Tag Archives: Retrospective

25 Years Ago

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25 years ago tomorrow morning, England was closed. Or, at least it seemed like it was closed to us.

It was during my year-long or so stint in Germany. Every week I would travel there (usually on a Sunday or Monday evening), travelling back three or four days later. It was exhausting.

My job was as a consultant to Ford and we were introducing a new system to one of their suppliers. Sometimes I would be alone but this particular time, I was with some other people from Ford – or at least one person, AA.

When we got into work on the 16th, we, as normal, tried to contact colleagues. The phones rang out but no one answered.

We joked that England was closed.

What we didn’t know was that, for the South East at least, it almost was.

The great storm of 1987 meant that many people didn’t get into work and many had no electricity.

Was it really 25 years ago? Half a lifetime (more or less)!

Escape ………….. or maybe not?

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It’s all over the UK news. This teacher has, apparently, disappeared to France with one of his 15-year-old pupils.

And, it brought to mind the time my sister disappeared with some guy.

I don’t, unfortunately, remember the details. I think she was about 15 or 16. The guy was older – maybe in his 20s.

They went off together and were away for several days (or was it a week, or maybe longer?).

I’m sure the police were involved.

I remember my parents being out of their minds.

And I remember thinking that:

a) she knew what she was doing,
b) that my parents, for the way they treated her, deserved it (to some extent) and
c) that she had finally ‘got away’.

Except that, in reality, she hadn’t. She was back soon.

I guess the same will happen with this story too.

Social or Anti

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I don’t know why but during the weekend I kept thinking of my parents. Well, not thinking of them, exactly, but rather how much they wouldn’t like this. This thing that I do now.

I always thought that I would never pay to go onto a beach. But I used to hate carrying everything. Not that I actually carried everything, of course, but as I was the eldest, it was always more. And, instead of setting up camp near the entrance to the beach, we always had to go where there was no one else. Which meant walking on the beach. And walking. And walking. Laden as we were with deckchairs and windbreaks and costumes and food. And walking until I thought I would die. Or felt I would die. Or wanted to die with shame and embarrassment.

Even when we arrived at what seemed to be the furthest possible location, it wasn’t finished. For there was the setting up of the windbreak, the deck chairs, the changing into costumes, one at a time, using this thing that my Mum had fashioned out of, what seemed to be some sort of toweling but was almost like a curtain – but a very ugly curtain, with elastic at the top or drawstrings or something so that it covered you from the neck down. I absolutely HATED changing on the beach.

Then there was the food. We were a family of 6 so there was a lot of food. Sandwiches made that morning, sausage rolls made last week and kept in tupperware, rock cakes, hard boiled eggs. And other stuff.

It all seemed such a palaver.

But, being 6, I guess they couldn’t afford to go to restaurants and we didn’t have burger places then – except Wimpy, which was dreadful (not that the burger places now are much good). I understand now and I think I understood then.

That doesn’t mean I liked it. I didn’t. I HATED it. I hated everything about it. It’s like we were some sort of tribe, invading the beach. But with the embarrassment of it all I was, kind of, glad that we weren’t near other people. But they seemed to hate it when other people came near. If someone pitched up near to us they would complain and ask (themselves) why the person had to park themselves so close to us.

And, on reflection, perhaps that is one of the reasons I find it hard to socialise, in general. I wasn’t brought up to socialise, I guess.

Of course, in the early evening (unless the weather was not so good) we had to reverse all this. Packing away the food left-overs, uprooting the windbreak and rolling it up, collapsing the deckchairs. Getting changed again using the stupid and hateful changing robe thing. And then carrying the whole lot back to the car.

However, now, I love the fact that we just go to the beach. We take towels. We take personal stuff. But we don’t have to take deckchairs or food or an umbrella or a windbreak. It’s not a 6-mile hike to the spot we have. Of course, there are people always nearby. It’s not like we can hide away. And because F is from there and so are many people on the beach and that we share an umbrella with another couple (who only come for about an hour), you can’t really NOT talk to anyone.

But it’s nice.

And, coming back to the point, a lifetime away from anything my parents would have done.

Memories – not always what you think, maybe?

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I had a bad night, the night before last. Maybe it’s because F is away in Germany? In any event, there seemed to be many troubled dreams and thoughts.

And some of these things weren’t troubling at the start, only when I started questioning my memory.

Was my hair really so long when I was 19?

I always say it was down my back, putting my hand on my lower back. But, the night before last, I questioned that. Sure, washing it (and subsequently drying it) seemed to take a whole night. and although I remember THAT, I can’t actually remember seeing my hair so long. And so, that led me to question if it really was ever that long.

And the holiday in Egypt. Sure I can remember certain things (the jewellery shop; the Coptic church we were taken to; sitting in that church; handing out pens to the children afterwards; being surprised that the Pyramids were not in the desert after all but, rather, in the middle of housing estates; a walk we took from the cruise boat with a minder following us to ensure we would be safe BUT there are so many things that I don’t remember. I don’t remember the Pyramids themselves, the tombs we visited, the cruise ship on which we spent a week.

And I wonder, did I make my whole life up?

And that made me think about my time with V – and the fact that I seem to be forgetting it all. It’s almost as if it had never been.

And my childhood. I remember one night the caravan awning got ripped off the caravan in the high winds. Except I remember it more as a newspaper headline and not the event or the aftermath itself.

I remember that Gilly Gaskell and I promised ourselves to each other at the end of her garden – and I can picture the garden surrounded by roads and the corner as if I were in an aircraft, looking down – but I can’t actually picture me there or her there. OK, so I was about 5 at the time and that is now a very long time ago – but that’s not really the point.

The point is that it’s more like a film. You remember bits of the film and, if you saw it again you would say ‘Yes, that’s how it happened’ but otherwise you remember some detail and forget others and, all the time, you’re watching it, not participating.

Maybe it’s my age? Or maybe it’s just me?

Or, maybe, it all never really happened.

A bit sad although it may not have been like this.

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Someone ‘shared’ a photo from one of the community-style pages.

It made me go and have a look.

And, then I came across this photo of Harding’s of Hereford.

I don’t recall very well whether my Grandfather worked there as a plumber or, because he was a plumber, he used to go there a lot to buy the stuff he needed.

And then I thought about him and wished I could see him now. I would have a lot to tell him about my life. I don’t know he would approve of it all but that’s OK.

And I felt a bit sad even if my memories probably weren’t true to the way that it really was.

The burning question – suppository or not?

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I have mentioned, before, that Italians have things like colpo d’aria (fault of the air) and pain in their livers (which cannot feel pain) as some of the (very) strange illnesses.

What I haven’t talked about (because I didn’t know) was that they also seem to have strange ideas about cures.

The colpo d’aria, of course, can easily get to your neck which is why Italians like to keep their necks covered. Wearing a scarf is NOT a fashion statement but a requirement if you are to keep that nasty illness away (although it may well have become a fashion statement now, as well).

I’m sure, for the Italians, we, from the UK, are strange too.

Take suppositories. In the UK, no one would admit to taking them on the basis that the only things they are really good for are jokes.

For example, this:

A guy goes to the doctor and the doctor examines him and gives him a prescription for suppositories.

“Take two of these a day and come back in two weeks”, said the doc.

After two weeks, the guy returns and the doctor says, “Well, how did that medicine I prescribed work for you?”

The guy says, “Doctor, for all the good those damned things did me, I coulda shoved ‘em up my butt!”

or this:

A man with a bad stomach complaint goes to his doctor and asks him what he can do. The doctor replies that the illness is quite serious but can be cured by inserting a suppository up his anal passage. The man agrees, and so the doctor warns him of the pain, tells him to bend over and shoves the thing way up his behind. The doctor then hands him a second dose and tells him to do the same thing in six hours.

So, the man goes home and later that evening tries to get the second suppository inserted, but he finds that he cannot reach himself properly to obtain the required depth. He calls his wife over and tells her what to do. The wife nods, puts one hand on his shoulder to steady him and with the other shoves the medicine home.

Suddenly the man screams, “DAMN!”

“What’s the matter?” asks the wife. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” replies the man, “but I just realized that when the doctor did that, he had BOTH hands on my shoulders!”

The only things I remember having as remedies as a kid were bread with hot, sweet milk and special kid’s disprin.

Not so here, it seems. (Nor, for that matter in France). Here, apparently, suppositories are the cure-all and are given to kids as soon as they are able to ‘do it themselves’.

I must admit I am quite shocked. I mean I don’t know of anyone in the UK who would use one to, for example, cure a cough. But last night, I was assured, it absolutely totally cures such a thing and is much better than syrup or anything else.

Who knew?

These foreigners, they ARE strange people, aren’t they? ;-)

And, apparently, it burns a bit – hence the title :-D

I trip over the “rug” and break some bones

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God, I was so tired.

The alarm goes off and I am so asleep. I pick up the phone and press ‘snooze’. Or, maybe I did.

As usual, I lie awake wondering if I accidentally chose ‘dismiss’ instead.

But only half awake. F is curled up behind me cuddling me and I am warm and I think that if I did chose ‘dismiss’ it’s OK and, maybe, I could phone into work and say I was ill or something. Just this once. After I chose ‘snooze’ (or, maybe ‘dismiss’), he cuddles me tighter.

But I didn’t press ‘dismiss’ and, in what seems seconds but is, in fact, 5 minutes, the alarm goes again.

I get up.

I close the doors behind me and go to the bathroom and shave and wash and wet my hair – all the while sleeping still. I don’t shave properly so have to do a bit again. Dino, who always gets up with alarm, realises that this time we’re not going out (F will take him later) and stretches himself out by the bathroom door – front feet forward, back feet backwards – like a rug.

After I have my shirt on I wonder if I’ve put on deodorant but think I must have because I remember putting on cologne and it’s like a habit – deodorant first, cologne next. But I don’t really know and, right at that moment, couldn’t care less. God, I feel tired. But so tired that if I lay down I’m sure I would be snoring within a second.

I hadn’t put the full bathroom light on, only the one over the mirror. I switch it off and walk out to go to the kitchen.

Of course, even if I know he’s there, I am so sleepy that I forget that he’s there and so, I trip over the rug. The rug moves, of course, and as such I start to fall headlong towards the bread prover (a big wooden cabinet that I have which is rather unusual) and, of course, put my hand out in front of me to stop myself from crashing either to the floor or into the bread prover.

My finger tips made contact with the bread prover but such was the weight of myself that it bent my longest finger back and I thought I heard a crack.

I didn’t swear or shout or scream for I realised that I had known he was there and that it was entirely my sleepy state that had caused this.

But my finger hurt. In fact, it was difficult to hold things. My fingers (all of them) felt kind of numb.

And, now, as I write this, my second finger (my longest) still hurts so maybe I have broken it.

Or maybe not since it hasn’t really swollen up at all.

I will see how it goes.

I remember when my thumb broke, skiing. There wasn’t really anything they could do to fix it, it just had to heal itself. The same will be true of this.

So I wait to see if it will become swollen.

In any event, it is more difficult to type.

At least it’s my left hand and, apart from smoking, I don’t use it so much.

But damn anyway!

Holidays in the North!

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I remember a birthday party, years ago. It was at the house of one of my sister’s friends (at that time we were communicating – V and she were in love with each other – in a platonic sense, that is. That’s quite obviously until they fell out – from when they hated each other). It was in the South East of the UK. Her birthday was in July, the 14th, I think. Anyway, mid-July.

She was going to have a barbeque. Seems reasonable, doesn’t it?

Well, yes, but this was the UK. A guarantee of good weather is not a given, even in mid-July.

In fact, on the day, it rained and was very, very cold. We had to wear jumpers and coats. Needless to say, the barbeque was cancelled. You can’t really have one when it’s about 12 degrees outside. And raining.

Summers in the UK! One of the reasons I wanted to come somewhere warm. Or, at least, warmer for longer, with some kind of guarantee.

Then, the year after we moved here, we were convinced by S&N to go on holiday together – to Austria. Look at summer brochures for Austria. Go on, take a look.

Just in case you can’t be bothered, I’ve done the searching and found some for you:

Isn’t it lovely? Look at the beauty of the lake and the wondrous blue sky! Who wouldn’t want to go there, eh?

The one above is very like the valley that we stayed in. Quite inspiring.

And these people, in swimsuits, sitting in the shallows of a lovely lake. The weather, so wonderful and WARM!

Except, of course, it wasn’t like that. It was more like this:

See those low clouds? Under them is rain. Solid rain. And cold. Very cold. Solid rain and very cold.

And when it wasn’t raining it was like this:

It’s no wonder it’s all so green. It looks quite bearable, doesn’t it? Well, it was still cold. But in any event, it was mostly like this:

To be fair, I did query it as a summer holiday destination to start with. I was told that, no, it would be fine. It would be August, wouldn’t it? And, to be fair, they did say that it was the worst weather they had had in years. And to be fairer, the week after we had left, they had massive flooding.

Still, you know, I swore that it was the last time I would be going ‘north’ for a holiday?

Except one should never say ‘never’, should one?

No, one shouldn’t. Otherwise you will end up doing the same again.

Which is what I shall be doing.

There is a fiftieth birthday party. And she is a very good friend of F’s. And so we shall be going to Vienna for almost one week. In May. Hmmmm. F has booked a flat so we can take Dino.

I shall pack jumpers and thick socks. And walking boots. And heavy coats. I shall be equipped for snow and stuff. And I shall pack one T-shirt just in case we have warm weather.

Never going back (unfortunately).

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Walk down any High Street in the UK and, more or less, you could be walking down any High Street in any UK city.

What’s wrong with that?

Positively, it means that, wherever you go in the UK, you can be sure there will be the same shops. It means that, if you buy something in, say, Nottingham, it’s more than likely you can buy the same thing in Exeter. This is a good thing, right?

Well, yes, of course. And also no.

The High Street is filled with the same shops everywhere. Individual shops, local to a town or small region have all but disappeared. It means that economies of scale can apply – the big shops buy larger amounts so can get better prices which, hopefully, they pass on to the consumer.

I remember when we first came here. I was shocked but delighted to see shops that weren’t the same in every town. How refreshing it was to find a small, independent jewellers, a stationary shop that had something different or unusual, etc? It was a little like when we went to live in North West Herefordshire and went shopping in Kington.

It’s a treasure that one should guard lovingly. Of course, in every major town there are streets full of High Street names, but mixed with them and in many side streets off them are the small shops. Let’s take cake shops as an example. Go to the UK and there’s Greggs. Probably there are some others but Greggs comes to mind. Greggs is in every town. Everything is ‘freshly made’. Everything is ‘the same’. You go to Greggs because you know what you’re going to get.

Here it’s not like that. Each cake shop (maybe with a café as well) produces their own stuff. Cakes are different. Some cakes you won’t get anywhere else. There’s a risk, of course, that you won’t like what they’ve made. There’s also the risk that it will be a unique experience and will be the most divine thing you’ve ever tasted – like my local cake shop does zeppole. However, I am informed (by F) that these are not quite the same as normal zeppole. They are not deep fried (as is common) but baked. They have ones filled with custard and ones filled with cream. If we choose them, we usually have one of each.

The UK used to be more like this but then it all changed. Competition was everything and, gradually, for convenience and, originally, price, we chose to use the big supermarkets and the national bakers, etc. And, so, the result is a High Street that is homogeneous and, to be frank, boring as hell.

And now Italy is going down the same road. People here don’t realise what it will mean. It means that the small shops will close. It means that all towns will look the same. We will have to buy what everyone else buys because there will, in the end, be less choice – well, less real choice.

Of course, it’s being sold as ‘opening up the markets’ and the arguments are made that everyone will benefit. But, in reality it will mean that big business gets to own the market and the benefit will be, in a word, ‘grey’ – i.e., the same things sold everywhere.

I find that I can’t put into words what this change really means. But I’m not sure that the free market is actually worth the loss of what Italy has now (and what the UK HAD about 30 or more years ago).

Sure, it would be nice to buy aspirin and stuff at the supermarket. It would be nice that shops were always open. But that ‘nice’ is tempered by the fact that, as a result of allowing this to happen, we shall lose something that is most precious.

It’s not that I don’t want change or that change is bad. It’s not that I even like the rules and regulations here. It’s more that I don’t want to see, here, what happened to the UK. Nothing is perfect but I am fearful that Italy’s ‘localisation’ will be lost forever and it’s something I would not like to see.

After all, once the small places are gone, they are gone forever – there’s no going back.

Joni sang all that needs to be said:


(Joni Mitchell – Big Yellow Taxi)

What’s love got to do with it?

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As I have mentioned in some other post or posts, there is a prostitute who ‘works’ a corner just near where I live.

She always say ‘Hi, puppy!’ when we go past. (BTW, she’s talking to Dino at that point, not me :-D ). We say Hi to each other and I mumble something about the weather (especially recently as it’s been so cold, poor thing). I don’t know where’s she’s from. She is very tall and has legs right up to her bum. But I don’t really know much about her except that she is, undoubtedly, a prostitute.

I don’t have a big problem with it, in as much as I’m not interested and I do feel kinda sorry for her in that, as a career choice (if she has any choice), it wouldn’t rate as a fabulous choice imho.

But this is a profession that’s very, very old and, at least, it’s direct and to the point. I.e. you want sex, you pay for it.

Whereas, this, apparently, is most definitely NOT!

Obviously.

I mean, even where there are men saying they’ll fork out thousands of dollars a month, the terms and conditions explicitly state:

Please take note that we prohibit anyone from promoting illegal activities (such as prostitution) or commercial activities of any kind in their profile or in messages sent on the site and if such conduct comes to our attention we reserve the right to, amongst other things, remove you from our website and ban you permanently.

So, there you are. Not prostitution. Nor anything like it. Obviously.

Perhaps I should write down the url and give it to my lady friend from the corner?

In the meantime, I met this next lady once, in the street, in Milan. And she smiled at me. But she’s really tiny and not a prostitute, unlike my lady-from-the-corner friend.


(Tina Turner – What’s Love Got To Do With It?)