I realised today, that I have not provided links to all my works from this blog. So, this post is to rectify that forthwith...
Poem - My Slate Floor
Nostalgic Observation - How Winter Used To Be
Poem - I saved Three Bees From Drowning
Poem - I Am The New Talent In The South West
Poem - I'm Not Having It
Short Play - Chickens On The Beach
Short Story - A Journey Into My Afterlife
Saturday 20 October 2012
Friday 23 March 2012
Tracy Titivate Saved My Life
I was a smoker. I'll repeat that: I was a smoker.
I haven't inhaled tobacco smoke for more than three months at the time of writing - hooray for me. (Actually, it will always be 'more than three months' won't it. Never mind...) And that's after smoking for more than thirty years. Three months ago, if you'd been intrusive enough to ask me if I would ever give up smoking, I would have categorically, if a little reluctantly, said no. As far as my will power and addictive personality were concerned, I was going to be a smoker for the rest of my (shortened) life. I enjoyed smoking. Nay, I loved smoking. And all the nagging, badgering and nanny-stating, however well intentioned, would not have diverted me. But, I'll say it again, because I can hardly believe it myself, I was a smoker. I smoke no more. A fag, a ciggy, a tab, a rolly, a snout. Not for me. Not any more, thank you very much. And, will I continue to evade the hideous weed? Hell, yes. And why might that be, pray?
Well, to answer that, I need to provide a tiny bit of background. Don't despair. It won't take long. You'll appreciate it in the end...
Tracy Titivate** is the person, ultimately, I have to thank. You may think, after I have explained, that this is a somewhat tortuous path. But you have to identify a 'turning point' somewhere along the line and for me, Tracy Titivate is it.
You see, Tracy is a presenter on my local radio station. Not a very good one, though. She's the presenter who sits in for superior presenters when they take a holiday, go to a football match (really - one presenter had the night off to go and watch his team play. That's dedication - but not to his job!), go to the dentist, have a raging hangover etc. etc. You get the picture. She doesn't have her own show, doesn't Tracy. And probably never will. She reads the news occasionally, the odd traffic report. She can be found calling in a roving report on a pasty-making competition for the under 12's in a quiet hamlet, somewhere - oh, you know: over there somewhere.
I'm sure that Tracy is a 'nice person'. Her heart's in the right place. (Don't you hate it when people say that? To me, it just means the person afforded this accolade is absolutely useless at everything). And, for a while, I was able to tolerate her 'performance' on the radio.
And now I get to the point! My wonderful wife bought me a DAB radio for Christmas, just before we moved to our current location. I unwrapped this beauty at her parent's house, plugged it in and marvelled at the fifteen or so crystal clear radio stations emanating from its high-quality speaker. Pleased, I was. Chuffed, in fact. For, when we moved, I was to be labouring away on a complete renovation of a little cottage and, naturally, I would require excellent entertainment to be brought to my ears whilst I plastered, demolished, rebuilt, crafted, painted and titivated - oops, last word irony, there.
However - and this is a whopping 'however' - once we were established in our new location, stap me vitals if I couldn't pick up any digital radio stations at all! Not one! On a scale of '1 to annoying', this was infuriating! After some twiddling with the buttons and dials, I discovered that the only radio station I could pick up was the local BBC station - and that was on FM!
Fortunately, very fortunately, this happened to be an excellent radio station. A good mix of entertainment, music, news, local information and a highly entertaining daily phone-in show. All presented by charming, intelligent, amusing, professionals. I was saved! Hallelujah! And so it was that my local BBC radio station entertained me throughout my renovation of the little cottage and beyond. I even phoned in myself on a number of occasions to air my views or to enter a competition. I was smitten!
But then the 'spate' happened. This was a spate that, little did I know, would eventually stop me from smoking. Well, what is this so-called 'spate', you may well ask? You're desperate to know, aren't you? I can feel it. Well, I'll tell you...
This spate occurred over, perhaps, a couple of months. One excellent presenter after another took time off. From between one and three weeks, they disappeared from the airwaves. And Tracy Titivate stood in - or, rather, sat in. Tracy pervaded the silence in my home every day for at least two months straight. Initially, it was tolerable. And I thought that she'd be off the air the following week. But no, Joe Bloggs returns to his regular spot and Arthur Scuttlebucket then decides to take two weeks off, and she's back! Or rather, she's still there, just in a different time slot.
So, what's the problem with poor old Tracy, then? I mean, she's a trier, so what's my beef?
Well, I'll admit to a tendency towards pedantry. But it's not just that. Even those not governed by the devil that is pedantry would become irritated beyond belief, I'm sure. Tracy Titivate seems incapable of speaking a single sentence without tripping over at least one word. Either that or she uses completely the wrong word in a sentence. And yet, she comes across as supremely confident in her verbiage. You forgive the first stumble -and even the second. But, by the time she's six sentences in and six blunders have occurred, your shouting at the radio! Correcting her English, calling her unprintable names.
But it's not just this. I derive a certain egotistical pleasure from correcting supposed professionals, I'll admit it. But there are limits. In the end, it's simply irritating, irksome, bloody annoying! It gets worse, though. Not only does Miss Titivate scramble her way through the English language as though it were a verbal assault course, but it's all about her!!
Whenever she's interviewing someone, she can't help but refer to her own experiences. Oh, you live there do you? I went there once and... Ah, you have one of those, do you? Yes, I have one too and I... And so it goes on. And on, and on, and on. It's all me, me, me, me, me. Dullsville!
You might think that would be enough. But, no. Tracy Titivate is, ostensibly, a professional radio presenter/journalist. Why then, please tell me, oh God, please, please tell me, why does she always ask closed questions? It's simple, Tracy. Who, What, Why, When, Where. I once listened to an entire Tracy Titivate interview in which every question she posed could have been answered either 'yes' or 'no'. Fortunately, for her, the interviewee had some message or other to get across and expanded on his answers accordingly. But, she does it every time. I imagine being interviewed by her and simply answering 'yes' or 'no' if for no other reason than to make someone who matters understand that - she doesn't belong on the radio!
So, what's your point, Grundy? You're asking by now. And how did Tracy Titivate save your life, exactly?
Well, I became irritated to such a degree that it felt like maggots were burrowing their way from my innards to my skin every time I was forced to listen to Tracy Titivate. Ever feel like that? I couldn't take it any more. I just couldn't. So, I prodded the 'Station' button on my DAB radio. 'Turn the dial to tune' it informed me on its little screen. I did. I wasn't expecting to find another station. Not at a listenable clarity, anyway. But, cor blimey guv'nor, if I didn't land on Radio 4! Not what you might describe as clear as a bell, but certainly clear and static-free enough to listen to without becoming brick-through-the-window stressed.
Breathes enormous sigh of relief. And so it was that I became a Radio 4 fan, listening from first thing in the morning until I switched it off when we settled in for our evening meal. I had listened to Radio 4 occasionally in the past - mostly the 6:30 pm comedy programmes, but also PM. But my eyes (or rather, ears) had been opened. Radio 4 - informative, entertaining, amusing, hard-hitting, cultural, eye-wateringly funny, educational, incisive. Why had I been wasting my time listening to Tracy Titivate?
So, it was Tracy Titivate forcing me to turn the tuning dial who caused Radio 4 to become the background and foreground to my daily life.
Great. Fascinating. But how does this explain Tracy Titivate saving your life, eh Grundy?
Ah, well. There you have it. You see, if it hadn't been for Tracy Titivate, I might not have been listening to Radio 4 when an interesting article about electronic cigarettes was aired. And I come back to my first sentence: I was a smoker. For thirty-plus years. This particular Radio 4 article involved a presenter chatting to a 'vaper'. A vaper being someone who 'vapes'. The vaper vaped. The presenter was astonished at the clouds of vapour, seemingly just like cigarette smoke. You see, because a vaper inhales vapour, as opposed to smoke, he is known as a vaper, as opposed to a smoker.
This article spiked my imagination. Obviously, this was a radio program and, as such, it was simply not possible to view this vapour. I needed to know more. I surfed. I found a marvellously informative website called e-cig-reviews run by a splendid chap called Scott Bonner (name not fictitious to protect the innocent). I watched one video and I was amazed. Truly, I was amazed. Here was this chap putting something resembling a Parker Pen to his mouth and exhaling what looked like cigarette smoke. Only it wasn't! It was mostly water vapour. I couldn't believe it...
Scott Bonner is the second person I should thank (and have done) for steering me towards electronic cigarettes. I watched several more of his videos and became not a little excited at the prospect of trying this 'vaping' lark.
The wait was excruciating. I sat at my computer, chatting (virtually) to experienced vapers on Scott's forum, whilst puffing away on my roll-ups, desperate for the postman to arrive with my newly-purchased starter kit.
It arrived. I was amazed. I haven't smoked a cigarette since.
The vapour that is vaped has no tobacco, no smoke, no tar, no 4000+ chemicals, no carcinogens. And yet, it is incredibly close to the sensation of smoking. Really. Unbelievably close. Although it has not been around long enough for scientific evidence to categorically state that vaping is harmless, there is a general consensus that, well, it pretty much is. Certainly, 98% less harmful than tobacco.
So the rest, I hope, will be my future history - if you see what I mean. I have moved on to a bigger and better device now and I'm absolutely loving vaping!
And, ultimately, I have Tracy Titivate's ineptitude to thank for stopping me smoking.
** I'm sure you'd already guessed, but Tracy Titivate is a fictitious name. However, she is based on a real person and this story is true.
I haven't inhaled tobacco smoke for more than three months at the time of writing - hooray for me. (Actually, it will always be 'more than three months' won't it. Never mind...) And that's after smoking for more than thirty years. Three months ago, if you'd been intrusive enough to ask me if I would ever give up smoking, I would have categorically, if a little reluctantly, said no. As far as my will power and addictive personality were concerned, I was going to be a smoker for the rest of my (shortened) life. I enjoyed smoking. Nay, I loved smoking. And all the nagging, badgering and nanny-stating, however well intentioned, would not have diverted me. But, I'll say it again, because I can hardly believe it myself, I was a smoker. I smoke no more. A fag, a ciggy, a tab, a rolly, a snout. Not for me. Not any more, thank you very much. And, will I continue to evade the hideous weed? Hell, yes. And why might that be, pray?
Well, to answer that, I need to provide a tiny bit of background. Don't despair. It won't take long. You'll appreciate it in the end...
Tracy Titivate** is the person, ultimately, I have to thank. You may think, after I have explained, that this is a somewhat tortuous path. But you have to identify a 'turning point' somewhere along the line and for me, Tracy Titivate is it.
You see, Tracy is a presenter on my local radio station. Not a very good one, though. She's the presenter who sits in for superior presenters when they take a holiday, go to a football match (really - one presenter had the night off to go and watch his team play. That's dedication - but not to his job!), go to the dentist, have a raging hangover etc. etc. You get the picture. She doesn't have her own show, doesn't Tracy. And probably never will. She reads the news occasionally, the odd traffic report. She can be found calling in a roving report on a pasty-making competition for the under 12's in a quiet hamlet, somewhere - oh, you know: over there somewhere.
I'm sure that Tracy is a 'nice person'. Her heart's in the right place. (Don't you hate it when people say that? To me, it just means the person afforded this accolade is absolutely useless at everything). And, for a while, I was able to tolerate her 'performance' on the radio.
And now I get to the point! My wonderful wife bought me a DAB radio for Christmas, just before we moved to our current location. I unwrapped this beauty at her parent's house, plugged it in and marvelled at the fifteen or so crystal clear radio stations emanating from its high-quality speaker. Pleased, I was. Chuffed, in fact. For, when we moved, I was to be labouring away on a complete renovation of a little cottage and, naturally, I would require excellent entertainment to be brought to my ears whilst I plastered, demolished, rebuilt, crafted, painted and titivated - oops, last word irony, there.
However - and this is a whopping 'however' - once we were established in our new location, stap me vitals if I couldn't pick up any digital radio stations at all! Not one! On a scale of '1 to annoying', this was infuriating! After some twiddling with the buttons and dials, I discovered that the only radio station I could pick up was the local BBC station - and that was on FM!
Fortunately, very fortunately, this happened to be an excellent radio station. A good mix of entertainment, music, news, local information and a highly entertaining daily phone-in show. All presented by charming, intelligent, amusing, professionals. I was saved! Hallelujah! And so it was that my local BBC radio station entertained me throughout my renovation of the little cottage and beyond. I even phoned in myself on a number of occasions to air my views or to enter a competition. I was smitten!
But then the 'spate' happened. This was a spate that, little did I know, would eventually stop me from smoking. Well, what is this so-called 'spate', you may well ask? You're desperate to know, aren't you? I can feel it. Well, I'll tell you...
This spate occurred over, perhaps, a couple of months. One excellent presenter after another took time off. From between one and three weeks, they disappeared from the airwaves. And Tracy Titivate stood in - or, rather, sat in. Tracy pervaded the silence in my home every day for at least two months straight. Initially, it was tolerable. And I thought that she'd be off the air the following week. But no, Joe Bloggs returns to his regular spot and Arthur Scuttlebucket then decides to take two weeks off, and she's back! Or rather, she's still there, just in a different time slot.
So, what's the problem with poor old Tracy, then? I mean, she's a trier, so what's my beef?
Well, I'll admit to a tendency towards pedantry. But it's not just that. Even those not governed by the devil that is pedantry would become irritated beyond belief, I'm sure. Tracy Titivate seems incapable of speaking a single sentence without tripping over at least one word. Either that or she uses completely the wrong word in a sentence. And yet, she comes across as supremely confident in her verbiage. You forgive the first stumble -and even the second. But, by the time she's six sentences in and six blunders have occurred, your shouting at the radio! Correcting her English, calling her unprintable names.
But it's not just this. I derive a certain egotistical pleasure from correcting supposed professionals, I'll admit it. But there are limits. In the end, it's simply irritating, irksome, bloody annoying! It gets worse, though. Not only does Miss Titivate scramble her way through the English language as though it were a verbal assault course, but it's all about her!!
Whenever she's interviewing someone, she can't help but refer to her own experiences. Oh, you live there do you? I went there once and... Ah, you have one of those, do you? Yes, I have one too and I... And so it goes on. And on, and on, and on. It's all me, me, me, me, me. Dullsville!
You might think that would be enough. But, no. Tracy Titivate is, ostensibly, a professional radio presenter/journalist. Why then, please tell me, oh God, please, please tell me, why does she always ask closed questions? It's simple, Tracy. Who, What, Why, When, Where. I once listened to an entire Tracy Titivate interview in which every question she posed could have been answered either 'yes' or 'no'. Fortunately, for her, the interviewee had some message or other to get across and expanded on his answers accordingly. But, she does it every time. I imagine being interviewed by her and simply answering 'yes' or 'no' if for no other reason than to make someone who matters understand that - she doesn't belong on the radio!
So, what's your point, Grundy? You're asking by now. And how did Tracy Titivate save your life, exactly?
Well, I became irritated to such a degree that it felt like maggots were burrowing their way from my innards to my skin every time I was forced to listen to Tracy Titivate. Ever feel like that? I couldn't take it any more. I just couldn't. So, I prodded the 'Station' button on my DAB radio. 'Turn the dial to tune' it informed me on its little screen. I did. I wasn't expecting to find another station. Not at a listenable clarity, anyway. But, cor blimey guv'nor, if I didn't land on Radio 4! Not what you might describe as clear as a bell, but certainly clear and static-free enough to listen to without becoming brick-through-the-window stressed.
Breathes enormous sigh of relief. And so it was that I became a Radio 4 fan, listening from first thing in the morning until I switched it off when we settled in for our evening meal. I had listened to Radio 4 occasionally in the past - mostly the 6:30 pm comedy programmes, but also PM. But my eyes (or rather, ears) had been opened. Radio 4 - informative, entertaining, amusing, hard-hitting, cultural, eye-wateringly funny, educational, incisive. Why had I been wasting my time listening to Tracy Titivate?
So, it was Tracy Titivate forcing me to turn the tuning dial who caused Radio 4 to become the background and foreground to my daily life.
Great. Fascinating. But how does this explain Tracy Titivate saving your life, eh Grundy?
Ah, well. There you have it. You see, if it hadn't been for Tracy Titivate, I might not have been listening to Radio 4 when an interesting article about electronic cigarettes was aired. And I come back to my first sentence: I was a smoker. For thirty-plus years. This particular Radio 4 article involved a presenter chatting to a 'vaper'. A vaper being someone who 'vapes'. The vaper vaped. The presenter was astonished at the clouds of vapour, seemingly just like cigarette smoke. You see, because a vaper inhales vapour, as opposed to smoke, he is known as a vaper, as opposed to a smoker.
This article spiked my imagination. Obviously, this was a radio program and, as such, it was simply not possible to view this vapour. I needed to know more. I surfed. I found a marvellously informative website called e-cig-reviews run by a splendid chap called Scott Bonner (name not fictitious to protect the innocent). I watched one video and I was amazed. Truly, I was amazed. Here was this chap putting something resembling a Parker Pen to his mouth and exhaling what looked like cigarette smoke. Only it wasn't! It was mostly water vapour. I couldn't believe it...
Scott Bonner is the second person I should thank (and have done) for steering me towards electronic cigarettes. I watched several more of his videos and became not a little excited at the prospect of trying this 'vaping' lark.
The wait was excruciating. I sat at my computer, chatting (virtually) to experienced vapers on Scott's forum, whilst puffing away on my roll-ups, desperate for the postman to arrive with my newly-purchased starter kit.
It arrived. I was amazed. I haven't smoked a cigarette since.
The vapour that is vaped has no tobacco, no smoke, no tar, no 4000+ chemicals, no carcinogens. And yet, it is incredibly close to the sensation of smoking. Really. Unbelievably close. Although it has not been around long enough for scientific evidence to categorically state that vaping is harmless, there is a general consensus that, well, it pretty much is. Certainly, 98% less harmful than tobacco.
So the rest, I hope, will be my future history - if you see what I mean. I have moved on to a bigger and better device now and I'm absolutely loving vaping!
And, ultimately, I have Tracy Titivate's ineptitude to thank for stopping me smoking.
** I'm sure you'd already guessed, but Tracy Titivate is a fictitious name. However, she is based on a real person and this story is true.
Thursday 16 February 2012
B&Q - literally and figuratively, not the sharpest tools in the box!
We needed a doorbell.
Visitors to our door are a rarity - thankfully - and we'd managed for two years without one. However, a combination of our taking well-deserved long lie-ins and an increased rate of Amazon purchases has, more frequently, left our poor postman hammering unheard on our front door. He's a good man is our postman and we have now exchanged a sufficient number of friendly greetings to have established that we definitely live here and he is definitely our postman. He even signed for a 'signed for' delivery when we were dead to the world. Like I said, a good man.
Other visitors to our door include delivery drivers who could just turn up at any time. And, of course, we have our holiday cottage next door. Perhaps this is the most important reason to install a doorbell - at least on a par with Postie. Guests seeking advice for restaurants, attractions, railway timetables and just to say cheerio on their departure have sometimes also gone unheard as they rap on our front door.
So, a doorbell was required, necessitating a trip to B&Q.
You can pay what you like for a doorbell, you know. Oh, yes. £75, if you like, just to let you know that someone is demanding that you stop what you're doing and pay them some attention on your doorstep. £10 was our limit, though, and we didn't want to get involved in any unsightly and complicated wiring. Fortunately, B&Q sells just such a doorbell - wireless and 2p shy of our £10 limit - hoorah! A purchase was made and, on returning home, excited agitation ensued as the doorbell was released from its packaging.
It's not a complicated device. Insert some batteries and press the 'L' for 'learn' button then, within 30 seconds, press the doorbell and Robert is your father's brother.
It didn't work.
Multiple efforts and button pressings could not connect the bell push to the chimer. Groan. A return trip to B&Q - a mere 20 miles distant - was pencilled in for Wednesday morning.
On this particular Wednesday morning, B&Q appeared to be undertaking a sponsored Help The Aged event as, at every desk, till and corner a younger person seemed to be patronising en elderly person. They'd even dressed them up in B&Q uniforms, presumably so that customers would not be entirely freaked out by an octogenarian asking them if they needed any help!
Confidently, I approached the Customer Service Desk at which an elderly gentleman was nervously prodding at a screen whilst a middle-aged woman gave direction as though speaking to a 6-year-old. I explained, in kindergarten terms, the problem with the doorbell. This seemed to confuse both of them so I simply stated that '...it doesn't work'. Finally getting to the nub of the problem, the master/pupil combo proceeded - slowly - to sort out a refund. I didn't want a refund, I said. I would like to exchange it for one that works.
A puzzled look spread across both faces. They couldn't do an 'exchange', they said, as though I'd asked them if the gardening department was the right location to board the next flight to Mars. They would have to give me a credit note, obviously, and I would then have to retrieve another doorbell and take it to the till. I calculated the risk of both of them turning to jelly and ending in a messy heap on the floor with my next question, but then decided that I didn't really care... Could the doorbell be tested in the store? I left unsaid, 'so that I don't have to undergo another 40-mile round trip and put myself through this exchange of views again'.
Colin could do it. Who's Colin, I asked, as not being a frequent visitor to B&Q, I hadn't yet familiarised myself with the names of all the employees. He's the electrician. Oh, good. Sounds like he could manage to put a few batteries in a doorbell, then. Where might I find Colin? He'll be in the aisle with the doorbells in. Fine. Thank you very much.
I found Colin and the conversation went something like this:
"Are you Colin?"
"I am the electrician."
"Ah. Are you the electrician and Colin?"
"Yes. I am Colin, the electrician."
"Oh, good. I wonder if you could help me..."
He looked wary. I showed him the credit note for the doorbell.
"I have just returned a doorbell that doesn't work. Could you test one for me?"
"Oh no. I can't do that."
"You can't do that? But you're an electrician."
"No. I mean it's not our policy."
"Policy? You have a policy that precludes you from testing doorbells?"
"Yes."
"Why's that then?" I smiled. A nice, friendly smile. Clearly I needed to win Colin over.
"Well, it would mean we have to open the packaging."
You can't get much past Colin.
"Yes....?"
"Well, then the packaging would be damaged. We wouldn't be able to sell it."
I took a deep breath.
"I tell you what, Colin," another winning smile, "if you open the packaging and it works, I'll take it away with me. If you open the packaging and it doesn't work, well, then you don't want it, do you? Because, then, some other customer will be put to the trouble of bringing it back again..."
It took a while. You could almost hear the synapses popping into life. He glanced to the floor. He paused there for a moment. He looked up. The penny had dropped.
"Okay, then."
We strode, purposefully, to the doorbell shelving. I pointed out the doorbell in question. Colin remarked that quite a few of these had been brought back. I stifled the urge to clatter him about the head with said doorbell. Colin then proceeded to blame the customers for not understanding the instructions. Now, I'm no electrician, but I reckoned that pressing two buttons no longer than 30 seconds apart would be within the capabilities of the large majority of B&Q customers. Nevertheless, I felt I had been accused of idiocy by Colin the Electrician and felt the need to justify returning the doorbell by explaining that I had tried to get it to work in every way that is possible to press two buttons. He was unimpressed.
Colin had located and opened a pack of 4 AA batteries, inserted 3 of them into the chimer, pressed two buttons and the doorbell worked. Thank God for Colin and his expertise. Satisfied that the doorbell worked and thankful that B&Q had the foresight to employ such an expert, I thanked Colin and proceeded to gather up the doorbell.
"Do you want to leave the batteries in?" Colin asked.
With a deliberately confused look, I said "Will I have to pay for them?"
"Oh yes." Colin said.
"But I've got batteries at home. I don't need batteries."
"Well, I told you. If we have to open the packaging, you'll have to pay for it."
"For the batteries? I would have thought that, as an electrician Colin, you might have had a few batteries lying around to test things with."
He shrugged. "You'll have to pay for them." He repeated, apathetically.
I was a little bit annoyed. B&Q had sold me a duff item. It didn't work. I'd had to bring it back, obtain a credit note and persuade Colin to go against company policy. All to achieve the goal of my first visit - to buy a 10-quid doorbell. And now, it seemed, I had to purchase 4 batteries against my will!
I'll be honest with you. I was sorely tempted to dump them on a shelf somewhere and approach the till sans batteries. But then, a ludicrously escalating series of events ending up with me in a police cell ran rapidly through my mind and I decided to just go to the till.
Another OAP was being overseen by a young lass as he slowly got things wrong with the customer in front of me. Still, I eyed the shelving next to the till and debated dumping the batteries there. But that would mean removing them from the chimer. Not enough time and too many eyes.
It was my turn. I dumped the lot at the till counter. Doorbell in its broken packaging. Single battery in an opened 4-pack. Till receipts and a credit note. The OAP nearly had a fit.
"What's going on here?" he uttered, looking utterly perplexed. Presumably he'd managed to stagger towards coping with a 'normal' transaction and might even have been feeling somewhat proud of himself. Now, the Spaniard was truly in the works.
The young lass looked at me for an explanation. I re-told the saga of Colin the electrician and my wireless doorbell.
"If you don't want the batteries, you don't have to have them." She said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh. Great. Thanks very much." I said. I removed the three batteries from the doorbell and the young lady put them to one side. The transaction was painstakingly undertaken by the OAP under the supervision of the lovely lass and I departed with another "Thanks very much." to the now smiling young lady of inestimable worth.
Justice had been served. But, hang on. I should not be feeling relief and gratitude at not having to pay for batteries I didn't want! I'm the customer! I'm always right! Colin is a moron!
On the drive home, I wondered how many times Colin the electrician had used the phrase 'against company policy' and how many times customers had left B&Q with items they didn't want. The tail seems to be wagging the dog, here. Regardless of whether or not B&Q has sold you an item that is worthless, it would seem to be your fault for being stupid enough to buy it in the first place. And, should you dare to return an item that is not fit for purpose, it is probably your fault for not being able to follow simple instructions. And, God forbid that you should want to ensure that an item is fit for purpose before you leave the store with it! What were you thinking??
B&Q customer service - as unhelpful as possible so that you feel grateful for a glimmer of humanity.
Visitors to our door are a rarity - thankfully - and we'd managed for two years without one. However, a combination of our taking well-deserved long lie-ins and an increased rate of Amazon purchases has, more frequently, left our poor postman hammering unheard on our front door. He's a good man is our postman and we have now exchanged a sufficient number of friendly greetings to have established that we definitely live here and he is definitely our postman. He even signed for a 'signed for' delivery when we were dead to the world. Like I said, a good man.
Other visitors to our door include delivery drivers who could just turn up at any time. And, of course, we have our holiday cottage next door. Perhaps this is the most important reason to install a doorbell - at least on a par with Postie. Guests seeking advice for restaurants, attractions, railway timetables and just to say cheerio on their departure have sometimes also gone unheard as they rap on our front door.
So, a doorbell was required, necessitating a trip to B&Q.
You can pay what you like for a doorbell, you know. Oh, yes. £75, if you like, just to let you know that someone is demanding that you stop what you're doing and pay them some attention on your doorstep. £10 was our limit, though, and we didn't want to get involved in any unsightly and complicated wiring. Fortunately, B&Q sells just such a doorbell - wireless and 2p shy of our £10 limit - hoorah! A purchase was made and, on returning home, excited agitation ensued as the doorbell was released from its packaging.
It's not a complicated device. Insert some batteries and press the 'L' for 'learn' button then, within 30 seconds, press the doorbell and Robert is your father's brother.
It didn't work.
Multiple efforts and button pressings could not connect the bell push to the chimer. Groan. A return trip to B&Q - a mere 20 miles distant - was pencilled in for Wednesday morning.
On this particular Wednesday morning, B&Q appeared to be undertaking a sponsored Help The Aged event as, at every desk, till and corner a younger person seemed to be patronising en elderly person. They'd even dressed them up in B&Q uniforms, presumably so that customers would not be entirely freaked out by an octogenarian asking them if they needed any help!
Confidently, I approached the Customer Service Desk at which an elderly gentleman was nervously prodding at a screen whilst a middle-aged woman gave direction as though speaking to a 6-year-old. I explained, in kindergarten terms, the problem with the doorbell. This seemed to confuse both of them so I simply stated that '...it doesn't work'. Finally getting to the nub of the problem, the master/pupil combo proceeded - slowly - to sort out a refund. I didn't want a refund, I said. I would like to exchange it for one that works.
A puzzled look spread across both faces. They couldn't do an 'exchange', they said, as though I'd asked them if the gardening department was the right location to board the next flight to Mars. They would have to give me a credit note, obviously, and I would then have to retrieve another doorbell and take it to the till. I calculated the risk of both of them turning to jelly and ending in a messy heap on the floor with my next question, but then decided that I didn't really care... Could the doorbell be tested in the store? I left unsaid, 'so that I don't have to undergo another 40-mile round trip and put myself through this exchange of views again'.
Colin could do it. Who's Colin, I asked, as not being a frequent visitor to B&Q, I hadn't yet familiarised myself with the names of all the employees. He's the electrician. Oh, good. Sounds like he could manage to put a few batteries in a doorbell, then. Where might I find Colin? He'll be in the aisle with the doorbells in. Fine. Thank you very much.
I found Colin and the conversation went something like this:
"Are you Colin?"
"I am the electrician."
"Ah. Are you the electrician and Colin?"
"Yes. I am Colin, the electrician."
"Oh, good. I wonder if you could help me..."
He looked wary. I showed him the credit note for the doorbell.
"I have just returned a doorbell that doesn't work. Could you test one for me?"
"Oh no. I can't do that."
"You can't do that? But you're an electrician."
"No. I mean it's not our policy."
"Policy? You have a policy that precludes you from testing doorbells?"
"Yes."
"Why's that then?" I smiled. A nice, friendly smile. Clearly I needed to win Colin over.
"Well, it would mean we have to open the packaging."
You can't get much past Colin.
"Yes....?"
"Well, then the packaging would be damaged. We wouldn't be able to sell it."
I took a deep breath.
"I tell you what, Colin," another winning smile, "if you open the packaging and it works, I'll take it away with me. If you open the packaging and it doesn't work, well, then you don't want it, do you? Because, then, some other customer will be put to the trouble of bringing it back again..."
It took a while. You could almost hear the synapses popping into life. He glanced to the floor. He paused there for a moment. He looked up. The penny had dropped.
"Okay, then."
We strode, purposefully, to the doorbell shelving. I pointed out the doorbell in question. Colin remarked that quite a few of these had been brought back. I stifled the urge to clatter him about the head with said doorbell. Colin then proceeded to blame the customers for not understanding the instructions. Now, I'm no electrician, but I reckoned that pressing two buttons no longer than 30 seconds apart would be within the capabilities of the large majority of B&Q customers. Nevertheless, I felt I had been accused of idiocy by Colin the Electrician and felt the need to justify returning the doorbell by explaining that I had tried to get it to work in every way that is possible to press two buttons. He was unimpressed.
Colin had located and opened a pack of 4 AA batteries, inserted 3 of them into the chimer, pressed two buttons and the doorbell worked. Thank God for Colin and his expertise. Satisfied that the doorbell worked and thankful that B&Q had the foresight to employ such an expert, I thanked Colin and proceeded to gather up the doorbell.
"Do you want to leave the batteries in?" Colin asked.
With a deliberately confused look, I said "Will I have to pay for them?"
"Oh yes." Colin said.
"But I've got batteries at home. I don't need batteries."
"Well, I told you. If we have to open the packaging, you'll have to pay for it."
"For the batteries? I would have thought that, as an electrician Colin, you might have had a few batteries lying around to test things with."
He shrugged. "You'll have to pay for them." He repeated, apathetically.
I was a little bit annoyed. B&Q had sold me a duff item. It didn't work. I'd had to bring it back, obtain a credit note and persuade Colin to go against company policy. All to achieve the goal of my first visit - to buy a 10-quid doorbell. And now, it seemed, I had to purchase 4 batteries against my will!
I'll be honest with you. I was sorely tempted to dump them on a shelf somewhere and approach the till sans batteries. But then, a ludicrously escalating series of events ending up with me in a police cell ran rapidly through my mind and I decided to just go to the till.
Another OAP was being overseen by a young lass as he slowly got things wrong with the customer in front of me. Still, I eyed the shelving next to the till and debated dumping the batteries there. But that would mean removing them from the chimer. Not enough time and too many eyes.
It was my turn. I dumped the lot at the till counter. Doorbell in its broken packaging. Single battery in an opened 4-pack. Till receipts and a credit note. The OAP nearly had a fit.
"What's going on here?" he uttered, looking utterly perplexed. Presumably he'd managed to stagger towards coping with a 'normal' transaction and might even have been feeling somewhat proud of himself. Now, the Spaniard was truly in the works.
The young lass looked at me for an explanation. I re-told the saga of Colin the electrician and my wireless doorbell.
"If you don't want the batteries, you don't have to have them." She said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh. Great. Thanks very much." I said. I removed the three batteries from the doorbell and the young lady put them to one side. The transaction was painstakingly undertaken by the OAP under the supervision of the lovely lass and I departed with another "Thanks very much." to the now smiling young lady of inestimable worth.
Justice had been served. But, hang on. I should not be feeling relief and gratitude at not having to pay for batteries I didn't want! I'm the customer! I'm always right! Colin is a moron!
On the drive home, I wondered how many times Colin the electrician had used the phrase 'against company policy' and how many times customers had left B&Q with items they didn't want. The tail seems to be wagging the dog, here. Regardless of whether or not B&Q has sold you an item that is worthless, it would seem to be your fault for being stupid enough to buy it in the first place. And, should you dare to return an item that is not fit for purpose, it is probably your fault for not being able to follow simple instructions. And, God forbid that you should want to ensure that an item is fit for purpose before you leave the store with it! What were you thinking??
B&Q customer service - as unhelpful as possible so that you feel grateful for a glimmer of humanity.
Tuesday 10 January 2012
I'm Not Having It!
Jottify is a marvellous site allowing writers of fiction, poetry and prose to publish their works. Members can leave comments and 'like' works that they read. There is a huge diversity in the content - something for everyone. I have decided to 'release' my works on a regular basis on Jottify and build a portfolio with a view to publishing at some dim and distant point somewhere over the horizon of impossibility :-)
I have linked to one of my poems about getting old - or, rather, not getting old! (Click on the Title)
Take a look around - and if you have the itch to write something yourself, why not join up and become a member of this fast-expanding network?
love you lots
Adam
I have linked to one of my poems about getting old - or, rather, not getting old! (Click on the Title)
Take a look around - and if you have the itch to write something yourself, why not join up and become a member of this fast-expanding network?
love you lots
Adam
Thursday 10 March 2011
Operation Stop Cock!
We keep chickens - and we enjoy keeping chickens. We bought them young, got them settled in, waited for them to mature. They're fun to watch. They have personalities. They're easy to look after and deliver delicious free range eggs. BUT, how do we stop Basil (the Welsummer cockerel) from crowing at 5:20 in the a.m.?
After his arrival and under our keen observation, Basil developed beautifully. Gradually his feathers grew in length and fullness; a spectacular array of oranges, blues, greens, deep reds and browns. Wonderful plumage! His bright red crest and wattles bloomed mightily. And, ironically, we couldn't wait for him to start crowing...
His immature efforts were considerably less than satisfactory. The expected and hoped-for traditional cock-a-doodle-do was not only croaky, like a pre-pubescent Rod Stewart suffering laryngitis, but also somewhat garbled. More of a cuck-a-doooo-durrrr. He was often chastised for these miserable efforts and told frequently that he must do better!
Over a period of a few weeks, he improved. His diction became clearer, more distinct and he found his singing voice. Rod Stewart was gone and Basil set his sights more keenly at Freddie Mercury or Robert Plant. And finally, he could crow with the best of them! A proper, belting cock-a-doodle-dooooooo! We were proud, I admit it. No embarrassment there. Anxieties over listening to a third-rate crower were gone.
Over Winter, with our double-glazed bedroom window firmly closed against the sub-zero temperatures, we heard nothing of Basil until one or other of us ventured out to open up the chicken house in the morning. Although Spring may not officially be here, in recent weeks we have taken to leaving the window open 'on the latch' - still closed with the handle, but open enough to allow some ventilation. I am a heavy sleeper but, alas, my wife Karon is not and in the last couple of weeks Karon has been awakened by Basil's superb crowing at increasingly early hours. This became irritating - and worrying. For, next door, we run a holiday cottage. How many of our guests would return after a very rude awakening? Come the Summer, possibly as early as 4:00 in the morning!
A solution was desperately required! And, I've cracked it! How have you done that, then? you are no doubt wondering, a note of intrigue to your tone. A laryngectomy? A rubber band wrapped several times around Basil's neck? Threatening Basil with the cooking pot? Well, no. None of the above. In fact, the solution is far simpler and certainly less uncomfortable for Bas...
You see, as I'm sure many of you will know, in order to crow, Basil needs to stretch himself to his full height. It just doesn't work otherwise. He needs to elongate his neck as far as possible, lift his beak in the air, take a deep breath and off he goes. So, the solution? A false ceiling in the chicken house! Ta daah! Yesterday, I installed said false ceiling, still allowing plenty of room for Bas and the girls to roost. And this morning? Nothing! Nada. Zilch. Not a peep. Marvellous!
So now, Karon gets to sleep for as long as she wants (I did, anyway!) and our future guests will recommend our wonderful holiday cottage and return safe in the knowledge that their beauty sleep will not be broken by Basil's operatic crowing.
After his arrival and under our keen observation, Basil developed beautifully. Gradually his feathers grew in length and fullness; a spectacular array of oranges, blues, greens, deep reds and browns. Wonderful plumage! His bright red crest and wattles bloomed mightily. And, ironically, we couldn't wait for him to start crowing...
His immature efforts were considerably less than satisfactory. The expected and hoped-for traditional cock-a-doodle-do was not only croaky, like a pre-pubescent Rod Stewart suffering laryngitis, but also somewhat garbled. More of a cuck-a-doooo-durrrr. He was often chastised for these miserable efforts and told frequently that he must do better!
Over a period of a few weeks, he improved. His diction became clearer, more distinct and he found his singing voice. Rod Stewart was gone and Basil set his sights more keenly at Freddie Mercury or Robert Plant. And finally, he could crow with the best of them! A proper, belting cock-a-doodle-dooooooo! We were proud, I admit it. No embarrassment there. Anxieties over listening to a third-rate crower were gone.
Over Winter, with our double-glazed bedroom window firmly closed against the sub-zero temperatures, we heard nothing of Basil until one or other of us ventured out to open up the chicken house in the morning. Although Spring may not officially be here, in recent weeks we have taken to leaving the window open 'on the latch' - still closed with the handle, but open enough to allow some ventilation. I am a heavy sleeper but, alas, my wife Karon is not and in the last couple of weeks Karon has been awakened by Basil's superb crowing at increasingly early hours. This became irritating - and worrying. For, next door, we run a holiday cottage. How many of our guests would return after a very rude awakening? Come the Summer, possibly as early as 4:00 in the morning!
A solution was desperately required! And, I've cracked it! How have you done that, then? you are no doubt wondering, a note of intrigue to your tone. A laryngectomy? A rubber band wrapped several times around Basil's neck? Threatening Basil with the cooking pot? Well, no. None of the above. In fact, the solution is far simpler and certainly less uncomfortable for Bas...
You see, as I'm sure many of you will know, in order to crow, Basil needs to stretch himself to his full height. It just doesn't work otherwise. He needs to elongate his neck as far as possible, lift his beak in the air, take a deep breath and off he goes. So, the solution? A false ceiling in the chicken house! Ta daah! Yesterday, I installed said false ceiling, still allowing plenty of room for Bas and the girls to roost. And this morning? Nothing! Nada. Zilch. Not a peep. Marvellous!
So now, Karon gets to sleep for as long as she wants (I did, anyway!) and our future guests will recommend our wonderful holiday cottage and return safe in the knowledge that their beauty sleep will not be broken by Basil's operatic crowing.
Monday 24 January 2011
Anthropomorphism - sometimes, it just ain't right
Fortunately for me and especially for my chickens, I happened to be in the right place at the right time on Saturday. A fox emerged from the woodland bordering our chicken's play area. Bold as you like, all casual, he strode purposefully toward eight feathery dinners whose reaction was loud, panicky and jittery to say the least. And this in broad daylight at three o'clock in the afternoon.
Had I not expressed succinctly, and in words that I'd rather not repeat here, my desire for the fox to be elsewhere, I dread to think what might have ensued - I have seen photographs depicting the aftermath of such encounters and it's not an edifying sight. The fox, clearly comprehending my instructions, turned in an equally casual manner, and strolled back from whence he came. I then spent some time clearing the accumulated leaf mass of last Autumn's fall from the lower strands of the electric netting surrounding my chickens, thus improving the level of shock discharged into whatever creature dares to venture near. My chickens gradually calmed down, the cacophony of their clucking diminishing over several minutes.
This incident got me thinking. I wished the fox dead. And if I'd had a twelve-bore cradled over my arm it would have been cocked, lifted and fired, hopefully hitting its target full square. BLAM! Dead fox. Would I have felt any guilt? Would I have wrangled with the moral anguish at having killed a beautiful creature? No. Most certainly, no.
I can't keep a few chickens without lashing out a fortune on electric fencing, fox-proof housing and suffering from constant subliminal worry. The fox is not even indigenous. It was brought over here as a plaything for folk with an excess of horses and hounds who couldn't work out what to do with them. It is a vicious killer. If I hadn't been there at the right time, it wouldn't have nabbed a single chicken to fill its belly with raw meat and cleared off. It would have killed the lot. All of them. And when it had finished its murderous quest, it might have taken one for its lunch.
My neighbour kept chickens. Sadly, they were all killed by a fox. The carnage upset her and her daughter so much that she can't bring herself to keep chickens again. She couldn't possibly risk going through that again. The images still haunt her. She loved keeping chickens. They are, after all, not just providers of fresh eggs, but a delight to watch and look after. The fox has put an end to that.
And this brings me to the title of this blog - anthropomorphism. The attribution of human characteristics to animals is one definition of the word. I remember my young days. I remember reading to my children. I remember Basil Brush, Disney's version of Robin Hood, A Bug's Life, Beatrix Potter, The Jungle Book, Alice in Wonderland - the list is almost endless...
I'm not being curmudgeonly here. Children's stories involving animals are generally fun, imaginative, creative, delightful, sweet, morally expansive. And I have no issue with Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Peter Rabbit, Mr. Toad and their ilk. What I do have issue with is the personification of creatures that, actually, aren't very nice. Either that or creatures, such as insects, that are merely a collection of cells that perform some function or other. Slugs, snails, flies, ants - they don't have personalities! They don't have emotions, feelings, thoughts, dreams, ideas. They are not Brian the snail from the Magic Roundabout. They are not ants from A Bug's Life. Robin Hood was not a bloody fox, for chrissakes!
Young people are indoctrinated to believe that every god-damned creature on this earth is blessed with human feelings, personalities, aspirations, worries. And where does this lead? Believing it cruel to squash slugs and snails, to liberally sprinkle Nippon near an ant's nest, to swat a fly that insists on persistently landing on your head. It is dragged into adulthood with a ban on hunting foxes.
Some creatures are plain nasty. Evil killing machines. Some creatures will devastate your vegetable plot, suck the blood from your chickens, spread disease. I'm not saying that humans rule the world, that all other creatures should dance to our tune and those that don't should be exterminated at will with no compunction whatsoever. Live and let live is what I generally believe. The natural world, let's face it, involves a food chain in which creatures of increasing size devour those creatures that are bite-sized and give off a Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pud appeal. It's a vicious world out there. But let's not give every single animated bunch of cells a bleeding personality!
Kids. Listen. Foxes are not cute and cuddly. Yes, they're beautiful. Like a tiger is beautiful. Yes, they have to eat and yes, they eat meat. But they don't pick off a light snack, an old or sick chicken, like the survival of the fittest films you've seen on the telly where the old and sick wildebeest are picked off by hungry lions. How would you feel watching a lion kill and entire herd of wildebeest and then eating only one of them? Hmm? Imagine that. Try to envisage the scene in your mind's eye. Would the lion be maintaining the wildebeest herd, ensuring its survival, ensuring the strongest and healthiest wildebeest make baby wildebeests? Or would the entire herd be wiped out by one evil, greedy and frankly bloody stupid Berk of a lion?
That's your fox. Stupid, evil, greedy. Just because it's pretty, don't make it nice.
I was brought up with anthropomorphous animals in story books and on films. And I lied earlier. I would have felt some guilt, some internal anguish about killing a fox. But I would have blamed any of that on Basil Brush or, more accurately, his creator. I'm not saying that we should scare the hell out of little kids by revealing the reality of what certain creatures do to survive. I'm not saying that we should condone the killing of wild animals willy nilly. What I am saying is let's stop the sentimental cloaking of reality, for certain creatures, in the name of a children's story.
Had I not expressed succinctly, and in words that I'd rather not repeat here, my desire for the fox to be elsewhere, I dread to think what might have ensued - I have seen photographs depicting the aftermath of such encounters and it's not an edifying sight. The fox, clearly comprehending my instructions, turned in an equally casual manner, and strolled back from whence he came. I then spent some time clearing the accumulated leaf mass of last Autumn's fall from the lower strands of the electric netting surrounding my chickens, thus improving the level of shock discharged into whatever creature dares to venture near. My chickens gradually calmed down, the cacophony of their clucking diminishing over several minutes.
This incident got me thinking. I wished the fox dead. And if I'd had a twelve-bore cradled over my arm it would have been cocked, lifted and fired, hopefully hitting its target full square. BLAM! Dead fox. Would I have felt any guilt? Would I have wrangled with the moral anguish at having killed a beautiful creature? No. Most certainly, no.
I can't keep a few chickens without lashing out a fortune on electric fencing, fox-proof housing and suffering from constant subliminal worry. The fox is not even indigenous. It was brought over here as a plaything for folk with an excess of horses and hounds who couldn't work out what to do with them. It is a vicious killer. If I hadn't been there at the right time, it wouldn't have nabbed a single chicken to fill its belly with raw meat and cleared off. It would have killed the lot. All of them. And when it had finished its murderous quest, it might have taken one for its lunch.
My neighbour kept chickens. Sadly, they were all killed by a fox. The carnage upset her and her daughter so much that she can't bring herself to keep chickens again. She couldn't possibly risk going through that again. The images still haunt her. She loved keeping chickens. They are, after all, not just providers of fresh eggs, but a delight to watch and look after. The fox has put an end to that.
And this brings me to the title of this blog - anthropomorphism. The attribution of human characteristics to animals is one definition of the word. I remember my young days. I remember reading to my children. I remember Basil Brush, Disney's version of Robin Hood, A Bug's Life, Beatrix Potter, The Jungle Book, Alice in Wonderland - the list is almost endless...
I'm not being curmudgeonly here. Children's stories involving animals are generally fun, imaginative, creative, delightful, sweet, morally expansive. And I have no issue with Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Peter Rabbit, Mr. Toad and their ilk. What I do have issue with is the personification of creatures that, actually, aren't very nice. Either that or creatures, such as insects, that are merely a collection of cells that perform some function or other. Slugs, snails, flies, ants - they don't have personalities! They don't have emotions, feelings, thoughts, dreams, ideas. They are not Brian the snail from the Magic Roundabout. They are not ants from A Bug's Life. Robin Hood was not a bloody fox, for chrissakes!
Young people are indoctrinated to believe that every god-damned creature on this earth is blessed with human feelings, personalities, aspirations, worries. And where does this lead? Believing it cruel to squash slugs and snails, to liberally sprinkle Nippon near an ant's nest, to swat a fly that insists on persistently landing on your head. It is dragged into adulthood with a ban on hunting foxes.
Some creatures are plain nasty. Evil killing machines. Some creatures will devastate your vegetable plot, suck the blood from your chickens, spread disease. I'm not saying that humans rule the world, that all other creatures should dance to our tune and those that don't should be exterminated at will with no compunction whatsoever. Live and let live is what I generally believe. The natural world, let's face it, involves a food chain in which creatures of increasing size devour those creatures that are bite-sized and give off a Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pud appeal. It's a vicious world out there. But let's not give every single animated bunch of cells a bleeding personality!
Kids. Listen. Foxes are not cute and cuddly. Yes, they're beautiful. Like a tiger is beautiful. Yes, they have to eat and yes, they eat meat. But they don't pick off a light snack, an old or sick chicken, like the survival of the fittest films you've seen on the telly where the old and sick wildebeest are picked off by hungry lions. How would you feel watching a lion kill and entire herd of wildebeest and then eating only one of them? Hmm? Imagine that. Try to envisage the scene in your mind's eye. Would the lion be maintaining the wildebeest herd, ensuring its survival, ensuring the strongest and healthiest wildebeest make baby wildebeests? Or would the entire herd be wiped out by one evil, greedy and frankly bloody stupid Berk of a lion?
That's your fox. Stupid, evil, greedy. Just because it's pretty, don't make it nice.
I was brought up with anthropomorphous animals in story books and on films. And I lied earlier. I would have felt some guilt, some internal anguish about killing a fox. But I would have blamed any of that on Basil Brush or, more accurately, his creator. I'm not saying that we should scare the hell out of little kids by revealing the reality of what certain creatures do to survive. I'm not saying that we should condone the killing of wild animals willy nilly. What I am saying is let's stop the sentimental cloaking of reality, for certain creatures, in the name of a children's story.
Tuesday 7 September 2010
Bring Back Autumn!!
What is wrong with people? Yesterday, Monday the 6th of September 2010, I had the misfortune of being placed in the position of needing to go to Trago Mills. For those reading this who haven't yet come across Trago Mills, it is a shop - about the size of Canterbury. A shop which sells just about everything at prices that are generally cheaper than most. Hooray for those of us seeking DIY tools. A shop that is teeming with people who are either excited to the point of frenzy, drooling at the low prices and filling their plastic pull-along carts with junk that they don't need and will never use or couples arguing, loudly and often incoherently after traipsing around the place, getting completely lost and forgetting why the f**k they came there in the first place. A shop where security guards check your shopping bag on the way out and cardboard-cut-out, life-sized policemen advertise the number of shoplifters they've prosecuted that month.
I try to avoid going to Trago Mills. But when a shopping list builds up and, for example, a packet of ten plastic curtain hooks costs 69p, compared to £2.99 at Homebase, well, you have to give in, bite down hard on a hunk of wood and brace yourself against people wetting themselves with avarice or husband shouting at wife, "It's okay when we look at what you want to look at, but when it comes to me, oh no, no, not a bloody look in!" Perhaps I ought to stuff my ears with cotton wool and wear blinkers? Anyway, back to the point, I hopped in my Jeep and headed, defiantly, to Trago Mills.
What do I find when I get there? The entire area, approximating to the size of a football pitch, that only weeks ago was dedicated to drawing money from the wallet in pursuance of living it up in the garden, is festooned with bloody Christmas stuff! Cards, crackers, trees, tinsel... well, you know what Christmas stuff is...
Hello? Is it me? It's the first week of September! What happened to Autumn? That fabulous season in which trees send their leaves to the ground in a fabulous array of reds, yellows, golds and browns; in which farmers reap their harvests and roll their hay; in which the cooling musty air hints at the Winter to come but can still surprise with warm bathing sunshine. Well? Come on Mr. Sainsbury, Mr. John Lewis, Mr. Tesco, Mr Bloody Trago Mills, what's your excuse? Why have you done away with our lovely Autumn?
In some ways, I suppose, you can't blame the hideous conglomerate kleptomaniacs for parading Christmas paraphernalia in front of us. Why should I say this? Why should I give them an out? I'll tell you why... it's because the moronic, drooling half-wits in Trago Mills were actually buying the stuff! Picking boxes of crackers off the shelves, looking around the packaging (What for? You know what's in them - jokes not even worthy of a groan, a cheap paper hat and a poorly-moulded plastic something useless), replacing it on the shelf, picking up the next one (Why? You know what's in them - jokes not even...etc.) and then, as my jaw dropped, actually placing it in their basket! What? Are you insane? What is the matter with you?
I like Christmas. I really do. I am very fortunate - I enjoy meeting up with my relatives, chatting about nothing in particular, eating, drinking, playing silly games. So, this is certainly not a Scrooge-inspired rant. But, really, truly, how long does any one person need to prepare for Christmas? Two or three shopping trips, pack a suitcase. That's it. Yes, it can raise the hackles and the blood pressure to leave things until the last minute, but surely, a couple of weeks is all you need? Give it three, go on then... so, let's say December the 1st, shall we?
If I were Cameron, I'd ban the selling of any Christmas item before December the 1st. We don't need it, we really don't. Why do we have to suffer the build up to a single day for a third of an entire year? It's commercialism gone berserk. The saddest thing is that it has diluted the magic of Christmas. How can children get excited about it when it's pushed into their faces in shops, on TV, in newspapers and magazines for four entire months? When Carols and Christmas songs are everywhere you go for more than 120 days?
So, if anyone reading this has actually bought a Christmas item before the 1st of December, stop it. Just stop it. And tell your friends and relatives to stop it. It's pointless and, worse, it is spoiling what used to be a fun and magical time of year. And, if everyone did stop it, perhaps that magic could be revived, hmmmm? And, as an added bonus, we'd get our Autumn back!
P.S. Where is that idiot going to store his stupid crackers for four months? I hope it's somewhere damp and the bloody things don't work! Hah!
I try to avoid going to Trago Mills. But when a shopping list builds up and, for example, a packet of ten plastic curtain hooks costs 69p, compared to £2.99 at Homebase, well, you have to give in, bite down hard on a hunk of wood and brace yourself against people wetting themselves with avarice or husband shouting at wife, "It's okay when we look at what you want to look at, but when it comes to me, oh no, no, not a bloody look in!" Perhaps I ought to stuff my ears with cotton wool and wear blinkers? Anyway, back to the point, I hopped in my Jeep and headed, defiantly, to Trago Mills.
What do I find when I get there? The entire area, approximating to the size of a football pitch, that only weeks ago was dedicated to drawing money from the wallet in pursuance of living it up in the garden, is festooned with bloody Christmas stuff! Cards, crackers, trees, tinsel... well, you know what Christmas stuff is...
Hello? Is it me? It's the first week of September! What happened to Autumn? That fabulous season in which trees send their leaves to the ground in a fabulous array of reds, yellows, golds and browns; in which farmers reap their harvests and roll their hay; in which the cooling musty air hints at the Winter to come but can still surprise with warm bathing sunshine. Well? Come on Mr. Sainsbury, Mr. John Lewis, Mr. Tesco, Mr Bloody Trago Mills, what's your excuse? Why have you done away with our lovely Autumn?
In some ways, I suppose, you can't blame the hideous conglomerate kleptomaniacs for parading Christmas paraphernalia in front of us. Why should I say this? Why should I give them an out? I'll tell you why... it's because the moronic, drooling half-wits in Trago Mills were actually buying the stuff! Picking boxes of crackers off the shelves, looking around the packaging (What for? You know what's in them - jokes not even worthy of a groan, a cheap paper hat and a poorly-moulded plastic something useless), replacing it on the shelf, picking up the next one (Why? You know what's in them - jokes not even...etc.) and then, as my jaw dropped, actually placing it in their basket! What? Are you insane? What is the matter with you?
I like Christmas. I really do. I am very fortunate - I enjoy meeting up with my relatives, chatting about nothing in particular, eating, drinking, playing silly games. So, this is certainly not a Scrooge-inspired rant. But, really, truly, how long does any one person need to prepare for Christmas? Two or three shopping trips, pack a suitcase. That's it. Yes, it can raise the hackles and the blood pressure to leave things until the last minute, but surely, a couple of weeks is all you need? Give it three, go on then... so, let's say December the 1st, shall we?
If I were Cameron, I'd ban the selling of any Christmas item before December the 1st. We don't need it, we really don't. Why do we have to suffer the build up to a single day for a third of an entire year? It's commercialism gone berserk. The saddest thing is that it has diluted the magic of Christmas. How can children get excited about it when it's pushed into their faces in shops, on TV, in newspapers and magazines for four entire months? When Carols and Christmas songs are everywhere you go for more than 120 days?
So, if anyone reading this has actually bought a Christmas item before the 1st of December, stop it. Just stop it. And tell your friends and relatives to stop it. It's pointless and, worse, it is spoiling what used to be a fun and magical time of year. And, if everyone did stop it, perhaps that magic could be revived, hmmmm? And, as an added bonus, we'd get our Autumn back!
P.S. Where is that idiot going to store his stupid crackers for four months? I hope it's somewhere damp and the bloody things don't work! Hah!
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