone else’s memories if one is unfamiliar with a given camera.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Miles told me later. ‘The picture I wanted them to see was on the screen when I handed the bloody camera over. They had no business hitting the back button. I did feel bad, though, about the ambulance n’that for Justin’s mam. I could tell all day that she’d been struggling with the idea of her only son marrying another bloke. I think the sight of me knocking one out pushed her over the edge.’

My Writing Space

The desk was imported from my previous life as a fey young man in Manchester. The green exercise books visible to the left of the laptop belong to ‘Bottom Set, Year 9’ pupils. Maude has a range of delaying excuses for not marking work and returning it – they should expect her opinion on what they did on their holidays some time approaching Christmas. I used to resent this colonisation of my writing space, but the covers of the books display some pithy and inspiring observations.

Blake Morrison keeps his father’s pacemaker on his writing desk. I have followed suit in my own fashion. The wire you can see Blutacked to the top of the laptop screen has nothing to do with a webcam. It is, in fact, my father’s hearing aid. I speak into it as I write and imagine that he is being entertained. I really thought that he would have asked for it back by now, but I suspect that not being able to hear my mother properly has its advantages.

On the wall above the desk (just out of view) hang two collections of images: ‘Titans’ to the left and ‘Herberts’ to the right.

The ‘Titans’ know the pain I am going through. Their images also exude a certain insouciant style:

Larkin
Morrissey
Niven
Les Dawson

The ‘Herberts’ (under wraps for legal reasons) are stimuli for occasions on which authentic vitriol is required, or when a particularly unpleasant character needs to be drawn in all its vile detail. Dickens used to grimace into a mirror, I unveil the ‘Herberts’. Images of the leading lights from the local arts community dominate. Some have spent time on the punchbag, but now commune with fellow Herberts. Others on display are a little obvious, but ‘Herberts’ with the power to rile nonetheless:

James May
a generic image of a pharmacist in a white coat coming on like a trained doctor
Eric who lives across the road
(that last one is a sketch, as I didn’t want to risk being caught taking his picture).

There is a pile of books just out of view to the right of the laptop which relates to my research on the pit ponies of North East England. I am especially interested in the ponies once used in the undersea mines off Seaham. Aurora saw some of the pictures and donated her own pony to this tableau. The poor blighters of Seaham were taken down as foals and lived an entirely subterranean existence. When the pit closed, they were deemed too fat to come back up and were left down there to die.

I’m sure that my screenplay ‘Revenge of the Zombie Killer Pit Ponies’ will attract serious development funding any day now.

No Notion

I am rarely transfixed during a meeting. It usually takes me all my time to stay alert.

I was once put on report in a sixth form Politics class for falling asleep during a dull monologue by a teacher with wispy, nicotine-coloured hair. I thought the punishment was unfair and suggested that many members of the House of Lords nod off with impunity during debates – that gained nothing but an additional detention. Ever since that formal caution and the ignominy/infamy created by the pool of drool beside my face on the desk, I have been able to find something to focus on to maintain my attention. Usually a detail of someone’s dress is enough or, perhaps, some eye-catching nasal hair. If there is nothing of visual note I occupy my mind with a test of mental agility – usually with a theme from popular culture.

At a meeting recently I managed to simultaneously look interested in what was being said while listing possible words to use in a word replacement game invented by Sandy some years ago during a game of poker. Sandy had trouble maintaining anything approaching a ‘poker face’ and preferred instead to try and distract his opponents. He usually only succeeded in distracting himself. His most memorable distraction attempt featured Smiths songs and the word ‘anus’:

‘This Night has opened my anus’ or

‘This anus has opened my eyes’

‘How soon is anus?’

‘This charming anus’ etc….

I was surprised then the other day to find what was actually being said to be of interest.

Not the content – there wasn’t any.

It was the shameless repetition of a single word that struck me and I even began a five bar gate record of how many times it was used by the same person. The meeting was only an hour long and I counted 6 uses of the same word (a colleague claimed that she clocked 7). 

The favourite word of the person without an idea to speak of was: ‘notion’.  

Ticking my boxes

I love working for an organisation with an identity crisis – it makes me feel relatively secure in myself.

However, the assaults on my identity since I arrived here have been legion. My desk was bare – I had to ask for a phone. When the phone arrived I had to blow the dust from it before I could risk making a call.

Part of the extensive welcome induction I never received covered the need to sign in on arrival. Norman, the Operations Manager, pointed out this need to me 4 weeks after my first arrival. I then found the signing-in book and showed willing. I pointed out that my name wasn’t on the current staff list.

‘Oh, just add yourself by hand at the bottom.’

Last week Norman booked me in for a Health & Safety induction. He had been threatening this for several weeks.

‘How about just after lunch for your Health & Safety induction? Sorry it hasn’t happened sooner….’

‘That’s fine,’ I replied,’I’ll be extra careful until then.’

I watched his lips move and nodded regularly as Norman went through the various perils of working at The National Clay Pipe Centre. Many of them didn’t apply to a non-craftsman like myself – so he breezed through them. I had a quick look at his checklist and noticed that he’d missed a couple of his bullet-points out. One of them read ‘Personal Hygiene’.

‘You’ve missed that one out Norman.’ I reached over to his clipboard and tapped the sheet with my pencil.

‘Oh that one. That’s there because – between you and me – we’ve had a few bad experiences with whiffy volunteers.’

Norman touched his nose when he intimated this.There was an awkward pause and Norman smiled weakly.

‘Well,’ I said,’do keep me right if I let my standards slip.’

Tent of Blue

The National Clay Pipe Centre is an example of post-industrial industrial architecture – in keeping with the site’s former function as a shipyard. The main colour is grey – chosen I think to best show off the splatters of seagull guano.

The ‘workings’ of the centre are exposed: piping, ducts, wiring. All can be seen as you walk through the concrete corridors to reach various large boxy spaces. The experience of travelling the corridors of the centre evokes life on a space station, but with added tedium. The toilets are just above the boiler room. The incessant hum around that sector creates the charming air of an ageing car ferry. This ambience is heightened when the timed cubicle light goes out part way through your efforts.

The building is shaped into the riverside and it is entered, as it were, from the rear. The steel and glass facade looks out onto the majesty of the river Wear and, on a clear day, beyond to the North Sea.

The designers chose to expose all the machinery, but conceal the staff. The main office for the administration of all matters clay pipe is hidden in the core of the building: the windows do not open and the view takes in the loading bay and 2 overflowing skips. Some daylight is filtered through a tent of blue provided by a section of glass roofing. I think the young Dickens probably had a better view from the tanning factory.

Lastly, nearly every door in the building has a keypad with a different alpha-numeric code. I now keep a list in my wallet. There are prisoners at ‘D-cat’ institutions with more freedom than NCPC staff.

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.’

Where Are You?

Me: ‘I’m on a felucca on the Nile. They’re having trouble getting the stove working for tea and the captain’s slapping a lot of heads. I’ve been asking if they’ve washed the fruit in clean water but they’re cracking on that they don’t understand. ‘

Maude: ‘Where are you really?’

Me: ‘Lidl’

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?’

Where Are You?

Me: ‘Well I’m actually abseiling down the east face of the Palace of Westminster. Got a great view of the London Eye and the police are waving. I met these really nice guys from ‘Fathers for Justice’ in the pub and, well, we got talking and it would have been churlish not to join in after that.’

Maude: ‘Where are you really?’

Me: ‘I’m on the A1, near Washington Services.’

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…..!’

'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.’

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’.