This is an accidental poem. I did this tweet, it went: "Would it be callous of me to rub emery paper on your elbow until it formed a patch of hard skin?" I know, I know, and as sure as backlash follows praise-to-the-skies, along came Lawrence Charter or @Lawrencharters: an emery paper bot. I always embrace bots for a while at least - they might be useful for smoothie reciepes, the spelling of 'recipes', or amusing find-our-truck-in-Bavaria-and-win-a-trip-to-Bavaria games in German [they offered to translate into English for me, but where's the fun in that? I just hit the keyboard slower but harder]. Anyway, @Lawrencharters tweets have turned out to have a poetic quality to them, bound by the local newspaper headlines repeated, or the daily rough and tumble of existing in a largely emery paper ignorant world. This poem [yes, dammit, I'm calling it a poem] is based on four tweets, one on the 11th and three on the 12th November - in order and verbatim:*
'Rotating Outrage'
Pipe markers
how can we get related to their indicators?
health
the starving theater artist
rotating outrage
melton pool league
harboro-cabadra
preserve magic start to season
melton today -
teak maintenance set
abs plastic
fibreglass vessel restore
try square rehab project
hand tool journey
a woodworking show
sand paper
babble out
from instinctive
gasoline burp
pulls in
I will monitor @Lawrencharters and hopefully extend this into a bot Ulysses. Bots: not just here for the nasty things in life.
*added to on 15th Nov.
Sad to inform that on 11th December 2011 @Lawrencecharters severed our alliance. It could have been so beautiful.
By day a mild-mannered janitor, by night an off-duty mild-mannered janitor.
................by day a mild-mannered janitor, by night an off-duty mild-mannered janitor...............
Sunday, 13 November 2011
Monday, 7 November 2011
Girlfriends In A Car Park, I Know, I Know, It's Serious
A little red car enters the car park. Once parked, the passenger door flies open and out fumes the passenger. She spits "S'yalater!" and sprints towards the Thomas Paine Study Centre. The driver *exits door right* with more calm but red faced and breathing deeply. She checks no-one has seen anything [oops] and gathers herself in the same direction. Boy do I want to know what went on. For the sake of argument [not that you are arguing] we'll call the driver Emily Fittipaldi and the passenger, Izzy Pop.
Emily and Izzy are friends and work together. Emily is on flexi-time but Izzy is not, perhaps on a short-term contract/maternity leave do-dah. They meet in the kitchen at work at 8:15 and have a cuppa before work. Yes they are friends, I'm having that. One day Izzy turns up late because her little blue car has conked out - Emily has to pass her house on the way to-and-from work so offers Izzy a lift. In these austere times I know not how many lifts you give someone before the vulgar question of petrol money comes up. First time? A week? I think Izzy would have offered straight away but Emily would refuse as Izzy has had enough crap to deal with for one day/week...
"Anyway, you'll be getting another runabout soon.."
"Ah, there's the thing: I don't think I can afford one - I was going to ask....
So let's say petrol money regular and up-front - both get to work same time, no inconvenience for Emily and a few extra coffers too. Remember, these people are friends. But is sharing a car every day like sharing a bed or mini-moving-in-with someone? I'm guessing it is. I think after a while Izzy asks Emily if she wouldn't mind putting Radio 4 on instead of Hëärt FM, she might wince and make a little gasp as Emily almost jackknifes a cyclist. On the other hand Emily might be a bit too close to Izzy's perfume for her liking or wish she would bloody sit still always fiddling with the seatbelt and the air conditioning and the vanity mirror yes she's soooo vain I never noticed it before but now you mention it... I think it is Emily who falls out of 'love' first. But what to do? Tell Izzy to get a bus pass? Pretend she fancies her to frighten her away? Develop tourettes? No, I think Emily is more devious than that - remember she is on flexi-time, doesn't matter when she starts. Emily starts moving the pick-up time back by tiny increments, almost unnoticeable, until Izzy finds she can't have that relaxing cuppa before work, until she's rushing to make her start time at all...
What I saw was the last straw. Which has a kind of rhythm to it. 'Rhythm' is a funny looking word isn't it? Should it really have two h's in it? Shut up I'm trying to finish. Perhaps they nearly came a cropper with a big old lorry at a roundabout, Emily effed and blinded the rest of the way about men drivers and just as they were passing the creepy guy who looks after the barriers at the University...
"Well, you did indicate to turn off, but went straight on...
Car sharing is obviously a good idea. Saving the planet and all. I bet it's one of the reasons Sting can keep at it for 18 hours solid. I said "solid". I don't think it worked for Emily and Izzy. If I see Izzy getting out of Steve's car tomorrow, I'll let you know. Don't get me started on Steve.
Emily and Izzy are friends and work together. Emily is on flexi-time but Izzy is not, perhaps on a short-term contract/maternity leave do-dah. They meet in the kitchen at work at 8:15 and have a cuppa before work. Yes they are friends, I'm having that. One day Izzy turns up late because her little blue car has conked out - Emily has to pass her house on the way to-and-from work so offers Izzy a lift. In these austere times I know not how many lifts you give someone before the vulgar question of petrol money comes up. First time? A week? I think Izzy would have offered straight away but Emily would refuse as Izzy has had enough crap to deal with for one day/week...
"Anyway, you'll be getting another runabout soon.."
"Ah, there's the thing: I don't think I can afford one - I was going to ask....
So let's say petrol money regular and up-front - both get to work same time, no inconvenience for Emily and a few extra coffers too. Remember, these people are friends. But is sharing a car every day like sharing a bed or mini-moving-in-with someone? I'm guessing it is. I think after a while Izzy asks Emily if she wouldn't mind putting Radio 4 on instead of Hëärt FM, she might wince and make a little gasp as Emily almost jackknifes a cyclist. On the other hand Emily might be a bit too close to Izzy's perfume for her liking or wish she would bloody sit still always fiddling with the seatbelt and the air conditioning and the vanity mirror yes she's soooo vain I never noticed it before but now you mention it... I think it is Emily who falls out of 'love' first. But what to do? Tell Izzy to get a bus pass? Pretend she fancies her to frighten her away? Develop tourettes? No, I think Emily is more devious than that - remember she is on flexi-time, doesn't matter when she starts. Emily starts moving the pick-up time back by tiny increments, almost unnoticeable, until Izzy finds she can't have that relaxing cuppa before work, until she's rushing to make her start time at all...
What I saw was the last straw. Which has a kind of rhythm to it. 'Rhythm' is a funny looking word isn't it? Should it really have two h's in it? Shut up I'm trying to finish. Perhaps they nearly came a cropper with a big old lorry at a roundabout, Emily effed and blinded the rest of the way about men drivers and just as they were passing the creepy guy who looks after the barriers at the University...
"Well, you did indicate to turn off, but went straight on...
Car sharing is obviously a good idea. Saving the planet and all. I bet it's one of the reasons Sting can keep at it for 18 hours solid. I said "solid". I don't think it worked for Emily and Izzy. If I see Izzy getting out of Steve's car tomorrow, I'll let you know. Don't get me started on Steve.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Pashlode Revisited
Mister Haydn, the headmaster, wore a wig. 'The Judge' was his nickname, so obvious a wig it was. It was said that if you caught Mister Haydn going through his 'green cross code', the wig stayed where it was as the right and left looking went on. Mister Haydn was a nice headmaster and all the children liked him, but everyone gave him that second look as he passed and each year a new batch of young'uns would arrive and learn the truth about the head's head.
Mister Sathage, the maths teacher did not wear a wig. Everyone liked Mister Sathage too - he was authoritative without having to resort to shouting or cuffing-around-the-earhole and his classes were always deathly quiet. One day from the back of the room came a sniffing. Mister Sathage heard it but put it down to a head-cold manifesting itself in Johnson, who was always ill with something. Johnson raised his hand.
"Please sir."
"Yes, Johnson"
"Martham's crying sir."
Martham, a tiny studious child of mixed emotions was indeed sniveling quietly to his self.
"What is the matter Martham? Do you want to tell us?"
Martham shook his tiny head.
"I know what it is sir - Mister Haydn overheard Martham telling a new boy about the green cross code thing."
"What 'green cross code thing'?"
Johnson explained. Mister Sathage calmly listened but the brighter children realised he was not enjoying the story. He explained that it was cruel to laugh at someone, especially the headmaster and that a repeating of that joke to any new children was forbidden. No shouting, no cuffed lugholes.
Johnson, who'd been pearing into the middle distance throughout, piped up again:
"But sir, ......Mister Haydn does wear a wig, doesn't he?"
Again Mister Sathage gave a few moments before replying.
"Yes..... he does. It is obvious that Mister Haydn, your headmaster covers his head with a peruke. You all obviously know it and all the teachers know it too, but what you have to consider is why Mister Haydn wears a wig. You may suggest vanity but think again; what if underneath Mister Haydn's hairpiece hides something unsightly?"
"Something unsightly." Mister Sathage chose his words expertly, his own theory on Mister Haydn was that the poor man simply didn't have the right shaped head to accommodate baldness - think Willie Thorne for example - but he wanted to keep the children guessing. And guess they did, finally forming the picture of an un-wigged Mister Haydn looking something like Darth Vader first thing in the morning. The downside to this is that the children now feared Mister Haydn, hardly daring to look him in the eye. Then came the news that Mister Haydn was to retire - his Christmas assembly that year was to be his last duty.
That day began as normal - Jilly MacFarrell was busy seducing Paul Agle in the chemistry lab, Barry Wade had been thrown into the sandpit, picked up, dusted off and thrown back into the sandpit again and Mister Van-Rooyen was locked in his store cupboard by pupils unknown. Only when the absence of a piano player was spotted did Johnson leg it to the music room to free Mister Van-Rooyen, who had been joined in the store cupboard by Mister Timprelti [perhaps another time...]. Carols were sung and 'Ghost Town' by The Specials was played to give everyone an idea of what year everything was going on in. The new children were praised for their progress that term and Mister Haydn thanked the teachers for their support....
"...and finally I must thank everyone of you for helping to make my stay here such a rewarding one. It is now my great pleasure to hand the ceremonial robe of Pashlode Comprehensive to Mister Sathage, who will now be your new headmaster.."
Applause.
Mister Sathage accepts the robe of office.
"And Mister Sathage has one other duty to perform......"
Mister Sathage removes Mister Haydn's wig and waves it in the air. Mister Haydn suits baldness - think Patrick Stewart - the children cheer and rush the stage. Martham gets there first. In the confusion, Barry Wade gets off with Jilly MacFarrell and Misters Van Rooyen and Timprelti lock themselves in the store cupboard.
Mister Sathage, the maths teacher did not wear a wig. Everyone liked Mister Sathage too - he was authoritative without having to resort to shouting or cuffing-around-the-earhole and his classes were always deathly quiet. One day from the back of the room came a sniffing. Mister Sathage heard it but put it down to a head-cold manifesting itself in Johnson, who was always ill with something. Johnson raised his hand.
"Please sir."
"Yes, Johnson"
"Martham's crying sir."
Martham, a tiny studious child of mixed emotions was indeed sniveling quietly to his self.
"What is the matter Martham? Do you want to tell us?"
Martham shook his tiny head.
"I know what it is sir - Mister Haydn overheard Martham telling a new boy about the green cross code thing."
"What 'green cross code thing'?"
Johnson explained. Mister Sathage calmly listened but the brighter children realised he was not enjoying the story. He explained that it was cruel to laugh at someone, especially the headmaster and that a repeating of that joke to any new children was forbidden. No shouting, no cuffed lugholes.
Johnson, who'd been pearing into the middle distance throughout, piped up again:
"But sir, ......Mister Haydn does wear a wig, doesn't he?"
Again Mister Sathage gave a few moments before replying.
"Yes..... he does. It is obvious that Mister Haydn, your headmaster covers his head with a peruke. You all obviously know it and all the teachers know it too, but what you have to consider is why Mister Haydn wears a wig. You may suggest vanity but think again; what if underneath Mister Haydn's hairpiece hides something unsightly?"
"Something unsightly." Mister Sathage chose his words expertly, his own theory on Mister Haydn was that the poor man simply didn't have the right shaped head to accommodate baldness - think Willie Thorne for example - but he wanted to keep the children guessing. And guess they did, finally forming the picture of an un-wigged Mister Haydn looking something like Darth Vader first thing in the morning. The downside to this is that the children now feared Mister Haydn, hardly daring to look him in the eye. Then came the news that Mister Haydn was to retire - his Christmas assembly that year was to be his last duty.
That day began as normal - Jilly MacFarrell was busy seducing Paul Agle in the chemistry lab, Barry Wade had been thrown into the sandpit, picked up, dusted off and thrown back into the sandpit again and Mister Van-Rooyen was locked in his store cupboard by pupils unknown. Only when the absence of a piano player was spotted did Johnson leg it to the music room to free Mister Van-Rooyen, who had been joined in the store cupboard by Mister Timprelti [perhaps another time...]. Carols were sung and 'Ghost Town' by The Specials was played to give everyone an idea of what year everything was going on in. The new children were praised for their progress that term and Mister Haydn thanked the teachers for their support....
"...and finally I must thank everyone of you for helping to make my stay here such a rewarding one. It is now my great pleasure to hand the ceremonial robe of Pashlode Comprehensive to Mister Sathage, who will now be your new headmaster.."
Applause.
Mister Sathage accepts the robe of office.
"And Mister Sathage has one other duty to perform......"
Mister Sathage removes Mister Haydn's wig and waves it in the air. Mister Haydn suits baldness - think Patrick Stewart - the children cheer and rush the stage. Martham gets there first. In the confusion, Barry Wade gets off with Jilly MacFarrell and Misters Van Rooyen and Timprelti lock themselves in the store cupboard.
Monday, 10 October 2011
One Morning At The Milton Ford
It is 7:20 a.m. on a snowy February morning and I am driving to the 'Milton Ford' nursing home. I have a date with Margey the chef - we are to provide breakfast for approximately 60 elderly or unwell residents and as I turn into Milton Road I see the huddled figure of Kara speed-walking towards the home. There is still a half mile to walk, so I pull over and open the door.
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day they can make sure their loved one is getting a variety of favourites - some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if regular visits aren't possible, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for Kara, it's her dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum sweetheart....don't know how to say it... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, girl. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something else, love......I don't feel anything."
Names have been changed.
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day they can make sure their loved one is getting a variety of favourites - some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if regular visits aren't possible, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for Kara, it's her dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum sweetheart....don't know how to say it... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, girl. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something else, love......I don't feel anything."
Names have been changed.
Earth Stood Still
It is 7:20 a.m. on a snowy February morning and I am driving to the 'Milton Ford' nursing home. I have a date with Margey the chef - we are to provide breakfast for approximately 60 elderly or unwell residents and as I turn into Milton Road I see the huddled figure of Kara speed-walking towards the home. There is still a half mile to walk, so I pull over and open the door.
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day, this is easy as they can make sure their loved one is getting variety and their favourites. Some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if they can't visit often, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for you, it's your dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum..... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, son. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something's wrong, son - I don't feel anything."
"On earlies then, Kara?"
"Should be - I'm late."
"Oversleep?"
"Never got to bed - 'Bad Boys II' was on."
"How long is 'Bad Boys II'?"
"About the same as 'Bad Boys' - that was on as well."
"Still can't work out how you never got to bed."
"Aw, we watched 'Bad Boys' and taped it, then watched 'Bad Boys II' and taped that an'all. Then we decided to watch 'Bad Boys' again which got us in the mood for 'Bad Boys II' again. I would have got in for 6:30 but I had to see the end."
"Again."
"Again."
"I remember being as young as you Kara but I used to sleep, I'm sure of it."
"Waste of time. Who's on with you?"
"I got Margey."
"Miserable bitch."
We are unable to go in the front door to the home because an ambulance is backed up to the door and blocking it. We can tell by the line of staff and what are presumably relatives, that this is not an emergency. If someone is injured or has a cardiac arrest there is the organised panic to get them treated. When someone dies all is calm - the relatives gather, nurses pay their last respects, everything stops as the body is removed, there are a few minutes of contemplation, some tears perhaps and life goes on.
"Who was it?"
"Miss Clare."
"We hardly got time to know her, only arrived a week ago."
"She had cancer and knew she didn't have long. Didn't want to eat, didn't want to see anyone..."
"Margey's going to be pissed off, late breakfast and no fag break. T-hee."
Sure enough Margey, who is a grumpy cow during orgasm, is even worse this morning. Mr Haynes has been put on an all-liquidised diet adding an extra layer to every meal, and poached eggs are the choice du jour. The residents are given a menu which they mark. If a relative visits every day, this is easy as they can make sure their loved one is getting variety and their favourites. Some will do a week or a fortnight in advance if they can't visit often, some will be filled in by a nurse. I have to say Margey does a good spread, albeit reluctantly.
At 10:30 the morning tea trolley is ready with hot milk, coffee, biscuits ('Rich Tea' for diabetics, the odd chocolate selection for others) and today I'll have to do the round. In the North Wing 'The Major' is out in the corridor. Wearing his medals but no trousers, he is banging the hell on Mrs. Partland's door. Mrs. Partland can be heard shouting "Bugger off!" by all except Major Fearnly (retired). The Major used to have that room but was evicted as it was too easy for him to escape through the larger windows and wander to 'The Recruiting Seargent' for lunch. He always remembered to put his trousers on for lunch but had no way of paying for it, so an arrangement was made - he was given a pint of 'Nelson's Revenge' and the lads would get a big net ready to see the old soldier home.
The round takes longer than usual - Mrs. Townhend's pictures were all askew again and Molly in room 8 threw her tea on the floor because she wasn't allowed a biscuit. I expect a bollocking when I get back to the kitchen, but everyone is quiet.
"There's a phone call for you, it's your dad."
"Hello dad, what's up? You know they don't like us taking calls."
"It's your mum..... she died this morning. I got up to make the tea and thought she just didn't hear me. I don't know what to do, son. Your sister will be here soon, your brother's in Germany and doesn't know yet. I need you here now."
"Okay dad, I'll be there as soon as I can - don't touch anything until the coroner's been."
"Something's wrong, son - I don't feel anything."
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Oh Noz
The advert was cryptic, which should have been a warning: "Vacancy. Foppish positive thinker with a will-ring-bell attitude. Good time-keeping essential...."
I was intrigued and more importantly, skint, so I shined my shoes and made sure I was 5 minutes early for the interview. This seemed to piss them off but no-one else applied, so I was officially named Town Crier (maternity leave cover) for Hoveton & Wroxham, Norfolk. Oh, yez.
What it didn't say in the advert was that I then had to buy my own uniform - luckily there is a fancy-dress place in Wroxham so the coat and hat were easy. The bell had to be hired (flat rate or so much per "dong") and the shoes were handed down from the previous maternity leave coverer, complete with three-inch heels. Shouting tax was to be deducted from gross wages. The induction course involved a sundial, a divining rod, the sacrifice of a live chicken and amphetamine sulphate. I was fast-tracked through all this with worrying haste and shooed onto the streets within 34 minutes and 21 seconds or thereabouts. Luckily I had a watch. Luckily I had a mobile phone to keep up with current affairs. Luckily nothing much goes on in Hoveton & Wroxham when out of holiday season.
My boss knew I was desperate for cash and needed this. He put me on the graveyard shift, then the vicar complained so I was given the dreaded '24/7'. Oh yez, the '24/7' - you can't work more hours than that, think about it - "..twenty three thirty seven and all's well..." using my little night-time bell so as not to wake anyone. And the wages were not that hot, not for the abuse from the kids, "Oi, you're on the end of a bell, that makes you a campanologist. Oh, bollocks I meant 'bell-end', come back here and let me insult you properly..." Relentless. To earn extra I started to freelance, giving out bits of local gossip at 10:30 when the old biddies left the post office, or promoting Mrs. McFiggis's newsagent: "..alls well and 20p off a packet of sherbert lemons with every fifth purchase of 'Ladder Awareness Monthly'..."etc. It was tiring but I was happy - Wroxham F.C. were thriving in the Green Dodecahedron League and the mood of the population was cheery with only a wistful remembrance of rationing and powdered egg to worry about.
Sadly the hours of duty started to catch up. One day, a Wednesday I think it was, about 2 minutes past the hour of 4; I realised I wasn't getting much sleep. Or food. Like Flavor Flav, I always knew what time it was, but I wasn't getting 'mine'. Things came to a head when the clocks went back that October. I had to walk backwards for a whole hour, then they told me I'd be docked an hours wages for the hour that I'd just walked backwards during. They tried to calm me down with talk of repeat fees for the 1 a.m. broadcast, but I knew the time had come for not only the repeat of the 1 a.m. broadcast; but for me to make a stand (albeit a walking one, ringing a bell as I went). "...eight thirty nine and all's sweet as..." slipped one of those in an hour "...five sixty one and all's well..." that'll fox 'em "....five seven oh five, and there's no reply...." "... all the nines, ten past four..." and so it went on. No-one noticed. Seems Hoveton & Wroxham was blasé about the new maternity cover Town Crier, so much so that I blended into the background like the roadworks outside the Garden Centre or the fella in top hat & tails collecting litter.
Then I heard that Aylsham's Crier had a mere two-cornered hat, honked a clowns horn and had more groupies than you can wave a bell at....
There is no sadder sight or sound in the world than a Town Crier who has lost the will to crie. I hate myself to think of what I had become in those final days. I wore a balaclava outside the Salvation Army. Dungarees. A prom dress. "Suck On My Attitude" t-shirt. Pogo stick. Stilts. Dalek voice. Kenneth Williams. And finally, sarcasm, "Oh, yeah, no really, oh, yeah, its three thirty and everything is absolutely marvelous, really it is, no, couldn't be better, whoop-de-doo...."
I was intrigued and more importantly, skint, so I shined my shoes and made sure I was 5 minutes early for the interview. This seemed to piss them off but no-one else applied, so I was officially named Town Crier (maternity leave cover) for Hoveton & Wroxham, Norfolk. Oh, yez.
What it didn't say in the advert was that I then had to buy my own uniform - luckily there is a fancy-dress place in Wroxham so the coat and hat were easy. The bell had to be hired (flat rate or so much per "dong") and the shoes were handed down from the previous maternity leave coverer, complete with three-inch heels. Shouting tax was to be deducted from gross wages. The induction course involved a sundial, a divining rod, the sacrifice of a live chicken and amphetamine sulphate. I was fast-tracked through all this with worrying haste and shooed onto the streets within 34 minutes and 21 seconds or thereabouts. Luckily I had a watch. Luckily I had a mobile phone to keep up with current affairs. Luckily nothing much goes on in Hoveton & Wroxham when out of holiday season.
My boss knew I was desperate for cash and needed this. He put me on the graveyard shift, then the vicar complained so I was given the dreaded '24/7'. Oh yez, the '24/7' - you can't work more hours than that, think about it - "..twenty three thirty seven and all's well..." using my little night-time bell so as not to wake anyone. And the wages were not that hot, not for the abuse from the kids, "Oi, you're on the end of a bell, that makes you a campanologist. Oh, bollocks I meant 'bell-end', come back here and let me insult you properly..." Relentless. To earn extra I started to freelance, giving out bits of local gossip at 10:30 when the old biddies left the post office, or promoting Mrs. McFiggis's newsagent: "..alls well and 20p off a packet of sherbert lemons with every fifth purchase of 'Ladder Awareness Monthly'..."etc. It was tiring but I was happy - Wroxham F.C. were thriving in the Green Dodecahedron League and the mood of the population was cheery with only a wistful remembrance of rationing and powdered egg to worry about.
Sadly the hours of duty started to catch up. One day, a Wednesday I think it was, about 2 minutes past the hour of 4; I realised I wasn't getting much sleep. Or food. Like Flavor Flav, I always knew what time it was, but I wasn't getting 'mine'. Things came to a head when the clocks went back that October. I had to walk backwards for a whole hour, then they told me I'd be docked an hours wages for the hour that I'd just walked backwards during. They tried to calm me down with talk of repeat fees for the 1 a.m. broadcast, but I knew the time had come for not only the repeat of the 1 a.m. broadcast; but for me to make a stand (albeit a walking one, ringing a bell as I went). "...eight thirty nine and all's sweet as..." slipped one of those in an hour "...five sixty one and all's well..." that'll fox 'em "....five seven oh five, and there's no reply...." "... all the nines, ten past four..." and so it went on. No-one noticed. Seems Hoveton & Wroxham was blasé about the new maternity cover Town Crier, so much so that I blended into the background like the roadworks outside the Garden Centre or the fella in top hat & tails collecting litter.
Then I heard that Aylsham's Crier had a mere two-cornered hat, honked a clowns horn and had more groupies than you can wave a bell at....
There is no sadder sight or sound in the world than a Town Crier who has lost the will to crie. I hate myself to think of what I had become in those final days. I wore a balaclava outside the Salvation Army. Dungarees. A prom dress. "Suck On My Attitude" t-shirt. Pogo stick. Stilts. Dalek voice. Kenneth Williams. And finally, sarcasm, "Oh, yeah, no really, oh, yeah, its three thirty and everything is absolutely marvelous, really it is, no, couldn't be better, whoop-de-doo...."
Sunday, 25 September 2011
There Was An Old Lady Who Swallowed A Worm
Molly is thirteen when she swallows a fly; perhaps she'll eventually die. The scientific evidence is overwhelming - pointing to 'she will'. For now, her only problem is a fly; and how to get rid of it. She asks her best friend and next-door neighbour Dolly, who lives in a shoe. Dolly hasn't done biology yet but has witnessed a spider feeding; so she suggests: "swallow that", as opposed to: "hang around - they don't live very long". Things go well, the buzzing stops, followed by a tickling and a wriggling...
The next chapter in our story covers a far greater period of time, the spider may well have died, but Molly has got the taste for this lark now. If a bird is going to get down Molly's throat, it would have to be a wren - they are notoriously small and nest anywhere - but how to lure it alive towards a spidery supper? Worms, and lots of 'em. She must have gulletted 300 of the bastards before brer wren flew in. Brave, cute, fluttery little wren, pecking and shitting and too stupid just to stick around outside living off free worms... did I cover fluttering?
I'll spare you the details of the cat - horrible business.
Where are the R.S.P.C.A. while all this is going on? Rolf Harris? Bill Oddie? Postman Pat? Cher? We have to lay some of the blame for these atrocities at the foot of Dolly. Her parents have passed away, leaving her sole beneficiary in their will *ahem* sole bene..oh, nevermind... and this loss has obviously taken its toll. At no time (once the badger is swallowed, for instance) does she sit her friend down, cuff her hard about the lughole, and suggest bingo as an option.
We now have two old ladies, both 76, sitting on deck chairs in Molly's garden contemplating 'Dobbin'. It's a good job they didn't try to cook the old nag because he would have been as tough as Dolly's old house. No thought of drawing a diagram to show the relative sizes of the two life-forms involved, nay to that; or any worries about digestion and (lets not be squeamish) doing number two's. Ever tried swallowing a hoof? Multiply that by four and keep going...further......up a bit...... forget the number you first thought of....double it again...
Of course she died. We all do.
There was another old lady who swallowed a shoe, perhaps she'll pooh.
The next chapter in our story covers a far greater period of time, the spider may well have died, but Molly has got the taste for this lark now. If a bird is going to get down Molly's throat, it would have to be a wren - they are notoriously small and nest anywhere - but how to lure it alive towards a spidery supper? Worms, and lots of 'em. She must have gulletted 300 of the bastards before brer wren flew in. Brave, cute, fluttery little wren, pecking and shitting and too stupid just to stick around outside living off free worms... did I cover fluttering?
I'll spare you the details of the cat - horrible business.
Where are the R.S.P.C.A. while all this is going on? Rolf Harris? Bill Oddie? Postman Pat? Cher? We have to lay some of the blame for these atrocities at the foot of Dolly. Her parents have passed away, leaving her sole beneficiary in their will *ahem* sole bene..oh, nevermind... and this loss has obviously taken its toll. At no time (once the badger is swallowed, for instance) does she sit her friend down, cuff her hard about the lughole, and suggest bingo as an option.
We now have two old ladies, both 76, sitting on deck chairs in Molly's garden contemplating 'Dobbin'. It's a good job they didn't try to cook the old nag because he would have been as tough as Dolly's old house. No thought of drawing a diagram to show the relative sizes of the two life-forms involved, nay to that; or any worries about digestion and (lets not be squeamish) doing number two's. Ever tried swallowing a hoof? Multiply that by four and keep going...further......up a bit...... forget the number you first thought of....double it again...
Of course she died. We all do.
There was another old lady who swallowed a shoe, perhaps she'll pooh.
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