Our Year 2011

                                                                                                   

I’ve split this up a bit in the hope that I won’t bore people who have read some of it before. Just see if there any bits you want to read, then scroll to them and skip the rest. I hope that you find something that either amuses or interests you along the way.

It scrolls something like this… First of there’s my little plug. (I’m sorry, but I’ve got to do these things)… Then there’s our bit of news, mainly for relatives and friends… Then comes some of my adventures as published on the blog over the last few month: namely:- My appearance on the speed camera… Followed by; My Hols, life on a narrow-boat and a cruise liner… Followed by; An encounter with the Travelodge computer system… Followed by my normal blog

AW

THEN TO THE NEWS…

The big news for us is that Sylvia and Jon presented us with our fourth grandchild this year. The fourth for us, that is, this little girl is their firstborn. And so, a few weeks ago we went up the Rhondda Valley for a naming party. I’ve never been to a naming party before, so that was a first for me. We used to either have christenings or nothing in my day. But my day has long gone. Anyway, the naming party was good. All the better because Sylvia’s mam, dad and sister Rebecca and her boyfriend, Eriend, came over from Norway for the occasion. The British contingent was Liz and me, plus Diz and Dan, along with their two b… b… bairns, Charlie and Isobel. OK… only kidding. David was back at sea, Penny was working and Katie was in boarding school, so the Plymouth Gregorys couldn’t make it. But they were there in spirit and the baby was duly named Saga. Saga being the Norse goddess of poetry and music. She is also the daughter and drinking partner of Odin, so my sources tell me. All in all I reckon that’s a spot-on name for a little girl who came out of the blue. Saga’s mam and dad, Sylvia and Jon run a successful music producing business from their home in a Welsh miner’s cottage up there in the mountains at the top end of the Rhondda. We’re going up there on Christmas Eve to have a Norwegian style Christmas. Can’t be bad.

About a month later there was another get together. This one was in the Horse and Jockey pub, which is our “local.” The pub’s at the top of the Tumble Hill, overlooking Cardiff, and with views over the Bristol Channel. Liz and I walk up there for a tipple once or twice a week. This “do” was really a celebration of Liz’s 70th birthday, which happened in November. There was quite a gathering really. David was home from the sea this time, so the Gregorys made it up from Plymouth. That’s David, Penny, Katie and JJ, Katie’s boyfriend. Then there was Bill and Gill, Dan’s ma’ and pa’, up from Lee on Solent. Dan, Diz, Isobel and Charlie were there again. Sylvia, Jon and baby Saga were down from the Rhondda. And our friends Sally and Peter completed the set. It was good, we ate drank and were merry. What more can you ask?

 David has just completed a three year pre degree course in marine engineering and is back on the briny now. He’s a Chief ET on HMS Scott, a survey ship. But, for him, the highlight of his career came earlier in the year when he was in the Field Gun event in the Edinburgh Tattoo. He loves the Field Gun and has run for a few teams. On this occasion he was officially at the Tattoo as the trainer for HMS Raleigh’s team. But HMS Sultan’s team had injuries, so he ended up running for both Sultan and Raleigh. It was even more special for him because it was in his beloved Scotland. Penny’s in fine fettle, and works in a hospice in Plymouth. Katie’s done big time in the GCSE exams and has got her sights on the A levels now. She’s bright as a button that girl. She’s in to sport in a big way too. Apart from horse riding and dressage, she’s trained as a lifeguard and works in the school swimming pool for an hour before lessons every morning. But I would say that fencing is her speciality. Apart from fencing for her club in Plymouth, she is on the books for the Welsh Juniors and has fenced for Wales. That’s not bad, because she’s really English.

Diz and Dan still live in Cardiff, of course. They both work hard and play hard, and are into running. The pair of them ran a Half Marathon for charity the other week. Diz runs for miles after work and takes Dougal, their massive labradoodle with her for company. Charlie’s into it now. He sometimes runs with Diz and the dog and can do four miles no bother. That’s toned him up enough to represent his school in cross country races. Both Charlie and Isobel are into acting as well. They go to drama school every Saturday. We went to watch them in a professional presentation of Pinocchio the other week. Charlie’s been in a few professional productions, including The Blue Remembered Hills by Dennis Potter, which was very impressive. He’s also been in the Cardiff Gang Show for two years running, which is a highly respected production.

And so to us, Liz and me, what about us. Well I’ve tagged a couple of things on to the end of this letter, which you may find amusing. That includes a holiday on a narrow boat on the River Wey and a trip on a Cunarder up the Baltic. Apart from that, we’ve had a couple of trips up north. We were in Sheffield earlier in the year to watch Katie in a fencing competition. From there we nipped over the Pennines and dropped down into Manchester to visit my cousins up there. Then we went across to Beddgelert in North Wales to see another cousin. Then motored home through the centre of Wales, which is one of my favourite journeys. Then it was back up to Manchester again later in the year to support Sally, Liz’s friend, who was taking part in the Mastermind Series. Sally’s round will be shown in the New Year. She’s the lady who answers questions on The Women’s Institute.

I suppose my bit of news is the dog bite. Well it wasn’t so much a bite as a stab. I was playing with Ulf, Jon and Sylv’s dog, when one of his teeth went into my arm. It was my fault. I was winding the dog up and I came off worse. I should have known better. He’s a big animal and he’s got “Form.” He’s put Jon in hospital twice. Once with a broken rib and once with DVT. Anyway, I didn’t think twice about this stab. I’ve lived with dog bites since I was kid. So I ignored it. But it got worse. So I ignored it more. Like you do. But it got even worse. Like bites do. By Saturday night it was getting sore and very red and drawing a road map up my arm. But the doctor’s was closed. So Liz took me to A&E at the local Hospital. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in A&E in a British City on a Saturday night. But it’s worth a visit. Swallow a fishbone or poke a finger in your eye, just to give yourself a treat. It’s better than anything you see on tele. Ten o’clock on a Saturday night is when all the drunks start dismantling each another, men and women. Then the police and para medics throw them on the conveyor belt and ship them off to A&E. They’re all there, hanging on to their broken bits and shackled to policemen. I won’t criticise. I’ve been there…

One Christmas Eve, back in my youth. I arrived home paralytic and fell asleep on the settee with a lit cigarette in my hand. I woke up on Christmas morning with the settee, carpet and sideboard on fire. To cut a long story short, I eventually wandered up to the bedroom and woke my parents. ”Merry Christmas,” I wished them, “there’s been a bit of damage.” In the end my father drove me to Manchester A&E because my bottom resembled a couple of kilos of blistered liver. That was my first experience of the pantomime. I was the healthiest there. They were all in bits and pieces, singing carols. And the bloke singing the loudest had stepped in front of a bus and left the imprint of his body on the radiator. And nothing’s changed…

Anyway, the dog bite… By teatime on Sunday I’m queuing on a trolley outside the operating theatre with a team of anaesthetists round me. I’m supposed to be having a local anaesthetic while they fix my arm. “Can you feel that?” says this guy. “Yes’” I tell him. “What?” he wants to know. “You pinched my arm,” I say. “We’ll have to give him another dose,” he tells his mate. So they do. This happens three or four times. Then they say, “Time’s up. It’s your slot. You’ve got to go in. We’ll have to put you to sleep.” That’s how I ended up with umpteen times more nerve block in my arm than necessary. They said it was supposed to wear off in six hours and I would get my feeling back. But it didn’t. By the next morning there was no sensation at all. When I was in bed it was like there was no arm attachedl. But when I got up to go to the toilet I could see it, with the knuckles trailing along the ground. I was panicking a bit. I thought I was changing into a chimpanzee. When I tried to pick it up it was ton weight and slithered out of my grip. I reckon most of your weight is in you right arm. When I was having a pee I wedged it on top of the cistern but it slithered off and fell on the floor. The doctor said they had pumped so much stuff in it was still going more dead instead of coming round.

In the end it came back to life and they sent me home with a packet of antibiotics. But now the good arm started swelling up.  It started going funny colours where they had put the saline drip in. It got really bad in the end. I thought,  “Aye aye; just my luck. They’ve given me one of those special diseases they breed in the hospital.” So I went to the local quack for a second opinion. He said  the hospital antibiotics weren’t working, and gave me a replacement set. They didn’t work either. When I went back to the hospital to get signed off, I asked them which set of antibiotics should I stay on. They took a look at the box the doctor gave me and said, “What are these for?” I said, “My good arm.” And they said, “These are for kidneys, not arms.”

So that, as they say, was that.

Merry Christmas and Good Health and Contentment to all who pass by.

AW

The Speed Camera

NO COMMENT

Motoring, hmm… I got done for speeding the other week. I was doing 79mph on a motorway with a 70mph limit.
OK, so it was a fair cop.
But the government is considering putting the speed limit up to 80mph in the near future. Better still, I have it on good authority that most police forces ignore anyone doing under 80mph.
Some people might think that the person who decided to prosecute me, for doing less that 80, is a bit of a git…. I couldn’t possibly comment.

Normally, if you are caught speeding, you get fined £60 and 3 points on your licence. But nowadays they have this new thing where you can either pay the fine and get the points or opt to pay £85 and go on a Speed Awareness course – to be ‘Educated.’ I opted for the course.
Some people might think that ‘Educating’ those who have strayed off the path of righteousness sounds a bit North Korean… I couldn’t possibly comment.

That brings me to the point. The penalty for speeding is £60 and a black mark on your soul. But if you opt to be ‘Educated’ and cough-up £85, your soul is unblemished.
Some people might think that by slipping the hierarchy an extra £25 your licence gets protected… I couldn’t possibly comment.

Talking of motoring, reminds me… The car park in our local supermarket used to be easy on the eye. All the bays were bordered by bushes and greenery and stuff.
Then a committee of wise men decided that the shrubs were harbouring rats, so they cut them down. You can’t argue with that.

But they’ve got half a dozen recycling skips in that same car park. Very environmentally friendly. Unfortunately, these skips don’t get emptied often enough. But the bold recycling addicts are not put off by that. They just keep piling their new rubbish on top of the old rubbish to form a rubbish waterfall and river. The whole area looks like a Chinese landfill site.

Guess what? The bush-rats moved across to the skips.

In retaliation, the wise men put down rat poison. So, instead of bush-rats and skip-rats we have dead-rats. Like this one…

Some people might think that the wise men are tackling the wrong rodents… I couldn’t possibly comment.

AW

Another Tale From the Welsh Valleys

I read in the paper that Puritans on York City Council, in England, find that the diamond sign that toddlers make with their fingers while singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, evokes images of a deaf lady’s “Private Part.” So they have banned the sign from the city’s nursery.

The Puritan’s mind is a fascinating realm. The York story reminds me of the tale of Llewellyn, who travelled down to Cardiff from his chapel, somewhere beyond the Black Mountain. Then he went to see a psychiatrist.

“Well Llewellyn,” said the Shrink, “what can I do for you?”
   ”There are people in our valley spreading gossip that I’m a sexual pervert,” said Llewellyn. “So I want a certificate to pin on the chapel door, crushing such scandalous slander.” 
   “People are terrible,” said the Shrink, “but don’t worry, we’ll soon put a stop to the gossip. I’ll issue a certificate on the spot. It just takes a five minute test. That’s all.”

The Shrink tore a page from his diary and drew a circle, O, on it. “There you go Llewellyn,” he said. “What does that bring to mind?”
   “Glory be,’ said Llewellyn, taking the paper with a trembling hand. “You’ve drawn a buxom farm-wife’s Private Part.”
   “Hmm,” said the Shrink, drawing an oval, 0, on another page, “so what is that then?”
   “Dieu,” said Llewellyn, breaking into a sweat, “now you’ve drawn a red-flannel-knickered choir-lady's Private Part.”
   “Hmmmm,” said the Shrink, drawing a, V, on the next page, “and this?”
   “Heaven help us,”" gasped Llewellyn, wide eyed and open mouthed. “This is a jodhpur-clad horsewoman’s Private Part…”

And so it went on, through dozens of shapes and symbols until, finally, the Shrink offered a page with a square drawn on it. “What is this?” he wanted to know.
   “The devil’s work,” panted Llewellyn, with saliva running down his chops. “It’s the Private Part of a gym-knickered schoolmistress.”

At that point, the psychiatrist called it a day. “I’m sorry Llewellyn,” he told him, “but the gossip in the valley is true. You are a sexual pervert.”
   “Charlatan,” screamed Llewellyn, leaping to his feet and banging the table with his fist. “I’ll have you struck off the Register; sitting there all afternoon,drawing filthy pictures,  then calling me a pervert!”

                                             AW

HOLS

 

                                    MY HOLS 2011

I get up early and have a quick coffee. That’s breakfast, nothing more. We’re off down the motorway in a couple of hours and I don’t want to keep skidding into service areas for a toilet-emergency. Ever since I changed to drinking wine and whisky my bladder’s lost its elasticity. It used have a couple of gallon capacity when I was a beer guzzler. You go downhill if you don’t practice.
It’s hot today, hot and dry, one of those spring heat waves we get every second millennium. I’ve dumped the cases in the boot and I’m pacing up and down the hall, waiting for Liz. I told her we should leave at noon and she’s working to that. She’s a trooper, Liz. Tell her noon and noon it is. Not a minute late. Not a minute early; emphasis on the latter.
The trouble is, the rules have changed over the last couple of days. I didn’t arrange this holiday so I’m not in on the nitty-gritty. The thing is, we’re going off to a narrow boat on the River Wey. That’s Godalming way. There will be eight of us on the boat. Eight people, that is, and two dogs. Big dogs, like an Old English Sheep Dog that thinks it’s still on the farm and keeps herding everything that moves into one confined space then guarding the escape route, growling like a lion and displaying a set of choppers the size of elephant’s tusks. The other hound is bigger still, a designer breed, Labradoodle, with a head the size of Birkenhead and a mouth like a Great White, lovingly blessed with a voracious appetite. This one’s friendly enough, but could accidently demolish a house or sink a ship with its massive crocodile tail which forever shoots back and fore like a Flying Shuttle. The eight other sardines, selected for the tin, are six adults and two kids, Charlie, nine, and Isobel, six.

When I say the rules have changed I mean the ‘feedback to me’ has changed. The actual rules have stayed the same, but I didn’t know them till yesterday. Originally, they told me the boat was available from 2.30pm onwards. Good. In my little dream that meant that Diz, Dan and the kids would arrive in one car, with Dougal, the Labradoodle. And Jon and Sylvia would arrive in another car, along with Ulf, the OESD. As one, they would sign for the boat, memorise the rules and get things ship-shape. Then, in the fullness of time, Liz and I, both in our dotage, would turn up, and the boat would glide gracefully down-river like a swan at sunset.
Then, yesterday, Jon informed me that we all have to be there at 2.30 on the dot for the briefing and handover. It transpires that we all have to tick all the boxes for Health and Safety and all that jazz. So now we need to leave home around 10.30 so… ‘Come on Liz!’
We’ve arrived at the river-berth on time, 2.30. Diz and Dan are already aboard. Sylvia and Jon are unpacking their car and humping stuff along the path. The boat’s called the Snow Goose. She’s the longest vessel on the Wey with only inches to spare as she goes through the locks, all 16 of them. But she’s narrow. Looking down from a bridge she looks like a piece of coloured rope.

God, I’m thirsty. I’ve not had a drink since 7.30am. And it’s hot out here in the sun, waiting for the man to come and give us a briefing. I’m dehydrating so I’ll nip into that café and grab a coffee. ‘Damn!’ I can’t. The man’s arrived and he’s going to start the lecture. He’s telling us all about it now, rattling on about pumps… toilets… water… locks… gates… fire hydrants… oil… and on… and on. I hope the others know what he’s saying ‘cos I’m still pondering the first pump. The memory’s not what it was and my concentration span is in the goldfish league, and I’m hot and I need a drink.
At last, he seems to have finished. Good. I’ll nip into the café. But no. Now he wants to give us a demonstration on the water. So, ‘Let go for’ard!’ as they say in the Sea Cadets.
The tuition’s finished now but there’s still no coffee. The boys are off to Sainsbury’s to get the supplies and the ladies are busy unpacking and I can’t find any stuff. Maybe a cup will appear at some stage. But it doesn’t. They’re itching to get down the water. So we’re all busy sorting stuff out and getting ship-shape.
Dan and Jon are back with the rations, which turn out to be beer, Becks, to be more accurate. I’m not a Becks drinker myself. But I am mad-thirsty so, ‘Down the hatch,’ and other nautical expressions.
We’re sailing merrily down the river now, Becks beer coming out of my ear holes. Now we tie up by a meadow in the middle of nowhere and settle down to the evening meal, lovingly prepared by the ladies and washed down with Becks beer.
Now they reveal the sleeping arrangements. The children will be in the two single beds in the stern, with Diz and Dan in the ensuite berth beside them. Jon and Sylvia, who is expecting, will be in the midships ensuite berth. Liz and I have drawn the short-straw, the kitchen, which converts into a bedroom when everyone else has departed, and which is not ensuit.
“Whoa!” I protest. “My bladder’s shrunk and I’m full of beer. I need to sleep near a toilet.”
“Pee in the river,” Jon says helpfully.

We sit in the kitchen now, chatting and drinking Becks. Then somewhere around 2300 hours a minor miracle occurs, Katie, our granddaughter, arrives on-board with her boyfriend. That’s quite something when you think about it. Katie lives in Plymouth. Her boyfriend lives in Ascot. And we have got the boat tied to a riverbank in the middle of a huge meadow in deepest Surrey in the middle of the night. But come they have. Then, in the wee small hours, they go. Now everyone goes to their ensuite berths while Liz and I set about constructing our bed, with countless mistakes and much cursing by me.
I’m in bed now, and beer’s seeping down the plumbing. I need a pee. I swing my legs to the deck and head for the door in the dark. “It’s bloody cold!” I go outside. It’s even colder, cold enough for frost. I clamber up and stand on the side of the boat. Now I’m peeing in the river. It’s moonlight, a white frost-mist lying over the meadow, owls hooting, I’m shivering, my legs are full of goose pimples, my feet are blocks of ice, and I’m peeing and peeing and peeing. It goes on forever, I can’t stop; tins of Becks multiplying in my bladder…
I get back in bed. ”At last! Thank God… Yaaaaah!” I’ve got cramp. I leap out of bed and dance and kick my legs in the six inch space between the bed and the bulkhead. I’m in agony, and cold, freezing cold.
At last, frozen and exhausted, I collapse back into bed and pull the blanket over my head. “Thank God for that! Oh no… *@<*+!” The cold has gone for me. I need another pee. I get out of the bed, stagger into the foggy dew, clamber on the rail, owls hooting, and pee and pee and pee…
Back into bed, “Yaaaaah...!” cramp… up and dance... back into bed… up and pee… bed, cramp, dance, bed, pee, bed, cramp, dance, bed… all bloody night.
As dawn breaks I pray to lose consciousness. Then comes this almighty banging. Bang! Bang! Bang! starting at the far end of the boat and getting ever nearer and louder, accompanied by a God-awful rattling as Dougal decides to make his way down the boat to say “good morning” to Ulf; his tail lashing everything in sight and his massive head battering doors until they give way.
The next night, Jon and Sylvia take pity on me and offer to swap beds. I’m no gentleman. I accept. Nay… I snatch at the offer. “Yippee!” I cry, diving under the luxury duvet and down into my double-bedded ensuite heaven. “Yippee!”
I sleep sounder than a corpse in a morgue. It’s wonderful; even at dawn when Dougal crashes along the boat on his way to greet Ulf, his great tail delivering a near knockout blow as he goes past. I don’t care. I feel fine.
But it’s not fine. There are complaints. The others can’t sleep because of my snoring. Another night comes. I crawl guiltily under the blanket. It isn’t bed anymore. It’s the naughty-step. “Lie on your side,” Elizabeth orders.
“I can’t sleep on my side,” I protest.
“I don’t care. Lie on your side.”
“I don’t know where to put my arms,” I protest.
“I don’t care. Lie on your side.”
I lie on my side. I can’t sleep. I toss and I turn. The night drags. I drift off.
Elizabeth pokes me. “You’re snoring,” she accuses, “get back on your side.”
All bloody night.
And so the days and nights glide happily by as we meander through the English countryside, moseying in and out of locks and mooring to stakes on the riverbank at night. Jon at the helm, assisted by Sylvia, the Viking, who is more at home on water than she is on terra firma. Dan and I are on rope and lock duty, assisted by Charlie and Isobel who take to the life like ducks to water. The dogs too are amazing, good as gold on-board and leaping ashore for a pee and a poo at the locks. Diz and Liz are on galley duty as we lock into the Thames and make our way up to Windsor, picnicking and barbequing as we go.
We are back in the River Wey now. Homeward bound. Dan and I are leaving today. It’s by prior arrangement. We’re not chickening out.
Now the red light comes on in one of the toilets. The tank is full. We all use the second toilet. Then its red light comes on. This is an emergency, eight people aboard and no toilet. It’s all crossed legs and watering eyes from now on. Jon consults the brochure. There’s a marina, two locks up the river. You can clean out the toilet tanks there. So… full speed ahead.
At this stage Dan and I bail out. As we leave the Snow Goose and stride along the bank, Dan punches the air “Yes!” he cries.
The others beat up river, toilets and bowels full to overflowing, work the locks and pray to the Lord as they make for the lifesaving marina. They head straight for the pump by the sceptic tank, leap ashore and read the notice.
“Closed on Tuesdays,” it tells them.
“Shit! This is Tuesday!”

                     Windsor Castle from the Thames, week of the Royal Wedding

                                           SUMMER

A couple of months later, Liz and I are off on another boat. This one’s a Cunarder, the Queen Victoria, bound for the Baltic.
On the first morning we go to the Lido for breakfast. The Lido’s up-top on deck nine. It’s a good place to eat because it’s bright and informal with picture windows and tables close enough to be matey yet distant enough to be private. It’s buffet service. I don’t usually like buffet service; all those people poking at the sausages and honking over the ash browns. I always end up at with a reject egg and cold bacon. But it’s different in Cunard. The food comes straight out of the pan onto your plate. White Star service. And these posh people turn away to sneeze. Breeding.

The drawback with the Lido is that you have 2,000 people wanting food and a seat at the same time. On the other hand, when you eventually find a place to sit, its good fun to watch everyone else wandering about like lost souls, looking for a parking place, with their White Star breakfast degenerating before their eyes.
We turn out to be sitting next to an American couple, Norman and his wife. He’s a little tough guy, very broad, thickset and muscular. I like him. We get on fine. We both see our respective countries as having deteriorated in almost identical ways. That’s growing old for you.
Norman brings it home to me. Ever since I left school I’ve been rubbing shoulders with people from every quarter of the globe. I find that, at grass roots level, we’re all pretty much the same. Our main concerns are health, food, shelter and a good place for our kids and their kids to live.
So who’s causing the trouble out there?

Evening comes round, 2030, dinnertime, black tie and all that jazz. We chose to sit at a table for six. If it was just a table for two, which is what I would have opted for, Elizabeth would have felt out-of-it. She likes people. I’ve got reservations. If we were at a table for four and we didn’t get on with the other two... nightmare. So we settled for six. That gives me a one in five chance of finding someone I get on with.
In this case we are lucky, the six of us get on fine. The others turn out to be Mr and Mrs Scouse from Liverpool and Mr and Mrs Taff from somewhere full of double-f’s, d’s and ll’s in West Wales, so mealtimes are convivial. As we settle down for our first meal, we introduce ourselves and start feeling our way into a pleasant relationship.
In mid conversation, my companions disappear as an open menu drifts slowly down in front of my face, like a descending fire curtain, missing my nose by a whisker. Conversation pauses as our ageing Portuguese waiter repeats the operation on each of my fellow diners, until, job done, the debate resumes. We’re chatting away merrily now, when,
“Whit wid you laike, sir?” a voice like a mating corncrake grates in my ear from behind, hot breath on the back of my neck.
“Verry naiss,” the waiter assures me when I squeal a startled reply.
“And you liedee, whit would you laike?” he whispers seductively in my wife’s shell-like before moving round the rest of his flock, repeating himself over and over,
”‘Whit would you laik liedee? Verry naiss...”

I had noticed earlier, in the bar, that the price of a pint of beer was the same as in a posh hotel and, rubbing salt in the wound, there was an additional 15% service charge. I bring this up now. “That’s steep,” I complain. “I was trained to give a 10% tip, not 15.” They all agree.
“You don’t get...” Mrs Taff disappears behind a bowl of steaming soup, cut off in mid flow. “...15, or even 10% interest in the bank,” she continues when she reappears.
“I thought we would get cheap…” I say, as a soup plate descends slowly down in front of my face, “...drinks,” I continue, when my companions come back into view. “After all...” I pause. Mrs Scouse’s head is disappearing before my very eyes, replaced by a plate of something steamy and the face of a Portuguese waiter. “...It’s all duty free on the high-seas.”
“Did you know you are all paying...” Mrs Taff is saying.
“Yes, laidee,” the waiter interrupts, sliding something in front of her face.
She waits patiently. “Eleven dollars a day, each, just for entering this room.”
“Eh?!”
“Yes…” Mrs Scouse wants to join in, but a plate hovers in front of her face.
“It’s in the small print,” her husband springs to her rescue.
“...Extra service charge,” Mrs Scouse has rejoined us.
“‘What?!” We explode in unison.
“Bon appetite,” the waiter tells us.

An alcohol-based hand-gel dispenser, like those on hospital wards, guards every entrance to every dining area. Hawk eyes make sure you comply with the compulsory hand wash. I frown at first but, fair enough, bugs can whip through these tour-boats like a Nebraska twister through a cattle ranch. You can’t be too careful.
When I go to the toilet, realisation dawns. If I ever thought the alcohol dispenser was a bit over the top, I change my mind now. This bog paper is gossamer thin; deadly dangerous. These rolls should come with a finger bowl attached. They might be OK for the constipated masses and genteel ladies from the shires, but they are of little use to a hairy-assed larger shifter like myself. I visualise a lavatorial crisis and implore the room-steward to leave me ample reserves of paper.

We’ve got class here, big-time. Even the stewards and menials are posh. There’s no riffraff anywhere. All the men have dickey bows tucked away somewhere. And all those women come with trunks full of evening gowns and jewellery.
But top of the class are the Grill Passengers. I call them the Grillers. They live on deck eleven, close to heaven. You never see them. Nay. You never know you’ve seen them. They’re like Freemasons, invisible to the naked eye. I suspect that they’re those strange people who sit in the boxes in the theatre and squint at the stage sideways, pretending not to be interested.

I did come across a Griller once. The ship had docked in Tallinn or some such place. The gangway for going ashore was on deck A, which is below deck 1 and about as near to sea level as you can get without wearing a snorkel. So we gets in the lift on deck 8 and presses the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 5 and people get it. They press the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 4 and more people get in. They press the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 3 and more people get in. They press the button for deck A, like you do. Now the lift stops at deck 1. Yippee! This is only one deck above deck A. We’re nearly there.
One woman gets in. We don’t know it, but she’s a Griller. She produces a card, slips it in a slot, and whoosh... the lift shoots back to deck 11, next to heaven, and she gets out without so much as a, “drop dead.”
Class!
We press the button for deck A, like you do.

                           Liz does a daily three miler round the boat deck

I travel light. Which means that, apart from underpants and socks, which I trample underfoot in the shower, I rely heavily on the services of the local dhobi wallah.
Elizabeth will have none of this. She can sniff out a washing machine at five miles. If there is a launderette in the land she will load me with a pile of grubby castoffs and drag me to it, like a Romanian peasant’s donkey. This routine happens again on the Victoria where every passenger-deck has its dedicated launderette.
So, one Baltic afternoon I find myself, like Mr Woo, in a den full of washerwomen who have gathered to gossip and discuss the optimum temperature for fumigating knickers.
It’s here, in the washing den, that I see her again, the apparition who haunts every launderette in the world.
The door flings open and she barges in; a big fat woman; solid; super-heavyweight; aggressive; Tyson scowl. As always, she’s hugging that massive basket, piled incredibly high with an impossible amount of festering unmentionables.
I first heard about this phenomena when my parents were alive and living in sheltered housing. They shared a washroom, like this on the Victoria, with the rest of their neighbours. There was a rota for using the machines, but that went up in smoke when this apparition appeared, like Beelzebub, wielding a loaded basket.
In my parents’ place, the residents concluded it was the spirit of an aggressive neighbour who had died and was doing the washing for the corpses in the cemetery. But I’ve seen the same vision, many times since, in launderettes as far apart as Australia and the Arctic Circle. So I know better.
It’s the Devil’s washerwoman.
This day on the Victoria, in she comes, ignores the queue, and marches straight to a dryer and drags everything out. Then she opens a washing machine, snatches out the wet clothes and stuffs them into the dryer she’s just emptied. Now she tips her basket of putrid rags into the newly vacant washing machine, slams it shut, turns on her heels and marches out, all in a single movement. Not a word spoken. In and out in a flash then back to hell.
I know about this. She does it all day, every day, in every launderette in the world; seen it with my own eyes.
The rest of us stand, like sheep in an abattoir, hoping to slip one of our smellies into a cleansing-machine before the return of the demon.

I lean on the rail, gazing over the Skagerrak at the coast of Denmark; flat sea; flat land.
“Flat earth?” I wonder, but, “No,” I decide. I’ve seen the photographs from outer space. “It’s a bladder of blue cheese.”

                                                                  
  Little Girl                                                                               Big Girl

Talking of flat earth, reminds me. My dad used to work with a bloke who was in the Flat Earth Society. Mad as a goat. The scary bit is that MI5 put him under surveillance then took him in for questioning. Things like that help me sleep sound at night.

They’ve peppered these flat Baltic lands with wind turbines; uncannily Quixotic in this day and age: Windmills vs Climate Change. May the strongest force win.

It’s evening now. We sit in the open-plan Chartroom Bar having a pre-dinner drink. The Chartroom is on deck two, next to the dining room at the aft end of the ship. That dining room is big, real big; second only in impressiveness to the city-sized theatre situated in the bow. They feed 2,000 people in two sittings in that canteen. If my arithmetic’s correct that’s 1,000 souls per sitting. And they all have to drift past this lounge to get there.
It’s probably the most fascinating time of any day, to sit in this nautically themed bar, picture windows overlooking the sea, and watch that passageway over there. First, an odd couple drift by, then two’s and threes, then groups. Then a continuous stream of people in dinner suit and evening gown. They all go floating past while you watch; not one hundred, but hundreds and hundreds of them, first in one direction then the other; first to dine, then, topped-up with three courses of bloating calories, back to the ballroom or theatre. None of them are under 70. Some have been dead for years.
It’s like they are not real. Like they are phantoms, ghosts from the past re-living an age that has gone. Maybe I’m seeing spirits, fresh from their watery staterooms, drifting over the decks of long gone Atlantic liners.
And look, there’s breakfast Norman. Hey! He’s wearing an army officer’s dress-uniform, more medals than Idi Amin. My God, maybe he’s Storming Norman of Desert Storm. But no... I don’t believe it, that uniform is identical to the one they wore in the American Civil War. I’ve seen them in films.

So maybe none of this is real, just ghosts from the past reliving the first – and best – four days on the Titanic...
Our ancient steward in the restaurant, oblivious of people, going through the motions of the years, serving and clearing, serving and clearing, like he did at that last dinner on that fatal day in mid Atlantic...
Norman in his cavalry outfit, on vacation from killing Confederates...
The Devil’s Hag, haunting the launderette…
The Queen Victoria, like the Flying Dutchman, a ship with no cargo, going nowhere in particular; drifting round the flatlands of Scandinavia where Don Quixotes tilt windmills at Continental Drift…

“I’ve seen enough. Beam me up.”

The Cruiser Aurora Fired the shot that signalled the start of the Russian Revolution in 1917 The people had a big wish list

The (ex) KGB HQ You’ve got to be careful what you wish for. They say you can see Siberia from the cellar

AW

SAGA OF THE TRAVELODGE

 

MASTERMI … ER CARD

A friend of ours, Sally, who is an Egghead victor, is now a contestant in the BBC Mastermind 2011-2012 competition. She gave Liz and me tickets to see the production which is in Media City, Manchester. That’s how I ended up trying to book us into a Travelodge on the Internet.

I go through to the TL website and punch in the required dates. “Go to, ’Continue,’” the machine tells me. The next page says that, if I’m an “old customer,” I just need to tap in my e-mail address and password and the booking will be done for me automatically.

I am an old customer. I’ve stayed at this very lodge several times. Liz and I were there 3 months ago. Mind, I didn’t know that they knew my PW, but OK, I give them what they ask for, address and PW.

They’ve never heard of me. I thought as much. Who has?
I go back to the original page and put in all that guff about names, addresses, phones, card details… and so on and so on. Now they say they will charge me £2 for the honour of using my MasterCard; so, OK, I use my Visa Debit instead.

“Go to, ‘Continue,’” it tells me. I do, and get a warning to be patient, “don’t dare touch any keys until we give permission.” Nothing else happens so I wait, and wait, and… I’ve waited long enough. I scrutinize the screen. A little remark in red has manifested. It tells me I didn’t tick the “terms and conditions box.”

“OK, if you insist.” I tick the box then, “Continue.” Now I get the warning to be patient, “blah blah blah…” Nothing else happens, so I wait… and wait… and… Still nothing… “Sod it.” I scrutinize the screen. Another little red note has appeared from nowhere. It says that I’ve put an incorrect card number in.

“No I haven’t.” I check, just to be sure. The buggers have only gone and erased my card number, then blamed me for it. I re-type the number. Now I scrutinize every inch of the screen. No more remarks. I go to, “Continue,” and get a warning to be pat-

At last, I‟m on the next page. I’m a simple soul really. I don’t ask much from life. I just want to stand in the garden and count the clouds. I just need a confirmation and a receipt from Travelodge and my life will be complete. But they won’t give me a receipt. Instead, they tell me that, “for my peace of mind,” they’ve introduced a new security system for Visa cards; and what I need to do now is to type in my e-mail address and… you’ve guessed it… my PW – which they don’t know.

But, just a minute, there’s a bit here that says that, if I don’t have a password I can tick this box and get one. So I tick the box, and that gives me another page that demands my e-mail address. So I give it to them – again. Now they want my date of birth, “Eh?!” I give it to them.

Now they want the “Member number,” of my Visa card. I’m not a member of anything so I ignore it and go to, “Continue.” Now I get a box that says I forgot to enter my “Member Number.” The next thing I know is that they’ve zoomed me right back to square one and I have to do everything over again… as a punishment I presume.

So, if you go back to the top of the page and re-read everything you’ve just read…  that is presuming that you did bother to read it… you’ll get the gist of what I’m saying.

I did just that. I went through it all again and pressed, “Continue…” and got a page that said my, “Time has expired. This Webpage is no longer available.”

That’s when I decided to kill myself.

Anyway, like she does, Elizabeth made me a cup of coffee and told me it could be worse, I could be young and have to spend another 60 years working with computers. Then she suggested that I make the booking by telephone. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?‟

So I phoned the Travelodge number and got a computerised woman. She gave me a lecture on terms and conditions and all kinds of junk then ordered me to, “Listen Carefully to the following instructions.”

Cheeky bitch!

She then gave me a string of numbers, one of which would put me through to a carer who would help me to book my hotel. So I pressed the number and it rang, and rang, and rang… Then it cut me off.

That’s when Elizabeth led me upstairs and told me to lie on the bed.
Five minutes later she’s back in the bedroom. She dialled the same number; got a human being; booked the hotel; “and the receipt’s on its way.”

“I’m going outside. I may be some time.”

AW

I was in the pub with Elizabeth and I said, “The biggest problem I have with you is keeping your attention.”

She said, “Pardon?”

AW

Caution…

Doomsters forecast that England faces the mother of all droughts. It is already the most populated country in Europe. Some people out there are willing to let the population rise to 70 million.

Beware my friends. When they run out of water, they might want to taste your blood.

It’s the Thought that Counts

My friend drowned in the lake so I went to his funeral yesterday.

I got a lot of abuse because my floral tribute was in the shape of a lifejacket.

But, like I said, “That’s what he would have wanted.”

Thought for today:

What Comes Into fashion Goes Out of Fashion

Who was a Pretty Boy then

The old lady from across the road told me her budgie had broken its leg. So I made a splint out of a match and strapped it to the little fellah. When it found that it could walk again, its little face lit up.

I’d forgotten to remove the sandpaper off the bottom of the cage.

No Comment

Motoring, hmm… I got done for speeding the other week. I was doing 79mph on a motorway with a 70mph limit.
     OK, so it was a fair cop.
     But the government is considering putting the speed limit up to 80mph in the near future. Better still, I have it on good authority that most police forces ignore anyone doing under 80mph.
     Some people might think that the person who decided to prosecute me, for doing less that 80, is a bit of a git…. I couldn’t possibly comment.

Normally, if you are caught speeding, you get fined £60 and 3 points on your licence. But nowadays they have this new thing where you can either pay the fine and get the points or opt to pay £85 and go on a Speed Awareness course – to be ‘Educated.’ I opted for the course.
     Some people might think that ‘Educating’ those who have strayed off the path of righteousness sounds a bit North Korean… I couldn’t possibly comment.

That brings me to the point. The penalty for speeding is £60 and a black mark on your soul. But if you opt to be ‘Educated’ and cough-up £85, your soul is unblemished. 
     Some people might think that by slipping the hierarchy an extra £25 your licence gets protected… I couldn’t possibly comment. 

Talking of motoring, reminds me… The car park in our local supermarket used to be easy on the eye. All the bays were bordered by bushes and greenery and stuff.
    Then a committee of wise men decided that the shrubs were harbouring rats, so they cut them down. You can’t argue with that.

But they’ve got half a dozen recycling skips in that same car park. Very environmentally friendly. Unfortunately, these skips don’t get emptied often enough. But the bold recycling addicts are not put off by that. They just keep piling their new rubbish on top of the old, overflowing, rubbish. So the whole area ends up looking like a Chinese landfill site.

Guess what? The bush-rats moved across to the skips. In retaliation, the wise have men put rat poison down. So, instead of bush-rats and skip-rats we have dead-rats. Here’s one…

     Some people might think that the wise men are tackling the wrong rodents… I couldn’t possibly comment.

Stray thought

Sometimes I wish I was a tomcat and didn’t give a shit.

Little Hodiaki

The American teacher said, ‘Let's begin by reviewing some American history. Who said “Give me Liberty, or give me Death?”’

She saw a sea of blank faces, except for Little Hodiaki a bright foreign exchange student from Japan, who had his hand up: ‘Patrick Henry, 1775,’ he said.

'Very good! Who said, “Government of the People, by the People, for the People, shall not perish from the Earth?”’

Again, no response except from Little Hodiaki, 'Abraham Lincoln, 1863.'

'Excellent!', said the teacher continuing, 'let's try one a bit more difficult. Who said, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country?”’

Once again, Hodiaki's was the only hand in the air and he said: 'John F. Kennedy, 1961'.

The teacher snapped at the class, 'Class, you should be ashamed of yourselves, Little Hodiaki isn't from this country and he knows more about our history than you do.'

She heard a loud whisper: 'Fuck the Japs.'

'Who said that? I want to know right now!' she angrily demanded.

Little Hodiaki put his hand up, 'General MacArthur, 1945.'

At that point, a student in the back said, 'I'm gonna puke.'

The teacher glared around and asks, 'All right! Now! Who said that!?'

Again, Little Hodiaki said, 'George Bush to the Japanese Prime Minister, 1991.'

Now furious, another student yelled, 'Oh yeah? Suck this!'

Little Hodiaki jumped out of his chair waving his hand and shouted to the teacher, 'Bill Clinton, to Monica Lewinsky, 1997!'

Now with almost mob hysteria someone said, 'You little shit. If you say anything else, I'll kill you.'

Little Hodiaki frantically yelled at the top of his voice, "Michael Jackson to the child witness testifying against him, 2004.'

The teacher fainted.

As the class gathered around the teacher on the floor, someone said, 'Oh shit, We're screwed!'

Little Hodiaki whispered, ‘The Scottish rugby team, 2011

aW

Health Matters

aW

Fitness tip: If it’s a muscle, exercise it. If it’s a joint, stretch it. If it’s neither, play with it.

aW

A researcher in Cardiff has found that cockles and mussels never develop arthritis of the hip and knee. He advises sufferers to switch to a plankton diet.

aW

My Hols 2011

                                                 alpW

                                           My Hols 2011
                                                        
                                                    Spring

I get up early and have a quick coffee. That’s breakfast, nothing more. We’re off down the motorway in a couple of hours and I don’t want to keep skidding into service areas for a toilet-emergency. Ever since I changed to drinking wine and whisky my bladder’s lost its elasticity. It used have a couple of gallon capacity when I was a beer guzzler. You go downhill if you don’t practice.

It’s hot today, hot and dry, one of those spring heat waves we get every second millennium. I’ve dumped the cases in the boot and I’m pacing up and down the hall, waiting for Liz. I told her we should leave at noon and she’s working to that. She’s a trooper, Liz. Tell her noon and noon it is. Not a minute late. Not a minute early; emphasis on the latter.

The trouble is, the rules have changed over the last couple of days. I didn’t arrange this holiday so I’m not in on the nitty-gritty. The thing is, we’re going off to a narrow boat on the River Wey. That’s Godalming way. There will be eight of us on the boat. Eight people, that is, and two dogs. Big dogs, like an Old English Sheep Dog that thinks it’s still on the farm and keeps herding everything that moves into one confined space then guarding the escape route, growling like a lion and displaying a set of choppers the size of elephant’s tusks. The other hound is bigger still, a designer breed, Labradoodle, with a head the size of Birkenhead and a mouth like a Great White, lovingly blessed with a voracious appetite. This one’s friendly enough, but could accidently demolish a house or sink a ship with its massive crocodile tail which forever shoots back and fore like a Flying Shuttle. The eight other sardines, selected for the tin, are six adults and two kids, Charlie, nine, and Isobel, six.

When I say the rules have changed I mean the ‘feedback to me’ has changed. The actual rules have stayed the same, but I didn’t know them till yesterday. Originally, they told me the boat was available from 2.30pm onwards. Good. In my little dream that meant that Diz, Dan and the kids would arrive in one car, with Dougle, the Labradoodle. And Jon and Sylvia would arrive in another car, along with Ulf, the OESD. As one, they would sign for the boat, memorise the rules and get things ship-shape. Then, in the fullness of time, Liz and I, both in our dotage, would turn up, and the boat would glide gracefully down-river like a swan at sunset.
Then, yesterday, Jon informed me that we all have to be there at 2.30 on the dot for the briefing and handover. It transpires that we all have to tick all the boxes for Health and Safety and all that jazz. So now we need to leave home around 10.30 so… ‘Come on Liz!’

We’ve arrived at the river-berth on time, 2.30. Diz and Dan are already aboard. Sylvia and Jon are unpacking their car and humping stuff along the path. The boat’s called the Snow Goose. She’s the longest vessel on the Wey with only inches to spare as she goes through the locks, all 16 of them. But she’s narrow. Looking down from a bridge she looks like a piece of coloured rope.

God, I’m thirsty. I’ve not had a drink since 7.30am. And it’s hot out here in the sun, waiting for the man to come and give us a briefing. I’m dehydrating so I’ll nip into that café and grab a coffee. ‘Damn!’ I can’t. The man’s arrived and he’s going to start the lecture. He’s telling us all about it now, rattling on about pumps… toilets… water… locks… gates… fire hydrants… oil… and on… and on. I hope the others know what he’s saying ‘cos I’m still pondering the first pump. The memory’s not what it was and my concentration span is in the goldfish league, and I’m hot and I need a drink.

At last, he seems to have finished. Good. I’ll nip into the café. But no. Now he wants to give us a demonstration on the water. So, ‘Let go for’ard!’ as they say in the Sea Cadets.

The tuition’s finished now but there’s still no coffee. The boys are off to Sainsbury’s to get the supplies and the ladies are busy unpacking and I can’t find any stuff. Maybe a cup will appear at some stage. But it doesn’t. They’re itching to get down the water. So we’re all busy sorting stuff out and getting ship-shape.

Dan and Jon are back with the rations, which turn out to be beer, Becks, to be more accurate. I’m not a Becks drinker myself. But I am mad-thirsty so, ‘Down the hatch,’ and other nautical expressions.

We’re sailing merrily down the river now, Becks beer coming out of my ear holes. Now we tie up by a meadow in the middle of nowhere and settle down to the evening meal, lovingly prepared by the ladies and washed down with Becks beer.

Now they reveal the sleeping arrangements. The children will be in the two single beds in the stern, with Diz and Dan in the ensuite berth beside them. Jon and Sylvia, who is expecting, will be in the midships ensuite berth. Liz and I have drawn the short-straw, the kitchen, which converts into a bedroom when everyone else has departed, and which is not ensuit.

“Whoa!” I protest. “My bladder’s shrunk and I’m full of beer. I need to sleep near a toilet.”
     “Pee in the river,” Jon says helpfully.

We sit in the kitchen now, chatting and drinking Becks. Then somewhere around 2300 hours a minor miracle occurs, Katie, our granddaughter, arrives onboard with her boyfriend. That’s quite something when you think about it. Katie lives in Plymouth. Her boyfriend lives in Ascot. And we have got the boat tied to a riverbank in the middle of a huge meadow in deepest Surrey in the middle of the night. But come they have. Then, in the wee small hours, they go. Now everyone goes to their ensuite berths while Liz and I set about constructing our bed, with countless mistakes and much cursing by me.

I’m in bed now, and beer’s seeping down the plumbing. I need a pee. I swing my legs to the deck and head for the door in the dark. “It’s bloody cold!” I go outside. It’s even colder, cold enough for frost. I clamber up and stand on the side of the boat. Now I’m peeing in the river. It’s moonlight, a white frost-mist lying over the meadow, owls hooting, I’m shivering, my legs are full of goose pimples, my feet are blocks of ice, and I’m peeing and peeing and peeing. It goes on forever, I can’t stop; tins of Becks multiplying in my bladder…
     I get back in bed. ”At last! Thank God… Yaaaaah!” I’ve got cramp. I leap out of bed and dance and kick my legs in the six inch space between the bed and the bulkhead. I’m in agony, and cold, freezing cold.
At last, frozen and exhausted, I collapse back into bed and pull the blanket over my head. “Thank God for that! Oh no… *@<*+!” The cold has gone for me. I need another pee. I get out of the bed, stagger into the foggy dew, clamber on the rail, owls hooting, and pee and pee and pee…
     Back into bed, “Yaaaaah...!” cramp… up and dance... back into bed… up and pee… bed, cramp, dance, bed, pee, bed, cramp, dance, bed… all bloody night.
     As dawn breaks I pray to lose consciousness. Then comes this almighty banging. Bang! Bang! Bang! starting at the far end of the boat and getting ever nearer and louder, accompanied by a God-awful rattling as Dougle decides to make his way down the boat to say “good morning” to Ulf; his tail lashing everything in sight and his massive head battering doors until they give way.

The next night, Jon and Sylvia take pity on me and offer to swap beds. I’m no gentleman. I accept. Nay… I snatch at the offer. “Yippee!” I cry, diving under the luxury duvet and down into my double-bedded ensuite heaven. “Yippee!”

I sleep sounder than a corpse in a morgue. It’s wonderful; even at dawn when Dougle crashes along the boat on his way to greet Ulf, his great tail delivering a near knockout blow as he goes past. I don’t care. I feel fine.
     But it’s not fine. There are complaints. The others can’t sleep because of my snoring. Another night comes. I crawl guiltily under the blanket. It isn’t bed anymore. It’s the naughty-step. “Lie on your side,” Elizabeth orders.
     “I can’t sleep on my side,” I protest.
     “I don’t care. Lie on your side.”
     “I don’t know where to put my arms,” I protest.
     “I don’t care. Lie on your side.”
     I lie on my side. I can’t sleep. I toss and I turn. The night drags. I drift off.
     Elizabeth pokes me. “You’re snoring,” she accuses, “get back on your side.”
     All bloody night.

And so the days and nights glide happily by as we meander through the English countryside, moseying in and out of locks and mooring to stakes on the riverbank at night. Jon at the helm, assisted by Sylvia, the Viking, who is more at home on water than she is on terra firma. Dan and I are on rope and lock duty, assisted by Charlie and Isobel who take to the life like ducks to water. The dogs too are amazing, good as gold onboard and leaping ashore for a pee and a poo at the locks. Diz and Liz are on galley duty as we lock into the Thames and make our way up to Windsor, picnicking and barbequing as we go.

We are back in the River Wey now. Homeward bound. Dan and I are leaving today. It’s by prior arrangement. We’re not chickening out.
     Now the red light comes on in one of the toilets. The tank is full. We all use the second toilet. Then its red light comes on. This is an emergency, eight people aboard and no toilet. It’s all crossed legs and watering eyes from now on. Jon consults the brochure. There’s a marina, two locks up the river. You can clean out the toilet tanks there. So… full speed ahead.
    
At this stage Dan and I bail out. As we leave the Snow Goose and stride along the bank, Dan punches the air “Yes!” he cries.
     The others beat up river, toilets and bowels full to overflowing, work the locks and pray to the Lord as they make for the lifesaving marina. They head straight for the pump by the sceptic tank, leap ashore and read the notice.
     “Closed on Tuesdays,” it tells them.
     “Shit! This is Tuesday!”

                          Summer

A couple of months later, Liz and I are off on another boat. This one’s a Cunarder, the Queen Victoria, bound for the Baltic.

On the first morning we go to the Lido for breakfast. The Lido’s up-top on deck nine. It’s a good place to eat because it’s bright and informal with picture windows and tables close enough to be matey yet distant enough to be private. It’s buffet service. I don’t usually like buffet service; all those people poking at the sausages and honking over the ash browns. I always end up at with a reject egg and cold bacon. But it’s different in Cunard. The food comes straight out of the pan onto your plate. White Star service. And these posh people turn away to sneeze. Breeding.

The drawback with the Lido is that you have 2,000 people wanting food and a seat at the same time. On the other hand, when you eventually find a place to sit, its good fun to watch everyone else wandering about like lost souls, looking for a parking place, with their White Star breakfast degenerating before their eyes.

We turn out to be sitting next to an American couple, Norman and his wife. He’s a little tough guy, very broad, thickset and muscular. I like him. We get on fine. We both see our respective countries as having deteriorated in almost identical ways. That’s growing old for you.
     Norman brings it home to me. Ever since I left school I’ve been rubbing shoulders with people from every quarter of the globe. I find that, at grass roots level, we’re all pretty much the same. Our main concerns are health, food, shelter and a good place for our kids and their kids to live.
     So who’s causing the trouble out there?

Evening comes round, 2030, dinnertime, black tie and all that jazz. We chose to sit at a table for six. If it was just a table for two, which is what I would have opted for, Elizabeth would have felt out-of-it. She likes people. I’ve got reservations. If we were at a table for four and we didn’t get on with the other two... nightmare. So we settled for six. That gives me a one in five chance of finding someone I get on with.
     In this case we are lucky, the six of us get on fine. The others turn out to be Mr and Mrs Scouse from Liverpool and Mr and Mrs Taff from somewhere full of double-f’s, d’s and ll’s in West Wales, so mealtimes are convivial. As we settle down for our first meal, we introduce ourselves and start feeling our way into a pleasant relationship.
     In mid conversation, my companions disappear as an open menu drifts slowly down in front of my face, like a descending fire curtain, missing my nose by a whisker. Conversation pauses as our ageing Portuguese waiter repeats the operation on each of my fellow diners, until, job done, the debate resumes. We’re chatting away merrily now, when,
     “Whit wid you laike, sir?” a voice like a mating corncrake grates in my ear from behind, hot breath on the back of my neck.
     “Verry naiss,” the waiter assures me when I squeal a startled reply.
     “And you liedee, whit would you laike?” he whispers seductively in my wife’s shell-like before moving round the rest of his flock, repeating himself over and over,
     ”‘Whit would you laik liedee? Verry naiss...”

I had noticed earlier, in the bar, that the price of a pint of beer was the same as in a posh hotel and, rubbing salt in the wound, there was an additional 15% service charge. I bring this up now. “That’s steep,” I complain. “I was trained to give a 10% tip, not 15.” They all agree.
     “You don’t get...” Mrs Taff disappears behind a bowl of steaming soup, cut off in mid flow. “...15, or even 10% interest in the bank,” she continues when she reappears.
     “I thought we would get cheap…” I say, as a soup plate descends slowly down in front of my  face, “...drinks,” I continue, when my companions come back into view. “After all...” I pause. Mrs Scouse’s head is disappearing before my very eyes, replaced by a plate of something steamy and the face of a Portuguese waiter. “...It’s all duty free on the high-seas.”
     “Did you know you are all paying...” Mrs Taff is saying.
     “Yes, laidee,” the waiter interrupts, sliding something in front of her face.
     She waits patiently. “Eleven dollars a day, each, just for entering this room.”
     “Eh?!”
     “Yes…” Mrs Scouse wants to join in, but a plate hovers in front of her face.
     “It’s in the small print,” her husband springs to her rescue.
     “...Extra service charge,” Mrs Scouse has rejoined us.
     “‘What?!” We explode in unison.
     “Bon appetite,” the waiter tells us.

An alcohol-based hand-gel dispenser, like those on hospital wards, guards every entrance to every dining area. Hawk eyes make sure you comply with the compulsory hand wash. I frown at first but, fair enough, bugs can whip through these tour-boats like a Nebraska twister through a cattle ranch. You can’t be too careful.
     When I go to the toilet, realisation dawns. If I ever thought the alcohol dispenser was a bit over the top, I change my mind now. This bog paper is gossamer thin; deadly dangerous. These rolls should come with a finger bowl attached. They might be OK for the constipated masses and genteel ladies from the shires, but they are of little use to a hairy-assed larger shifter like myself. I visualise a lavatorial crisis and implore the room-steward to leave me ample reserves of paper.

We’ve got class here, big-time. Even the stewards and menials are posh. There’s no riffraff anywhere. All the men have dicky bows tucked away somewhere. And all those women come with trunks full of evening gowns and jewellery.
     But top of the class are the Grill Passengers. I call them the Grillers. They live on deck eleven, close to heaven. You never see them. Nay. You never know you’ve seen them. They’re like Freemasons, invisible to the naked eye. I suspect that they’re those strange people who sit in the boxes in the theatre and squint at the stage sideways, pretending not to be interested.
      I did come across a Griller once. The ship had docked in Tallin or some such place. The gangway for going ashore was on deck A, which is below deck 1 and about as near to sea level as you can get without wearing a snorkel. So we gets in the lift on deck 8 and presses the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 5 and people get it. They press the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 4 and more people get in. They press the button for deck A, like you do. But the lift stops at deck 3 and more people get in. They press the button for deck A, like you do. Now the lift stops at deck 1. Yippee! This is only one deck above deck A. We’re nearly there.
     One woman gets in. We don’t know it, but she’s a Griller. She produces a card, slips it in a slot, and whoosh... the lift shoots back to deck 11, next to heaven, and she gets out without so much as a, “drop dead.”
      Class!
      We press the button for deck A, like you do.

I travel light. Which means that, apart from underpants and socks, which I trample underfoot in the shower, I rely heavily on the services of the local dhobi wallah.
     Elizabeth will have none of this. She can sniff out a washing machine at five miles. If there is a launderette in the land she will load me with a pile of grubby castoffs and drag me to it, like a Romanian peasant’s donkey. This routine happens again on the Victoria where every passenger-deck has its dedicated launderette.
     So, one Baltic afternoon I find myself, like Mr Woo, in a den full of washerwomen who have gathered to gossip and discuss the optimum temperature for fumigating knickers.
     It’s here, in the washing den, that I see her again, the apparition who haunts every launderette in the world.
     The door flings open and she barges in; a big fat woman; solid; super-heavyweight; aggressive; Tyson scowl. As always, she’s hugging that massive basket, piled incredibly high with an impossible amount of festering unmentionables.
    I first heard about this phenomena when my parents were alive and living in sheltered housing. They shared a washroom, like this on the Victoria, with the rest of their neighbours. There was a rota for using the machines, but that went up in smoke when this apparition appeared, like Beelzebub, wielding a loaded basket.
     In my parents’ place, the residents concluded it was the spirit of an aggressive neighbour who had died and was doing the washing for the corpses in the cemetery. But I’ve seen the same vision, many times since, in launderettes as far apart as Australia and the Arctic Circle. So I know better.
     It’s the Devil’s washerwoman.
     This day on the Victoria, in she comes, ignores the queue, and marches straight to a dryer and drags everything out. Then she opens a washing machine, snatches out the wet clothes and stuffs them into the dryer she’s just emptied. Now she tips her basket of putrid rags into the newly vacant washing machine, slams it shut, turns on her heels and marches out, all in a single movement. Not a word spoken. In and out in a flash then back to hell.
     I know about this. She does it all day, every day, in every launderette in the world; seen it with my own eyes.
     The rest of us stand, like sheep in an abattoir, hoping to slip one of our smellies into a cleansing-machine before the return of the demon.

I lean on the rail, gazing over the Skagerrak at the coast of Denmark; flat sea; flat land.
     “Flat earth?” I wonder, but, “No,” I decide. I’ve seen the photographs from outer space. “It’s a bladder of blue cheese.”

Talking of flat earth, reminds me. My dad used to work with a bloke who was in the Flat Earth Society. Mad as a goat. The scary bit is that MI5 put him under surveillance then took him in for questioning. Things like that help me sleep sound at night.

They’ve peppered these flat Baltic lands with wind turbines; uncannily Quixotic in this day and age: Windmills vs Climate Change. May the strongest force win.

It’s evening now. We sit in the open-plan Chartroom Bar having a pre-dinner drink. The Chartroom is on deck two, next to the dining room at the aft end of the ship. That dining room is big, real big; second only in impressiveness to the city-sized theatre situated in the bow. They feed 2,000 people in two sittings in that canteen. If my arithmetic’s correct that’s 1,000 souls per sitting. And they all have to drift past this lounge to get there.
     It’s probably the most fascinating time of any day, to sit in this nautically themed bar, picture windows overlooking the sea, and watch that passageway over there. First, an odd couple drift by, then two’s and threes, then groups. Then a continuous stream of people in dinner suit and evening gown. They all go floating past while you watch; not one hundred, but hundreds and hundreds of them, first in one direction then the other; first to dine, then, topped-up with three courses of bloating calories, back to the ballroom or theatre. None of them are under 70. Some have been dead for years.
     It’s like they are not real. Like they are phantoms, ghosts from the past re-living an age that has gone. Maybe I’m seeing spirits, fresh from their watery staterooms, drifting over the decks of long gone Atlantic liners.
     And look, there’s breakfast Norman. Hey! He’s wearing an army officer’s dress-uniform, more medals than Idi Amin. My God, maybe he’s Storming Norman of Desert Storm. But no... I don’t believe it, that uniform is identical to the one they wore in the American Civil War. I’ve seen them in films.
     So maybe none of this is real, just ghosts from the past reliving the first – and best – four days on the Titanic...
     Our ancient steward in the restaurant, oblivious of people, going through the motions of the years, serving and clearing, serving and clearing, like he did at that last dinner on that fatal day in mid Atlantic...
     Norman in his cavalry outfit, on vacation from killing Confederates...
     The Devil’s Hag, haunting the launderette…
     The Queen Victoria, like the Flying Dutchman, a ship with no cargo, going nowhere in particular; drifting round the flatlands of Scandinavia where Don Quixotes tilt windmills at Continental Drift…

“I’ve seen enough. Beam me up.”

                                                 alpW

For the multiculturists

Sikhs face rioters with swords… Kurds defend property… Black kills three Asians… Make tribes, get tribal war. Integration! Integration! Inte…

Theft

A police station in Huddersfield got broken into last night. All the satnavs were stolen. The police are now looking for Leeds.

Brussels

Jeanneke Pis Brussels	Mannekin Pis Brussels

All Wind and Piss

Anorexic Girl

 

This kid phoned me every shift for three years…
then disappeared off the radar

               Anorexic Girl
Sometimes she whispers in my ear,
a tapestry of pain and fear
whose warp and weft weave haunted days
and nightmare dreams, through woeful sobs
and blooded screams; till phantoms from
a private hell enshroud me in
a chilling spell.

                      I’m on a tour
within her mind where those outside
are breaking in and every thought
accuses sin, in saddest voice
man ever heard.

                        Midst grief, defying
spoken word, she can only run
and hide, cringe ever deeper down
inside, avoiding some imagined
threat from friend or foe she’s never
met.

        I know more of her than of
my own, my wasted waif who walks
alone. I want to ride inside
her head and sweep it clean of all
its dread, but will not know her when
we meet, walk past her, crying in
the street.

                 Until she finds the strength
to lay the horrors of the past,
and scream, “I’m me! I’m running free!”
there’ll be no woman sweet-asleep,
but just the child who I hear weep.

Charlie Gregory
Samaritan days

If you would like to read my other poems, follow the link
”Snapshots of Life” or go to:
www.poems-by-charlie-gregory.blogspot.com

                    alpW