Last weekend I was summoned up to Newcastle to attend my niece-in-law's 50th birthday party. The invitation stressed that fancy dress was to be worn. What to wear? An excavation of the fancy dress drawer revealed that the hippy costume of genuine Brutus jeans and denim jacket had succumbed to that mysterious but common ailment of wardrobe shrinkage. Rousing the aged brain cells from their slumber I remembered that during a wardrobe clear-out in aid of the Lancashire Air Ambulance I had unearthed a "Jimmy Hat" - a scotch bonnet complete with a tasteful fringe of red hair. I also knew that my sister possessed a kilt which had belonged to one of my nephews. The fancy dress theme was settled! I lacked a sporran but showing remarkable ingenuity, I performed a makeover on a nylon bumbag which I'd felt compelled to purchase but had never used - fate had clearly demonstrated stunning foresight! The "sporran" lacked tassels but I gave it a true Scottish air by attaching 3 cans of Irn Bru. Braces, Pringle socks, suspenders and a wig from my amateur operatic days coordinated the ensemble perfectly. I was packing on the morning of the party when disaster struck. The "Jimmy Hat" was nowhere to be found! Doubtless it will turn up in an obvious place in the next few days. Inspiration came to the rescue magnificently. Now we are all told by the chattering classes that today's multicultural society embroiders life's rich tapestry. Kind and thoughtful friends, aware of my Telly Savalas appearance, had presented me with a rastafarian hat complete with dreadlocks. What better way to demonstrate the rich mix of cultures that makes up today's society! The costume was complete!
What have bin men and tyre pressures got in common? Well, not much really except that they happened on the same day.
I thought I'd escaped that Monday morning feeling when I retired. Not so, because the bin men arrive each Monday morning and I am, for my sins (which must have been grievous), first on the rota for "the treatment". I have to be up and alert each Monday at 8am sharp to monitor whatever nefarious deeds they commit in the name of recycling. I should really hestitate to comment on their iniquity for fear of even more drastic consequences but let's just say I am almost on first name terms with the Head Recycler and I have his mobile number.
Today was "grey" day, a relatively easy surveillance because it involves only one grey bin. Easy, you may think and yet they still manage to raise my blood pressure. As a self-confessed grumpy old man (I could have written the BBC series) it is not difficult to incite my ire and I really should resist biting the bullet, or rather the bin. Ze Instruktions are to have the bins ready for collection by 8am. Bin bags left on the pavement will NOT be collected. Why then, this morning, did they arrive at 07.50? Was it to catch out unwary late sleepers? And why, did the bin man reach inside my bin and lift out the black bin bag? leaving in the bin, odd bits of detritus that I'd picked up outside and which the wind always seems to dump on my patch of lawn. Now, I keep a very tidy bin and everything of my own is always placed in a bag before being binned but you'd think that he'd have given a cursory glance inside, given that he'd gone to the effort of actually lifting the lid. Today's bin men are delicate creatures, not the hearty bin men of old who effortlessly swung metal bins on their back, carried them some considerable distance and then hoisted them up with a fluid ease to empty the bin into the lorry. They even brought the bin back into the garden and placed it cheerfully back from whence it came. Todays timid creatures can only wheel, not lift, and then only wheel if the nasty bin isn't too heavy. Some seem to lack numeracy as my bin has been known to roam despite the house number on it being visible to overhead aircraft. So much for the sins of "grey" day. Next week is "green" day, the very thought of which causes a need for a strong cup of tea. I have a green bin, a green box and either a white sack or a blue bag, depending on what the bin man deigned to leave me the last time. There are 3 seperate collections which means a constant state of red alert from 8am until noon(ish). One would think that "green" operatives, given the nature of their jobs, would be more civic minded and eager to please - nope! I have to be ready to spring out of my door with alacrity if I sense that the bin, box or sack/bag is destined to land outside my territorial boundarys. I need several cups of tea on a green Monday...
And so to tyre pressures. At this point I have to admit that I have never actually checked the tyre pressures on my current car, leaving it to my trusty local garage man to do this on each service. I was prompted into guilt by my pal, the Blessed Ian (he who helped with the patio), who has the same make of car. He announced that after checking his tyres he was amazed at the difference it made in handling and fuel economy. Now I know all this, but things got lax when I bought this car because it doesn't have a cigarette lighter socket where I can plug in my home car tyre inflator thingy. It's a poor excuse but it's the only one I have, mea maxima culpa. Anyway, yet again, I digress. Bear in mind that it is some time since I approached a free air pump at a garage. Shock number one - air is no longer free. Fortunately, as car parking has not generally been free for quite a while, I have a small cache of coinage in the car ashtray (why do they sell a car with an ashtray but no cigarette lighter? Do they assume that if we can afford a packet of fags then we can probably afford a lighter?) Shock number 2 - a perusal of the Skoda User Manual told me that the correct tyre pressures were to be found on the inside of the fuel filler cap. Now, as I'd combined the search for fuel and purchaseable air with a visit to the supermarket, it was dark by the time I emerged from Mr Tescos laden, of course by many more items than the 3 I had intended to buy. Fortuitously, on my car key ring, I have a small torch, courtesy of a 2009 quality Christmas cracker else the quest for air would have ended there and then. Even when illuminated, the figures meant nothing to me. Skoda have no truck with lbs per square inch, being a foreign make built outwith the sunny bounds of the late British Empire. I was faced with 220/2.20 which meant absolutely nothing to me and that was just for the front tyres. Full of trepidation, clutching my 20p piece I noted that you got precisely 5 minutes air for it - even the airlines don't charge that much. I hope the government doesn't get any ideas or pensioners won't live to get much of their taxes back. Shock number 3 - it's all automatic. Gone are the days where you pressed a little lever and watched the dial. Now you just set the pressure, plug in the hose and a little beeper beeps as it automatically cuts off at the correct level. At least at the petrol pumps you still have to press something to get the desired amount of fuel. The only thing that can go wrong is picking up the wrong fuel hose. But that's another story......
This Freecycle lark works a treat. Tomorrow the small vacuum cleaner, late of the cupboard under the stairs, departs to a new carpet where I hope it will be very happy. When I find the troll who threw it's empty pizza box over my back fence, it will depart to somewhere much less happy.
An otherwise splendid evening at the Bridgewater Hall, Manchester where we were treated to a lovely early piece by Delius which softened us up nicely for stirring stuff in the form of Elgar's Violin Concerto followed by a thumping rendition of Vaughan-Williams London Symphony. All played admirably by the Halle Orchestra. I should have guessed at the volume even before the conductor announced that it would be a "loud" concert - it's not often that you see 8 double bass lined up behind a formidable brass & woodwind section and no less than 12 cellos. The music was almost as loud as the screaming brat who accompanied me on a crowded train all the way to Manchester. Why the demonette's mother didn't fold and stow the baby buggy instead of standing with it and blocking the carriage exit beats me. Perhaps, as she only looked to be 14 or so, she hasn't yet taken her GCSE in commonsense. When the trolley service came along it degenerated into total gridlock. The grandmother (with vari-coloured hair) didn't have much more sense either as she decided that the infant from hell would be quieter if she emptied a large heap of crisps on the fold down tray. One sweep of a tiny paw and all but one ended up on the carriage floor. This was repeated twice whereupon grandmother picked up the devil's offspring (who occupied it's OWN seat), stood up and ushered a nice tidy but clearly reluctant couple into the seats saying that she was getting off at the next station. I later saw the couple at the Bridgewater Hall and the lady was still attempting to remove remnants of Quavers from her frock. I could have sworn she crackled as she sat down - and you know how these sounds echo in an auditorium.
Thanks to the evil Transpennine Express deciding that it is now beneath them to stop at my station I no longer have time for a pint or two of excellent ale at a proper pub just down from the Bridgewater Hall. "The Briton's Defense" was so named because it was a recruiting office in the late 1800s. No music, no formica but a range of real ales to make a Methodist salivate. If your juices aren't flowing by the beer on tap then the meals blackboard - "Real wild boar and venison cooked in wine" should do the trick. Even my concert-going pal, who is a slightly lapsed veggie was impressed. Tonight we managed to quickly guzzle a pint of Tetley's Bitter (it DOES travel well outside of Yorkshire) before the performance but it was all too hurried to be savoured properly. We have decided to set aside a Friday night in November, spurn St Cecilia in favour of St Camra and sample some traditional Mancunian pubs. I'll drink to that...
Today, at long last, I have begun a clear out. Having criticised my late father for never throwing anything away I have had to admit to myself that I am a "just in case" person. I keep things just in case they come in handy at some undefined date in the future. A clear out (partial, just in case) of the cupboard under the stairs revealed, amongst other things, a small vacuum cleaner, a power drill and a non-working kettle. I defy Valerie Singleton and all the sticky-back plastic in the world to conjure something out of those 3 items. There are also 4 large tins of satin finish emulsion (Honey colour) which I, at present, lack the courage to open, since they moved down here with me almost 20 years ago. I delude myself that they have not been opened and therefore will still be perfectly usable.
I discovered the Freecycle website some time ago and used it to pass on a television set. Someone's Mum replied almost immediately to my posting and said her son wanted one for his bedroom to use for computer gaming. The poor kid didn't know what hit him. It was a 26" perfectly good standard television which not only weighed a ton but was hellish to carry as all the weight was in the screen. Naturally I couldn't move it myself so he had to struggle alone. I hope he had the strength to play games on it.... Anyway, I digress. Today I have used Freecycle to clear out another couple of items, namely a food processor and some bits & pieces for a model railway. In case you think I have made a lot of progress there is an entire spare bedroom full of "just in cases" - including appropriately enough, several cases.
I'd never thought about doing a blog until recently when an internet friend (you know who you are, Su) mentioned that she and her husband had started one. Prior to this the nearest I'd been to blogging was doing one of those irritating round robins that you slip in with a Christmas card. You know the sort of thing - one that you said you'd never do after reading someone elses and then find yourself doing one anyway and justifying it, to yourself at least, by saying that it keeps in touch with people.
So... where do I start? I retired from the Civil Service almost two years ago after increasing periods of time off work due to illness. In the space of 11 months my car was hit, first broadside on and then from the rear. After the first collision I tried changing the colour of the car but to no avail. Increasing pain in my neck, shoulder and left arm was finally diagnosed as a trapped nerve. Two operations to chip and drill bits out of the cervical vertebrae didn't have much effect. A few years later I compounded the whole thing by falling 5 ft into a Greek concrete storm drain, snapping off a rib right next to the spine and just below the aforementioned vertebrae. I now have nerve damage in my neck, arthritis in my shoulder and what feels like a permanent toothache from neck to left hand. This has led me to the conclusion that you don't bounce as well as you did 40 years ago.
