Anti-Ents
Where Your Challenge Is Met
Mooching
Mooching is lighthearted wandering and freeloading through life with its toils and those things that make humans, human, albeit grumpy ones!
You will also find MIN-MOOCHING later on.
ROLLADEX
This is all about the life experiences and humour, spanning over five decades, and is intentionally in no specific order, least of all, chronological.
Life is like that, lurching from one event to another, some linked, others not. The pain and grief only temporally assuaged by the pleasure and elation. Mainly it is just grind. with memories kicking-in occasionally with some reflection of a past encounter.
And never expect the obvious.
Thanks go to all those present and past who have contributed, willingly or unknowingly. Any reference to those still living is co-incidental, but they can at least console themselves with the fact that each morning if their elbows can be flexed outwards and NOT feel wood, at least another day has dawned, and they are blessed with ‘life’.
What are the contents of your ‘life’ glass ? Whatever, it should always ‘half full’, albeit sometimes very hard to conjecture from the depths of despair. Or maybe it’s just the way memory works, or not, as age creeps up. The grey matter is like a Rolladex. You can read the top tags and recall you know ‘something’, but cannot quite see the detail on the card. It’s at this point you can hear someone exclaim “what’s a Rolladex”?
So, on your mooch through life ‘outside the box’, remember, WHEN YOU HEAR THE HOOVES APROACHING………LOOK OUT FOR ZEBRAS !
REMEMBER (WHERE WAS I)
TOM RUSH – Wrote his REMEMBER SONG as a flashback to the sixties when he was a hippie singer songwriter. The words are prophetic for the aged and grumpy:
I'm looking for my wallet and car keys
Well they can't have gone too far
Just as soon as I find my glasses, I'm sure I'll see just where they are
Supposed to meet someone for lunch today, but I can't remember where...
Or who it is that I am meeting? To my organizer somewhere
I might have left it on the counter, maybe outside in the car...
The last time I remember driving, was to that SAGA seminar...
What's that far off distant ringing? And that strangely familiar tone?
Must be the person I am meeting, calling me on my cordless telephone...
I might have left it under the covers, maybe outside on the lawn...
and I've got just one more ring to go, before my answering machine kicks on...
Hi, this is Tom and your call means a lot to me, so leave a message at the tone...
and I'll do my best to try to remember to call you back when I get home
*Beep*
Tom, this is your wife, and I'm trying not to cry...
but I've been waiting here for over an hour, I thought you loved me, this is goodbye...
and the voice sounds familiar, sure, it rings a bell...
Let's see now, where was I…………
INTO DOCK
1998 and it was fast approaching August and I knew something would have to happen soon. Dobbo [Frank Dobson] had been on his feet in the Commons and under constant pressure to reduce NHS waiting lists. More money had been targeted at hospitals to assure that no one waited beyond 18 months. The 3rd August meant that I would have been waiting 18 months. And, it happened, a letter form the local district hospital to come in for the assessment and tests prior to admission on August 2nd. All being well this would get me in front of the deadline by 1 day. Pretty tight I thought. I had been quite expecting to be a day case, that is to say in and out in one day dragging only home the pain. After all, it was only a hernia repair and with today's modern technology and keyhole surgery this would be a mere stroll in the park.
Most men I know tend not to go and see the doctor very often, I understand them. I am certainly one of those and hadn't seen a doctor for almost 15 years. Forced to do so by a stress situation following redundancy that ended a thirty year career in the public sector, I felt it was probably time to get my money's worth and mention this hernia I had had for the best part of 8 years. Yes the doctor agreed he would get me referred to the hospital and then onto the waiting list for surgery. This in due course happened some 6 weeks later and I was on the waiting list. To be dealt with, they thought, within 5 months albeit the backdrop could be 12. This of course changed over the period and was extended to 15 months and then the ubiquitous 18 months that Dobbo was so perturbed about. How can you live with a hernia for years? Well. it is quite easy, you simply adjust your lifestyle to a less strenuous one and recognise that whereas you can still attempt most things and maintain a reasonable high level of dexterity the ability to pursue activities for long periods of time, is no longer within your grasp. At least now, it was common to have hernias repaired, albeit you had to wait your turn. I remember, as a boy shortly after the war the country was littered with surgical appliance shops. There was not a local shopping area that didn't have one. And, the working man paid his contribution to be fitted with a truss. This was the way it was, and had been in past times. I remember reading somewhere that 75% of Nelson's sailors on his flagship Victory suffered from hernias. This of course was attributed to the heavy workload straining on the rigging. I also remember my grandfather who took to his grave his hernia which in later life restricted his mobility to a significant extent.
So it was to the local hospital for pre-assessment and tests. A quick chat with the doctor and into a vastly overcrowded waiting area for a blood test You were now on the health conveyor belt where, regardless of the best efforts of the staff you couldn't help but feel like a member of the herd being shunted through the stalls into the system. They try their best. Some confusion over exactly which day the admission may be but, advised, to believe the original piece of paper and just turn up for admission on the appointed day. This would be fine, except that the appointed day was a Sunday and there would be no way of pre checking in as the admissions office is not open on that day. One can only hope, and believe in the system.
Let's give it a whirl then. The theory being, in on Sunday afternoon, operation Monday morning, and given a following wind and proficient surgeon, out on Tuesday. I arrived on the ward Sunday afternoon, was shown to a bed and introduced to the obligatory 'I am your named nurse' and settled in for the night. A passing visit from the gas man followed later by the same from the surgeon's registrar who drew an indelible mark on the appropriate thigh to indicate the correct side, who also told me all about high technology, mesh patches and keyhole surgery, all was well. Sullied only by the warning of pressure on theatre time and the fact that emergencies might put me back, all other things being equal I would be in and under the knife by mid morning, next day. Sure enough, he was right, I was transported repost on a trolley to the pre-med. area of the theatres. There, a pleasant gentleman endeavoured to tell me what was likely to happen to me to which I remember saying "just get on with it, I am entirely in your hands". At this point information and transparency about treatment are purely academic and from your submissive position the last thing you want to know. After all you have already signed your life over to them. And, a little tense, I was lapsed into a deep sleep and presumably wheeled into theatre conveyor belt, hoping that the assembled staff would do the correct thing, repair the correct bit, and not take the rise out of my dangly bits. Needless to say the next thing I remember was coming round in the ward, feeling a little queasy, and a little painful in the nether regions.
From then on it was simply tender loving care, occasional jabs, pills and charts whilst observing our angelic nurses dashing pell-mell hither and thither. It occurred to me, nay amazed me, why our angels, are rushing about doing everything including serving tea when an half hour before a ward domestic had done the rounds changing drinking water flasks. In the good old days of the 60's it was called time and motion study, later more sexily known as O&M. Goodness only knows what it is called now, but what ever it is it ought to be applied to nursing. Their tasks are wide and various clearly not in keeping with their skills, the more mundane of which could easily be passed to less qualified people. This sound like sheer heresy doesn't it. Later that day the registrar visited to advise me that my left side had been quite significant and repaired and, as there was a minor weakness on the right side they had taken the trouble to do that as well. Aren't they wonderful. A couple of meals and a sleepless night with constant temperature and blood pressure taking around the ward interspersed only by ringing telephones, I was discharged. A model patient I thought and, with a spousal pick-up, found myself at home early Tuesday afternoon.
The next morning I returned to work. What a mistake? This is definitely not what you should do. I had convinced myself this was only minor surgery and whereas I had been in dock a couple of days this procedure was normally undertaken by day surgery and therefore, by implication, was little more than a minor irritation. You can get over minor irritations very quickly, can't you. I have, you understand, a reasonably sedentary office job but, nonetheless, the pain persisted. And it persisted for several weeks, lapsing into occasional pangs and twinges. Eventually it went away and on my one and only return visit to see the urological nurse she informed me that this was quite normal and was probably caused by the type of staples they use. There was a move, she thought, for some surgeons to avoid using staples all together, or at least using very small ones, sounds like progress, I thought there must be something about the male superstructure it occurs to me that inevitably leads to hernias. Why we were made this way heaven only knows. Perhaps it's something to do with gravity or developing the ability to walk on our hind legs, from our ape cousins, who knows.
But, several months on and it's a full recovery, all pipes working and fully functional. I can now but only give a fleeting thought to Nelson's men who, not only had to suffer this condition, and had to continue strenuous work. I can now also give a wincing thought , for the female of the species, who, with at least 50% more tubes and plumbing, have to live their lives with the potential of additional problems, leading no doubt, to unenviable amounts of prodding and probing. God bless the NHS, God bless Dobbo and God bless all the staff; I wish I were still one of them.[I was made redundant from the NHS in 1996]
WEDDINGS
Spring had sprung, as the song goes, and the '98 wedding season was upon us. It is nice being with people on their special day, even if it is only chauffeuring the car. Not to underestimate the importance of and reliance placed on the transport, along with the multitude of other jigsaw parts of the jigsaw parts that have to be in place to make the day successful. The company has several vintage cars, mainly Rollers , some as old as the twenties and thirties. I tend to drive the 1909 re-built Ghost with hood in the landaulette style which is very popular and photogenic. All wedding are different and all vary but the name of the game is to keep the brides mother happy and to get the bride to church on time, as the other song goes. There is often last minute panic but the skill of the chauffeur is to quell the passion and excitement and calmly get on with the job in hand, paying attention to the last minute minutiae, like remembering the bouquet, the key to the house whilst making plenty of reassuring noises. Usually all goes well but be assured when problems arise the chauffeur will sort them out. Father of the bride is usually bemused and unsettled. Somewhere between, losing his precious daughter to some irk, will I make a hash of the speech and don't dare think about the cost. Who'd be a father ! There is nearly always an element of comedy or lightheartedness, but sometimes, distress. 1998 had all of this, but especially:
A threatening cloud base and a few spots of rain came on as the journey to the house progressed, the hood would need to be up today. The bride and dad were very happy and it was only about 15 minutes to the church. Less than half a mile along the road the heavens opened and we were driving through rivers of rain, so much so I considered stopping as the flooding worsened. But, time was not on my side and, difficult or not, the church had to be reached. I had not seen rain like that for a long time but steady does it. The pull out, left at the tee junction and immediately right, on a slight uphill; wait for the traffic to clear and accelerate and....the engine stalled. Into park being an automatic and re-start , but, would it? No of course it wouldn't. Try again, and again, and now getting problematical as the car was partly obstructing the junction. Leave it for a minute and reassure the bride and father. But was it going to start, no it wasn't. Out of radio reach from base and the mobile phone not locking onto a line, trouble loomed. Time was of the essence and beyond trying once more unsuccessfully to start, something had to be done, and quickly. Then one of those bits of good fortune happens that makes you think there really must be someone looking down on you.
A car pulled up behind and the driver got out braving the downpour and enquired if the bride in the car was Carole, his neighbour, and, was I in difficulty. Yes it was, and I certainly was, but I saw my opportunity. His car was white, a four door, a small Rover, but, it would do. It didn't take much of an arm-twist to 'borrow' his car and soon the bride and dad were transferred under umbrella. He, and his wife, were installed in the landaulette and asked to watch over it and I would be back in twenty minutes. So it was the bride got to church on time, albeit re-carriage’d. Whilst in church I had about an hour to play with and this would allow me to sort out the situation. I returned with the good Samaritan's car, tried my stranded car and, it started, hooray, someone is certainly looking down on me. I thanked the gentleman and offered to recompense him, but he declined. Shaking his hand and pecking his wife on the cheek, then waving them good-bye, I was mobile again. Soon back at the church, with the rain now stopped, the car was leathered and with hood down, looked pristine. The bride and congregation on outpouring the church were clearly impressed and all went well from then on, it could hardly be otherwise, could it. A brief chat with dad with an apology but pointing out that he now had something to say in his speech and the world was a happy place. I think of the passing neighbour and dwell on the thought that humanity is a wonderful thing, even when it's forced upon you.
Humanity is not always so wonderful, however. Later in the year, mid-summer and beautiful wedding weather at a village church. The ceremony was underway and I was spending my time waiting, as usual looking around the churchyard and pondering on the fragility of life observing dates on the gravestones. Waiting is a big part of a chauffeur's job, the bain being photographers, who, making the most of their opportunity to get the largest portfolio possible, take endless time plying their trade. Often I note to the irritation of the bride and party. This day was nothing but normal, so far. I had a discussion with the father of the obligatory unsociable baby, who, crying, was embarrassingly slid out of the church. Mums stay in church, of course, they like weddings. I can understand that and after all dads do have their uses.
Being double parked in a rather restricted cul-de-sac next to the litch-gate I noticed a 'we are the lads' Capri parking, half on the grass verge, some way down the road and facing towards me. An 'erbert got out, swigging a bottle of scotch and proceeded to circumnavigate the churchyard. Odd, I thought. He returned to his mates in the Capri and I thought little more of it. The party duly came from the church and had the photos, and more photos, and more photos, taken, when Capri-boy did another tour of the churchyard, heckling as he went and then back to the car. Obviously a mate of the groom, from work or the football club, I told myself. Eventually the happy couple were assisted into the car, hood down, the last photos taken and the cam-cordist ready, Polanski style, to catch the drive-away, everyone happy and waving. But, what's happening! as I pulled away, the Capri edged into the road, blocking my way and reversing slowly, when!! The 'erbert got out, stark naked, with a helium filled balloon tethered by a ribbon to his dick, and was heading towards me. I pressed on as best I could but by this time he was trotting along side the car shouting obscenities at the bride. Obviously the Ex. Fortunately the road widened and I accelerated clear, bride in tears. I stopped a discreet distance away to put up the hood for privacy and asked If I could help. Patently I couldn't but I made sympathetic overtures and we proceeded to the hotel for the reception, still crying.
I suppose it's the nearest you can get, with the aid of booze, to emulating our ape forebears, fighting for a partner in life. Sad I thought, some humanoids haven't come far, have they? And, the weddings go on, a few presenting challenges, but all solvable. All are different and all are interesting and this is an institution that's supposed to be dying. Pull the other one... but not the one with the ribbon, please.
PENS
February 1999 I know exactly where I am heading for. A couple of years previously when I had time to spare toddling around London I spotted an executive pen shoppe in Burlington Arcade. If only I could find Burlington Arcade, which I recall was somewhere near Piccadilly; that is my destination. A few years ago I came across my fountain pen, pencil and ball-point in a drawer redundant from the days when I was taking my 'O' levels at the beginning of the 60's. The fountain pen had long ceased to work, the propelling pencil graunched and avoided at all costs holding a lead and the ball-point was still working but somewhat the worse for wear. You may recall the type, black, satin tops with the gold 'arrow' clip. I had sent them to Parker with a sympathetic note saying they were of sentimental value and could they be refurbished. They had taken the trouble to place them in nice new sheaves and returned them with a polite letter stating in essence 'please go away, nothing can be done', and advising that they were of the series Parker 61, therefore old and, by implication, far beyond repair. I know it is unrealistic to believe that a set of pens well over 30 years old is worthy of saving, but nonetheless I had to try, sentimental old fool.
Sure enough, Burlington Arcade just past the RA and its queues for Monet was as I remembered it, as was the pen shop. So I drew breath, walked in, and spoke to a delightful young woman, armed with my fountain pen in one hand, explaining my Parker experience of a couple of years past. "Of course", she said, "we can refurbish this, the inside will need to be totally renewed with a more modern syringe style mechanism, but it can be done for about £90". I am not sure if she noticed that I visibly stepped back in amazement. What kind of world is this we live in, when a pen repair costs £90 ? I had, only a couple of months ago been on a ten day, half board, coach holiday to the Costa Brava, for £99. Has the world gone mad ? Reeling from the shock, I regained my senses and said in a weak and faltering voice. "If I don't have it repaired then what do I do, throw it away ?". "No", she said, "certainly don't do that; when this is renovated to pristine condition we sell this model for £350". The world has clearly gone mad. Who on earth buys a fountain pen which is about to celebrate its ruby anniversary for £350 ? I am not sure if I was more shocked at this or the £90 repair. Still agog, I produced the propelling pencil and ball-point indicating that the pencil probably worked if only it had a reload of lead a tweak and the ball-point worked and probably could still have refills bought for it. She agreed with the latter and said that the propelling pencil would need looking at but in all probability would only cost £30. Okay then, avoid scratching the head, look serene.
Is this good news, or not ? Here I have three articles of Parker-ilk, circa 1960, and a potential bill, upwards of £120 plus VAT no doubt, and a world I clearly do not comprehend. Appealing to her pleasant nature and quipping that it must be hard not to become totally fazed with inky fingers all day, I asked what I should do. She said, "certainly don't throw them away", and, "if you are prepared to use them, rather than put them back into a drawer, it would be worth getting them refurbished". My ears pricked up at this rationale and, raising my eyebrows, implored more information. "If you do so", she added, "you will have a set of three which will be worth in excess of £600". Well I'll go to the foot of our stairs, as a Battersea boy would say. I thanked her profusely left the shop in a daze. I will now have to think hard. I know all about the antiques road show and the shocked owners of attic treasures, I've seen them. But I'm perturbed that items, which in their day probably cost between £5 and £10 each, B.D. (before decimalisation), should now be worth such potentially staggering amounts.
What am I to do now that I'm a pen millionaire ? Worrying isn't it; I wonder if it will change my life ? They were sold a few years later on eBay for £60.
M.I.5
If I tell you…I’ll have to kill you…or so goes the mantra. So I will tell you; I was young and impressionable, but becoming an adult quickly when my parents in the mid nineteen sixties played the good Samaritan to John. In fact I was little more than a teenager but it was those early days of marriage, you know what it’s like with the obligatory visit to both sets of parents each weekend. On this occasion it was a Saturday afternoon and on arrival at my parents I noted what was obviously an elderly gentleman watching the television, grey and slightly balding. My parents had always had a soft spot for waifs and strays and it seems this gentleman had called to a neighbour’s house a few doors away and getting no answer had stood on their doorstep looking lost. Being on their side of the road my parents, Samaritan like invited him in for a cup of tea, and his story unfolded.
John was Hungarian and had escaped the ’56 uprising by fleeing to England and settling down to practise his trade as a barber at one of the gentlemen’s salons on one of London’s main railway stations, Liverpool Street I think. He knew he could never return to Hungary being, what we would call these days, a dissident. But he was drawn back some 10 years on to the funeral of his elderly mother, the last of his family, who had recently died. Having done so his return journey was fraught with difficulty as he had lost most of his luggage mysteriously on the train journey in which was ferreted some of his most important papers. All he had with him was his small grey suitcase with overnight items. Sad as it seemed but hopefully retrievable he was planning to visit the Hungarian Embassy on the Monday to try to trace some of his luggage and belongings.
The neighbours along the road did not return that evening and as I was to find out later, having left my parents after the visit that day, did not return the following day either. Thus John became an overnight guest being put up in the spare bedroom and doubtless very grateful for the hospitality. He duly set off bright and early on the Monday morning on his planned trip, leaving his overnight case with my parents for when he returned, planning to encamp with the neighbour, with whom apparently he had lodged on other occasions.
That was the last anyone ever saw of him! The neighbours did return on the Monday and they were duly advised of what had taken place and that no doubt John would be back that day to stay with them. But he did not arrive! A mystery was unfolding in the streets of Battersea. It was noteworthy that later in the week an ominous black car with a couple of trench-coated figures were seen knocking at the neighbour’s house, but they were out. The mind has to wander, and puzzle. Here we have a dissident who was to be a dissident no longer, he had disappeared and effectively vanished off the face of the earth with no-one to worry about him. Was this the hand of his Embassy; was this the deft touch of M.I.5; who knows ?
All I can say is that over a year later in one of those ‘I wonder’ conversations with my parents they recounted to oddity of the situation and recalled the alarm clock that John had given to them. It was one of the few items he had brought back in his hand luggage and had belonged to his mother. He had wanted them to have it for their generosity. It was still ticking away by their bedside. They reminisced that they still had his suitcase and in a moment of madness we decided that perhaps it should opened, even though it meant forcing the lock. This was duly done with great trepidation and surprise, surprise what was to be found; nothing but overnight apparel, no paperwork, just a razor and pyjamas; no record of his existence.
Many years on I occasionally wonder about John but more wonder about the fact that although a good Samaritan act benefited him that day nothing could be done for his ultimate salvation. May he rest in peace having no doubt contributed his little bit to a World at a troubled time. The small case remains in my possession used only for the storage of worthless items…..Let’s hope not an epitaph to John’s life.
THREE DEGREE’S
The Open University, or the Harold Wilson institute, some might say, if anyone remembers who Harold Wilson was, really, of course, it is nothing more than a gigantic mainframe computer that spews out meticulously and methodically all that is necessary for self education. Then of course there are the obligatory summer schools, certainly for foundation courses, and for about 20% of all other courses. This was deemed to be necessary to expose the student to real university life and the pell-mell of the academic campus. Referred to as Butlin’s for grown-ups but my experience of several summer schools certainly wasn’t that. And as for bed hopping and partying well, all that passed me by as well, sadly! All I found was that it was long day’s hard learning and a buzz of doing things that were quite different from your own way of life. I suppose the challenge was everything. Additionally, if nothing else, the opportunity to visit for short periods of time several universities around the country was, to say the least, eye opening. I quite believe the adage that student days are the best years of your life and for those of us who did not have the chance to experience it I believe this is the next best thing and I quite believe that friendships made at universities will in many cases last for life. Certainly one or two people I met at the first summer school I am still in contact with, even if it is only Christmas cards, and that is 30 years on. For my summer schools through 2 Batchelor degree courses and the one Masters, I managed to visit Reading, Bath, Warwick, Kiel, Manchester and a business college near Windsor. With all this exposure over the years I suppose you could say you become an old hand at the learning game. You certainly get to know the short cuts that are required of you, or rather what the tutor requires of you. And, you must never offend the computer because it will win in the end and therefore rocking the boat is not recommended. The main thing you must always do is to follow the course work and answer the assignments directly from the course work. Never, ever, vary from the course work and think you can go off down a tangent of deeper knowledge on the same subject. The markers and tutors do not understand such variations and have only the ability to mark from marking schedules with no wider scope. I remember bumping into a chap who had spent years in the army and had been a development officer (sanitation) at the particular village in Africa where the case study to do with water borne infections was based. He, of course, answered the question in considerable depth and expertise. He didn’t follow the course material. He got such a lowly score that he eventually appealed through tutors at region, central and senate until they had to step down and give him at least an average mark, bowing to his superior knowledge. But, the lesson had to be learnt, you do not vary form the course material. You are no allowed to think for yourself.
After all, what are we talking about here, education the masses who have not had a chance for formal education earlier in their lives. The whole world of education is a systematic procedure with certain marker points and checks which invariably mean course work and exams in varying degrees of importance. Once you have mastered what is needed for course work you soon become tutored as to what is needed for the examinations and given any mark above pass mark will get you the credit which in due course will add up a qualification be it a diploma or degree or whatever. This is a wonderful organisation that has given hope and a new lease of life to many. There are of course as with all walks of life, the anorak fraternity who soldier on year on year becoming education’s groupies and perhaps it is those who are doing the bed hopping. All I know is that eventually it becomes an ego trip and once you are so far down the line you tend to keep going to achieve the distinction at then end. Whether it actually assists you in your career or chosen profession in my view is questionable although I am prepared to believe for some it does. In my case I believe it gave me a better understanding and confidence to tackle almost anything, if I so choose. God bless Harold Wilson, I at least enjoyed ego tripping on two occasions to collect my degree and wear the robe. As for letters after the name, stick them on the wall with all the rest, they are irrelevant, all three of them.
UP IN THE AIR
It was in August 1978 when again my mind was drifting upwards and into the air and the great blue yonder. I had had this dream before of flying but never the get-up-and-go to go-up-and-went. This was strange as Biggin Hill was only a couple of miles away and the house was constantly buzzed by weekend flyers in their moth-like machines. A trial flight was quickly arranged and I was up, up and away with a biggles type character. In no time we were circling over the river Thames and then on a Northerly heading back and over the airfield again, half hour gone.
I commented whilst being given the control “is it always so bumpy up here” and the answer was non-affirmative with the understatement “it’s a bit windy”. The cloud base being only 900 feet we soon spotted the runway and in no time dropped down and landed. After lashing down the Cessner from the prevailing wind and recovering to the club house the tutor stated that I had all the makings of a pilot and teaching me would be no problem. Just book some flights which would build up to the 35 needed for the PPL. I never did as house moves and mortgages got in the way. But the end to the story was that evening the national news was full of the Fastnet race in the Channel, which had been hit by storms and gales and sadly eleven boats had been sunk with consequent loss of life. Up in the air, not so sure !
JOHN ADAM STREET
Just off the Strand, near Charing Cross Station, could be found John Adam Street, and the London base of the YHA. Well that was in the sixties, and it was a grand time. My first real job after school was via a cycling friend who worked in the equipment sales room at John Adam Street. Occupying the second floor of this slender Edwardian building the whole establishment was a hive of activity, you know the type of activity that buzzes an organisation when all the staff are dedicated to one cause, almost a vocation. The ground floor was maps and guides and information, the first membership and the second, equipment. Beyond that there were two further floors out of bounds to the general public. My job was located, on the third, the travel department and on the top floor, the executive offices; the bosses. There was an adjunct office at the Aldwych which had something to do with group organisation but I never discovered its relevance, beyond it having some odd people working there.
But you could have said that about John Adam Street. We were all a bit weird, or perhaps, enthusiastic, would be kinder. We all loved our link to this youth (in name only) organisation and most staff pursued their respective work and out of work activities with great gusto, be it cycling, as with myself, climbing, mainly by the equipment department, and walking and travel for the rest. There were one or two who later ventured into other more risky pursuits, canoeing and skiing and the like. It was all very evangelical and I suppose I was carried along with it on this great voyage of discovery. Of course every attempt was made to use the hostels and muck in with the outdoor adventurous life, to the extent sometimes of camping in the grounds of the various localities. This truly was a microcosm of willing workers doing their bit for the cause and the YHA really was a cause, with a lofty ideal…offering cheap facilities to enable the exploration of the great outdoors. Or at least that’s how I saw it. It was, however, a time of change and the first signs were the introduction of more businesslike, as opposed to club-like, method of doing business. The equipment department where I did a short stint was shaken up by a new dynamic manager who soon saw the potential and pushed for other outlets in other cities. For my department, travel, a more efficient paperwork system was brought in, again by a new manager, of self-carboning booking forms. To that point every piece of the travel booking process was done by letter; hard to believe these days, but that was over fourty years ago and by comparison we are now in a rocket science age. My term there was short lived, only staying a couple of years until my outlook took a turn towards public service and a thirty year career ladder, all the way to redundancy. And now, retirement, in my enforced dotage and only just over sixty, but memories linger and I suspect some of the ethos of those formative years shaped my subsequent niche in life.
In the 1990’s I took a coach party to Yorkshire and stayed in a Youth Hostel. Walkers and bikers still abound. Anoraks and rucksacks and waterproofs mightily evident. The food and our well-being was admirably catered for by a small team of general assistants, at least I think that what they are called. No more helping with the chores, or using one of those sheet sleeping bags was the obvious difference in my eyes but beyond that all the attributes seemed to still be in place…inexpensive access to the outdoors etc, etc. I certainly can confirm that the school children had no complaints. Makes you want to take it up again I thought, well.
All that time ago and as you realise, full of enthusiasm, I took out life membership which had lain dormant for over three decades, so to test the system and on a visit to London I wandered into the YHA, near Covent Garden, which later closed. I showed them an antique membership card and ask if I was still ‘alive’. What do you think, a note of the number was taken and within a few days a new card and all the up-to-date information fell through my door, and subsequently the magazine, Triangle. I have always been a believer in ‘what goes round, comes round’ and this is simply another example of that. Perhaps I will venture back onto the bicycle, or plan a ramble, of course using the facilities of the old institution, sometime, youth permitting.
FREEMAN
It was undoubtedly an honour, being made a Freeman of the City of London, but what did it mean ? There I was, a hard working guy, interested in charity work and, some would say, doing a little more than my bit for those worthy causes. When, one day, one of the great and the good said she would like to propose me to be a Freeman of the city of London, and would I accept. Well, what could I say; “yes”. And so it was various bits of paper work passed through the system, I had to present myself at London’s Guild Hall and some time later it was confirmed that I was to receive this honour. All I now had to do was to make an appointment and go and collect it and enjoy a short ceremony and bring along my family. I then of course started to read about the various guilds and how these things came about historically and found myself mightily impressed. Sure, there were some quaint privileges that go with it which I might enjoy. Most people know the thing about driving sheep across London Bridge without paying a toll. But there are others. I can now un-sheaf my sword whilst riding through the streets of the City. And, when I am hanged for a crime it can be done with a silken rope. That will avoid the chaffing on the neck !
The day arrived when I was to receive the award and after a short ceremony and oath and the signing of a ledger I was then enabled me to call myself ‘a Freeman of the city of London’. Plus I can wear the associated apparel of cufflinks, tie and the like. A nice lunch with my proposer in a nearby restaurant was next and after a general self congratulation and back patting session, the day was over. And I now have a delightful certificate in pride of place on my wall proclaiming, in old-English copper plate, that I am a Freeman of the fair city.
Beyond that the ability to join a freeman’s guild and participate in social and ceremonial gatherings in the city is a distinct option, as is the likelihood of being admitted to one of the 100 plus craft guilds in the city. I have chosen at this stage to do neither. Is it all a bit over the top and egoistic and I am not sure. I know there are many people who feel such things are important in life but as yet I am not one of them. You could say, they are of the ilk who lean towards self gratification and back patting and, dare one say of the old boys (and old girls) network. And, I am not sure if I really want to be one of their breed ? But perhaps I could be persuaded; but not just now. I prefer to do my great and good deeds in a much quieter, covert fashion. And if God reserves front seats up there inside those pearly gates I will surely not get one as he wouldn’t have heard of me or what I do.
BETSY
Betsy is a 1933 Morris 10/4. The numbers denote ten horsepower with four cylinders. She was purchased in 2000 having been stripped of its original number plate (4 numbers/2 letters) for best price ‘broken down’.
Thus it was secured for £2000 and today with some basic restoration is worth twice that amount. She passes the MoT each year with little ‘advisory’ work and is maintained on the basis of DIY. The Chairman of Shell was gracious enough to send some transfers for the petrol can. She chugs along at 40mph and is old and tender. She occasionally gets a trip out for a wedding. She celebrated her 75th Birthday in 2008.
LAND ROVER
The Land Rover is a ‘boys–toy’ and being over twenty years old a bit of a millstone. It is however, very useful for the occasional tow or when needed to battle the elements, especially snow. He is a diesel 2.5 bog standard lump, with full towing capabilities and a 9500lb bumper mounted winch. So play and enjoy !
St JOHN
Black and white minstrals they were know as in the trade. The trade being the NHS, or ‘proper’ ambulance service. I had a career in the NHS ambulance service in excess of 30 years and had climbed up through the rank structure from operational ambulance-man to senior manager and director of a county ambulance service. But, my exposure to the St. John through most of those years was considerable. They are likeable and loveable people. They give their time freely and devotedly and spend many hours on public duties at all the events that mainly, due to high numbers, first aid and medical attention my be required. They are, it has to be said, enthusiastic. Perhaps, the purists may say over enthusiastic but it is hard to dampen and in reality would you really want to. The organisation is steeped in history going back to the crusades and one might say lost in the romanticism of ancient times which even today enjoys Royal patronage. I know this because some of the higher appointments, including the “honorary” ones have to be approved by the Queen. The reason I know this is that I have one. If you were to ask why I would have to say that it is because I have worked close by them and given time and effort to the organisation and it was deemed worthy of reward. I feel somewhat guilty about this because there are hundreds more worthy than myself but that is the way of things and as has been said before some are chosen and some are not, some toil and few succeed. But to be a SBStJ is something to be proud of.
BUNNY
In the 80’s the family pet lived in the garden in a hutch and run that was moved weekly to keep the grass trimmed. The rabbit didn’t seem to mind and in a way was earning his keep. Holidays were a slight problem but usually a neighbour would come in or the living accommodation would be transported on the roof of the car to the volunteers house for the benefit of keeping their grass down for a couple of weeks. All a bit tedious but these things have to be done when you are responsible for a pet. You understand it was really the son’s pet, but as with all kids the novelty wears off and the good old parents find themselves committed to a lifetime of care. The day came when it was clearly at the end of its long life. Laying in the bottom of the cage unconscious and twitching. Son went off to school assured it would have passed to that great hutch in the sky by his return. It was, with the help of a pair of tight hands on its neck. We never learn as parents, do we ?
THAT HUM
Was it always there, or a matter of now hearing it having had new windows installed, the previous ones obviously having more sound insulation. In Bedford it can be detected between 10pm and 6am and takes the form of a low ‘drone’ or ‘hum. It sounds like a lorry diesel engine running at quite high speed but some considerable distance away. The pundits pooh-pooh its existence, having looked at all the likely suspects, gas running through pipes and the like. At its loudest, Sherlocking around the house listening to walls and plug outlets, doesn’t reveal anything; the hum persists. The most likely explanation is a manufacturing facility with a night shift working machinery, but none can be found. The sceptics will say it is all down to the individual, acute hearing (maybe), tense (possibly), complete nutter, (never). The only inkling some of these may be significant is that it is never constant, sometime it can be heard, sometimes not, and with no pattern, a total mystery !
AND FINALLY
When it all goes pear shaped….?
…relax……and scream!!!
MINI-MOOCHING
This sub-section deals with those ‘oddities’ that intrigue and amuse.
Sunk
The USS Phoenix was the only warship that came through Pearl Harbour unscathed. Much later she was sold to Argentina where she was renamed ARA General Belgrano. Great Britain finally put it in a watery grave in the Faulklands conflict.
Belle
Do cats rule our lives..........or what?!..........or just come home to roost?
Belle is a rescue cat, about six years old. She was advertised in the local paper as needing a home. On applying to the Cats Protection League sadly she had been allocated. A week later she had been returned as she moulted too much. She has ruled the household ever since.
Cherished Number Plate
Some years ago in the 1980’s personalised car numbers were all but impossible to buy. However, it was achieved by purchasing an old mini with 121 PG as its plate. Th
e vehicle was spotted tramping around Sutton, Surrey and through a contact the owners address was discovered. A note through the door asking for first refusal resulted in a call some twelve months later and the car was bought for £100 having failed its MoT. Thereafter the arduous process of MoTing and transferring the number from a donor vehicle to a recipient vehicle was embarked upon. The plate was retained for several years until low finances forced a sale. It achieved £1250
In the noughties the DVLA had seen the error of their ways and moved into the allocation and sale of ‘cherished’ numbers. One was purchased for £250 to read P77UL G. It is still retained although no longer on a vehicle but rather on a retention certificate. It remains for sale for £600.
Chattels
It was not so long ago that a man held in law all his possessions as ‘chattels’ including his wife. With the emancipation of women and the right to vote the World slowly changed. But when she was a ‘chattel’ the man had the right to beat her with a stick as long as the stick was not thicker than his thumb. Hence the saying ‘the rule of thumb’.
Hadron Collider
The Large Hadron Collider was built by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) with the intention of testing various predictions of high-energy physics, including the existence of the hypothesized Higgs boson and of the large family of new particles predicted by supersymmetry. It is funded by and built in collaboration with over 10,000 scientists and engineers from over 100 countries as well as hundreds of universities and laboratories. To help the common man the Higgs boson is described a ‘looking for dark matter’. Of course the common man (or more so woman) knows exactly what this dark matter is made of ? It’s those socks that vanish from the spin dryer, never to be seen again.
