Don’t laugh but it’s face-achingly cold and I’m out on the Black Bullet. It's the the end of the year and the gloves I bought back in the summer aren't warm enough for this. The forty quid lid starts to lift off at fifty and my plastic site glasses must have belonged to Eric Morecombe the way they’re flapping in the breeze.
Cloud has descended on the Berkshire Downs so no money shot as I hit the crest of Chain Hill today, just freezing damp and cold. The mist closes in by Lockinge Kiln and all I can see through my comedy eyewear is 25 metres of the road ahead and the spiky boles of pine trees slipping by either side.
The bike hits a hole in the tarmac which jars my spine. “Ugh, pibneeth,” I grunt, spitting involuntarily. “Um, kidneyth,” I repeat more deliberately, trying out my newly discovered face of rubber.
Icy cold and hits to the kidneys are not fun in the traditional sense of the word but I am relieved to be out all the same. The puncture seems slow enough to hold out for a seasonal lunchtime pint, with Poz in nursery and Jane studying at home it’s a rare treat grasped with both hands.
Despite the conditions and the iffy outfitting, I give it full throttle down one of the bigger hills. The needle trembles between 55 and 60mph but advances no further. There’s going to be a lot of thinking time involved in doing any kind of trip on this bike. The right mental attitude will be key to the enjoyment of it. If the focus is on arriving, the lack of power and handling will become frustrating.
The problem is the faster you go the less you notice, even 55mph is too fast to notice much more than the tarmac and the trees zipping by. I’m wary of going much slower on this road in the fog, however, and I react to this thought by leaning over to flick the lights on. I begin to feel that there’s an unholy clash about to happen between my outlook on this anachronism and the attitude of the next modern car driver to come steaming through the mist. I'm a little spooked by this, having not really thought about it before. I'm always going to be a bit of a sitting duck on this old thing.
Then all at once the odometer shows 100 miles covered and I'm smiling again. At least I think I am.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
The Black Bullet 4.7 - Miles Covered 81.0
Jane dreams most nights, of which I am envious. Her brain would light up a brain-o-scope like an electric storm, lobes crackling with inner lightning. The night before last she fidgeted until she woke me up, panting and murmuring like a medium. A face like molten metal was shrieking at her in tongues, apparently. An evil face, of an old man with long hair.
It doesn’t do to draw too much literal meaning from dreams [I pause to scrape the long hair back from my lined face] as they’re often confused and quite random in their depiction. It’s not quite the same thing but sometimes I wake up with a phrase or even a melody looping over and over as I surface. This morning I rolled over and it was, greed begets government, greed begets government, greed begets government...
A little later now, and increasingly irritated by this rotating riddle, news filters through to the bathroom that the government wants charitable giving to be enabled at cash machines, to promote its concept of the ‘Big Society’. My first reaction to this is if the institution of government wasn’t historically so self-serving, I might believe. The way things are, it smacks of further abrogation of responsibility.
It got me thinking, though, and then I experienced a Eureka moment. We could reform the tax system to include compulsory individual giving, direct to the government department of choice, with each cash withdrawal. Pull out fifty quid and give five to defence, the police, the health service, arts or education. No contribution, no cash. Let the people vote according to their proclivities.
Security of critical funding might be provided by, say, half the tax currently deducted at source. If it’s Big Society they really want, then they have to give it up. It would be interesting to see a chart of this kind of giving overlaid on a graph of current spending commitments. What better way to close any discrepancy between the will of government and that of the people? It's taxation and voting rolled into one.
On the other hand, if tax revenue dropped significantly, as people found other ways of getting hold of their money, we could conclude that society doesn’t want to be big after all, right? And that we pay our taxes precisely to avoid having to think about society at large. Sadly this seems like the most likely outcome but happily it also provides an answer to this morning’s riddle. We need government to keep us from the asocial effects of the relentless pursuit of self interest.
Jane pops her head round the door as I’m drying off. “My tonsils are up again,” she says.
“Mine too, I’ll make an appointment for both of us when the surgery opens,” I reply, scrubbing my head with the towel.
We’ve already blitzed the bacteria with a course of antibiotics each but it hasn’t worked, some things just aren’t that easy to eradicate.
It doesn’t do to draw too much literal meaning from dreams [I pause to scrape the long hair back from my lined face] as they’re often confused and quite random in their depiction. It’s not quite the same thing but sometimes I wake up with a phrase or even a melody looping over and over as I surface. This morning I rolled over and it was, greed begets government, greed begets government, greed begets government...
A little later now, and increasingly irritated by this rotating riddle, news filters through to the bathroom that the government wants charitable giving to be enabled at cash machines, to promote its concept of the ‘Big Society’. My first reaction to this is if the institution of government wasn’t historically so self-serving, I might believe. The way things are, it smacks of further abrogation of responsibility.
It got me thinking, though, and then I experienced a Eureka moment. We could reform the tax system to include compulsory individual giving, direct to the government department of choice, with each cash withdrawal. Pull out fifty quid and give five to defence, the police, the health service, arts or education. No contribution, no cash. Let the people vote according to their proclivities.
Security of critical funding might be provided by, say, half the tax currently deducted at source. If it’s Big Society they really want, then they have to give it up. It would be interesting to see a chart of this kind of giving overlaid on a graph of current spending commitments. What better way to close any discrepancy between the will of government and that of the people? It's taxation and voting rolled into one.
On the other hand, if tax revenue dropped significantly, as people found other ways of getting hold of their money, we could conclude that society doesn’t want to be big after all, right? And that we pay our taxes precisely to avoid having to think about society at large. Sadly this seems like the most likely outcome but happily it also provides an answer to this morning’s riddle. We need government to keep us from the asocial effects of the relentless pursuit of self interest.
Jane pops her head round the door as I’m drying off. “My tonsils are up again,” she says.
“Mine too, I’ll make an appointment for both of us when the surgery opens,” I reply, scrubbing my head with the towel.
We’ve already blitzed the bacteria with a course of antibiotics each but it hasn’t worked, some things just aren’t that easy to eradicate.
Monday, 20 December 2010
The Black Bullet 4.6 - Miles Covered 81.0
The lid of the ‘everything bin’ is frosted shut and it nearly rocks over when I give it a good heave. I sling the bag in and drop it shut, pushing the bin back square to the paving I laid for it. Again, I’m momentarily startled by another dad-ism – my father had a thing about bins, as well as thermometers. He was obsessed with getting the right things in the right bins at the right time, and all the bins in the right place, and I think, God, please don’t let this be me.
And yet, I’m a lover of detail. I like living a considered life. Noticing things seems to slow down the passage of time to a manageable speed. The Black Bullet is a good focus for this. It reminds me of the string in a child’s crystal growing kit, a starter, but for growing your thoughts on. Unfortunately for me the Black Bullet is holed up with a flat in the shed and my fickle thoughts are wandering all over the place.
As I turn to crunch down the snowy path, spade in hand, I see the fig I planted against the wall in the spring. The glossy black buds with little snow caps on. Shit, perhaps I should’ve put a sack over it, it was minus eleven last night! I remonstrate with myself, briefly. Wherever I look there seems to be evidence of things I haven’t thought of, and done, rather than things I have.
Momentarily deflated I heft the spade up, shifting my grip down the shaft so it hangs without banging against my leg. I’m supposed to be digging my car out, not a hole for self esteem. Come on, move on.
Poz is waiting for me round the front, in a ridiculous get-up of afterthoughts. His mum has pulled a huge chunky-knit cardigan over his jacket, think ‘boho-eskimo’ and you won’t be far off. There’s no doubt he’ll be warm enough on his way to nursery, he won't be able to touch his hands together but who cares about the way he looks, right.
This thing about detail, though, it can become such filigree that the slightest disturbance pulls it apart and you've got to wonder how useful that is in the long run. It's like the character in that Dostoyevsky novel who cogitates endlessley on what it's like to be a 'man of action'. I need to sort out that puncture and get back on the bike soon.
And yet, I’m a lover of detail. I like living a considered life. Noticing things seems to slow down the passage of time to a manageable speed. The Black Bullet is a good focus for this. It reminds me of the string in a child’s crystal growing kit, a starter, but for growing your thoughts on. Unfortunately for me the Black Bullet is holed up with a flat in the shed and my fickle thoughts are wandering all over the place.
As I turn to crunch down the snowy path, spade in hand, I see the fig I planted against the wall in the spring. The glossy black buds with little snow caps on. Shit, perhaps I should’ve put a sack over it, it was minus eleven last night! I remonstrate with myself, briefly. Wherever I look there seems to be evidence of things I haven’t thought of, and done, rather than things I have.
Momentarily deflated I heft the spade up, shifting my grip down the shaft so it hangs without banging against my leg. I’m supposed to be digging my car out, not a hole for self esteem. Come on, move on.
Poz is waiting for me round the front, in a ridiculous get-up of afterthoughts. His mum has pulled a huge chunky-knit cardigan over his jacket, think ‘boho-eskimo’ and you won’t be far off. There’s no doubt he’ll be warm enough on his way to nursery, he won't be able to touch his hands together but who cares about the way he looks, right.
This thing about detail, though, it can become such filigree that the slightest disturbance pulls it apart and you've got to wonder how useful that is in the long run. It's like the character in that Dostoyevsky novel who cogitates endlessley on what it's like to be a 'man of action'. I need to sort out that puncture and get back on the bike soon.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
The Black Bullet 4.5 - Miles Covered 81.0
It’s been so cold for so long now our normally self-reliant cat has taken to meowing in the bath for someone to turn on the tap for a drink. All the water in the natural world has seemingly turned to ice. When he was a kitten the tap had a chronic drip and he remembers this. We do put water out for him but he still leaves occasional footprints in the bath, and I’ve never seen him drink from a bowl.
Freezing temperatures are not anything you’d bother mentioning to a Russian, or a Canadian. In fact, I’m told in some parts you have to start your car inside, drive out and keep it running until you get home, in case you can’t get it started again. A battery loses so much power in severe cold, as I found out when we got back from Holland. I wonder if it affects a magneto system in any way.
I was amazed when one of the old boys in the village first told me the Black Bullet would start without a battery. This didn’t make sense to me back then but kicking it over is enough to produce the electricity needed for sparks. Once it’s running it’s a self-stoking cycle, like lighting a fire, the small battery on the bike just powers the lights. That’s the beauty of the magneto system.
It’s getting late and I’m filling a glass with water in the kitchen, staring out at a moonlit snowscape. The apex of the shed roof casts a long shadow like a giant witch's hat, the tip folded up by the hedge.
I should be excited - it might be a white Christmas, the first one in years - but it looks less and less likely that the Black Bullet is going to see much action until the spring. There is a trials version of the Bullet which would be fun with the right tyres in the snow, now there's a thought.
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
The Black Bullet 4.4 - Miles Covered 81.0
It’s like I ate a poisoned apple and fell asleep for three hundred years, and I've now been rudely awoken. The world is still the world but the familiar details that gave me my locus have changed beyond recognition. I just can’t make sense of it anymore.
I stutter and stammer as the man on the phone tells me my fully comprehensive car insurance policy premium renewal (try saying it) is likely to become even more expensive if I opt for Third Party, Fire and Theft!
“How on earth do you explain that?” I ask, slightly tremulous.
“Oh it’s the same most places now,” offers Welsh Kieran confidently.
“But it makes no sense...” I say. “It’s a lower level of cover.”
“Ah well you see it’s the excess, there are no excesses to pay Third Party.”
“Right, so, but how can it be more expensive?”
“There’s no discount available without a voluntary level of excess, see? It’s quite straightforward really.”
“Hang on, I don't see. How can there be no discount, when, what I mean is I can’t offer to pay any excess for something you’re not insuring me for, so how can it be more expensive?”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Look, sir, you asked me if I could tell you how to get it cheaper and I’ve done what I can. If you don’t understand, well, I can’t help you if you won’t understand.”
Immovable though Kieran is I’m pretty sure he’s not allowed to hang up on me, it wouldn’t look good during a call that might be recorded for training purposes, and it’s the only power I have in this relationship. I can’t ask him his policy number, the first line of his address, his mother’s maiden name, marital status, or if he’s made any other patently ridiculous claims in the last five years. I want some satisfaction out of this interaction, I want to at least feel like I’m getting a good deal.
“Okay, okay, let’s just keep it Comprehensive. Now can I make my partner the main driver?”
There’s a pause, and then a reluctant “Yes.”
“You have her details on file as she’s been a named driver on this policy for two years.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take them again, we don’t have that facility. Now, if you’ll bear with me for a moment, does she have any No Claims Discount?”
“I believe she does. It’s one of your selling points, isn’t it? That named drivers can accrue NCD entitlement...”
“Ah, well, Named Driver Discount is not the same thing as No Claims Discount.”
“Really? Sorry, forgive me, but I’m now struggling to see the benefit of this discount, which is frankly one of the reasons we signed up with you...”
This is an entirely one-sided struggle and Kieran appears to be waiting for the penny to drop, unassisted. The benefit is to the insurer, of course, as a means of coercing loyalty.
I reckon that Kieran and his colleagues will have been briefed on how to talk customers through the traumatic realisation that they’ve been well and truly played. And if he’s any good at it he’ll have me like a hostage by the end, blessing my captors as the money changes hands. But for now I’m just feeling cornered and more than a little fed up. In that slightly soiled way that only a brush with Customer Services can make you feel.
“So, you’re telling me that this Named Driver Discount isn’t a discount at all?” I persist.
“Oh no Sir, it’s not like that, it’s just not the same as No Claims. You have two years NCD with us which you can give it to her if you like. That’ll bring the cost down.”
I wasn’t aware this was possible, and it doesn't answer my question, but as it seems at last to play into my hands I let it go, to see where it goes.
“Alright then, so this time next year I take it that she will have accrued her own NCD, will that include the two years I’m giving her?”
I’m pretty sure Kieran stifles a laugh at this point. “Erm, no sir, that’s yours.” Adding with increased seriousness, “Look, sir, you’ve asked me to tell you how...”
“Yes, I know." I bite back. "I have a budget and I’m trying to stick to it.”
“Look, sir, if it’s all about price, we may not be the cheapest on the market but we like to think we offer a good quality product. You are a building consultant, you know that a building can be built for less but a few years later things might start falling off. You can expect to pay a bit more for a better product.”
“Yes but what you’re offering me is an abstract construct, it's not a real thing at all," I insist, really motoring now. "I can walk around a building, look at it and enjoy it. There are a lot of compelling reasons why people choose to spend more money on buildings, which don't apply to insurance polices. Also, I have to buy this, it's a legal requirement, it's not a lifestyle choice."
“You may not think like that if you have an accident...sir.”
There’s no getting round such intransigence - so high you cannot get over it, so low you cannot get under it, so wide you cannot get round it. We are being had by legal highwaymen and sold down the river in the small print. If you do have an accident and don’t perform the correct ritual in the right sequence, if one detail is out of whack, you’ll have to pay anyway. It’s more than frustrating, it’s like some kind of slow death, and, like poor old Auntie Truus in Goes, there’s no one to help you on your way.
I stutter and stammer as the man on the phone tells me my fully comprehensive car insurance policy premium renewal (try saying it) is likely to become even more expensive if I opt for Third Party, Fire and Theft!
“How on earth do you explain that?” I ask, slightly tremulous.
“Oh it’s the same most places now,” offers Welsh Kieran confidently.
“But it makes no sense...” I say. “It’s a lower level of cover.”
“Ah well you see it’s the excess, there are no excesses to pay Third Party.”
“Right, so, but how can it be more expensive?”
“There’s no discount available without a voluntary level of excess, see? It’s quite straightforward really.”
“Hang on, I don't see. How can there be no discount, when, what I mean is I can’t offer to pay any excess for something you’re not insuring me for, so how can it be more expensive?”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line. “Look, sir, you asked me if I could tell you how to get it cheaper and I’ve done what I can. If you don’t understand, well, I can’t help you if you won’t understand.”
Immovable though Kieran is I’m pretty sure he’s not allowed to hang up on me, it wouldn’t look good during a call that might be recorded for training purposes, and it’s the only power I have in this relationship. I can’t ask him his policy number, the first line of his address, his mother’s maiden name, marital status, or if he’s made any other patently ridiculous claims in the last five years. I want some satisfaction out of this interaction, I want to at least feel like I’m getting a good deal.
“Okay, okay, let’s just keep it Comprehensive. Now can I make my partner the main driver?”
There’s a pause, and then a reluctant “Yes.”
“You have her details on file as she’s been a named driver on this policy for two years.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to take them again, we don’t have that facility. Now, if you’ll bear with me for a moment, does she have any No Claims Discount?”
“I believe she does. It’s one of your selling points, isn’t it? That named drivers can accrue NCD entitlement...”
“Ah, well, Named Driver Discount is not the same thing as No Claims Discount.”
“Really? Sorry, forgive me, but I’m now struggling to see the benefit of this discount, which is frankly one of the reasons we signed up with you...”
This is an entirely one-sided struggle and Kieran appears to be waiting for the penny to drop, unassisted. The benefit is to the insurer, of course, as a means of coercing loyalty.
I reckon that Kieran and his colleagues will have been briefed on how to talk customers through the traumatic realisation that they’ve been well and truly played. And if he’s any good at it he’ll have me like a hostage by the end, blessing my captors as the money changes hands. But for now I’m just feeling cornered and more than a little fed up. In that slightly soiled way that only a brush with Customer Services can make you feel.
“So, you’re telling me that this Named Driver Discount isn’t a discount at all?” I persist.
“Oh no Sir, it’s not like that, it’s just not the same as No Claims. You have two years NCD with us which you can give it to her if you like. That’ll bring the cost down.”
I wasn’t aware this was possible, and it doesn't answer my question, but as it seems at last to play into my hands I let it go, to see where it goes.
“Alright then, so this time next year I take it that she will have accrued her own NCD, will that include the two years I’m giving her?”
I’m pretty sure Kieran stifles a laugh at this point. “Erm, no sir, that’s yours.” Adding with increased seriousness, “Look, sir, you’ve asked me to tell you how...”
“Yes, I know." I bite back. "I have a budget and I’m trying to stick to it.”
“Look, sir, if it’s all about price, we may not be the cheapest on the market but we like to think we offer a good quality product. You are a building consultant, you know that a building can be built for less but a few years later things might start falling off. You can expect to pay a bit more for a better product.”
“Yes but what you’re offering me is an abstract construct, it's not a real thing at all," I insist, really motoring now. "I can walk around a building, look at it and enjoy it. There are a lot of compelling reasons why people choose to spend more money on buildings, which don't apply to insurance polices. Also, I have to buy this, it's a legal requirement, it's not a lifestyle choice."
“You may not think like that if you have an accident...sir.”
There’s no getting round such intransigence - so high you cannot get over it, so low you cannot get under it, so wide you cannot get round it. We are being had by legal highwaymen and sold down the river in the small print. If you do have an accident and don’t perform the correct ritual in the right sequence, if one detail is out of whack, you’ll have to pay anyway. It’s more than frustrating, it’s like some kind of slow death, and, like poor old Auntie Truus in Goes, there’s no one to help you on your way.
Saturday, 11 December 2010
The Black Bullet 4.3 - Miles Covered 81.0
The powerful Mercedes taxi shudders and grinds through the frozen streets of Goes in southern Holland. The warning lights flicker on and off on Dolph's dash - injecting some timely Christmas spirit into an otherwise somber affair.
It is unrecogniseable from the last time I came to visit Truus and this trip feels more gruelling even than the time I shot up through Belgium, non-stop from Paris, on my Kawasaki GT750. That was a much longer trip, actually. I've got pictures of my bike on a canal bridge in Amsterdam, another three hours north, but I was a lot younger then with no one in tow and less on my mind.
Now I'm getting on and my Auntie Truus more so. She's at the end of the road and she knows it. She told me so as I sat by her bedside staring out at the blizzard raging in the woods behind her residence. It was hard to see this typically fastidious, well-dressed, straight-talking Dutch woman reduced to a skinny waistrel with a fluffy crown of white hair. But if I can manage half the dignity on my deathbed, i'll be more than satisfied. Death is after all, a bit of a performance.
"I can't find anyone to help me." says Truus. "I lie awake by night and by day thinking about it but what can I do? I am dying, I know it, but dying takes such a long time."
Her expression is without self-pity and my eyes well up as I tell her we love her, even though we hardly ever came to visit.
"Do not cry. Edgar and I never came to the UK either." She says in absolution. "Now it would be best for you to go as I am tired."
I lean over to kiss her goodbye, an opportunity for human warmth not missed by her. Perhaps I'm being unkind, I don't mean to be, but she really seemed to need a hug and a kiss and I'm only too pleased to be able to deliver this.
"How old are you now?" She asks out of the blue, holding onto my arms.
"Er, forty-seven," I stammer.
"Ha, ha, ha," she laughs with unexpected gusto, before trailing off into coughing.
"Go now and thank you for coming all this way to see me."
We stand silently in the lift, call Dolph from reception and wait for him to bring up his taxi. As we wait and the only sounds are the howling of the wind outside and the gentle admonishment of Poz who is scattering clay beads from the lobby planters.
It's another juddery, traction-controlled ride back to the Terminus Hotel.
Photo: Frozen Holland
It is unrecogniseable from the last time I came to visit Truus and this trip feels more gruelling even than the time I shot up through Belgium, non-stop from Paris, on my Kawasaki GT750. That was a much longer trip, actually. I've got pictures of my bike on a canal bridge in Amsterdam, another three hours north, but I was a lot younger then with no one in tow and less on my mind.
Now I'm getting on and my Auntie Truus more so. She's at the end of the road and she knows it. She told me so as I sat by her bedside staring out at the blizzard raging in the woods behind her residence. It was hard to see this typically fastidious, well-dressed, straight-talking Dutch woman reduced to a skinny waistrel with a fluffy crown of white hair. But if I can manage half the dignity on my deathbed, i'll be more than satisfied. Death is after all, a bit of a performance.
"I can't find anyone to help me." says Truus. "I lie awake by night and by day thinking about it but what can I do? I am dying, I know it, but dying takes such a long time."
Her expression is without self-pity and my eyes well up as I tell her we love her, even though we hardly ever came to visit.
"Do not cry. Edgar and I never came to the UK either." She says in absolution. "Now it would be best for you to go as I am tired."
I lean over to kiss her goodbye, an opportunity for human warmth not missed by her. Perhaps I'm being unkind, I don't mean to be, but she really seemed to need a hug and a kiss and I'm only too pleased to be able to deliver this.
"How old are you now?" She asks out of the blue, holding onto my arms.
"Er, forty-seven," I stammer.
"Ha, ha, ha," she laughs with unexpected gusto, before trailing off into coughing.
"Go now and thank you for coming all this way to see me."
We stand silently in the lift, call Dolph from reception and wait for him to bring up his taxi. As we wait and the only sounds are the howling of the wind outside and the gentle admonishment of Poz who is scattering clay beads from the lobby planters.
It's another juddery, traction-controlled ride back to the Terminus Hotel.
Photo: Frozen Holland
The Black Bullet 4.2 – Miles Covered 81.0
Back home my car battery had gone flat in the cold. Flat as a first day back at work. Flat as the front tyre on the Black Bullet and both tyres on my mountain bike.
This first day back at work had me moving from one transport option to the other like the Bruce Willis character in Pulp Fiction looking for a weapon. Late and without an immediate ride, I paused to wonder how my relatively considered and ordered lifestyle could have come to this. It’s not fair, went the frank conceit of my wondering but I knew that I’d have to ditch the bitching and get to a workable solution, fast.
This involved a struggle to remember if I was due anywhere but the office in the next couple of days, a decision about fixing the car and a fretful last minute switch of childcare responsibilities. Jane was still a bit miffed about something that happened in Holland and I had to tread carefully, but there was no time. I stopped her at the door, blurted out the facts and pressed the baby into her arms. She would have to drop him off at nursery while I pumped up my bicycle tyres.
Fortunately Jane is one of the good guys and she doesn’t tend to make things harder than they already are. This is, quite frankly, a keystone in the arch of happiness. Without this tacit support you’re always kind of vulnerable. It was also fortunate for me that it was the day of my work’s Christmas lunch, so I would have been cycling locally anyway.
The following day I moved into the doghouse next door, thanks to my brilliant performance at lunch and into the evening. Using Rock'n'Roll Power, I challenged my colleagues to a post-lunch drink in every pub in town, which numbered 12 or 14 depending on who you believe. It was a lot of drinking and I won, making the last two on the list with only a non-drinking acoustician for company. The rest fell by the wayside as I knew they would when they forgetfully started ordering pints to my halves. Nonetheless, it was an important win which will be brought out, brushed off and buffed up every time one these young guys tries it on in the office, until the day the record is broken.
This first day back at work had me moving from one transport option to the other like the Bruce Willis character in Pulp Fiction looking for a weapon. Late and without an immediate ride, I paused to wonder how my relatively considered and ordered lifestyle could have come to this. It’s not fair, went the frank conceit of my wondering but I knew that I’d have to ditch the bitching and get to a workable solution, fast.
This involved a struggle to remember if I was due anywhere but the office in the next couple of days, a decision about fixing the car and a fretful last minute switch of childcare responsibilities. Jane was still a bit miffed about something that happened in Holland and I had to tread carefully, but there was no time. I stopped her at the door, blurted out the facts and pressed the baby into her arms. She would have to drop him off at nursery while I pumped up my bicycle tyres.
Fortunately Jane is one of the good guys and she doesn’t tend to make things harder than they already are. This is, quite frankly, a keystone in the arch of happiness. Without this tacit support you’re always kind of vulnerable. It was also fortunate for me that it was the day of my work’s Christmas lunch, so I would have been cycling locally anyway.
The following day I moved into the doghouse next door, thanks to my brilliant performance at lunch and into the evening. Using Rock'n'Roll Power, I challenged my colleagues to a post-lunch drink in every pub in town, which numbered 12 or 14 depending on who you believe. It was a lot of drinking and I won, making the last two on the list with only a non-drinking acoustician for company. The rest fell by the wayside as I knew they would when they forgetfully started ordering pints to my halves. Nonetheless, it was an important win which will be brought out, brushed off and buffed up every time one these young guys tries it on in the office, until the day the record is broken.
Thursday, 9 December 2010
The Black Bullet 4.1 – Miles Covered 81.0
Caught out by the icy weather, we very nearly missed our flight over to Holland last weekend. The ponderous rush hour traffic was even more donkey-like than usual in the country roads around Luton but I didn’t want to play motorway roulette, not with the M25. It was tense, Poz was reaching the end of his car-tolerance and my mental arithmetic had us too late for the Easy Jet check-in.
“I’ll drop you two off at departures with the bags and go and find the car park,” I told Jane, trying to stay calm. “Get your foot in the door and if they won’t check us in because I’m not there, hold Poz up and start crying, OK? I won’t be far behind.”
In the event Jane had had the foresight to print off the boarding passes so it was just a bag drop at the desk and we were in. Unfortunately the plane was then delayed on the tarmac and we were the ones left feeling frustrated. I hate flying, I’ve been doing it all my life and I look back on the old days with rose-tinted specs.
I was packed off to boarding school from Malawi to Zimbabwe on an old Vickers Viscount. I remember walking out of the single storey blockhouse comprising Blantyre International Airport, turning and looking up at my mum and dad who were standing on the roof terrace waving goodbye. Ahead of me was a patchy lawn with faded Martini umbrellas casting shade over decrepit sets of tables and chairs. There was a chain link fence, a garden gate and the tarmac across which we walked to the plane, waving all the way. I was never searched, or delayed, and although I wasn’t particularly happy about being shipped off on my own at the age of seven, the flight wasn’t otherwise such an ordeal.
Another thing that seems crazy these days, but we probably collectively won’t miss, was the in-flight smoking. The only concession given to non-smokers was that they were seated up front. As soon as the seat belt light went out there was a scraping and clicking of matches and lighters and a pall of fag smoke would gradually roll up the aisle. I liked the smell in those days, particularly of the matches.
“I’ll drop you two off at departures with the bags and go and find the car park,” I told Jane, trying to stay calm. “Get your foot in the door and if they won’t check us in because I’m not there, hold Poz up and start crying, OK? I won’t be far behind.”
In the event Jane had had the foresight to print off the boarding passes so it was just a bag drop at the desk and we were in. Unfortunately the plane was then delayed on the tarmac and we were the ones left feeling frustrated. I hate flying, I’ve been doing it all my life and I look back on the old days with rose-tinted specs.
I was packed off to boarding school from Malawi to Zimbabwe on an old Vickers Viscount. I remember walking out of the single storey blockhouse comprising Blantyre International Airport, turning and looking up at my mum and dad who were standing on the roof terrace waving goodbye. Ahead of me was a patchy lawn with faded Martini umbrellas casting shade over decrepit sets of tables and chairs. There was a chain link fence, a garden gate and the tarmac across which we walked to the plane, waving all the way. I was never searched, or delayed, and although I wasn’t particularly happy about being shipped off on my own at the age of seven, the flight wasn’t otherwise such an ordeal.
Another thing that seems crazy these days, but we probably collectively won’t miss, was the in-flight smoking. The only concession given to non-smokers was that they were seated up front. As soon as the seat belt light went out there was a scraping and clicking of matches and lighters and a pall of fag smoke would gradually roll up the aisle. I liked the smell in those days, particularly of the matches.
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