A Day out with Nan

So, as I found that I would starting work next week I thought it a great idea to take Nan out for the day, as all I had planned was driving around taking pictures, and having Nan join with me it would be a pleasure and company.

And so after filling out another half dozen forms out at the job agency, I headed off to pick her up, and we headed into the Kentish countryside in the search for picturesque scenes and maybe a pub lunch and ending up at Waitrose in Hythe for shopping and delicious food shopping.

We headed first to Coldred, where Jools and I had attended the country fair at the weekend. It is a beautiful village, all set around a village green with a pond and a colourful sign. At the cross roads, the signpost was mostly overgrown as it was being used as an impromptu vegetable patch, with bean and tomatoes climbing the post.



The church was tiny but charming, and dedicated to St Pancras; the graveyard was wonderfully sparsely populated, giving the impression that locals lived to ripe old ages.



At Eythorne, the old railway to the coal mine crosses the 'main' road, and the line has been transformed into a small preserved line. We have yet to visit this, so I stopped to take pictures. A helpful chap came out and told me some history of the line and presses literature into my hand.



We cross the main London road and plunge down the hillside to the village of Lydden; I took the wrong turn and find a small country church nestling at the edge of a wood. The light was just perfect and I snapped away.



A farmer asks me to move my car. I explain I was then leaving, no he says, can I park it up yonder lane blocking it as he wants to bring his flock out of the field ad that will stop them making a run for the vicarage. No problems; and so I reverse and soon the flock come bouncing out, marshalled by one sheepdog; the sheep leap over each other and are soon out of sight.

We continue on; over hill and down dale until we come at least to the road to hythe and join the 21st century again.

As the clouds thicken I find a wonderful timber-framed pub called The Bell and we go in for sandwiches and liquid refreshments. Outside, the heavens open and the rain pours down. The landlord scuttles about doing the job of three people, all very well.



Shopping in a supermarket is seldom fun, and Waitrose is the best of a bad lot; they have wonderful but over-priced food, but there were some things we needed that could only be got there. At least in here there are customers of a certain type, and which means I am now one of them. There are no children running around, and few people with trolleys having conversations blocking aisles.

After getting everything on the lest, I go to the till and remark how much better than Tescos it is, then the cashier tells me the total and I reply now I remember why we don't come here very often.

Oh well, I'll be a working man again soon.

Welcome to the working week. Again.

And so, to work.

In the past three weeks I have been kept on tenderhooks by several job agencies; after promises of work and riches, this has been followed by nothing other than silence. And so I went from agency to agency, filling out form after form, clearing my schedule in preparation for work, doing fork lift driving tests, and generally fretting myself as to whether the phone is going to ring or not.

My sister-in-law works in the same place as Jools, and she is the QA manager; they need someone to oversee production at night; would I like to do it? Yes!

And so to another agency, this time telling them that a request would be coming for them to employ me from their client. I attended an induction where I felt like myself and the inductor had 90% of the braincells in the room. Oh well. And really that was it.

Other than to tackle the rules that run the DHSS or whatever they call themselves these days; Jobcentre plus or something. I have been off work for three months and I had to attend an interview yesterday about things to do to improve my chances of finding work; a jet powered interwbz maybe? Or getting companies really to recruit might help.
Anyways, I go in and explain that I am to start work on Monday morning and so the interview is not needed as it will be wasting their and my time. 'If you want to continue the claim to Sunday evening you must attend the interview, otherwise your claim will be terminated today.'

So, saving an hour of my life I decided to forgo the interview and four days benefit and use that time to take Jools' Nan out for the morning, have lunch out and generally spend some time with her while I can.

Whilst out with Nan I get a text message from my friend, Dick. He just had an interview with a bomb disposal company in Rochester, and they are planning in expanding into sea surveys.

Can you see where this is leading?

I knew about this and had sent in a letter and CV; in three days I heard nothing. Turns out they were waiting to see what Dick was like and seeing that I have just about the same experience seemingly are going to offer me a job as well. When I got home there was a call waiting, I send off my CV again, he calls back, we can do business.

So, choices, choices.

After nothing for three months, two in a day.

Anyways, I am starting the QA job on Monday to see how that goes and then go for an interview with the bomb disposal place; and a survey engineer not as someone who will doing the defusing I stress.

And so, on this bright and sunny Friday, I am going to be spending it relaxing, watching cricket, internetting and baking some saffron buns this afternoon. And then a pub quiz and beer and whiskey and much mucking around this evening.

To blog or not to blog

I have been writing down random thoughts since November 2006, when I embarked on my life at sea. Since then I have posted those on myspace and on of all things, a dating site called Matchdoctor. As time went by I got very bored with myspace, but the friends I made through blogging kept me on the latter site. And then politics and religion got in the way; name calling and those who shout the loudest; friends left, the fun left. And in the end I found I was enjoying writing on here more because at least I could post pictures at the same time as writing.
It was to be just a matter of time before I left Matchdoctor, and that time has now come, although my account is till active, I will use it just for mails to and from friends.

I don't claim to be a wordsmith or anything, but in the nearly three years I have been doing this, I have enjoyed writing, and hope to continue through whatever life may bring.

And so, another phase of my life is about to begin, new challenges and people to meet. Hopefully you will join me along to way. If not then at least it gives me something to read in my fast approaching dotage.

Music

Is my first love, and it will be my last. And so sang John Miles in the 70s. It was around this time I fell in love with music.

For Christmas 1977 I got what must have been my first Boots voucher. Imagine rather than giving someone money where they could spend anywhere, a voucher that could only be spent in one shop? Genius, and we fell for it.

Still, I had a Boots voucher and wanted to buy a record; my choice was Abba's Take a Chance on Me. I remember it came in a plain white sleeve, or mine did, anyway. I didn't have a record player of my own, so I had to play it on Dad's radiogram when they were out.

A radiogram was a sideboard sized piece of furniture that had a record player and a radio inside. Ours was used mainly for listening to the radio, and that was a multi-band thing with all those fabulous European cities listed on them. I used to love Wednesday evenings when Dad and I would wait for the music to finish on Radio 2 and the commentary from somewhere in Europe would fade in and out on medium wave. All those strange names and places. It also meant I could stay up to half nine, maybe later if it been a good match and stay up for Sportsnight where the highlights might be shown.

Anyway, back to music: I remember the time when I heard a song I actually loved, and remarked that my heavy metal loving friend, Mark, that my new favourite song was Since You've been Gone by Rainbow. More of a pop-metal thing I guess. That summer, we had taken part in an exchange thing where we had a German student stay with us, we were to go to Germany in October. On a trip to Norwich my friends went into a long gone record shop and bough singles by UK Subs all on coloured vinyl; I didn't get it.

Later that year I did. Armed with more Boots vouchers I bought an album this time; Queen's Live Killers, as I loved the song Don't Stop me Now; but that wasn't on it, and I didn't get the live recordings of songs I knew and those, most of them, that I didn't know. I sold that on quite quickly.

Having started a paper round just before Christmas, I soon had twenty pounds of tips to spend money on; it was Pink Floyd's The Wall and both of Blondie's records, Parallel Line and Eat to the Beat. This was more like it, or at least the Blondie ones. Pink Floyd was spread over two records and was hard work for my 14 year old ears.

I think the first single I bought with my own money was also by Blondie; Atomic, which was not on a album, I think. But that was quickly followed by The Vapors Turning Japanese. Now I was an earner, i could buy whatever I wanted, just as long as it was one single a week. I earned it, Mum and and Dad I think were quietly pleased as they loved music too, although they played records very little.

Anyway, I had my own record player, or music centre as they were called. It had a deck, a tape player and a radio. And Dad hung the plastic speakers on the wall just perfect so they could vibrate and make the house echo to dodgy bass sounds. I recorded music from the radio, even though it was killing music, apparently.

A few years ago, my selection was on 6 Music's Gideon Coe's show feature, Hit the Dec's, where one listener would choose a favourite record from the 60s, 70s, 80s, etc. Here is my selection, and the reasons.

1960s:

Excerpt from a Teenage Opera by Keith West.

This was always on Junior Choice on Radio 1 when I was a kid. I hated it, and then a friend with whom I worked loved it, and I listened to it and realised how sad the words were. Grocer Jack did indeed die. But I guess the most amazing thing is that Radio 1 had a show just for kids, real kids, not indie Kids, but children, and they played The Laughing Policeman, Puff the Magic Dragon and all that kind of stuff. And David Bowie's The Laughing Gnome. Oh how we laughed. And we did.

1970s

Denis by Blondie.

Musically, the first thing I think Dad and I agreed on; although to be fair I think he had an altogether different interest to me. As a Sun reader (the shame) he said in hused tones as she danced across the screen, 'She don't like to wear anything on her legs, apparently' he drooled. I just loved the music and indeed she did look stunning. But, it was the music.

1980s

Song to the Siren by This Mortal Coil.

Not a hit, but a wonderful song. A cover of the Tim Buckley classic as done by an indie supergroup made from bands on the 4AD label and voiced by Elizabeth Frazier of the Cocteau Twins. To me, it sounded like nothing else, and now being a self-confessed indie kid who listened to John Peel every night, this was just perfect. At the end of 1984, two of my friends were killed in a road crash on Christmas Day; this was played as Chris' funeral. Has been known to reduce me to tears when played late at night.

1990s

Common People by Pulp

During the early years of 'Britpop' I lived in Germany where I was serving my country by drinking as much beer as I could. The queen was happy with that, she gave me a medal. And this, in the summer of 1995, after I split from my first wife, was the song I heard everywhere, and I think has stood time as the best thing to come out of the whole scene. Another Peel favourite, no need to add.


2000s


Tiny Spark by Brendan Benson

Brendan Benson found fame, of a kind, by being in the same band as The White Stripe's Jack White for a while. I got to love his music when I picked up his first album whilst in the US. This track was the first thing I heard of the second one, via his website. Nothing can ever come close to the goosebump inducing moment when I stood outside the Louisiana pub in Bristol and hear this being played as part of the soundtrack. Brendan's music is a mix of pop and catchy tunes with self-deprecating lyrics.


The first band I ever saw live was Iron Maiden at the beginning of 1981. I say Iron Maiden, in truth it was their support band, a French heavy metal band called Trust who were quite bad. Even still I went out and bought their record as soon as I could. I didn't keep it. Living in the wilds of East Anglia, getting to see bands was very difficult, impossible if you didn't have a car. Our nearest venue was at the University in Norwich, and they only had bands on during term time, and so six months of the year there were no gigs at all.
Someone at school arranged a bus from school, and some of my friends and I got tickets and went. I do remember my ears ringing for days afterwards, and having a very stiff neck from two hours of serious headbanging. That and the mildly comical sight of dwarfish lead singer Paul Di'Anno gurning as he roared the songs out.

I guess the best show I ever saw was me and my friend, Douggie went to London to see Prince play Wembley on the Lovesexy tour. We had seats a handful of rows from the front, and had a great time, and marvelled at the show as well as the music. I went in only quite liking his music and walked out a converted fan. Sadly, he put out ever decreasing quality records, and I fell out of love with his music. Bt we'll always have that night.

Dover 100

So, a 100 years ago, a French bloke, looked out across the La Manche and decided it was worth risking flying his mono-plane the 23 miles from Calais to Dover.



Of course, everyone has heard of Louis Bleriot and his flight. And so to mark the centenary, Dover council saw fit to organise a celebration of sorts, and that was to take place on the day of the centenary.



What they did fail to do was to plan in time and so not have any decent air displays, host the main part of the celebrations in a private school where people could be charged £10 to enter the grounds. And then have a celebration meal somewhere out of private eye where local politicians could mix with the great and good chomping away at a meal costing £250 plus drinks.



We didn't go.

The fly past began at nine in the morning, and after a few scattered microlights flew over from France a whole lot of nothing happened for a few hours. A lone Spitfire flew over, and mid-afternoon a Lancaster swooped down. At seven, the Red Arrows flew over in formation.



And left again.

No display.

And at a quarter past ten there was a fireworks display; but we were home and although tried to spot the fireworks above the cliffs, saw nothing and so went to bed.



Rock and roll.

That is the official celebrations; here's how we spent the day..........

I awoke Saturday morning, literally bouncing out of bed and fed the cats, put the coffee machine on and made ready for the full day ahead. There was no putting it off, and so we were heading towards Tesco sometime before half seven, and with our list we ran round throwing stuff we thought we needed. And back home in time for breakfast, put the shopping away and be ready for going back out, this time into the crowds, by nine.

We decided to head to the National Trust place on the white cliffs and walk down the path into the town if we felt the need to see what the fair or fete or whatever it was being called.



There were still lots of parking places, and we got a prime slot and walked to the edge of the cliffs to see what was going on/

A whole lot of nothing.

Or nothing unusual. Being the start of school holidays, the port was packed and the queues were out back onto the A20, but we were above all that, and the tannoy announcements had a sort of surreal nature to them. Ferries hurried back and forth, and were loaded and unloaded. Other early arrivees had brought picnics, tables, kitchen sinks and the such.



A few tiny planes stuttered across the channel; we walked down to the prom and where the action was. Or wasn't.

As is usual, the fair or fete was filled witht he usual tat; a stall selling nothing but water pistols. Sorry two stalls selling nothing but water pistols. Inflatable nuclear bombers; yup, we had those. And all the other stuff; donut stalls, ice cream vans, tea stalls, fish and chips, kiss me quick, inflatable slides. Oh, there was everything.



We stopped and had a bacon butty with a cuppa and watched the world go by. I took pictures and was happy.

We walked to the end of the prom and then turned round and walked back. Up the steps and back to the car.

We went home. for lunch.

A Spitfire flew over.


Grrrrr.


We decided to go to a quiet bit of the cliffs nearby where we would have a great view of any aircraft flying along the cliffs.

As we drove to the cliffs, the Lancaster flew over sounding all big and impressive.

We looked at the boughs of threes and imagined what it looked like.

On the cliffs, we had a great view.

Of sky and clouds. The wind blew and we got chilly. We tried to read The Times, but the wind made it hard. We silently agreed to go home, and a seaplane did aerobatics over us as we walked back to the car.

I cooked steak whilst Jools went to a chippie for chips, and we had a splendid dinner and afterwards we sat outside as an unseen plane did aerobatics somewhere. On the dot of seven, the Red Arrows and their French counterparts did a play past and kept on going. We were disappointed; we can only imagine how sad the children were at waiting all day for a 20 second view of nine aircraft heading home.

I poured some more wine.

At ten fifteen the fireworks started, but from our back room we could see nothing; and so we went to bed.



Sunday, we had a banquet of things to choose to do; but we chose to go for a ramble. That it began and ended in our own village meant we really should have gone on it. And in the end we enjoyed it, and found some unexplored and quiet parts of the village. Met some new people and walked along the cliffs some.



After lunch we went to a village fete about 5 miles out of Dover at a village called Coldred; there were cars, tractors, animals, stalls, beer tents and the usual there. I took loads of pictures and we had a great time. How much better it seemed organised, and how much better it was for being low key.



Having bought half a cow, we had only eaten half the steaks the night before. I made beef Wellington for Sunday night, and a veritable triumph it turned out to be.

Ozark, Arkansas

As Brits, we generally only visit the coast areas of America, thuge bit in the middle we fly over sipping cocktails and watching films as we head to SF, LA or Seattle. Which is fine; from our window seat we see patchworks of fields, looking quite small, but I guess in reality must be miles by miles big.

I want to tell you about the small town in America that I know quite well; Ozark Arkansas.

Arkansas has a reputation I guess, I know it from Whacky Races and the Arkansas Chugabug car, and that why isn't pronounced Ar-can-sas? It is against state law to deliberatly mispronounce the State's name; so there.

So, how I came to find myself in Ozark Ar, on the edge of the Ozark mountians in quite simple. When I got online, and realised that I could write to anyone, anywhere, I just needed to know their e mail address, I searched Google, my first google search, for pen pals and joined a site. I wrote to people, many people, mostly in the US, some I am still best friends with, some we still write on occasion, but most have drifted away.

Anyway, Mother dearest got envious of the time I was spending online, and the letters I got and I asked if I could put an ad for her too. I ended up writing the letters as well, but after some freaks and crazies were filtered out she, I, we wrote to one good lady in Ozark Ar. And in one letter she wrote if ever Mother, or I wanted to come over and stay that would be fine.

And so in October 2003, I found myself on a flight from jolly olde England to Oklahoma City where my friends were going to pick me up. On the map, Oklamhoma City to Ozark, or Fort Smith looked close, imagine my surprise when it turned into a four hour drive! For us in England that would be something of a road trip adventure requiring weeks of planning with maybe an overnight stop halfway. (not really).

So, we arrived in Ozark, and it was quiet. Linda, Mum's friend lived on Plumb street, some 5 miles outside of Altus. Altus is another town, I guess we'd call it a village, it's some 5 miles from Ozark, it has a bbq place to eat, Alagator rays, a cool bar, and is really famous for being the home of 'The Simple Life.' I had no idea who Paris Hilton was, there was sign on the edge of town proclaiming the above fact, and they were all quite excited about it.

On my last visit there in 2005, that sign is now gone; maybe being linked to Ms Hilton wasn't so good for image. Back in 2003, I though Paris Hilton was just a hotel. Which it probably is.

I made real good friends with Linda's son Jason, and soon after my first visit I was planning my second, for July 4th the next year.

The south, or maybe the Deep South is a different country for sure. But nothing quite prepared me for the humidity as I got of the plane and headed towards the car park. It was like a sauna. And people live here! It was something else, but I kinda got used to it.

Jason drives a propane truck, and I went with him on a few of his routes, from the houses in town, and then up into the foothills of the Ozarks where crazy old men live in trailers whilst going odd. One old coot came out in red long johns and failed to notice my accent as we reversed up his drive through the dog s@#+. They lived up these dirt tracks in trailers, I guess brewing their own booze and being generally odd. I loved it, it was like a film made real.

Up in the mountains we drove to a place called White Rock, up a twisty turny dirt road, dodging logging truck to the overview, and from there just the gap in the trees that marked to road, there was nothing but trees to the horizon. Nothing to show that there was any people here at all. A couple of buzzards flew around kinda half interested in what we were doing.

The average Brit in small town is greeted by the same phrase over and over again:

"Oh my God, say that again! Where'd you get that accent?"

Or the best one by the secretary at Jason's company;

"Please talk to me"

"what about?" I asked.

"It don't matter!" said she.

That aint never happened to me. Before or since.

But I loved that town, Aligator Rays does serve cooked gator; tastes like chicken I was told. I stuck with pizza. The BBQ place did all you could eat ribs one night, I managed just the one plateful. But it was good, sticky stuff all over my fingers to lick off as we drove home.

Jason lived on South Roseville, down a grassy track through several dead pick ups and assorted agricultural vehicles. I got used to that, yards are big enough just to leave stuff to rust and become overgrown and impossible to move, even if you wanted to.

My last visit in 2005, I stayed for 5 weeks to see if I could stand the heat before seeing if I could go and live there. It would've been tough; work would've been hard to find, although homes were cheap enough. I think I could have done it, but decided to try and make a go of it back home before gving Arkansas a try.

Everyone there and in other 'small' towns I have visited, the welcome was nothing less than warm; and indeed on my drive down the west coast I never dined alone, or sat at a bar, as someone would ask me what my story was, and I would ask them theirs. It was great. I would be invited to their place, if was around the next day.

My last memory of Ozark was the first High School football game of the season; the local team were called The Hillbillies.

Really.

The week leading up to the first game people had painted shop fronts down Main Street the team colours, with encouraging messages. Even I was excited. After Jason and I finished the gas route, we picked up his family and we headed into town for a family getogether and grill at a large house, a short walk from the field. The whole town turned out to cheer the team on, I could see their sense of community. It was great.

This was the focal point for the town, old friends greeted each other, and old players exchanged stories of great games past.

The Band played the Antional Anthem, hand on heart and looking to the flag. I people watched.

At half time the two teams bands had a battle, tried to outplay each other, this part I enjoyed the most; we don't have this sort of thing in Britain. The final part was the drum section going what I would call 'crazy.' The drummers were blur as they made huge sounds, but was wonderful.

Sadly, the team could not match the band, and in the final minutes the other team got two touchdowns and then went for the two point conversion to edge the game. It was still great.

The town went home quiet; huge moths circled the lights as they illuminated the night. I had a fantastic time. Now I understoof Friday Night Lights.

I have not been back since, and have a longing to go to rays for a brew, or maybe to Rays to try the aligator. Maybe one day.....

But, I do love America, and it's people. I write this because the BBCs correspondant has a book coming out about small town America, and I heard an interview with hime this morning,

Susie's Fingers

I saw her across the room, and I knew I had to have her.

She had wonderful eyes; one half shut like she was winking at me, roughled hair, but in a cute way.

She lay on the blankets arms and legs spread-eagled.

Did I mention she was naked?

No matter how young i was, I found that appealing.

I asked Mrs Fletcher if I could have her, and she said yes.

So I picked Susie up and tucked her under my arm and put the thumb from my other hand in my mouth and trotted home behind Mum back home.

Susie may have been a doll, and may have bene a boy, but having no brothers or sisters, she became the sister I never had. I took her everwhere, Mum put her in the wash when she bacame grubby, and she shared my bed.

Which is where we pick the story up early one weekday morning.

I lay there listening to Dad getting ready for work, the familar music of the Radio 4 news show beginning at seven. It was the same tune as used on one of my favourite TV shows; but I knew it was the radio.

I lifted Susie up and looked at her hands; her fingers were short and stuumpy, but could be moved. Unlike the rest of her they were some kind of rubber. Lazily I pulled and one finger came off.

Ooops.

Looking for somewhere to put the finger, I put it the first place I cam to.

My nose.

Oh look, another finger. I pulled and that came off.

And it followed the first.

And so on until my little leper doll had no fingers at all. Mum came to wake me and asked mhy I had a funny voice, all blocked up like.

I replied it was because I had Susies fingers up my nose.

There was a pause while Mum digested this piece of information.

I held up the doll to show her.

You have all ten fingers up your nose?

Yes.

Don't sniff.

What?

Don't sniff!!!!!!!

We didn't have a car, ever; so she ran around our neighbours until she found someone who would take me to the A&E.

Riding in a car was fun; something I hardly ever got to do. I thought it was great. I can remember that sunny morning even now. We went past the fire station down past the cemetary right to the hosptial.

I loved it, not only was the car ride great, but I was a celebrity at the A&E dept.

What appears to be wrong young man?

I have Susie's fingers up my nose.

Pardon.

So, Mum explains and she then added, don't sniff for like the millionth time that morning.

The doctor got a mirror and torch and looked. And then he got to longest tweasers I had ever seen and pulled them fingers out one by one.

Phew, no need for the operation after all.

We had to catch the bus back home; no car ride now I was fingerless. And poor Susie went to the great toy store in the sky.

I write this as Mother tries to embarass all my friends with this, so when you meet her now you can tell her you already know.