Sunday ended with me in a faceless hotel room in London’s Docklands, but began with me in Chez Jelltex, all lovely and full of cats.
It was a grey day, with a cold wind blowing, so after a huge dose of football from MOTD and huge bacon butties, we did some gardening, planning the ferns we bought the day before. Digging the them in watering and anticipating their bushy growth in the shade of the house. The cats were unmoved, and left us to it.
Now, I have not seen Nan since Christmas Day. I know, I am bad. But then I have been working away a lot, and the weekends just seem to slip through our hands. So, I girded my loins and went with Jools to see her. She is stronger, tardy and in good form, but still deaf as a post. She is OK, other than the usual stuff, wanting to die, the food is rubbish, and she needs to go for a poo.
We left after an hour, Jen had arrived, so three visits in a day, not bad for her.
We went back home for sausages and chips, the sausages the first batch of the year seasoned with wind Kentish garlic. And they were mighty pungent I can say, I was tasting them all evening.
Oh yes, evening. Evening and the trek to London, in what should have been a straightforward train trip to Stratford, across to the airport to the hotel. Only the high speed line was shut, the other lines into London were no good. So, that left me with the replacement buses, or Jools taking me to Ebbsfleet. So, up the A2 and M2, dodging roadworks and mad drivers. It was getting dark, so we took our time, and made it by half six. I got out, grabbed my cases, and went into the station to find a train was due in 15 minutes.
All the trans were rammed, with everyone using those who would have ridden on the trains from Ashford. We all squeezed on, and as it was only a 11 minute trip to Ashford, at which we all popped out.
The usual trip across London to the airport, then to find the hotel. Given the fact we went past the hotel in the train, it should be easy. And I guess it was, only there are roadworks, and traffic was mental, and I could find no footpaths to walk on. And then it started to rain. Perfect. 400 yards, it all it was, and once I crossed the road, I found the way, and the hotel was where it should be, only there was a staff shortage. I wait for ten minutes to get my key, Or card.
I can’t get the wifi to work. I give up and go down to the bar to have some dinner. It is impossible to mess up nachos, and yet they managed it. The cheese was not cooked, and it was cold. But its food. So I eat it, make two bottles of London Pride vanish. Back in my room, the free wifi has expired, so I sign up for another day of paid wifi, send an e mail and that is it, for three quid.
It seems the aircraft have stopped making noise outside, so I take me to bed.
Monday.
Quarter to six, the alarm goes off. I was already awake anyway, worrying I would sleep through the alarm. Outside the traffic was already building, and it was raining. So, I pack, brush me teeth, and set me off back to the airport,. I dodge through the traffic, get to the airport, check in but leave one of my boarding passes in the machine, I go through security, and then can have breakfast: scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. And two huge cups of coffee.
There, I felt human again.
I wait for the flight, but wearing my new project jumper and a fleece. And with the heating on full, I was soon sweating for England, so I strip down to my t shirt, but then I have my trolley, by camera bag and now a huge jumper to carry, not enough hands. Or space. The flight is called, I walk to the gate, realise I have only one boarding card, not one for the connecting flight, so they print me out a new one. Sorted.
We board, the plane taxis out into the mist of London Monday morning, the engine roar, we take off, and London vanishes. In fact I see nothing on the flight until we are on final approach, and we come through the clouds and pass over a motorway. I swear, that once we land, the taxi around the airport takes nearly as long as the flight, be park at some godforsaken corner of the airport, a bus takes us to the terminal. We pass right by gate A10 where my next flight is leaving from. I think about asking to be dropped off, but we keep on driving.
We get out, I walk through the terminal, through immigration, through another terminal, through security, where, although I did not know it, I leave my passport. Down a lift, along a really long corridor, up some stair, through another terminal, turn left, through another terminal, down some stairs, past some more gates, and there was the gate, just as boarding was about to close.
We climb on another bus, head out to a different corner of the airport. I check my boarding pass and realise I don’t have my passport. The bus takes me back to the terminal, my name is being called, I tell the people on the desk, somehow my passport is brought over in a few minutes, I make it on the final bus to the plane..
It wasn’t so much a flight, as a hump. 40 minutes, with 25 minutes taxiing around the airport prior to taking off. Time for a coffee though. Down below the low sun throws long shadows over the land, and to my surprise there is snow in some fields below.
I get the hire car, I drive to the autobahn, and then onto Meissen as I had hoped to get into the cathedral. I knew where to park, right by the river next to the main square. I pull on my camera bag and begin the long walk through the cobbled streets and then up the castle steps. A right climb it was too. I guess the cobbled streets must wind their way up here somehow, but I guess it must be 50m above the street when I reach the old drawbridge, gasping for air. I survey the scene and take a shot. Or two.
Across the main square is the cathedral, I am hoping it is open. I walk round it to the western end, the door swings open, into the small cloister and into the cathedral. It is just 4 euros, I pay the money and enter. It is stunning, and there are just six others to share it with.
I rush round getting my shots, using both cameras. I think the shots come out really well, and finally happy with at, and as the doors were being locked at four, I slip out, walk back down to the car for the drive through the rush hour traffic and to the hotel.
Another 40 minute drive to the hotel, check in, and its dinner time already. I decide I deserve burger and fries as well as two dark beers, its been one of those days.
Tuesday
Oh my word: spring in Eastern Germany. Its not just mild, its downright warm. The sun is out as I wake up, already climbing in a clear blue sky. Such a shame then that I am going to be spending the whole day inside, working.
I have a shower, feel almost human again. Get dressed, and head down for breakfast. The hotel is having a Subaru dealers team building event; never knew there could be so many car salesmen! Hardly a table at breakfast. But I have some fruit, a roll and head to the factory through the wonderful fertile countryside.
I arrive at the factory, get my work bag, gird my loins for another day of battles.
Its not that bad I guess, but I’d rather be walking through the countryside taking photos, or with the cats. Or with Jools.
It is St Patrick’s Day, and the Germans don’t seem to care, just getting ready to drink their own normal brews. Quite right, there is no place in society for green beer. So, lets just say, I will join them for some dark beer, and a chicken salad. And an early night, or an early night as early as it can be with City fighting for three more points on Yorkshire.
And in a minute, I will go outside to see if the northern lights can be seen. Fingers crossed on that one….
The 18th March sees me pass the milestone of joining the working week.
The 18th was a Monday in 1985, and I began work at Buxted Poultry in Flixton. It was, in fact, not what I had hoped I would be doing. Two weeks previously, I had talked myself into a training course for a secondary window company. A week’s course will food at Hedley House, and it all sounded so wonderful. Until on the next Monday, the 11th, I began to cold call. In half an hour I was totally fed up, and jacked it in. I got an offer at the chicken factory, accepted, and went the next Monday.
For two weeks I sat on a stool, whilst the chickens whizzed past me at eye level, dead, plucked and chilled, and I had to turn their wings over. It was dull work, and I got RSI, but at the end of the second week I got a bulging pay packet. OK, so this is work? So, I stuck at it. Soon I was given a cushy number packing finished product, only drawback was it was in the chiller, so cold. But have another £4.20. A week.
But I could listen to the radio, daydream, and not get RSI. I made friends, earned money and got ideas above my station.
A job was advertised, as a QA inspector. Or really, a QC inspector, but I thought I could do that. I didn’t get it, but must have impressed the QA Manager because he promised me the next job. As there were just five people in the section, it could be years before a job come open. Next day, Mike came to ask if I was still interested, I was. Go to kitting to pick up a white coat and notebook in the morning. On the job training begins right after.
So, it was a Friday. I remember that, I handed in my blue boiler suit, got a white coat, a notebook and a set of pens. I went to the section where I used to work, with everyone noticing my white coat. All eyes were on me. I was now on the same level as my old bosses. In time, I grew into it, and had a love hat relationship with the job. But after 18 months, I asked to move to another section, as I had to cover overtime on a Friday, and the petrol I used cost more than I earned. My boss refused. I said I’d resign. I had to write a resignation letter. I wrote one, in felt tip pen on the back of an inspection form. SIGNED he said. So I scribbled my name.
Next day I was picking up my blue boiler suit. Mike gave me a trumped up written warning. Which was nice. But I was marked for bigger things. Once my three months warning period expired, I was made into a charge hand, in charge of my friends. Oh that was fun. But, I was bored. I was planning on joining the RAF, and indeed, the day I was offered a salaried position with the factory, I got an offer from the MOD. No choice, really. I told the factory I was leaving. They got the hump, then I managed to break my thumb, have ten weeks on the club, watch the world cup from various pubs around the town, before I took the shilling in September.
Things were never going to be the same again.
Thankfully.
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