Grammar, God and Ivan

Some random thoughts today.

I've just finished reading Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynn Truss. She's trying to stop correct grammar usage from going the way of the late lamented dodo. She's humorous. She'd like us to go out on the street with a bucket of paint and a brush and overwrite sloppy grammar on billboards and street signs. I think she has a point. I go nuts when I see the plural of dog written as dog's.

Consider the difference between the following two sentences.
Eats, shoots and leaves.
Eats shoots and leaves.
The first sentence could be talking about a potentially homicidal panda. The second sentence may be talking about a panda, but it definitely doesn't seem murderous. And all because of a comma. I recommend the book as thought provoking, funny and informative.

I'm also reading The History Of God. Well I was until I forgot that it was overdue at the local library and Gregoire took it back for me yesterday. I hope God will forgive me.

The third piece I am reading is a CBC Idea's 1991 transcript on AIDS which challenges the notion that AIDS is caused by HIV. Its here if you are interested - http://www.cbc.ca/ideas/features/Aids/whatcaus.html

For a while now I have been following the life of Ivan Noble, BBC's Science correspondent. A couple of years ago he developed a very serious brain tumour and since then he's written a diary about it. He's very matter of fact. He's got married, had a second child, and also undergone several operations. Its heartbreaking and inspirational. He has legions of supporters from far and wide, and some of them post good wishes and suggestions at the end of each piece. You sense the end is near. Each time I read his diary, I'm wondering if he'll write again. And now the moment has come. He wrote his final entry some time ago knowing there would be a time when he could not write any more. The diary and the latest entry is here - http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4211475.stm

I'm thinking of Ivan and his family this evening.

What are you thoughts today?

Enough of these dreams, there is reality to think of.

MICE. I regret to say we are considering drastic means to address said problem. So far, the mice are delighted to be fed peanut butter each night from contraptions that look very like traps. As we speak, there is a ridiculous looking set up in the kitchen involving a small plastic lid, peanut butter, rice, an egg carton and a bucket of water. In my defence, all I can say is that we're at the end of our tether. Thanks to Wynn Bexton for her advice, we also acquired a box of POISON.

I've just returned from a crazy trip. I was supposed to go to my good friend, Bonny's for dinner but instead I got seconded to ElkHouse for a work assignment.

We flew to ElkHouse at lunchtime, made two attempts to land (talk about scary) in driving snow and fog. We couldn't land. We flew back to HomeBase, and waited two hours. I was thinking - if I dashed over to Bonny's - I might make it for the soup course, because she makes darn good soup. Then just as I headed to the phone with my 25 cents to call her, announcing my impending arrival, we were all yanked back on the plane.

So we flew back again. Now it was evening, disgusting conditions. We made arrangements to land at an alternative airport (BeaverTooth) then suddenly ElkHouse runway lights appeared in the gloom below us. Down we plunged and our aircraft clattered to the ground and somehow pulled up in one piece in front of the tiny airport building. Our truck was unrecognizable under all the snow so we spent 15 minutes digging it out. We drove through a blizzard to the hotel, stopping twice on the way to remove ice from the windscreen. We staggered into the hotel bar. I was starving but could hardly eat as my stomach was churning so much and I was deaf as a post. I drank three beer instead.

ElkHouse had snowbanks piled up on the sides of the roads, sometimes eight foot high. Next day there was freezing rain. The roads were like skating rinks, just atrocious. We saw trucks in a spin and doing doughnuts. A colleague's husband hit a moose. Husband ok. Truck not ok. Moose definitely not ok.

Just managed to fly out of there after four days. I was asked to give expressions of interest in relocating to ElkHouse by the end of the week. The answer was ridiculously easy.

I dream of the Queen. And it's not a happy story.

I had another dream recently.

I was in a crowd of people in the street, it was at night. A figure appeared above us, it was the Queen of England, and she had on a long dark dress that reached to the ground . The Queen is only 5 foot something but she must have been on stilts as she towered above us, easily 12 foot high. She moved awkwardly through the crowd; people drew back to make a path for her. I had a sense of unease; forboding. She seemed imperious yet somehow out of control. Suddenly she lost her balance and fell down, hitting her head a wall. The people screamed and moved away and we all stood in a large semi circle around her, hundreds of us. The Queen didn't move, clearly badly injured. A woman went over to check on her. People were calling for an ambulance. The medics tried to approach. The woman beside the Queen, picked her up by her legs, swung her from side to side so her head hit the wall again and again.

Dr Freud, what does this mean?

The trials and tribulations of Mice

Today when we came down for breakfast there were two blood stains on the kitchen floor. Alas, the mouse trap had done its deed, but failed to kill the mouse. I am sorry about that. I wanted the trap to kill the mouse, not to maim it. There was no sign of said mouse.

I used to be quite fond of mice. Quaint furry creatures with long tails. Ah well, one visited us, soon after we moved into the house. So I marched off to the store and bought one of these contraptions that captures rather than vanquishes the mouse. I put a dab of peanut butter and waited. And waited. Endless droppings in our kitchen. Each morning I would get steamed there was no captured mouse and each night I would get even more steamed, cleaning up the mess. After about two weeks, we caught one of the buggers.

I lifted the little cage and stared at him, eye to eye. I proceeded to berate him for all the trouble he'd caused us and lectured him about invading other people's property and more specifically, about pissing (literally) around in other people's cupboards, for heavens sake. I know they're going to lock me up soon for mental cruelty to rodents. I continued this rant all the way to the park two miles away from our home, where I let the little critter go. At first he hesitated, obviously thinking it was better staying with this mad woman, than go out into the dark cold world. But then he sped through the grass and disappeared into the woods.

To be honest, I wonder if he survived the night.

Any recommendations on how to deal with mice are extremely welcome. We're desperate.

The Robin, The Snake and the Fox

I had a strange dream last night. I saw a robin on a path. It was choking and on further inspection I saw it had a snake rounds its neck. It was a long snake and I looked at its tail. When I looked back towards the head of the snake, the robin had now changed in to a fox. Like the robin, the fox was having trouble breathing and was slowly being choked to death. I grabbed the tail of the snake, yanked at it and threw it on the ground. The snake slithered away down a hole. All at once I saw thousands of ants surround and attack it. I looked back where the fox had been, but it was nowhere to be seen. What does this mean?

Real life, Some Ducks and No Litter

I don't suppose I can apply for a one week recall. No, I didn't think so. You know, the last seven days are gone and I'll never get them back. It's been a tough week. Colleagues of mine, with whom I've worked for fifteen years, got let go. We knew it was coming, but it's hard. Happy New Year, oh and by the way, here's the door. Those of us who are left are going through a grieving cycle. We're early in the process. We're past the initial shock, some are starting to get angry. Some are contacting lawyers.

So I haven't thought about litter this week. When the basics are on the line, your thoughts are about keeping the roof over your head and putting food on the table.

Today we went to feed the ducks again. We've had a major snowfall and to be honest there's no litter in sight. Its all under the snow. We're into day three and everything looks so pretty and clean. I've done some slight damage to my back after shovelling each day. Probably didn't keep my back straight.

Anyway back to the ducks. Our local lake looked amazing today, almost 90% frozen, with hundreds and hundreds of birds, huddled on the ice. I'm afraid the seagulls got most of the duck food, they are just too greedy and quick. Some of them hovered above us, like those verticle take off jets. Which was obviously a deliberate ploy, because we were easily impressed so we started throwing morsels to them and they darted and caught them in mid air. We love walking to the lake. It's wonderful to have that so close to us. I find I can relax and just think about simple things in life, like companionship, duckfood, and schemes to remove the bloody litter....

I took this picture of one solitary bird in a tree...

 

We're going to brave the snowy elements and go to a mad party tonight, with music and singing, so it'll take my mind off work. We're going to go and have a good time.

Life and Death in the World of Seagulls

The morning walk has become a habit. It won’t last long as I start back to work tomorrow. It was lovely and crisp this morning, with the mountains in the distance covered in snow, and not a cloud in the sky. I walked the usual route with nothing unusual in the way of abandoned garbage in the early going. The BlogTrain station was quite busy with, it seemed, a lot of people back to work this morning. I passed by to the other side of the train tracks and trod along the path. I stopped at the children’s playground about half way along and spent some time doing some clean-up. I feel more comfortable picking up litter when there is no one about. I’m wondering what that is all about. There’s a sense of embarrassment when there are folks standing around. I feel I’m drawing unnecessary attention to myself. Anyway the playground yielded up a pair of white socks, a single red mitten and numerous extinguished fireworks, no doubt let off at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

I deposited the garbage in the trash can and carried on along the path. It looked good today, no new garbage. I reached the bridge and turned for home. Six women, obviously in some kind of walking group, approached. I recognized one of them. It was Valerie, a woman I worked with for about decade. She retired a couple of years ago. She sent the others on ahead and we chatted for a couple of minutes. It turned out her group walked this route every Monday. Normally I would be at work, so it was great to bump into her. We agreed to meet for lunch soon to catch up.

I walked on down the path to the seat under the tree. Hey, the clothes from the last few days were gone. No sign of the pink purse, the blue coat or any of the other clothes under the bush. Of course now I wondered who had taken them, maybe there is some underground market for dumped clothing. For some reason I was now the centre of attention for about a dozen seagulls who were flying all around me. I briefly considered a connection between them and the now missing clothing. Headline : Seagulls winging it in coat scam! Latest! But maybe that was stretching it a bit. I resumed my travels down the path.

Back home, I could see Gregoire was living vicariously through me. He was keen to know if I’d seen any drug dealers or caught sight of any unusual treasure on my walk.

Fast forward a couple of hours and the two of us went out to feed the ducks. We lead an exciting life you see. Actually it’s so enjoyable just to do the simple things. Life has been so hectic, and so full of parties, music, alcohol and far too much food. It's good to do very little for a few days.
Down at the lake, a seagull had met its demise. Its grisly remains lay by the water. A small child was inspecting it, closely watched by her mother. I thought a coyote might have killed the seagull. Gregoire thought it might have been a raccoon. In any case, it was an ex seagull.

The lake was semi frozen. We threw some seed cake and olive bread to the ducks. As usual the seagulls came in and stole much of the food. I’ve come to the conclusion that seagulls would not make good hockey players. They constantly lost their balance and skidded on the ice in their frantic attempts to grab the morsels. It provided us with much amusement. I must admit we deliberately threw cake on the ice just to watch them dash for it and all fall in a heap.

With the food gone, we turned for home again. We crossed a busy street at the pedestrian crossing. A car came speeding at us, and narrowly missed hitting Gregoire. The woman driver slammed on her brakes, and just stared at us, with what looked like her young daughter sitting in the passenger seat beside her. I yelled at the driver angrily. She made no gesture of apology and drove on. We were a bit shaken up. I think the woman was blinded by the sun. Still, she should pay more attention to what’s going on around her. Gregoire made a good point which was that she was probably as shaken up as we were so maybe she will be more careful for the next while.

Well having dodged that bullet, we walked slowly back to enjoy another quiet day around the house. Tomorrow, we rejoin the commuter throng. All in all, I’d rather pick up litter.

Sphere of Influence

There was ice on the road as I set off for my morning walk. Gregoire (OtherHalf) stayed behind to trim the grapevine on our deck. A little chilly, blue sky, today was altogether a beautiful day. I’m starting to tread a familiar path. First its up the verge along side the BlogTrain. Of course I’m looking for thieves, vagabonds and drug dealers. Today there were only a few people around at the station. A women in a wheelchair was waiting at the bus stop. A family group huddled in the station and was trying to decipher the workings of the ticket machine. I had grubby clothes on, a plastic bag in each hand and was looking around, trying not to be conspicuous. In retrospect I was acting like someone who had a big sign round my neck screeching "Drug dealer".

I walked on up the other side of the BlogTrain and on to the new paved area. In the very far distance bordered on both sides by high hedges, you can see the bridge where you cross back over the BlogTrain again. I’m thinking on this litter pickup, that it’s useless trying to be too ambitious and pick up all litter in the universe. I’ve decided to stick to the area up to the bridge and back. It’s where I most commonly walk so if I pick up a little each day, then it will look a little better each time. The path is about ten feet higher than the rail in some places, and folks have thrown bottles, cups, lids and God knows what other items down the gully which are pretty inaccessible unless you climb down to retrieve them. I figure if I got ten people together in the spring armed with gloves, bags and a bit of determination, we could have a sweep through and clean it up.

Today as I approached a playground about half way along the path, an elderly Chinese lady walked slowly passed me and gave out a lively greeting. She didn’t speak English but she didn’t need to. I’m hoping I will be as spry as she is when I am in my late eighties.

I reached the half way point, the bridge over the BlogTrain and deposited one bag full of rubbish in the garbage can and turned for home again. There’s a piece of what looks like common land a little way along the track. An abandoned trailer lay there, probably untouched for years, covered in foliage.

Now back on the home stretch. The dark blue coat and pink purse I found a few days back were now strewn on the path. I picked up the purse and coat and crossed over to a seat under a tree and put the coat on the back of the seat, hung the purse nearby. If the coat is still there in a couple of days, I’ll take it home and dry it out. I’m thinking that the Salvation Army would make use of it if I clean it up a bit.

And I got back to the garden gate again. Gregoire was clipping the grapevine, and pieces of vine lay all around the deck. He asked if I’d apprehended anyone. I suspect he thinks I’m going to make a citizen’s arrest one of these days. Hmmm, maybe I’m getting obsessed. I’m going to go help G with the grapevine and stick close to home for the rest of the day.

Too Close For Comfort

OtherHalf did not want to walk today so I set off alone. I headed down the path next to the BlogTrain. No surprise: the weigh scale we saw a couple of days ago was gone. In its place was a pair of white surgical gloves, strewn on the ground.

I continued down the path. I could hear raised voices. A man in his mid thirties was shouting, mostly swearing, at a woman at the train station. The woman was tall, slim, dressed in beige colours with her hair covered in a shawl. I’ll omit the F words. The man was initially haranging the woman from a red car parked at the side of the road, but he got out of the vehicle and walked towards her. He was shouting at her to go away and take her drugs with her. “Get out of my neighbourhood,” he yelled repeatedly. A few people at the bus stop stood and stared. She appealed to them for help and said that the man was stalking her. Everyone ignored her.

She then approached three BlogTrain attendants who were standing just inside the station. They could not have failed to hear the shouting. She didn’t ask them for help and she made no mention of the man behind her. She asked them for 25 cents to use the phone. The man had backed off at this point and he drove off. One of the attendants gave her the money and she made a phone call. I’ve seen drugs been bought and sold at the station before. I wish the BlogTrain officers would patrol outside the station as well, and arrest people in conjunction with the police.

I continued on around the block and up the path on the other side of the BlogTrain. There’s been a lot of construction with a new path being laid wide enough for a vehicle. I think they are going to put a line down the middle so that one side is for cyclists, the other for pedestrians. I walked along for half a mile, crossed the bridge then turned for home. Out came a plastic bag and I collected garbage for the remainder of the trip. The number of cigarette butts I see is incredible. The nicotine in butts is very harmful to wildlife, causes them all sorts of intestinal problems. Cigarette packets were very popular today. But the piece de resistance today had to be a coat, a sweater and a pink purse, all lying together in a bundle under a bush. Not quite the kitchen sink, but darned impressive. At first I thought perhaps someone was living rough there and I looked around for a sleeping bag but couldn’t see anything. I checked the purse, nothing in it. There’s no way I could bring this stuff home, to recycle or to turf, as it was soaked through and far too heavy to carry.

OtherHalf was watching the Rose Bowl Football when I got home. I regaled him with the goings on at the station. It is strange. There are drugs being bought and sold not one hundred yards from where we were sitting on the sofa. We carry on our lives, making soup and eating cookies. I don’t lose sleep over this. I feel safe in our home. But I want to make a difference. I can pick up litter but that’s not going to have any effect on the level of drug trafficking in the neighbourhood. I can understand the man getting angry and yelling at the woman – assuming she was a drug dealer. Maybe that should be me out there yelling too. I need to give this some thought. There has to be more I can do.

Ducks Unlimited and a Bit of Garbage

OtherHalf and I went on excursion to feed the ducks. There’s a lake about ten minutes walk away so we trod down the lanes at the back of houses en route to the lake. Even though this was not officially a litter pickup exercise, I still kept an eye out for abandoned treasure. Sure enough just off the main street on the sidewalk, there was a child’s buggy, new and unused. It made me sad. I can’t imagine why anyone would dump this. We passed a bus stop. An open suitcase lay on the bench. OtherHalf steered me down a nearby back alley as I was just about to leap off to investigate.

Armed with some left over bread we headed down to the lake. Bread isn’t good news for ducks but this was a special loaf stuffed with olives and pumpkin seed. I figured it would give them some nutrients. The ducks started congregating as we approached. They seemed to be expecting us. Maybe they posted look out ducks on our route. Oh – oh seagulls too. Flinging bread to a gaggle of ducks is one thing, but doing it with seagulls around often puts in the ducks in danger. The seagulls are brutal. They dive bomb the ducks in an effort to take the food. It’s a feeding frenzy.

Anyway today we tried to feed only the ducks. It was such an enjoyable experience. Ducks flapped their wings and quacked everywhere. Some got cheeky, climbed on the boardwalk and tried to take the bread right out of the bag. We did not condone that behaviour so they got none. One duck grabbed its booty and flew off with it, chased by six seagulls. Round and round the lake the duck flew, weaving in and out, trying to shake off the bandits. No such luck. Eventually the duck returned and splash landed near us, exhausted and minus a mouthful of food.

After all the bread was gone, we set off home again. We went past the Blogtrain and I caught sight of one missing high heeled black shoes I’d seen a couple of days back. Darn it and I was hoping the one legged disco dancer was out having a blast on the dance floor with it. We trundled up beside the railway line and spotted a green and white bathroom weigh scale on the side of the path. It seemed to be in perfect working order. I resisted the impulse to climb aboard and check my stats as to be honest I’m feeling bloated from the cranberry sauce, turkey, mint chocolate and many glasses of Chardonnay. If its there next week, maybe I’ll give it a whirl. However the scale looks far too valuable. You can bet your bottom dollar it will be gone tomorrow. I’m not surprised by anything I see along the path these days. I’m expecting to find the kitchen sink any minute. With a matching tile unit of course.

The Best Things in Life are Purple

Excellent news. I wandered back to the spot where I left the shoes and the tins of purple stuff. If you haven't a clue what I am talking about, mosey on back and read the previous entry. The purple playdo was gone. The high heeled shoes and the runners were no longer there too. Well almost. Further down the path there was a patch of grass to the right, and the white shoes were strewn there, looking distinctly forlorn. And one of the black high heeled shoes was lying there too, discarded. What happened to the other black shoe? Maybe picked up by a one legged disco dancer? Perhaps not, I suspect it had been thrown into someone’s backyard or on to the rail tracks. I decided that no one really wanted the shoes, now that they were soaked and dirty, so I dropped them into my black garbage bag.

I walked down the lane past Party House. The house is in disrepair, rented out and the occupants have parties most weekends. We’ve had no trouble from them. Occasionally we're awakened at around 2am by the steady base beat of unidentifiable music. This morning there was a beer bottle out front. Only one. Well there’s five cents for my troubles. A better class of beer this time though, a real pale ale. Party House rose in my estimation. In the middle of the road there was a broken car aerial. I added it to the collection in the garbage bag. All the paper I'd picked up today was soaked so the bag was getting pretty darn heavy this morning.

Just then another neighbour Blonde Olivia, called down to say hello from her deck, where she was smoking in a rather fetching purple housecoat, which matched the colour of the playdo quite nicely. We commiserated over the vast quantities of food and drink we’d consumed over Christmas. And that now were we paying for it. O picks up litter too. Recently she’d found two syringes right on the steps to her garden. Charming. She has two little boys who play round there all the time. I’m thinking I have a partner in crime in Olivia, maybe we can get together a litter posse in the spring and make serious inroads in to the more litter ridden areas round the BlogTrain.

I walked past Hedgerow House opposite the station. Yesterday instead of clothes strewn the hedge, there was what looked like a golf cart. As I mentioned in the previous diary, I think Hedgerow Neighbour finds this loot in his front yard and it’s his way of getting rid of it. OtherHalf agreed this time that this was not an art student project. Clearly the cart was too good to pass up as it was gone. I was disappointed not to see at least a pair of purple underpants strewn on the hedge today. The world has gone to hell in a hand basket, I’m telling you.

High Heels, Syringes and Weird Purple Stuff

I was out on a jaunt to pick up litter this morning. The most common items I collect are transit tickets, fast food wrappers and coffee cups. Honest to God, if Starbucks, McDonalds and Subway paid you five cents for every used paper coffee cup or wrapper you returned to their moneymaking stores, they would get kudos and goodwill and there’d be a lot less litter on the street and in my backyard.

I usually stick to the block round the house but today, feeling a little more adventurous, I wandered down the street towards the BlogTrain (our trusty light rail system, not without problems, but that’s a story for another day). Today’s haul, besides copious amounts of paper litter: two rather menacing looking used syringes, one Sleeman’s beer bottle, three pairs of brand new shoes and three little round silver tins with what looked like purple plasticine packed inside. In this age of terror, thoughts of plastic explosive came to mind - yes, I've been watching too many Bruce Willis movies - but closer inspection of the label indicated it was playdo. And yes, I wear gloves to pick up this dubious collection.

The shoes were dumped behind a tree. A pair of black high heels, a pair of white court shoes and some rather snazzy running shoes. The BlogTrain line connects with a shopping centre a few stops away so I assume they were stolen from there. So what’s the deal – you steal stuff, decide what you can fence then dump the rest? The shoes were not in boxes and there was no store identification so not exactly something I could report to the police. They've also been exposed to the pouring rain we've been having for the last few days. I put them out neatly in a row in the hopes that someone would pick them up and take them home. Granted they need to be dried out and thoroughly cleaned. But surely someone could give those sexy black heels a run for their money on the dance floor at the All Night Jazz Club?

As I laid them out by the hedgerow beside the station, a light bulb went on. There’s a house opposite the station with a low hedge. Every so often I’ve seen clothes strewn on the hedge, sometimes for days, and I’ve wondered what that was all about. OtherHalf suggested it was some kind of art project with attitude. Yes, thankyou, next suggestion? But now I reckon that folks dump stolen property in the front yard, and that’s his way of getting people to take it away. Stolen goods –on the hedge - free to good home.

OK, a quick summary of where I stand on litter. I pick it up. It’s also a good way to get to know my neighbours and talk to people. I’m also a believer in the broken window syndrome. The people who have tendency to commit crime usually need something tip the balance between committing and not committing the crime. They see a broken window, they think rule and order has gone the way of the dodo, so it’s ok to break windows, and worse. So it goes for litter. Litter on the ground begets litter. Malcolm Gladwell, quoting various academics, has written quite extensively about this in his book called The Tipping Point.

So next time I go on the neighbourhood litter pickup maybe there will be one less syringe, two tins of purple playdo instead of three and maybe those black high heels will be kicking up a storm somewhere else. I hope so.

That’s it for today. See you again soon.

Dead Cell Phones and Other Thankful Mercies

I used to be one of those people who complained bitterly about those folks who drove cars, sat on buses, ate in posh restaurants, got their hair done or worse still, they were in the midst of conversation with you - and their crime? They talked on their cell phones, dangerously close to infringing noise bylaws.

Previous to the last decade, I wonder how people managed to survive without cell phones. Why is it now that some people can’t choose a halibut from the fish selection at the supermarket without consulting their nearest and dearest. Would “dinner” be monumentally ruined if they picked the wrong fish?

But this is not the end of the woe. What is worse is that there are phones with cameras on board so now you can send home a picture of the fish that you are about to serve at the dinner table. I can just imagine the conversation between a husband at the store, and his wife sitting at the computer at home.

“Honey,” she says, “the halibut looks a tad green around the gills to me. Get me a picture of the rainbow trout”.
“No, honey,” she says after seeing the next downloaded picture, “I need to see the whole of the fish, not just its gills.”

Where will it all end? Maybe there will be a groundswell of dislike against intrusive cell phone users, and we’ll see them having to join the ranks of smokers shivering outside buildings, the omni present phone attached to their ears.

I like the system in Australia. I found out when I was visiting Sydney that if the police catch you driving while you are on the phone, you get a ticket. Tickets add up to points on your license. Too many points and your license is suspended. I’d be in favour of having that law in place here. But I’d go further and ban the use of cell phones in restaurants. There is nothing more annoying than when your delightful meal is interrupted by the shrill ring of the cell phone in the next booth. There is then the scramble to find the phone, followed by one very loud half of a conversation. Of course, it’s almost impossible not to try and imagine what is being said at the other end of the phone.

“Hello”A brief silence follows.
“I’m in the middle of dinner, can I call you back?” This is good news, she is trying to end the call quickly. No but wait…

“You did what on the patio?”

This is said quite loudly. I think the whole restaurant is tuned into this now.

“With..”

“No way!” A pregnant pause follows.

“Where is Barry ?”Then she lowers her voice.“Listen. Put some clothes on. I’ll be over in half an hour”
“Bye.”
Unfortunately the woman who took the call in the neighbouring booth was alone so we never found out the whole story.

I recently witnessed a cell phone being put to an excellent use. I was in a café with rustic, but rickety, tables and chairs. Our table wobbled precariously, the bowls of steaming hot soup threatened to spill with every movement. Looking round for something to wedge under the offending table leg, the only item available was my friend’s cell phone. This did the job perfectly.

However there was one small problem. Half way through the meal, the phone rang. My friend scurried under the table to answer it. Meanwhile a waiter helped me steady the table to prevent tomato soup from running all over the tabletop. Fortunately the phone conversation was brief and the phone resumed its rightful place beneath the table.

Despite deep misgivings, a year ago I broke down and bought a cell phone. I went into business with a partner. We installed computer equipment at medical practices and we needed to be available for clients to call at all hours of the day and night. Sure, the phone came in handy in the early days, but hardly used after that. It soon became clear that I needed to get the minimum package because I only used the phone once in a blue moon, like if my rust bucket excuse for a car gave up the ghost along a dark rainy road with no payphone for miles. I loved my car dearly but she could be cantankerous and recently she started consuming enough oil to keep Kuwait busy for generations to come.

So on Sunday I decided to was time to go into the mall to switch monthly phone packages. First major problem, I couldn't remember my cell phone number. Bright Spark here hadn't charged up the phone. It was dead as a dodo. And of course the number was in the address book in the phone's memory. I’ve heard of people who put the phone in the oven in an attempt to revive it, but that sounded very dubious to me, almost as suspect as putting the phone in the microwave. Somewhat ridiculously, I ended up calling a friend on a regular phone and got him to tell me what my own phone number was. So dead phone in hand with dead phone's number, I marched into the store asking to change the package. The woman smiled at me very pleasantly whilst telling me she couldn't help me but she knew someone who could. She gave me the number to call, but could not help suggest that there was a stylish new pink phone that “everyone was buying” that she could highly recommend to me. I hurried out of the store clutching the telephone company’s number.

So fast forward back home. I was determined to settle this now and not pay one more cent than I needed to. I dialed the phone company. I got the telephone menu labyrinth from hell. No, I don't speak French. No, I don't want billing information. No, I don't know my pass code. (It's probably the name of the fluffy rabbit I had as a child or the nickname of my big-eared biology teacher.) No, I won't pass go and collect two hundred dollars. I kept on forgetting which menu I was in and tried to get back to the top so I could find which sequence of buttons to press to speak to a live person, as opposed to a lifeless recording. I had to re-dial the phone number and start from scratch three times. Finally I got a message saying that I could speak to a customer service representative the following morning. It was clearly time to have a glass of red wine and seethe.

Next morning I dialled the phone company from work and after waiting for ten minutes I got through to an amiable sounding woman. We sailed through the details until she asked me my date of birth as identification. I was in an open plan office. So I whispered the answer as I really wanted the guy in the next cubicle to think I was still in the vicinity of twenty nine.

Anyway the upshot of all this is that I cut down my allowable minutes on the blasted phone to virtually nil. I would wean myself off soon enough. And then I could go back to complaining about Simon the Stockbroker who sat in front of me on the bus each morning and bought one stock and for all I know probably sold it at triple the price by the time we arrived downtown. Better still, maybe I could get his number and have rogue callers ringing him at 5am to ensure he got no sleep, missed the bus and left us all in peace.

Excuse me while I go turn my cell phone off. Hmm, not necessary, it's still as dead as a blooming dodo.

I'm on Medication but You should Be

A couple of days ago, after a hastily prepared breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I donned a dark blue coat, wrapped a purple scarf around my neck, and located my purse and house keys. Locking the front door behind me, I headed down the steps to the street. The laurel hedge lay in wait for me as usual, a reminder of my past discretions. I almost vanquished it the previous November, cutting it from eight foot in height right down to eighteen inches, a knee-jerk reaction after the break-in at our house. The hedge provided a very dense curtain behind which potential thieves could hide and it had to go. So I hacked at it over several evenings while the torrential rain poured, getting to know a few bemused neighbours in the process.

The lady in the bungalow opposite us came over with her equally inquisitive white Scottie dog and asked if everything was alright. I looked at her dog poking round my muddied shoes, smiled grimly and said that the laurel hedge and I could not co-exist. She looked at me pityingly and dragged Scottie away.

The following day, Gigi from next door brought over a plate of specially baked Portuguese doughnuts.
“This will give you strength to fight the hedge!” she whispered knowingly. “Your husband, he is sick, no? " I shook my head. “He no help you with the cut cut?”Again I shook my head. My other half would have nothing to do with the massacre of the laurel hedge, which was totally ok by me. “That is a disgrace”, she muttered, and left.

Now the stark roughly cut branches reared up out of the ground, with hardly a leaf in sight. I made a mental note that serious landscaping was needed come the spring as I trundled down the road towards the sky train. My job was in the city centre. I walked quickly and within a few minutes arrived at the station. There was obviously a cull on free loaders, as a uniformed inspector firmly asked for my ticket before I could get on to the platform.

It was seven thirty and still dark. The lights of a distant train were visible, becoming ever brighter as it approached the station. The train came to a halt, and I walked on board. The cars were mostly full, with standing room only for newcomers. I stood, eyeing the adverts on the inside of the car as the train moved away from the platform. There were a few common themes: pregnancy tests, educational courses and the ubiquitous ad for those sinking into financial catastrophe.

“If you are facing bankruptcy, we can help!” blared the ad with a picture of a man who managed to look terribly handsome and terribly worried at the same time. Next to it was another advert telling us how we could all become chartered accountants in just three years and we did not have to quit our day jobs. While the thought of changing jobs was appealing, the idea of becoming a chartered accountant was even less so.

I looked around me. We had an assorted crowd today – some asleep, some gazing blindly off into space, others half way through reading the latest bestseller. The faint smell of nicotine emanated from the young women in a green coat next to me. I tried to ignore the incessant drum beat from the not so silent headphones of the rap music fan standing to the other side of her.

On commutes such as these, I considered reading a book with an interesting title on the train just to get a reaction. How about “The Island of the Secret Love Nun” with the equally lurid cover, or that well loved pamphlet, “Lock Picking Simplified.” The problem was, with everyone wrapped up in their own world, I did not think anyone would notice.

Two stops after I got on, the train drew up to Hyde Street Station. A sizeable woman of about fifty edged her way into the compartment. She was professionally dressed in a maroon suit, and sported blond streaked wavy hair. At that moment I glanced down the other end of the train, which in retrospect, was a pity, because I missed the pivotal moment of the journey.

Immediately I heard a commotion to the side of me and I turned back to see the woman in the dark red suit being ejected from the train by a stockily built man. He had dark curly collar length hair, a black sports jacket, blue jeans and runners. This was no gentle nudge. I saw him use both hands to push her violently out of the train. She fell backwards on to the platform.
A moment later, the woman came barrelling back in to the train, spewing colourful invective and proceeded to kick the perpetrator. He responded by punching her.

In the meantime the incongruously cheerful jingle sounded to denote that the train was departing the station. The doors closed with the two warring parties very much on board and the train left the station, quickly picking up speed. The kicking, shoving and swearing continued, not six feet away from where I stood.

This was a packed train. About sixty people witnessed the scene. In the immediate aftermath, except for some shuffling of feet, there was a stunned silence. Nobody spoke and nobody moved; well apart from the two people apparently determined to beat the life out of each other. It became obvious that they weren’t about to stop anytime soon.

“You bastard,” she yelled repeatedly, “You threw me off the train”.
“You’re crazy,” he shouted. “Get off me.”

She slapped him round the side of the face, causing him to curse and wince. He shoved her backwards against the side of the car.

After the initial shock I was thinking of ways to intervene without risk to life and limb. These two individuals were not short of stature. A black belt in martial arts might be of assistance in situations like this. For a moment, I thought that someone needed to tell the driver and quickly. Then I remembered that on these computer operated trains, we had no driver. I imagined that I wasn’t the only one thinking about what to do next and how to stop this mayhem. Perhaps some of us were thinking about the incident in Narrowton a few weeks back when a bystander intervened in a fight in front of a restaurant and paid for it with her life. Whilst I was pondering the situation, a man next to me stepped into the breach. He was six foot tall, not a hair on his head, dressed in casual business clothes. He stepped towards them.

“Come on, now, you two, tone it down, tone it down,” he said.

The two of them, still punching and kicking each other, either did not hear or chose to ignore him, and carried on fighting. Sir Lancelot did not give up. He put himself between them, earning a swipe across the chest from the man, but he persisted and forced them apart. Arms flailed and legs swung, the swearing continued. He pulled the woman away from the man, talking firmly but calmly all the time.

“Tone it down; this isn’t the way to settle things.”

Separated from her attacker, the women, who had an Australian accent, tried to bait him.

“I’m on medication, but you should be.” she flung at him.

I thought that was an interesting choice of words. As if to say, she was crazy but what was his excuse?

He ignored her, looking the other way. Lancelot stayed between them, continually talking softly to the women, stopping her from starting the fracas again. An uneasy calm prevailed in the carriage.

A couple of stops later, the woman got off with the shining knight, and they left, all the while she complained about how terrible the other man had been, and that he should be arrested.
The train carried on towards Bognor Street. As it entered the station, the train stopped, and came to a complete stand still for about thirty seconds, the doors remaining shut. Three guards on the platform peered into each carriage. Clearly someone had pressed the silent alarm.

After a few moments the train moved forward again, coming to a halt. I looked at the man who had been in the fight. He looked small, insignificant somehow, blending in with the crowd. He stepped off the train at the same time that I did. No one pointed him out, and no one stopped him. The crowd flowed out of the platform and up the escalator. I watched him as he disappeared from sight, trying to retain his description in my mind.

I proceeded to the office, describing the incident to my colleagues. I was sure the story was relayed in dozens of workplaces across the city. In thirty minutes or less, I imagined over a thousand people knew about the fight, each with a different picture of the events earlier that morning. I wondered if Lancelot told the story with himself as the hero. I imagined not; he did not seem the type. Quiet, effective action appeared to be his mode of operation.

I thought about the incident frequently for the rest of the day. I wondered what the women had done to provoke such a violent reaction from a total stranger. Maybe she had bumped into him. It still did not explain the force of his reaction.

As I walked home that evening, I slowly walked along the footpath to my home. The laurel hedge, eighteen inches in height, lay in front of me again. I stood and stared at it. I contemplated that if sixty people in a crowd did nothing while a fight went on under their collective noses, what were the chances of anyone intervening if they saw someone trying to break into our home? Was all that cutting for nought? I silently apologized to the remains of the hedge as I slowly climbed the steps into the house.

The Life and Times of Flossie, Aged 9 1/2 weeks

At 2am the other morning I received a message on my answer machine. “This is the police. There has been an attempted theft of your vehicle. It has been towed for further investigation. Phone this number for more details.”Great way to wake up on a Monday morning. I’ve actually just changed vehicles and bought my first new car, and for a moment I had the slimmest hope that perhaps they were talking about Flossie the old car, bless her heart. Old Flossie was a rust bucket and no mistake. Frankly I’d be amazed, and secretly delighted, if someone tried to steal her. I raced downstairs to check if new Flossie was still parked where I left her the night before. Bad news. She was gone.

I phoned the police. They were less than helpful. “We don’t know anything, maybe call this number.” So I called the next number and no luck. It went on like that for a couple of hours. I had no idea where my vehicle was or what kind of condition she was in. Did I mention that this was my first new car? As in shiny new, without even a scratch. She had 16 kilometres on the clock when I took her home. She still had that new car smell. Now Flossie 2 was gone. I had visions of flat tyres, shattered windows, slashed seats and much worse.

Finally later in the day I got hold of someone who said the vehicle was being finger-printed. The person who looked after the police garage did not work that day. “So why don’t you just sit tight and phone back tomorrow after ten thirty?” Fume, mutter, mutter.

I called the GarageFuhrer the next morning. I was told that I could not see my vehicle as there was a police investigation underway. I asked what kind of shape she was in. “Don’t know, can’t tell you anything like that”. “Well, has it got four wheels?” I couldn’t actually say “she”; they’d think I was nuts.“Sorry can’t help you there.” He did say I could go and obtain a release form for the vehicle. So off I went to the police station to get the form. Again, I met with a fairly miserable official, but I did manage to work out where my vehicle was being impounded. The form also indicated that if I didn’t move my vehicle by the following week, they would charge me daily storage charges and if I didn’t move it in six weeks, it would be sold off. Well how charming can you get? I couldn’t even see the chariot, never mind move it, and here I was being served with notice about it being flogged off.

The bit between my teeth now, my friend and I drove over to a rather unsavoury part of town where you wouldn’t walk at night if you had any sense. The police pound was pretty inhospitable with barb wire fences and a control tower. The voice on the intercom asked if they could assist me. I explained about my car and somewhat to our surprise, we were let in. I scanned row after and row of vehicles in various states of disrepair. I winced as I thought I saw what used to be my vehicle but my good friend reminded me that my car had four doors not two. As soon as I got to the office, the manager took my release form and immediately said there was no way I could get to see my car as it was under investigation. “Come back tomorrow and talk to the officer who deals with that.” Fume. My good friend diverted my attention and persuaded me to go and have a cool beer.

Fast forward 24 hours and I was back at Stalag 17 with my release form. After waiting a good half hour the police van showed up and drove off to the far section of the prison camp. “You should follow him,” snapped the commandant. I trudged after the truck in the beating sun. As I approached the lot, I could see Flossie 2. She had four wheels, bless her cotton socks. Messy as hell, covered in soot and mud, but she looked to be in one piece. The police officer was rather friendly, which took me back a bit after all the hassle I’d been through in the previous three days. We checked out Floss in more detail. There was damage to the passenger window where someone had tried to break in, however she was drivable. I was hugely relieved. I eased her out of the pound and sought out the nearest car wash to give Floss the equivalent of a hot bath with smelling salts.

Next day an ominous looking letter arrived from the Attorney General’s office. It turned out that five people were arrested trying to steal my vehicle and were due in court the following week. I was invited to make a victim impact statement. Bring back the stocks, I decided, and I’ll chuck rotten cabbages at them. You know what though? I’m thinking these impact statements are intended so that punters like me can have a good rant, and spill out all our frustrations. That way we don’t clog up surgeries and inhabit padded cells after going out of our minds after all the fuss, especially dealing with the mind numbing officialdom. After calming down a bit and sipping a hot cup of Ovaltine, I wrote quite a civilised piece about the costs and emotional impact of this incident, and fired it off to the court. I’ll hear next week if they have been convicted and sentenced to wash and wax Flossie every Saturday for the rest of her natural life. On reflection, perhaps I should have left that sentence out of the impact statement.

You’ll be pleased to know that today Flossie has pretty much all her fingers and toes. She has one addition. She has a rather becoming florescent green Club wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I considered installing a Barry Manilow CD so that it started playing if anyone came within ten feet of her. However I’ve decided that it would be cruel and unusual punishment for poor Flossie, who has been through so much. Her frayed nerves just could not take that; she’d have a breakdown for sure.

NPR Tapes : President Kennedy

I got up early this morning. As I often do, I checked around the news and today came across the National Public Radio recordings of events of 22nd November 1963, which they have recently put up on their website. I listened for about ten minutes to the unedited tape of radio exchanges made during that day. The scratchy sounding exchanges are mainly of communications between the Situation Room at the White House and a flight between Honolulu and Japan containing six members of JFK’s cabinet and then later between the Situation Room, Andrews Air Force Base and the Air Force One plane which is bringing the president’s body back to Washington.
The voices relaying chilling news seem so calm to me but it must have been havoc and shock behind the scenes. First there is news that the president has been hit. The plane en route to Japan turns round and heads back to Honolulu. It is then directed to head straight back to Washington instead of to Dallas. Soon after, a very short stark message comes through from the Situation Room to say that the president is dead. No embellishment. He’s dead.
It seems almost like an afterthought on the radio message but someone on the plane comes on to ask where the Vice President is – he’s at Parkland Hospital in Dallas - and then a short time later he’s referred to as President Johnson. An air force general instructs the crew at Andrews Air force base to have a forklift ready to transport the casket to and from Air Force One. The man responds that they’ll have a forklift or a group of men to handle that. This is about the time that I decide not to listen any more. At least this isn’t the Zupruder film, they seem to show that over and over and I can’t watch that any more.
I’m not a big fan of Kennedy and his presidency, particularly his foreign policy. However he did seem to capture a spirit that no American president has done since. I recall as a child going to stay in my aunt’s house in the north of Ireland and I remember seeing a picture of JFK right up there on the wall next to the Pope.

Joy to the World, A Burglar Came

Ten days ago my other half and I were out at the local hardware store. I reckon we should just bite the bul1et and move in to the place. We’d set up a comfortable nook with our bed, my favourite pillow and a copy of “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” resting on the bedside table. We seem to spend all our waking hours there. You see, a couple of months ago, we moved into our dream house. Lovely place. Not much to do to it, just move in. Hummph! There’s always stuff to be done, from shoring up the rotten wood on the garage roof to re-enforcing the glass sliding doors. Ah now there’s a story to those sliding doors.

Last Sunday we turned into our alley from yet another trip to your friendly store. The neighbour’s car was blocking the access to our parking spot and he approached us rather purposefully. His van had been broken into and an eagle-eyed neighbour had spotted a ne’er-do-well with a red woollen hat running away from the scene. It was not an early Santa Claus visitation. We commiserated and introduced ourselves to our two neighbours and chatted for a few minutes, catching up on the local gossip, particularly about Monica from up the street and her heart condition. Then I entered our back garden and noticed the shed door was open. Strange, but nothing seemed out of place there. I walked on to the deck to the sliding door at the back of our house. It was already wide open.

I went inside and heard the security alarm sounding. A voice called out from the front door – “Is anyone home? This is the police.” I checked around to see if anything in the kitchen was gone, but all looked ok. I started to go upstairs but the officer stopped me. He wasn’t sure if the intruder was still in the house. Oh G0d, I was thinking, and my panties are strewn all around the bedroom floor – what a way to impress the whippersnapper policeman. The very least the r0bber could have done was to phone ahead and tell us he was breaking in so I could have tidied away my dirty laundry.

All sorts of messages came over the police officer’s radio. Break-ins elsewhere and a multiple stabbing incident on Commercial Drive. “It’s been a killer of an afternoon,” Officer Jim complained. Rambo here (me) still wanted to bound upstairs and confront the intruder. Interesting thought: when your home has been invaded, often you don’t immediately think of personal safety. You’re just really angry that someone has stepped into your private space. Anyway Jimbo went upstairs hotly pursued by me and the equally angry OtherHalf. There was no sign of the intruder.

The bedroom was a mess. Yes, my underwear was scattered across the floor. I blamed OtherHalf. He dragged me to the hardware store with minimal notice. The cop smiled wryly when I suggested perhaps the intruder had a panty fetish. Bags were opened and the contents dumped on the floor. My expired passports lay next to the window. Drawers were open. It looked like someone had been searching in a hurry. I couldn’t see anything obvious missing. My prized possession, a button accordion, remained in place on the bed. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or not. It was worth a lot of money. I decided that our unfriendly burglar had no discerning musical taste whatsoever.

While the other two were downstairs checking out the rest of the house, I searched around. I had a faint suspicion that the burglar was still around so I checked under the bed and in a couple of secret hiding places. I’d obviously been watching too many detective mysteries. The intruder was well and truly gone. After a few minutes, I realized I couldn’t find my passport. I raced downstairs. On Jimbo’s radio we heard that a suspect had been apprehended at the local rail station, which was fifty yards down the road. I ran down the street to see if I could retrieve my documents.

People love an incident. Around fifty people were being kept back by police while a rather unkempt looking man – no red hat in sight - was being searched by two officers. I approached and identified myself. I scanned the man’s possessions which were laid out on the hood of the police cruiser. I was aware I was the centre of attention for the watching crowd. I didn’t need a placard with “Victim” in foot high letters. I looked for my documents amongst the five dollar bills, numerous syringes, folded silver foil and a strange looking Buddha necklace. I decided not to berate the young man for having the gall to ignore my button accordion. There was no sign of the passport. After a couple of minutes, I had the feeling that this individual had nothing to do with the incident. He seemed too spaced out to have broken in to our house. He happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Back at the house, a crowd had gathered outside, wanting to know what had happened. I got the impression that this was a quiet neighbourhood, so they were glad of some excitement. A couple of ten year olds animatedly told me about the man with a red bobble hat. Turned out they didn’t actually see him themselves. I was mightily upset about the passport and went back in and searched again. Thank heavens to Betsy, I found it at the back of the cupboard. Office Jimbo was not terribly happy about that. He wanted it to be found on the suspect, that way they could charge him with something. He let us know that there was insufficient evidence to keep the man in custody so they had let him go.

The police left, the security company called and were given copious details, the crowds subsided and then the two of us were left there, sitting in the living room in shock. The new house had been idyllic until then. We loved it. We kept saying that the previous owners were going to phone up and tell us that it was all a mistake and they wanted their home back. The break-in was a serious dose of reality. After knocking back a couple of beers, we made a few adjustments to the sliding doors to deter future intruders.

Meanwhile I am working on the strategic placement of a huge stone ball just above our bedroom doorway and six thousand venomous spiders are being trained to attack at will. In my deluded world, I am making sure that when BurglarBob comes back, he has to run the gauntlet to try to steal my accordion, as clearly by now he will have seen the error of his ways and now appreciates its true value. He will be back for sure. I’m ready for him, with bells on.

Bert Bent Wing and his friends

There’s a fir tree in clear sight from my friend’s apartment window. So what, I hear you say? Well what’s interesting about this particular tree are the habits of its transient inhabitants. I’m talking birds. We’ve been watching for several weeks, now, usually in the early evening, but now we’re so intrigued, we watch in the mornings too. Two main types of birds fly and visit this tree: crows and starlings.

The birds land on the upper most branches, sometimes so numerous that the branches are weighed down, and we contemplate what would be the critical mass that would cause the tree to just plain fall down. Not reached that critical; mass yet. Some kamikaze flyers perch on the highest branch, apparently defying gravity and I wonder how on earth they stay there without being dislodged as there is virtually nothing on which to perch.

An important question occurred to me. What happens when there are hundreds of birds, spaced no each of the branches, on top of each other. I mean, how they stop being spatter from above when Mother Nature kicks in? I’ve noticed that there are gaps between the birds; maybe they arrange it so that the occupant below does not get zapped. Maybe there is some signal – Watch out below there, buddy! Oh sorry, too late!” Somehow I doubt if they’re that careful.

Anyway one other observation for you while I’m at it. The crows definitely get occupancy privileges ahead of the starlings. The fir tree may be packed to the rafters with starlings. Suddenly you notice them depart on masse on some obviously prearranged signal. Then one crow comes along and takes occupancy. Sure enough with a minute or two, other crows start circling around and landing, and within minutes it’s the veritable Piccadilly Circus. I wonder if they are reporting their activities for the day to each other.“I blasted at least two MG sports cars today. Got the owners pretty darn good”“Ah, that’s noting, another would chip in.” Bert Bent Wing and I played 'Dare' on Highway 66 when we located the remains of a Big Mac. Too good to pass up, though Bert got his feathers rearranged yet again.”

The Dreaded Lilian

My partner and I are moving at the end of August. Negotiating our way through the potential minefield of lawyers, bankers, movers, real estate agents and other assorted characters can be a challenge but the whole process has been fairly smooth sailing so far. Except for the dreaded Lilian.

I’ve never met Lilian, maybe I won’t have to. I hope not. She is not coming to our house warming. She is not on my Christmas card list. Lilian is the public face of a local branch of a large insurance company. It all started out well enough. She spoke to my partner and took down all the details of our house. Then she went on holiday for a week and said she would deal with us when she returned.

I picked up the trail and phoned her when she got back from vacation. She had lost all the details we had previously given her. “Sorry about that, I hope you’re not inconvenienced.” Back to square one. I went through the list and made sure she was brought up to date again.

Lilian is one of those people who can only work at one pace. Instead of going through the application form and determining what is outstanding, and providing you with a list of questions, she asks for each piece of information separately, each constituting a different telephone call or e-mail. She’s really slow to return calls or e-mails; she always has some excuse about being busy with another client or that her colleague is sick. So what should have taken a couple of days at the outside to sort out, has taken upwards of three weeks.

Late breaking request, just one more piece of information, she said. “When were the heating, plumbing and electrical systems last upgraded?” Oh drat. I contacted the vendors via my realtor to their realtor. It took me half a day to get the details. When I finally got the answer, it turned out that Lilian had already spoken to the vendor’s agent the previous week and he had told her the exact same information. If you’ve seen the movie “Finding Nemo”, our Lilian is certainly channelling Dorie, the fish with no short term memory.

We’re moving at the end of this week Have we insurance yet? Well almost. Yesterday after answering a revolving door of questions, the dreaded Lilian said she was ready to fax over the completed application form for my signature. I fainted clean away in shock, but I told her to go ahead. Half an hour later the call came to say she couldn’t fax to my machine. I checked the machine and it was fine. I sent a test fax to the machine. It was fine. She tried again three times, no luck.

Meanwhile I had been sent excellent recommendations of two other insurance agents and their names were blazing on the page in front of me. Here I was, trying to get Lilian to use basic office equipment. I gave her my partner’s fax number. She called back to say that his machine wasn’t working either. I politely indicated that her machine might be the source of the difficulty, if you please, petal. She rang back to say she was going down the street to use another business’s fax machine. Well at least that was showing initiative. She called back to say the fax to my partner went fine.

My other half rang me and asked if we could throw the dice and whoever lost, had to deal with Lilian to complete the insurance. Muggins here got the short straw so BelovedPartner (memo to self: Partner = Doghouse) faxed me the application form. I signed it and faxed it off to Dreaded V. It went through like a shot. I called (twice) to ask Lilian to confirm that she has received it. No response. Now I knew for sure she had to be hiding under the desk.

Lilian called back four hours later after I have left work and left a message to report that all was sorted and that we had insurance, but could I come in and make arrangements to pay? Oh horror, I don’t think I can meet her, without attacking her. Calm down. I phoned her up this morning and paid by credit card and I hope to high heaven that we’re actually covered.

You may be wondering why we’d stuck with her and not gone elsewhere. Well we got a hefty discount in the first year because of our mortgage arrangements so it seemed like a good idea. I thought that having invested so much time trying to get the insurance policy sorted out, we thought we should finish the job with her. Very bad logic. We’re never doing that again. Next time we’ll cut our losses and move on.

You can be sure that come 28th August 2004 we will have switched our insurance to another company. I’m in deep therapy. I can’t deal with the Dreaded L any more. The kindly folks in the uniforms and the padded van are arriving any minute now

A Fishing Line and Bunch of Grapes

Last Sunday I got up at the ludicrously early time of 6:45am. I know, on a Sunday, what was I thinking? Well in a moment of weakness, I agreed to help a close friend hang pictures for her art exhibition which opened later in the day. The alarm screeched and I thought about the folly of it all, whilst trying to blast myself awake in the shower followed a few minutes later by gulps of some truly appalling Nabob coffee. Yes, I was suckered by the lure of a cheap sticker price. Memo to self: “Buy some fresh decent coffee and put that snazzy new unemployed coffee grinder to work. And turf the Nabob, turn it into compost”.

Back to the project on hand. Luckily the café, which doubled as an art gallery, was a couple of minutes walk from home and I dragged myself over there by 7:30am. As I arrived, my friend Freda, the artiste du jour, rolled up in her small red car which was packed to the gills with paintings. Also in the vehicle, somewhat obscured by picture frames, was her heavily bearded six foot something, spousal unit, Norman. The artwork was wonderful; mostly bold oil paintings of musicians, dancers and some still life. There was a picture of two banjo players in the pub, playing up a storm, with the inevitable half full beer glasses on the table beside them. A female Flamenco dancer taking the plaudits from the crowd at the end of her act. In the past I have been at festivals with Freda and she was always either taking photographs or sketching; getting ideas for her next artistic creation.

Back at the café, with the help of a couple of other friends, we carefully unloaded the car in short order and transported the booty into the café. Slightly bemused customers looked at us with interest and not a little suspicion as we took over the place with our paintings, and our concentrated frowns and the appearance, completely without foundation, that we actually knew what we were doing. Freda proceeded to drive home to get the other dozen paintings for the show, in particular the three or four that were "not quite dry.” She always worked well to a deadline, sometimes taking it to the limit. No doubt those last three were completed around 5am this morning. Meanwhile at the café the work crew were assembling, most of us, clearly caffeine deprived, wondering around in a fog like state, not unlike that morning’s weather.

Thankfully there was a floor plan of the café detailing where the paintings were to be hung. So “Flamenco”, “Cathedral” and “Plough Time” were moved below their allotted spots on the walls. I’d got to know many of these paintings very well over the last few years and I wasn’t at all sure we should be selling them to just anyone. I wanted to make sure they go to good homes. If you took “Cathedral” for example, a wonderful painting of Freda’s husband Norman walking their big brown shaggy dog, Skegness on a snow covered path in Lizard Park, with the huge fir trees looming behind them. You got the sense of quiet companionship between man and dog, and you could see their tracks in the snow trailing behind them. Skegness has long gone to that doggie paradise in the sky. How could Freda possibly part with that one? The answer was easy. Pictures in an artist’s studio did not contribute a cent towards the grocery bills. So the painting had to be sold.

When the café patrons started coming to look at what we were doing and reviewing the paintings, I vetted them as suitable purchasers. I must say I had my concerns about most of them, particularly the woman with purple hair and a noticeable nicotine problem, undoubtedly the owner of a tiny yapping doglike creature tied to a chair outside the cafe.

The next issue was actually hanging the beasts. Down came the wires and hooks from the previous art show. No wires for us. There was a ten second lesson from Norman on how to hang a picture using fishing line.

“So you hook it through there, and there, and knot it there; and then hey presto, you’re done.” He then added: “Use this line for twenty pounders and below and that line for the big fish.” I must admit I’d not thought of paintings in that fashion before and I experienced some anxiety as to what a big fish might actually look like. Still, there was work to be done. Two of us found a sturdy looking ladder down a dark narrow corridor at the back of the cafe and I was impressed that we transported it back into the main seating area and against the wall without decapitating any customers. My companion had forgotten his reading glasses which made threading fishing line through small hooks a bit of a challenge at the best of times but nigh on impossible at the crack of dawn on a Sunday with minimal sleep. So I was the one looping the line through the hooks while he waited impatiently giving me unwanted advice.

It took us about five paintings before we got the hang of it and a production line of sorts got going between stringers and hangers. I soon became a proud card carrying member of the stringers of the world. As if you’d see me on a ladder hanging paintings – “Yes, right, up an inch. No, down a bit. No, up another inch.” Not on your nellie. Somebody else was going to go hand, my feet were staying firmly on the floor.

Meanwhile, throughout these shenanigans, more early morning patrons started staggering in for their shots of caffeine. Some looked on with interest, checking out the paintings, most nodding appreciatively. Others completely ignored us as if we were wallpaper, which in a sense, we were. Eventually a woman came up to me and confidently told me she really liked my work but there was just one thing I needed to know. She lowered her voice a few decibels and said we’d got the arrangement all wrong. “All the dance pictures should be together and the musician pieces should be over there,” she whispered knowingly. After working for two hours on hanging the paintings, I believe I was well worthy of beatification when I smiled and simply told her we would consider her request. Oh, and yes, I did mention that I wasn’t the artist but would convey the information in double quick time. I mentally drew a picture of the woman stuffed by a taxidermist and mounted next to the east window.

Thirty two paintings later and they were all in place. We took extra special care with the piece called “Bowl of Fruit” because it turns out the grapes were still wet. I've a feeling they were probably apples earlier that morning. By 10:30 am the chain gang were beyond starving and Freda bought us all breakfast, and I lashed into some blueberry crepes.

The show opened later that day, accompanied by a group of Freda's musician friends in the corner. A few dozen friends and acquaintances came by. Wine and cheese were consumed in unequal measures and it was considered a roaring success. For myself, I still had a strong sense of impending loss over the paintings. The exhibition opened with one painting having a red dot on it, denoting that it was already sold. The thought of that picture disappearing with a stranger never to be seen again was too much. Three weeks later when the exhibition ended, one painting was brought to my house. I bought “Cathedral” on the first day of the exhibition and it has pride of place in my hallway.