CHAPTER 2
The orange was a beautiful but frustrating mistress. Kenneth turned it in his hand, letting the faint afternoon sunlight dance across its mottled surface. The skin looked wet, inviting, like something you could slip into on a hot day.
And yet he knew how the engagement would end, with sticky hands and a wet chin, rinds to be deposited in the bin, eventually choking birds when dumped as dehydrated rusks. He'd read about the problem on the internet. It wasn't all porn, you know.
He began to peel, his thumb smarting as it dug beneath the thick skin. He should have packed a knife.
What the world needed was a pre-peeled orange enclosed in a water-tight bag.
Kenneth stopped. He grinned despite being in a public area surrounded by people in blue suits.
It made perfect sense.
Bagged peeled oranges would be healthy for little ones and convenient for business people. The technology had been unleased on boiled eggs. He'd seen them in the shops. But no one had thought about further applications.
"If there's a box, I am thinking outside of it," he murmured triumphantly.
Kenneth searched the pocket of his jacket for his pen and small notebook and jotted the idea down. Might be just the ticket. Salvation. Like Armageddon for Americans or unpasturised cheese for the French.
As he often did, Kenneth imagined himself rich, able to have a long lie-in, ordering takeaway Tikka Malasa every night, with garlic naan. He would get those fancy entrees, the mini chicken tikkas and bhaji, instead of rationalising the cost and the fact that one man shouldn't eat that much rich food.
If anything tasty were in the flat, he'd eat it. He could finish a roast chicken in his sleep. Fruit and Nut bars died in appaling numbers. Crisps didn't stand a chance of seeing daybreak.
If he were rich, he could share the extra entree bits with the butler. Or the pretty Asian maid, Moora. Or Maanika. Or Madhura. Something with an M.
Kenneth liked Asian women. They were exotic down to their DNA. He also liked how M sounded coming off the tongue.
He checked his pocket watch and embarked back to his desk, tumbling from Neverland with each footfall. Seven minutes and thirty-three seconds later, he arrived - more than two minutes off his best time.
He blamed poor lift efficiency. People didn't cram in when they had takeaway salads and coffees.
His in-tray was listing dangerously to starboard, threatening to capsize onto the floor and take all the hopeful yet discouraged jobseekers down forever.
He righted them as best he could, the top file sticking to remnants of citrus too devious to come off.
"Been wanking?" Spiv said.
"Eh?"
"You've got bits of tissue on your jacket."
Kenneth looked down, his face colouring. "Oh right. I ate an orange. You know what the world needs, don't you?"
"A good kick upside the bollocks."
"Yes, well... No..."
"This isn't one of your loopy inventions?"
"They're not all bad," Kenneth began.
"A kettle that makes gravy. A cat shaving kit."
"The kettle idea is quite good."
"Like I said, a bollocking. Looks like you might get yours. You've got a Pickle incoming."
Spiv darted away as Kenneth turned to see Maggie "Pickle" Johnson walking his way. She was like a turnip bi-ped, round and a revolting shade of yellow-white with bits of purple in all the wrong places.
Kenneth hated turnips. Most people did. They were simply too polite or indoctrinated by childhood nostalgia or cultural propaganda to admit the fact.
"Just getting back to it, Pickle," Kenneth said, preempting.
Maggie thought the moniker a term of endearment, but the lads had come up with it in the pub because she walked around like she had a gerkin shoved up her back passage.
"Not why I'm here," she replied.
She held out a manilla envelope. The skin around her eyes was creased in such a way as to look dangerously gleeful. Much more of this and the epidermis might crack and fall away.
"This my bonus?" Kenneth said.
"Even better."
He kept his hand back, like one does from an aggressive goose.
"Come on, take it." She smiled. "It's been nice."
"Sorry?"
"It's your redundancy, you idiot."
Kenneth's tongue went thick and he felt heat. For a second, he thought about hauling off and giving her one in the mouth. He wasn't that sort of man, but...
That's out of line, he thought. Out of line.
The walls metastisised to liquid - Kenneth's legs giving way to the vibrations.
West Ham United. Founded in 1895 by workers from the Thames Ironworks. FA Cup winners 1964, 1975 and 1980. Most goals in one match, six, achieved twice: Vic Watson, February 2, 1929 versus Leeds United; Geoff Hurst November 19, 1968 versus Sunderland in front of a young Kenneth Fleetwood and his soon to be deceased father, Archie Fleetwood.
The repetition of facts made difficult moments endearable.
The walls reformed into solid three-dimensional space. Telephones and voices washed through his auditory canals.
Kenneth was aware of citrus stickiness between his fingers. He looked up at Pickle.
"You know what the world needs?" he began.
Everything would be alright.
Surely, everything would turn out fine.
Surely.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
The homelessness of Kenneth Fleetwood
Chapter 1
It was a typical day really. The tube was delayed by nesting birds shorting out a signal box. A light rain had found the minute hole is his left work shoe. Breakfast had been a bacon sandwich made on the run that had dripped mayonaise on to his plain black tie.
But somehow Kenneth Fleetwood made it to his office with body and soul together. He'd even managed to catch the lift as the doors were closing, giving a friendly nod to the new security lad, who'd put his hand in to hold it up.
Kenneth settled at his desk, fixing the position of his rubber plant. It had been a gift from a thankful Malay he had helped in obtaining a position in a kitchen. The man had begun on washing up duty, worked his way to kitchen hand and gone on to open his own small kiosk offering Laksa and Rendang.
The plant was a reminder of success. One needed such icons at Jobcentre Plus. It used to be the Department of Work and Pensions, but the government had paid an advertising agency several thousand pounds to jazz it up and come up with an energetic new "brand".
You can't fight change, Kenneth thought.
Cup of tea, two biscuits, faint sugar high and then first file of the day. He turned on his computer, a plodding PC that refused anything more modern than Microsoft's 95 Office suite. It refused to recognise his password on the first two attempts. Yes, the universe was in order.
PCs... Kenneth was an Apple man. Along with West Ham United, the odd sneaky wank and bacon, it was his sole vice. When a new product came on the market, he'd be first at the doorstep. He'd even taken two days off sick to camp outside the Apple Shop to get his hands on the first iPad.
Yes, if a new Apple computer was spied in the office, you could be fairly certain it was Kenneth Fleetwood's Mac.
"Watch the match?" asked Daniel "Spiv" McTierney, doing the cubicle lean, one arm propped on the top, the other leaning down with apparent palsy.
"Might the pope be a catholic?" Kenneth replied.
"Assume so," said Spiv. "As well as a Nazi and a paedo."
"Friend and protector of the paedo," Kenneth said. "There's no evidence he diddles himself, just covers it up for the bishops. I won't have slander in a government office."
"Goes without saying."
Spiv was a good man. Solid. Did everything he could for the people who came in down and out.
Kenneth's first client was an accounts person, pretty, tired looking, as if she had had a big night, perhaps with karaoke.
They used to be called jobseekers, but that was now said to be humiliating and belittling.
Isabelle ("Call me Izy")had chipped nail polish and wrinkled clothes that suggested she hadn't quite made it all the way home (though a lucky lad might have had that thrill). Kenneth imagined her having a go at "Heart of Glass", holding the microphone at a suggestive angle, slight slur in her voice.
She had the right dirty blonde hair for the part. But she was in her late-20s and probably wouldn't know Deb Harry from David Blunkett. No, she'd be on your Lady Gaga or Adele (Amy Winehouse without the crack).
Kenneth sighed.
"You alright?" Izy asked.
"Long week," he replied.
And I'm old, he thought. Too old to ever know the faint taste of nicotine on your kiss. He gripped his tea with a full hand around the porcelain, the painful heat bringing him out of his moment of unprofessional longing.
"Did you have a big night," Kenneth asked.
Her shoulders tensed. "Does that affect my dole?"
"No, of course not," Kenneth said.
The rest of the session was conducted in tense tones with minimal banter.
Izy was another castaway from downsizing Government departments, happy to take her redundancy, thinking it a chance to catch up on the party. The young didn't understand that the Blair years were an anomoly. Rarely in history did the banks line up to offer mortgages to punters without two quid to rub between their thumbs.
But it wasn't Kenneth's job to lecture. In his kind uncle voice, he had outlined programs that might help land a new job, but Izy was looking queasy and in need of a full English and the afternoon buried neck deep in a feather pillow. He wished her luck and told her to ring anytime.
And then she was gone, her stocking clad legs disappearing down the polyester carpetted corridor.
There were so many folders.
The in-box was practically overflowing.
"Get your finger out," Spiv said, walking by.
It was a typical day really. The tube was delayed by nesting birds shorting out a signal box. A light rain had found the minute hole is his left work shoe. Breakfast had been a bacon sandwich made on the run that had dripped mayonaise on to his plain black tie.
But somehow Kenneth Fleetwood made it to his office with body and soul together. He'd even managed to catch the lift as the doors were closing, giving a friendly nod to the new security lad, who'd put his hand in to hold it up.
Kenneth settled at his desk, fixing the position of his rubber plant. It had been a gift from a thankful Malay he had helped in obtaining a position in a kitchen. The man had begun on washing up duty, worked his way to kitchen hand and gone on to open his own small kiosk offering Laksa and Rendang.
The plant was a reminder of success. One needed such icons at Jobcentre Plus. It used to be the Department of Work and Pensions, but the government had paid an advertising agency several thousand pounds to jazz it up and come up with an energetic new "brand".
You can't fight change, Kenneth thought.
Cup of tea, two biscuits, faint sugar high and then first file of the day. He turned on his computer, a plodding PC that refused anything more modern than Microsoft's 95 Office suite. It refused to recognise his password on the first two attempts. Yes, the universe was in order.
PCs... Kenneth was an Apple man. Along with West Ham United, the odd sneaky wank and bacon, it was his sole vice. When a new product came on the market, he'd be first at the doorstep. He'd even taken two days off sick to camp outside the Apple Shop to get his hands on the first iPad.
Yes, if a new Apple computer was spied in the office, you could be fairly certain it was Kenneth Fleetwood's Mac.
"Watch the match?" asked Daniel "Spiv" McTierney, doing the cubicle lean, one arm propped on the top, the other leaning down with apparent palsy.
"Might the pope be a catholic?" Kenneth replied.
"Assume so," said Spiv. "As well as a Nazi and a paedo."
"Friend and protector of the paedo," Kenneth said. "There's no evidence he diddles himself, just covers it up for the bishops. I won't have slander in a government office."
"Goes without saying."
Spiv was a good man. Solid. Did everything he could for the people who came in down and out.
Kenneth's first client was an accounts person, pretty, tired looking, as if she had had a big night, perhaps with karaoke.
They used to be called jobseekers, but that was now said to be humiliating and belittling.
Isabelle ("Call me Izy")had chipped nail polish and wrinkled clothes that suggested she hadn't quite made it all the way home (though a lucky lad might have had that thrill). Kenneth imagined her having a go at "Heart of Glass", holding the microphone at a suggestive angle, slight slur in her voice.
She had the right dirty blonde hair for the part. But she was in her late-20s and probably wouldn't know Deb Harry from David Blunkett. No, she'd be on your Lady Gaga or Adele (Amy Winehouse without the crack).
Kenneth sighed.
"You alright?" Izy asked.
"Long week," he replied.
And I'm old, he thought. Too old to ever know the faint taste of nicotine on your kiss. He gripped his tea with a full hand around the porcelain, the painful heat bringing him out of his moment of unprofessional longing.
"Did you have a big night," Kenneth asked.
Her shoulders tensed. "Does that affect my dole?"
"No, of course not," Kenneth said.
The rest of the session was conducted in tense tones with minimal banter.
Izy was another castaway from downsizing Government departments, happy to take her redundancy, thinking it a chance to catch up on the party. The young didn't understand that the Blair years were an anomoly. Rarely in history did the banks line up to offer mortgages to punters without two quid to rub between their thumbs.
But it wasn't Kenneth's job to lecture. In his kind uncle voice, he had outlined programs that might help land a new job, but Izy was looking queasy and in need of a full English and the afternoon buried neck deep in a feather pillow. He wished her luck and told her to ring anytime.
And then she was gone, her stocking clad legs disappearing down the polyester carpetted corridor.
There were so many folders.
The in-box was practically overflowing.
"Get your finger out," Spiv said, walking by.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Trip (part 2)
Hello dear readers,
Now, some of you may expect my account of the coach journey to involve a very public panic attack or act of indiscretion, such as immediately removing my shoes or unwrapping a Stilton and cress sandwich to enchant the nasal cavities of my fellow passengers. Well, though I may not travel much, I am no animal.
I sat quite quietly and put on the I-Pod given to me by my good friend Piotr for use over the holiday. And yes, it was a real I-Pod, not some sort of Polish knock-off, called an I-Pol, with only one earphone and the capacity for one and a half songs. He is in IT and very savvy about technology. He even loaded the contraption up with some of my favourites, which I believe he may have pirated from the internet, the first of which was 'If I Can't Have You' by the Bee Gees, which was apt given I recently spent so much time, emotional currency and physical currency on a futile pursuit of my lady friend from work. Truthfully, my heart ached.
Yet, I resolved not to cede my spirit to despondency. I also resolved to be mindful of my breathing exercises and take no notice of my fellow passengers, even those who felt compelled to speak at volumes high enough to drown out the velvety harmonising of the brothers Gibb while providing a well-detailed, blow-by-blow account of some bint's naked escapades.
The first 90 minutes was fraught with anxiety and frankly I had doubts as to my ability to stay seated and silent. Thankfully the late hour cast the coach and its human cargo into a contemplative lull by the time we were shot of the city's gravity. At this point Mrs Donaldson removed our near-odourless sharp cheddar and pickle sandwiches from their wrappings and I removed my earphones.
We chatted about our possible itinerary over the next four days, agreeing to do some of the typical tourist activities - the Roman baths, the Jane Austin Centre and the city walk. I inquired as to jaunts to Stonehenge, which thankfully she dismissed as ridiculous, and Stow on the Wold, which elicited a snort of disgust.
'The countryside is reputed to be rather stunning,' I ventured.
'I've no need for countryside. I'm not a farmer.'
Now, I have long known of Mrs Donaldson's aversion to rural life. Her evacuation from London as a child during The Blitz was a defining experience in her life, yet one she has long refused to discuss in any detail, despite my many subtle inquiries. The odd scrap of detail has emerged, of course, such as that she was told very little by her parents about what was happening and was physically labelled like a parcel before being shunted onto a train. I know she has a soft spot for orphans and the like...
'What can you learn from a bleedin' tree,' she continued.
As our relationship is largely founded on aimless debate and being contrary for the sake of conversation, I argued that the entire canon of Romantic poetry had been based on the pastoral.
'A complete waste of time. And to think they cut all those beautiful trees to print their poems.'
I replied to this by reciting the first two stanzas of Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind', which was forced into my brain in secondary school by a Literature teacher fond of heartfelt poetry and throwing chairs at his students.* Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to remove Shelley, Keats or several passages of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar from my grey matter. Mind you, my keen mind kept me from ever being struck by a chair.
'What good has a poet ever done anyone?' Mrs Donaldson asked.
'They have sustained me in many a dark hour.'
She then went on a rather long monologue about how people needed to work, not think so much. Apparently the solution to death, disease, depression, heartache and hair loss can all be found by picking up a broom or spade and rolling up one's sleeves. As I've mentioned before, despite her advanced age, Mrs Donaldson is forever doing work with the church or coercing other ancient types into inappropriate social activities (see past posts re: elderly improv).
'No starving man ever chose a book of poetry over a hot supper.'
'I would,' I replied. 'I spend my wages on books. What's left over I waste on food and drink.'**
'Turn away your food tomorrow and I'll buy you a lovely meal or any book you like in the shop the following day. I suspect you won't be dining on DH Lawrence.'
I pointed out that most book shops on the high street were dead or dying, so there were no guarantees she could fulfill her part of the wager. We lingered in silence as the darkness hung outside our window. I then inquired what the Blitz was like, in case our proximity to countryside had stirred the faintest hint of melancholic nostalgia.
'You're the flippin' writer,' she said. 'Use your imagination.'
She then closed her eyes and feigned sleep.
Stay well,
Nate
*I know the first five stanzas
**I believe I may have stolen this line from someone... I can't recall from whom
All conversation approximated from notes. NF
Now, some of you may expect my account of the coach journey to involve a very public panic attack or act of indiscretion, such as immediately removing my shoes or unwrapping a Stilton and cress sandwich to enchant the nasal cavities of my fellow passengers. Well, though I may not travel much, I am no animal.
I sat quite quietly and put on the I-Pod given to me by my good friend Piotr for use over the holiday. And yes, it was a real I-Pod, not some sort of Polish knock-off, called an I-Pol, with only one earphone and the capacity for one and a half songs. He is in IT and very savvy about technology. He even loaded the contraption up with some of my favourites, which I believe he may have pirated from the internet, the first of which was 'If I Can't Have You' by the Bee Gees, which was apt given I recently spent so much time, emotional currency and physical currency on a futile pursuit of my lady friend from work. Truthfully, my heart ached.
Yet, I resolved not to cede my spirit to despondency. I also resolved to be mindful of my breathing exercises and take no notice of my fellow passengers, even those who felt compelled to speak at volumes high enough to drown out the velvety harmonising of the brothers Gibb while providing a well-detailed, blow-by-blow account of some bint's naked escapades.
The first 90 minutes was fraught with anxiety and frankly I had doubts as to my ability to stay seated and silent. Thankfully the late hour cast the coach and its human cargo into a contemplative lull by the time we were shot of the city's gravity. At this point Mrs Donaldson removed our near-odourless sharp cheddar and pickle sandwiches from their wrappings and I removed my earphones.
We chatted about our possible itinerary over the next four days, agreeing to do some of the typical tourist activities - the Roman baths, the Jane Austin Centre and the city walk. I inquired as to jaunts to Stonehenge, which thankfully she dismissed as ridiculous, and Stow on the Wold, which elicited a snort of disgust.
'The countryside is reputed to be rather stunning,' I ventured.
'I've no need for countryside. I'm not a farmer.'
Now, I have long known of Mrs Donaldson's aversion to rural life. Her evacuation from London as a child during The Blitz was a defining experience in her life, yet one she has long refused to discuss in any detail, despite my many subtle inquiries. The odd scrap of detail has emerged, of course, such as that she was told very little by her parents about what was happening and was physically labelled like a parcel before being shunted onto a train. I know she has a soft spot for orphans and the like...
'What can you learn from a bleedin' tree,' she continued.
As our relationship is largely founded on aimless debate and being contrary for the sake of conversation, I argued that the entire canon of Romantic poetry had been based on the pastoral.
'A complete waste of time. And to think they cut all those beautiful trees to print their poems.'
I replied to this by reciting the first two stanzas of Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind', which was forced into my brain in secondary school by a Literature teacher fond of heartfelt poetry and throwing chairs at his students.* Despite my best efforts, I have not been able to remove Shelley, Keats or several passages of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar from my grey matter. Mind you, my keen mind kept me from ever being struck by a chair.
'What good has a poet ever done anyone?' Mrs Donaldson asked.
'They have sustained me in many a dark hour.'
She then went on a rather long monologue about how people needed to work, not think so much. Apparently the solution to death, disease, depression, heartache and hair loss can all be found by picking up a broom or spade and rolling up one's sleeves. As I've mentioned before, despite her advanced age, Mrs Donaldson is forever doing work with the church or coercing other ancient types into inappropriate social activities (see past posts re: elderly improv).
'No starving man ever chose a book of poetry over a hot supper.'
'I would,' I replied. 'I spend my wages on books. What's left over I waste on food and drink.'**
'Turn away your food tomorrow and I'll buy you a lovely meal or any book you like in the shop the following day. I suspect you won't be dining on DH Lawrence.'
I pointed out that most book shops on the high street were dead or dying, so there were no guarantees she could fulfill her part of the wager. We lingered in silence as the darkness hung outside our window. I then inquired what the Blitz was like, in case our proximity to countryside had stirred the faintest hint of melancholic nostalgia.
'You're the flippin' writer,' she said. 'Use your imagination.'
She then closed her eyes and feigned sleep.
Stay well,
Nate
*I know the first five stanzas
**I believe I may have stolen this line from someone... I can't recall from whom
All conversation approximated from notes. NF
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The Trip (part 1)
Hello dear readers,
Yes, I have borrowed my title from Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's spectacularly uneven series about their adventures driving through the north of England eating in swish restaurants. Of course, the difference in my and Mrs Donaldson's tale of exploration is: a) we are more erudite and sophisticated b) Mrs Donaldson does not do excessive Al Pacino impersonations and mug for the camera c) we have fewer BAFTA nominations and d) most of our meals are budget.
Still, we did leave our local area in search of adventure and a pleasant way of celebrating my dear neighbour's 79th birthday on the tab of her only son, who 'does something with numbers with the government' and has been doing so for long enough not to fear the swath of forced redundancies sweeping the nation. So may I begin by first saying, Happy Birthday, Mrs Donaldson. You look younger than your years and are as spry as a 60-year-old with mild arthritis, an ambitious hair colourist and a King's capacity for sweet sherry.
Now the plan to leave London began in jest, a remark on my part in relation to my desire to write a Bill Bryson-style travel book. Being carbonated with vim and vigour, and feeling somewhat low about the turning of another page on the ever-shortening calender of life, my dear neighbour practically goaded me into action, making the arrangements herself and doing everything short of packing my bag. I suspect she would have pressed and folded my pants and socks if given the chance, which would have left me terribly uncomfortable.
The bare facts:
Mrs Donaldson arranged for us to travel via National Express coach, leaving from Victoria Station at precisely 7pm (give or take a cup of tea and the last bit of pastry being consumed by the driver) for the princely sum of £13.50 (one-way). Apparently she paid the same rate, due I would suppose to our late booking, proving rather emphatically there really is no good reason to get old anymore in our ruthless modern society. Because of her languid joints and our desire not to be separated for the journey, we also paid the £1 surcharge for priority seating. When did this blatant money grab come about? You tell me, ruthless modern society. You tell me...
Now, for international readers, to get from Islington to Victoria Station we had two options. The first was to take one of our city's famous black cabs, helmed by a well-trained and regulated driver who would have had to have passed a rigid exam. These chaps possess an intimate knowledge of both the intricate geography of the city, as well as its vibrant soul, and are tremendously professional (as long as you do not vomit or act like a prat/lunatic/French Prime Minister).
Instead we opted for a mini-cab, because frankly, they are considerably less expensive and I have an aversion to people driving and speaking, which black cab drivers are also famous for... It seems like a potentially deadly distraction. I get a tad nervous and nauseous.
Now, the key is to pre-book a mini-cab, as basically any rapist-cum-serial killer can plaster some signage on an automobile and agree to drive you to Luton. The other rather disagreeable problem with mini-cabs has largely been solved by GPS, but a decade or so ago (when I travelled more) one had a 70-30 chance of the driver either asking you to give him street by street directions or hurling an A-Z into your lap. To be fair, this only happened if you were going somewhere atypical he didn't know, like for example, your home. Drivers were more adept at locating major landmarks and airports, or a shop selling rugs owned by his uncle.
Anyway, the advent of GPS has changed the game completely. Our driver was a pleasant enough chap, and after Mrs Donaldson had thoroughly inspected his license, we settled into the back of the vehicle and had a fine 20-minute ride to our destination.
Being a dedicated walker, I admit having been somewhat agitated by the rapid acceleration and braking, tooting and hand gestures of the city's vehicular life clattering around me, but was calmed by Mrs Donaldson's firm suggestion that I 'buck up and stop moaning'. To an outsider this might sound harsh, but what my dear neighbour was actually saying was, 'It's all fine, Nate.' Communication is a generational thing...
And so, we arrived with body and soul intact for our journey to Bath, Somerset - an outpost of the Roman Empire established around 60AD as a temple to Minerva - sister city to Shower, Loofa and Bidet - home to the most remarkable natural hot springs in Britain.
Now if only I could keep my supper down on the three-hour journey...
Stay well,
Nate
Yes, I have borrowed my title from Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's spectacularly uneven series about their adventures driving through the north of England eating in swish restaurants. Of course, the difference in my and Mrs Donaldson's tale of exploration is: a) we are more erudite and sophisticated b) Mrs Donaldson does not do excessive Al Pacino impersonations and mug for the camera c) we have fewer BAFTA nominations and d) most of our meals are budget.
Still, we did leave our local area in search of adventure and a pleasant way of celebrating my dear neighbour's 79th birthday on the tab of her only son, who 'does something with numbers with the government' and has been doing so for long enough not to fear the swath of forced redundancies sweeping the nation. So may I begin by first saying, Happy Birthday, Mrs Donaldson. You look younger than your years and are as spry as a 60-year-old with mild arthritis, an ambitious hair colourist and a King's capacity for sweet sherry.
Now the plan to leave London began in jest, a remark on my part in relation to my desire to write a Bill Bryson-style travel book. Being carbonated with vim and vigour, and feeling somewhat low about the turning of another page on the ever-shortening calender of life, my dear neighbour practically goaded me into action, making the arrangements herself and doing everything short of packing my bag. I suspect she would have pressed and folded my pants and socks if given the chance, which would have left me terribly uncomfortable.
The bare facts:
Mrs Donaldson arranged for us to travel via National Express coach, leaving from Victoria Station at precisely 7pm (give or take a cup of tea and the last bit of pastry being consumed by the driver) for the princely sum of £13.50 (one-way). Apparently she paid the same rate, due I would suppose to our late booking, proving rather emphatically there really is no good reason to get old anymore in our ruthless modern society. Because of her languid joints and our desire not to be separated for the journey, we also paid the £1 surcharge for priority seating. When did this blatant money grab come about? You tell me, ruthless modern society. You tell me...
Now, for international readers, to get from Islington to Victoria Station we had two options. The first was to take one of our city's famous black cabs, helmed by a well-trained and regulated driver who would have had to have passed a rigid exam. These chaps possess an intimate knowledge of both the intricate geography of the city, as well as its vibrant soul, and are tremendously professional (as long as you do not vomit or act like a prat/lunatic/French Prime Minister).
Instead we opted for a mini-cab, because frankly, they are considerably less expensive and I have an aversion to people driving and speaking, which black cab drivers are also famous for... It seems like a potentially deadly distraction. I get a tad nervous and nauseous.
Now, the key is to pre-book a mini-cab, as basically any rapist-cum-serial killer can plaster some signage on an automobile and agree to drive you to Luton. The other rather disagreeable problem with mini-cabs has largely been solved by GPS, but a decade or so ago (when I travelled more) one had a 70-30 chance of the driver either asking you to give him street by street directions or hurling an A-Z into your lap. To be fair, this only happened if you were going somewhere atypical he didn't know, like for example, your home. Drivers were more adept at locating major landmarks and airports, or a shop selling rugs owned by his uncle.
Anyway, the advent of GPS has changed the game completely. Our driver was a pleasant enough chap, and after Mrs Donaldson had thoroughly inspected his license, we settled into the back of the vehicle and had a fine 20-minute ride to our destination.
Being a dedicated walker, I admit having been somewhat agitated by the rapid acceleration and braking, tooting and hand gestures of the city's vehicular life clattering around me, but was calmed by Mrs Donaldson's firm suggestion that I 'buck up and stop moaning'. To an outsider this might sound harsh, but what my dear neighbour was actually saying was, 'It's all fine, Nate.' Communication is a generational thing...
And so, we arrived with body and soul intact for our journey to Bath, Somerset - an outpost of the Roman Empire established around 60AD as a temple to Minerva - sister city to Shower, Loofa and Bidet - home to the most remarkable natural hot springs in Britain.
Now if only I could keep my supper down on the three-hour journey...
Stay well,
Nate
Friday, December 31, 2010
Greetings from Bath!
Hello dear readers,
Well, might miracles never cease, I have left the cosy confines of my beloved London and arrived with my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson in Bath, Somerset. The journey was stressful, as one might imagine, and I have spent the past several days in a fascinating state of recovery, anxiety and dare I say excitement.
It is another world. I spent much of yesterday afternoon drinking warm tea while watching street performers in the main square. First there was a young man who did a number of cover versions of John Lennon and Beatle songs. He was stupendous, a dead ringer (no pun intended). He was later followed by two young blond men from Scandinavia who looked cold and were bloody awful, completely lacking in confidence and off-tune.
As I dropped 50p into their basically empty hat on the stones, one gave an embarrassed shrug and explained they didn't know how to play any instruments but were in need of finances for a big New Years Eve drinking session. I noted the northern European economies were much stronger than that of the UK, hinting that perhaps a little 'shoulder to the grindstone' back home might offer a more fulfilling, beggary-free getaway in future. They thanked me again for the donation and subtly asked me to move, as I was blocking the view for their 'audience' (mostly indifference pedestrians hurriedly seeking indoor warmth).
So, yes, I am compiling notes to write a few sample chapters for my new Bill Bryson-style book about travelling around Britain. I would like to share more, but there is a queue waiting impatiently for the Guest House's sole 'Guest PC' (with unlimited internet access!). The rooms have free wi-fi, so if these VIP types are that desperate to get on-line they should have brought or purchased a laptop computer.
And yet, I shall be the better man and relent to their sighing.
So long from Bath, or as the Romans called it, Aquae Sulis! I shall endeavour to update again shortly.
Stay well (and Happy New Year),
Nate
Well, might miracles never cease, I have left the cosy confines of my beloved London and arrived with my 78-year-old neighbour Mrs Donaldson in Bath, Somerset. The journey was stressful, as one might imagine, and I have spent the past several days in a fascinating state of recovery, anxiety and dare I say excitement.
It is another world. I spent much of yesterday afternoon drinking warm tea while watching street performers in the main square. First there was a young man who did a number of cover versions of John Lennon and Beatle songs. He was stupendous, a dead ringer (no pun intended). He was later followed by two young blond men from Scandinavia who looked cold and were bloody awful, completely lacking in confidence and off-tune.
As I dropped 50p into their basically empty hat on the stones, one gave an embarrassed shrug and explained they didn't know how to play any instruments but were in need of finances for a big New Years Eve drinking session. I noted the northern European economies were much stronger than that of the UK, hinting that perhaps a little 'shoulder to the grindstone' back home might offer a more fulfilling, beggary-free getaway in future. They thanked me again for the donation and subtly asked me to move, as I was blocking the view for their 'audience' (mostly indifference pedestrians hurriedly seeking indoor warmth).
So, yes, I am compiling notes to write a few sample chapters for my new Bill Bryson-style book about travelling around Britain. I would like to share more, but there is a queue waiting impatiently for the Guest House's sole 'Guest PC' (with unlimited internet access!). The rooms have free wi-fi, so if these VIP types are that desperate to get on-line they should have brought or purchased a laptop computer.
And yet, I shall be the better man and relent to their sighing.
So long from Bath, or as the Romans called it, Aquae Sulis! I shall endeavour to update again shortly.
Stay well (and Happy New Year),
Nate
Friday, December 24, 2010
Lowdown Big Top Christmas
Mancunian Monkey Boy and Dave the Circus Midget were escorted through the large wooden door, which was adorned with the largest, most intricately woven wreath either had ever seen. The room was blue with pipe smoke, making the walls of classic hardback books appear hazy and dreamlike. A muscular man with short black hair sat behind an imposing oak desk, his head down over a printout of papers. His suit was well-tailored, Savile Row. The gold nametag said: Santa – the sleigh stops here. Behind him stood a block of meat with knuckles as big as brass bells and a look as blank as a field of new fallen snow.
“I thought you were supposed to be fat and jolly and wearing a red suit,” Monkey said, flopping down on a red leather chair and slouching back.
Santa looked up, his eyes dark and distant. Long nights and not enough sun this high in the Arctic. He put his gold pen down.
“I thought man would shave his knuckles when they get so furry,” he replied, looking at Monkey’s hands on the armrests. “Stereotypes, monkey person. Red suit is Coca-Cola marketing campaign from 1920s. You should know history, or be bound to repeat it. Like cheap shampoo.”
Ukrainian accent, Monkey though, surprised. He had clocked it within two words. Monkey had dealt with Kiev types before. They were unpredictable and notoriously tight-lipped. He wondered how the world had been so misinformed about a man at the centre of the biggest holiday of the year. Fucking Rupert Murdoch.
Santa looked down at Dave and cocked an eye.
“You work for me in past, little man?”
“No, Santa. I’ve only ever worked in the circus and as a roadie with The Happy Mondays before they made it big. But it’s a right pleasure to meet you.”
“Ah... Step On. Very good song.” He motioned to the slab of meat at his shoulder. “This is body guard, Vasily.”
“Is he?” Monkey said.
Santa looked confused. “Vhat?”
“Monkey…” Dave moaned.
“Silly?” Monkey continued.
Santa picked up his pen and silently flipped through his stack of papers. He made a dramatic slash. “You just lose one present for terrible pun.”
“I don’t need new socks or a bicycle anyway. What we need is information, Santa.”
“Everybody want something,” the big man replied. “I want two penises and vaginas on palms, but life not always work in way we wish.”
“What do you know about April Mills?”
“Model, mono-ped, fleeced a Beatle. Now very rich but hated by world.”
“That’s Heather Mills. We're after April Mills, barmaid in the Elephant and Lettuce pub. Pretty face but unfortunate tight perm. She's Polish, so she has an excuse. Been missing since last weekend.”
Santa’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe she give bad service to someone.”
“Highly probable. She was a shit server, but if spilling your pint was a reason for someone to disappear half the staff in England would be MIA.”
Monkey had a feeling Santa was holding back. Ukrainians…
“Why should I know information?” Santa asked.
“Because the word is you know everything – naughty, nice, the whole ball of wax. You’re like Wikileaks, but less arrogant and further out of reach of US black Ops. I know you’re a smart man and have no reason to play dumb.” Monkey looked up at Vasily. “Unlike him. Can you ask him to stop staring?”
“He is body guard. He watches everyone.”
“I thought that was your job.”
Santa got up from his desk. He looked like the type who went to the gym at least five times a week. He walked to the window and looked out on the dark snow drifts.
“There was a time. But accountant convinced me to outsource. Now I am glorified manager. I feel out of loop of my own operation.”
Monkey leaned forward. He hadn’t expected melancholy from the legendary elf-man.
“But you can get us the information,” Monkey said.
“If I share rumour little bird whispers in ear, I need … compensation.”
“Milk and cookies?”
Santa turned around.
“I want be acrobat. On high-wire. Maybe I grab pretty girl on swinging bar. And later I shoot tiger from cannon. I have enough of toys for children and dealing with elf union.”
“What would happen to Christmas?”
“I appoint new CEO. Nigel Claus, nephew. Branding stays same but I get to live my dream.”
Monkey smiled. “Everyone deserves to follow their dreams, Santa.”
“I thought you were supposed to be fat and jolly and wearing a red suit,” Monkey said, flopping down on a red leather chair and slouching back.
Santa looked up, his eyes dark and distant. Long nights and not enough sun this high in the Arctic. He put his gold pen down.
“I thought man would shave his knuckles when they get so furry,” he replied, looking at Monkey’s hands on the armrests. “Stereotypes, monkey person. Red suit is Coca-Cola marketing campaign from 1920s. You should know history, or be bound to repeat it. Like cheap shampoo.”
Ukrainian accent, Monkey though, surprised. He had clocked it within two words. Monkey had dealt with Kiev types before. They were unpredictable and notoriously tight-lipped. He wondered how the world had been so misinformed about a man at the centre of the biggest holiday of the year. Fucking Rupert Murdoch.
Santa looked down at Dave and cocked an eye.
“You work for me in past, little man?”
“No, Santa. I’ve only ever worked in the circus and as a roadie with The Happy Mondays before they made it big. But it’s a right pleasure to meet you.”
“Ah... Step On. Very good song.” He motioned to the slab of meat at his shoulder. “This is body guard, Vasily.”
“Is he?” Monkey said.
Santa looked confused. “Vhat?”
“Monkey…” Dave moaned.
“Silly?” Monkey continued.
Santa picked up his pen and silently flipped through his stack of papers. He made a dramatic slash. “You just lose one present for terrible pun.”
“I don’t need new socks or a bicycle anyway. What we need is information, Santa.”
“Everybody want something,” the big man replied. “I want two penises and vaginas on palms, but life not always work in way we wish.”
“What do you know about April Mills?”
“Model, mono-ped, fleeced a Beatle. Now very rich but hated by world.”
“That’s Heather Mills. We're after April Mills, barmaid in the Elephant and Lettuce pub. Pretty face but unfortunate tight perm. She's Polish, so she has an excuse. Been missing since last weekend.”
Santa’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe she give bad service to someone.”
“Highly probable. She was a shit server, but if spilling your pint was a reason for someone to disappear half the staff in England would be MIA.”
Monkey had a feeling Santa was holding back. Ukrainians…
“Why should I know information?” Santa asked.
“Because the word is you know everything – naughty, nice, the whole ball of wax. You’re like Wikileaks, but less arrogant and further out of reach of US black Ops. I know you’re a smart man and have no reason to play dumb.” Monkey looked up at Vasily. “Unlike him. Can you ask him to stop staring?”
“He is body guard. He watches everyone.”
“I thought that was your job.”
Santa got up from his desk. He looked like the type who went to the gym at least five times a week. He walked to the window and looked out on the dark snow drifts.
“There was a time. But accountant convinced me to outsource. Now I am glorified manager. I feel out of loop of my own operation.”
Monkey leaned forward. He hadn’t expected melancholy from the legendary elf-man.
“But you can get us the information,” Monkey said.
“If I share rumour little bird whispers in ear, I need … compensation.”
“Milk and cookies?”
Santa turned around.
“I want be acrobat. On high-wire. Maybe I grab pretty girl on swinging bar. And later I shoot tiger from cannon. I have enough of toys for children and dealing with elf union.”
“What would happen to Christmas?”
“I appoint new CEO. Nigel Claus, nephew. Branding stays same but I get to live my dream.”
Monkey smiled. “Everyone deserves to follow their dreams, Santa.”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Stieg Larsson alive?
Hello dear readers,
Well, my desire to write Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and ‘new Stieg Larsson manuscript found’ in every blog post to attract search engine traffic has certainly touched a nerve. One associate termed it misleading and unethical; another took offence to my not understanding the author's genius and popular appeal. Each to their own. You can't please everyone.
No doubt entitling this post Stieg Larsson alive? will prompt do-gooders to accuse me of scraping the bottom of the morality bucket. But frankly, I desperately need new readers and he's not likely to either mind or pursue litigation. Besides, the world runs on suspect conjecture. And it's not like I've accepted blood diamonds from Charles Taylor.
Speaking of ethics, you would think responsible workmen would be keen to finish a job, especially when it involves a missing half of a roof and rainy weather. But no, I am still living under plastic. They failed to leave a contact number, the Louse of the House (aka my landlord) has disappeared and my Google search for ‘shifty old roofers’ has come to naught.
Beyond this, The Independent – that bastion of free expression – has excluded my comments from appearing on a recent article about the rapid rise in commodity prices. I made the erudite point that an increase in feed stock will result in higher prices for meat, which as a semi-vegetarian (who still eats seafood and admittedly bacon on Saturday mornings), I view as a positive outcome of the whole palaver, as people won't consume as many animals.
The expected rise in food prices is worrying and simply adds to the atmosphere of economic misery pervading most of the nation. Many readers laughed when I stocked up on large quantities of rice and tinned goods during the brief Ash Cloud uncertainty. Well, when food prices go through the roof due to these wild fires in Russia and the Ukraine, I shall be enjoying my reasonably priced wares with a satisfied smirk on my lips.
Of course my lips would be happier if Madeline would return even one phone call or email. But I shall not dwell.
Finally, I have had a return of the death worries that drove so many readers away from my blog not long ago. As I rapidly approach my 48th birthday, I have become aware of how much I've outlived so many of my fellow scribes:
Virginia Wolfe, dead at 39
Franz Kafka, dead at 41
Chekhov, dead at 44
Robert Louis Stevenson, also dead at 44
Lord Byron, flung from this mortal coil at 36
Robbie Burns, planted at 37
And though I haven't outlived him yet, Stieg Larsson, reduced to ash at 50
Or is he still alive and living in Norwich?
The list of dead writers goes on. Sober reading.
Right, I'm off for a quick wank.
Stay well,
Nate
Well, my desire to write Stieg Larsson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and ‘new Stieg Larsson manuscript found’ in every blog post to attract search engine traffic has certainly touched a nerve. One associate termed it misleading and unethical; another took offence to my not understanding the author's genius and popular appeal. Each to their own. You can't please everyone.
No doubt entitling this post Stieg Larsson alive? will prompt do-gooders to accuse me of scraping the bottom of the morality bucket. But frankly, I desperately need new readers and he's not likely to either mind or pursue litigation. Besides, the world runs on suspect conjecture. And it's not like I've accepted blood diamonds from Charles Taylor.
Speaking of ethics, you would think responsible workmen would be keen to finish a job, especially when it involves a missing half of a roof and rainy weather. But no, I am still living under plastic. They failed to leave a contact number, the Louse of the House (aka my landlord) has disappeared and my Google search for ‘shifty old roofers’ has come to naught.
Beyond this, The Independent – that bastion of free expression – has excluded my comments from appearing on a recent article about the rapid rise in commodity prices. I made the erudite point that an increase in feed stock will result in higher prices for meat, which as a semi-vegetarian (who still eats seafood and admittedly bacon on Saturday mornings), I view as a positive outcome of the whole palaver, as people won't consume as many animals.
The expected rise in food prices is worrying and simply adds to the atmosphere of economic misery pervading most of the nation. Many readers laughed when I stocked up on large quantities of rice and tinned goods during the brief Ash Cloud uncertainty. Well, when food prices go through the roof due to these wild fires in Russia and the Ukraine, I shall be enjoying my reasonably priced wares with a satisfied smirk on my lips.
Of course my lips would be happier if Madeline would return even one phone call or email. But I shall not dwell.
Finally, I have had a return of the death worries that drove so many readers away from my blog not long ago. As I rapidly approach my 48th birthday, I have become aware of how much I've outlived so many of my fellow scribes:
Virginia Wolfe, dead at 39
Franz Kafka, dead at 41
Chekhov, dead at 44
Robert Louis Stevenson, also dead at 44
Lord Byron, flung from this mortal coil at 36
Robbie Burns, planted at 37
And though I haven't outlived him yet, Stieg Larsson, reduced to ash at 50
Or is he still alive and living in Norwich?
The list of dead writers goes on. Sober reading.
Right, I'm off for a quick wank.
Stay well,
Nate
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