Beaten

The best laid plans of mice and, yeah, Saturday’s trip to the greyhound races didn’t go quite as planned.

Alex had had a late Friday night and a taxing Saturday, it was raining a lot and Emma was knackered before we set off.

So, all good so far.

On their arrival at our front door step, Roy seemed distracted - tense even, and Barb had a certain barbed edge to her (something was afoot, and it wasn’t any of their four feet). Anyway, to Monmore Green Stadium - we got there, five of us driving south in the Peugeot Enormobile.

As a kind of informal social marker for the evening, my taking a wrong turn into some industrial estate dead-end was immediately followed by our car being approached by a local prostitute – the kind who would, say, be so up to the eyeballs that the fact that our carriage contained a seven year old child (not to mention four adults) – seemed not to be a barrier to the thought of a possible economic (plus god knows what) exchange. We moved on, and got to the stadium just after the first of the evening race-card’s fourteen races.

Despite an initial buzz of excitement, by Race Seven, Emma had accurately gauged that Alex had absolutely nothing left in the tank and was not for being cajoled into lightening up.

So, things not looking too good so far.

Deciding to take a break with Alex back at the car, this left Shane looking and feeling the merry lemon – if not raspberry – as Roy and Barb seemed to be getting over their earlier frostiness towards one another.

So, increasingly awkward so far.

With my mind on the hour and half that lay ahead, Emma and Alex back (albeit possibly sleeping) at the car, Roy’s incontrovertible ‘Always number four’, and Barb’s recurrent ‘We should quit while we’re ahead’, I took her point literally and – after only Race Eight (of fourteen) – I suggested that it was a bit unsettling that Emma and Alex seemed done-in and that I’d be up for leaving whenever our guests were. And there, the trip to the dogs came to an early end.

Wonder loveliness and merciful merriment to the chap’ and his lady, they took it on the chin and variously amused Alex and me throughout the drive back. From the driving seat, I heard an amateur magic show unfold (Roy), along with a conversation about ‘favourite Harry Potter spells’ (Barb and Alex). It was impressive. To my left, Emma slept, but did not snore – ever the lady.

Looking back, there were learning points to be derived from the evening:-

1. It is important to not give children the impression that betting on dogs is just about going up to a counter and giving a middle-aged woman less coins than she gives you in later return. This is where unhealthy mis/understandings of gambling come from.

2. For youngsters (and partners), relatively late nights ought to be preceded by easy days and easy previous evenings, lest the late night may go tits-up before it’s got going. This is where avoiding frustration would come from.

3. Photographing dogs with a mobile phone is tricky – especially where one seeks to do this discreetly and in the pouring rain. This is where pneumonia and waterlogged phones come from.

4. As grim an experience as I fear it would be, the hospitality package (‘delicious three-course meal’) may be the best formula for visiting the greyhound races. This is where getting seats would come from.

5. Taking time to properly print out directions or get a SatNav might be a good idea. This is where not running in to wet prostitutes (rain) would come from.

6. Seeming to be terribly embarrassed and quietly frustrated by a plan that could have gone so much better can pay dividends. This is where the delivery of a Sunday afternoon rhubarb crumble from next door comes from, and so very much appreciated was it.

So, no real harm done so far. But heck, R&B are our still-new neighbours, I’m sure that some cack-handed DIY or gardening exploit will enable me to piss these people right off.

It’s late, and my week ahead looks horrible. If you will excuse me, I will fall asleep to thoughts of ‘What would I call my greyhound, were I a racing dog owner?’

‘Sleepy Gambler?... Patient Chaplain?... Crumble Queen?... Lordy It’s A Pro?...’

Good night.

Brewing

So our new neighbours moved in - they being the chaplain Roy and his writerly partner, Barbara. A good team effort saw many a trinket, not so much furniture, but a lot of techno-gadgetry hauled into their new home. And, in the short time that they have been here, they have struck rather a wonderful chord - to the extent that they’re coming greyhound racing with us on Saturday evening – Go God, Go!, says I.

Perhaps it’s just a fluke, but at the time of this forging of social relations (why can’t I just write ‘friendship’?) with the chap’ and his lady, I’m reading a novel about a member of the clergy who is seeking to ‘plant a church’ – to grow it from nothing but good will in a socially and economically barren part of the world – an estate in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, in pre-Blairite mid-90s Britain. This fictional member of the clergy is thus tasked with ingratiating himself into a community that is probably much grittier than our’s – though a recently formed residents' group (back in reality, now) has promised to ‘reclaim the streets’ from ‘nuisance youths’. Such is life. Anyway, in the novel – Crusaders, by Richard T. Kelly – the cleric is currently (I’m at page 299, out of 540) becoming a pal of a local gangland man who’s been tripping over himself to offer support to the churchly enterprise, whilst clergyman has also made time to bed a young single mum from the estate (she’d attended a community forum type of meeting that he'd hosted at the local primary school). Other than that, the central character is also being courted by the local MP – a former socialist who very much feels New Labour ideology. Somehow, these four diverse characters’ story arcs are to become enfolded – I’ve worked this out from having read the book's synopsis – ‘...Gore (the clergyman) finds he needs the help of all three (the gangland man, the single mum and the MP) to bring off his mission. But gradually these same relationships draw him into a moral crisis’, it says.

So you see, what I have is a degree of latent 'being prodded at', regarding notions of community and, well, people coming together generally - to try to make good feelings and other worthwhile stuff happen. Mm, that's where I'm at. As this is a blog, I shall simply leave my babbling at that. I shall brook no big claims-making re ‘making a difference’. For now, I feel that it is enough, simply, to feel.

And from this above post, I choose ‘enfolded’ as my favourite word.

And, as ever, I must beg of your forgiveness for my great love affair with the simple comma, and, indeed, God’s honest hyphen, all so very important for the gentlest pacing of a Thursday evening's blather.

Today I am 11 stones in old money. That's 70 kilograms in Euros - just on the limit of light welter-weight.

Good 'morrow one and all.

Backside

Oh, the weekend, the weekend.

Emma: Y' know, though I hate to say it, I'm really glad that Alex is with Ed this weekend.
Shane: You don't have to hate to say it - you deserve a break, and besides, it's good for Ed and Alex.
Emma: Mm. And thank god there's no Mother's Day this weekend either.
Shane: What d' y' mean?
Emma: Mm?
Shane: What was wrong with Mother's Day?
Emma: Oh, nothing, nothing at all. You did very well.
Shane: But...?
Emma: Whose idea was the treasure hunt?
Shane: Alex’s.
Emma: Mm. It was good… though it did feel a bit too much like work at times.
Shane: What d’ y’ mean?
Emma: Well, as other mums would have been lying in bed, having their breakfast and the paper brought to them, you both had me going outside to the car to retrieve ‘Clue Number One’, that led me into the shed, then back upstairs to the bathroom, rummaging through papers in the computer room, digging amongst the plant-pot stack, and then - as if it were some kind of statement of boyish pride and enterprise - up the tree! In my pyjamas! And before any breakfast or coffee or papers… impressive - but hardly relaxing.
Shane: We admired your spirit.
Emma: Indeed. Can I make a request that you focus on ‘relaxation’ when it comes to my birthday.
Shane: (thinks ‘Shit! Too late’) Mm, of course.


Aston Villa Football Club's motto is 'Prepared'. I quite like that, it sort of... resonates.

But

I’ve been working with a photographer-friend, Lily, on a project with ‘the bad lads’ – lads excluded from school, flirters with the criminal justice system, but far from lost causes. As an aid to improving their social skills, this project has seen us introducing the lads to people and places that they would be otherwise unfamiliar with, as the lads document – in words and images – experiences of change. Every now and again a lad will say something like ‘He’s changed his life, hasn’t he’, ‘Who’d have thought you’d get a place like that ‘round here’, ‘Can we go and see them again’, and so on. These comments please me. The other day, we were at a martial arts centre, whereupon we met Hughie – big, black, a very youthful mid-40s, and speaking the language of change - ‘Brought up in care, started training at a place like this, did well with it, got into training others – it saved me from prison really - that’s my story’. To the lads, Hughie was credible – they looked and they listened. Then Hughie got out his equipment:

Hughie: Shane, come here – hold this (proffers big rectangular pad).
Shane: Why?
Hughie: I need to demonstrate a good kick.
Shane: Why?
Hughie: Just to show the lads.
Shane: Hughie, what you need to recognise is that, well, you’re a proper man. See, I come into a place like this – and see you – and it reminds me that I’ve got string for arms.
Hughie: Y’ wha’?
Shane: (moving forward) See, look at you, (pointing) you’ve got proper man arms – whereas I have string for arms – (pointing) see!
Lads: (laughing)
Lily: (looking nervous for me)
Hughie: Come on, it’ll be fine – hold the pad close to your body – it won’t hurt.
Shane: You’re not gonna force me to take body-building drugs too, are you?
Lads: (laughing)
Hughie: No, we’re not into that sort of thing, ‘round here – that’s for the cowboys.
Shane: (takes pad, holds pad, adopts firm stance) Hughie. Let’s do this!
Hughie: (steps away, strangely twists back towards me – very graceful, foot comes out of nowhere – kicks pad)
Shane: (imperceptible squeal, rocks back, stands, frozen)
Lads: (collective intake of breath)
Lily: (jaw has dropped)
Hughie: Y’ alright?
Shane: (croaks) Fine.
Lads: Good one, Shane.
Shane: Yeah, good one. D’ y’ want a go?
Lad #1: No way – I’m not an idiot.
Lad #2: No thanks, Shane – you showed us how it’s done.
Shane: So I get to suffer for your art? How does that work?
Lad #1: Y’ wha’?
Shane: Never mind.

Later, Hughie quietly acknowledged that he’d kicked harder than he’d meant to. Obviously this gave me no end of pleasure in realising that it wasn’t just that I was being a weed.

Peace and safety be with you.

Boiler

One week ago:

I visited the ‘Laughing in a Foreign Language’ exhibition at the Hayward Gallery, London. The work of David Shrigley, I liked a lot. The work of Roi Vaara made me grin like an idiot (I couldn't find any good links, so this will have to do). The rest, well, they tried.

Friday:

[Morning]

Emma: (sighs) I’m gonna have to call the boiler man (plumber) – there’s a small leak below the boiler, the pressure gauge has gone right down and there’s hardly any flow out of the hot tap.
Shane: Ok.

[Afternoon]

Boiler man comes, boiler man glues something that he should have glued previously, boiler man fiddles with knob, boiler man – appropriately - does not have audacity to charge, boiler man exits.

[Evening]

Alex: (singing) Boiler man, Boiler man, Does whatever a boiler man does, Can he swing from a… (breaks off from singing) What would a boiler man swing from?
Shane: A pipe?
Alex: (singing) …Can he swing from a pipe?, No he can’t, He’s a boiler man, Look ouuuuuuuuut - it’s boiler man!

Quietly, I pondered the absurd, effortless and really quite pleasing humour of young Alex.

And if you missed the pop’ cultural reference, this will make it clear.

Next

In the middle of the night:

Emma: (startled) What was that?!
Shane: (woken) What?
Emma: That noise. Something fell. What was it?
Shane: (lying) I was awake. I didn’t hear anything. Go to sleep.
Emma: (turns over, falls asleep)

Next morning:

Emma: In bed last night – the earth moved.
Shane: That’s very kind of you, but maybe you exaggerate.
Emma: Not you, you idiot!
Shane: Self-service?
Emma: What! It was an earthquake – which you missed - even though you were ‘awake’.

I turn on the radio – Radio Five Live from the BBC. I have it confirmed that the standard British response to an earthquake is to make double entendres.

Nest

Saturday (Whitby, Day 2).

Both slightly dehydrated, we awoke at around 8.30am. Quick showers were followed by breakfast – big, English, uncomplicated, fuel for the day.

We were the last to depart the dining room.
.

Emma returned to the bedroom as I took a short walk to the car to fetch boots and maps and important things.

A sunny day, the abbey just visible on the horizon.

An important man of Whitby…

We don’t talk about William Scoresby Junior - eejit.
.

I approached the hotel.

We decided to walk to Sandsend. Heading north along the beach, the map suggested that we would find the village of Sandsend at the end of the… yeah.

A walk to the beach…
.

Ah, the grim pub from the crawl that dared not speak its name. How come we didn’t see the sign that said ‘Live Entertainment – Big Screen Sports – Late Bar’? If only we’d known! Everyone knows that that’s code for ‘Bar for Young Stupids’.

A fruiterer does what a fruiterer does best... a fruiterer fruits.

Looking towards the old town…

Along the harbourside…

A walk along the beach…

And most gorgeously...

Our destination – the Sandside Café at Sandsend.

And well worth the walk too.

All wholesome and wonder, we set off to return along the cliff-top.
.

But lo, what’s that?!

It’s a dead bird in the sidings.
.

And what’s…?

Ah yes, safety advice. Good.
.

But...

Gun-shot!

Shane: We gotta get outta here!
Emma: I think we’ll be ok.
Shane: That’s very brave of you, but we can’t be so sure. Here, pop this helmet and vest on – there’s a love.

Closer to town, we relaxed a little.

It’s the rule, you’ve got to take this picture (whale bone, allegedly)…

And more opportunistically…

Off-season, roaring trade. One had to admire their work (and had done so the previous evening - see fish stain)...

And thence, we did roll back to the hotel for a couple of hours of lazing – sleeping, reading trashy magazines, getting the football scores and a call to my parents to arrange lunch the following day. We would meet roughly half-way, in the seaside town of Saltburn, though where exactly I did not know, as I didn’t know the town.

Saturday evening saw us take a meal at an Indian restaurant on the harbourside – the restaurant name eludes me. Though there were classier-looking joints, Whitby had given us appetites for hot food. It was good, we were good, and back to the hotel.
.

Sunday followed, in the way that it generally does.

Nightmare

Friday

Emma and I drove up to North Yorkshire for the weekend. Crossing the North Yorkshire Moors, I noticed a sign that read ‘Hole of Horcum’. Remembering this from a map, I wondered out loud as to the what and the exact whereabouts of ‘the hole’. ‘Mm, dunno’ mumbled a tired Emma, as I glanced across at her and:

Shane: Aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh – I think I’ve found the hole!
Emma: (looking left) Bloody hell! That would be the hole.
Shane: Dizzy!
Emma: Keep looking ahead - and slow down.
Shane: Ok – slow down – look ahead… Oh my god I think my heart is going to pop out of my chest. My stomach’s gone all tense. Aaaaarrrrggggghhhhh – nightmare vertigo-driving-high-up-by-a-big-drop-with-no-barrier-or-wall type-scenario!
Emma: Don’t over-react.
Shane: I can’t breathe.

Anyway, we arrived in Whitby at around 6pm. As Emma was paying, I didn’t mind the cringe-worthy chandelier.

As neither of us drink very much or very often, we decided to throw on big thick woolly jumpers and go out on a pub crawl – with real beer.

We eventually settled in the corner of some harbour-side den, and listened to a young singer lady.

During a break in the performance, Emma insisted that I go and chat with the singer – spread the love and all that. So I did. As we chatted, As I chatted, the young singer achieved that look that people possess when they’re thinking ‘Are you a mentalist? You’re not from round here, are you?’ I wished her well, then moved away.

Emma: Say anything interesting?
Shane: She doesn’t know any Damien Rice, she used to know a Tori Amos song, no to U2, used to know REM’s ‘Electrolite’ – it got embarrassing so I stopped making requests. She only gigs around Whitby as she can’t drive cos she’s got dodgy eyesight. She also works as an alternative therapist, and she looked generally very scared of me.
Emma: You sound like you’re having one of your autistic nights.
Shane: Shall we get more drinks?

Emma spotted a fish stain on my big black coat from where I’d earlier dropped some of my takeaway fish. (During that purchase I learned that the Whitby fleet had already reached many of their quotas for whitefish, thus, the much-vaunted ‘local fresh fish’ was being imported from Iceland and the Faroe Islands. Oh, and that the ‘Woof’ is a catfish).

We drank a bit more then returned to the guest house.

Emma brushed her teeth as I watched the end of Newsnight Review on BBC2.

Slipping into bed, all set for relaxation and what have you, I was but moments from a horrible flashback to my earlier hole trauma. Ho hum.

(Saturday to follow)

Five books down, two to go.

Alex and Emma had just read Chapter One of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I turned to Alex for a summary:

Shane: What was the first chapter called?
Alex: 'The Other Minister'.
Shane: What happened?
Alex: The Minister for Magic - Cornelius Fudge - he visited the Prime Minister.
Shane: To warn him about Voldemort?
Alex: Yeah.
Shane: Mm. So if that had just happened, that would mean that the Minister for Magic would have spoke with Gordon Brown - cos he's the Prime Minister at the moment, isn't he.
Alex: Yeah.
Shane: But if it was a year ago, then the Prime Minister would have been...?
Alex: Elvis Presley!
Shane: No - but close. I think it would have been Tony Blair.
Alex: Oh, yeah-.
Shane: Mm.

Hey, it was a simple mistake.

I turned back to my newspaper to read about the latest infernal policy initiative from that imbecile of a Housing Minister, Celine Dion.

Neighbours

I met Roy and Barbara, our neighbours-to-be.

Roy: …so your pitching in would be marvellous – a real treat. Can’t say we’ll pay you, but you can call it god’s work - helping us next door will be like helping him upstairs!
Shane: Just as long as you don’t ask me to shift any valuables, I’ll be happy to help.
Roy: Valuables? Ha! Listen to ‘im - he clearly doesn’t know us, eh Barb’.
Barb.: (sneezes) Whew! Excuse me. We’ve got a lot of clutter – books mostly, decrepit shelving and units – in fact, decrepit a lot of things. The only valuables, really, are the laptops and one or two family bits and pieces. And anyway, from what I’ve seen, one or two bumps during removals is about the norm.
Shane: You’ve moved a lot?
Barb.: I’ve moved… this’ll be my… fifth move in ten years. And it’s much the same for you isn’t it?
Roy: Yeah – different moves, but yeah, five or six.
Shane: You’ve been together for…?
Barb.: It’ll be our fifth anniversary on March 1st – of living together - we’re not married.
Shane: (slight frown)
Roy: We get frowned on quite a lot - due to the collar – people seem to think that because I work for God, we should be married –
Barb.: - and that I should be staying at home, baking scones and arranging flowers all day – which I’m sure would be all well and good, but it would hardly pay the bills.
Roy: It is a bit different though. As soon as people hear that I work at a prison, they take it to be ecumenical make-believe – but it’s certainly not that. Still, we all have our prejudices.
Barb.: We do?
Roy: Yes, we do – often petty and of no harm, but prejudices all the same.
Barb.: That’s a bit sweeping.
Roy: And it’s true.
Barb.: Says who?
Roy: Would you like me to get you started on Manchester United - here in front our new neighbour?
Barb.: (laughing) No, better not. (sneezes) Excuse me.
Shane: You like football?
Barb.: I love football!
Shane: Team?
Barb.: The Quakers.
Shane: Darlington?!
Barb.: You know them?
Shane: In passing. What is someone with your accent doing supporting Darlington?
Barb.: Now there’s a story!
Roy: A long story! Shane, would you mind if we don’t go there right now? It’s been lovely meeting you – and I’m sure it’ll be good to meet Emma and Alex, but we’ve got to get back for a telephone meeting – a small project that we’re working on.
Shane: No problem – we can talk again.
Barb.: Yes, better be off. Lovely to meet you.
Shane: And you.
Barb.: And maybe we’ll see the cat next time.
Shane: How –
Barb.: Allergy.
Shane: Ah. Yes, he’s probably upstairs on one of the beds.
Barb.: It’s a hard-knock life.
Roy: We’ll give you a knock, then – a week next Saturday – though you’ll probably hear the rumble of the lorry.
Shane: Ok. I’ll see you anon.

And that was that - nice people, interesting people, happy people – good sorts – pleasing additions to the neighbourhood. I hope.