When I looked out the kitchen window this morning the duck’s head was in the middle of the path, again. I think it’s cats. That knock the head off. I’ve stuck it back on a couple of times but I think you probably need special glue for stone.
Anyway, come on Anna. Spit it out. It’s not like you to be coy. What have you done, you silly strumpet, that you think might make me ‘mad’? You know you can tell your Georgie. I am never surprised by anything you do. And I forgive you, in advance – for everything.
As long as you are well, that is all that matters to me. I can ignore your little peccadilloes.
You see, that’s the good thing about our relationship: neither us have any expectations. All relationships should be like that. If you have expectations you are setting yourself up for disappointment – or worse. People let you down. They can’t help it: they are human. So best not to expect them to be the way you think they should be. I have learnt this the hard way.
Talking of being let down, have you noticed how coffee always smells better than it tastes? Now why should that be? The aroma of fresh coffee promises so much; it is inevitable that the taste is a disappointment.
Oh, and whilst I remember, thanks for that piece about ‘The Waltons’. Yes, of course, I remember now. I must confess I am sometimes a bit lazy on the old research. No excuse. Slap on the wrist – or wherever takes your fancy, my Swedish siren.
I had my flu jab last week. Free of course on the National Health Service. I won’t do the joke about feeling a prick – but the nurse did hurt me this time. I told her so, too. She said, “ I have done 900 of these injections so I should be getting good at it by now.”
I didn’t quite know what to make of that, so I put my jacket on and left.
But I am going off at a tangent. That word ‘tangent’ reminds me of school geometry lessons, and Miss Hodge jabbing me in the ribs with that board rubbing-out thing – wooden it was – because I couldn’t do the problem on the board. She used to get you out to the front and make you stand looking at the blackboard (that’s not racist, is it?), and all the numbers and ‘figures’ would swim before my eyes, and my mind blanked out, and I wished the ancient wooden floor would collapse and send us all hurtling to our doom.
Those people who say school days are the happiest days of your life must have a bloody awful life.)
But I am being tangential again.
(I’ve suddenly had flash of déjà vu – I haven’t told you all this before, have I? You may find that I repeat myself from time to time – if I do, you must tell me.)
Glancing up from my typing, I see the family across the road returning from the supermarket, spilling out of the car, their arms full of plastic bags stuffed full of God knows what. I hope they haven’t been trying to buy booze because they have their fifteen-year-old daughter with them, and a lad of about ten. They go staggering up the drive like over-laden donkeys. The girl has a French stick, a yard long. At least I think it is a French stick. Not easy to discern from this distance. (I do have a good pair of binoculars, but it’s hardly worth the trouble of digging them out just to identify a French stick.)
I was thinking: the supermarket has replaced the church as the place to take the family on Sunday morning, (the Garden Centre comes into its own in the afternoon.)
Supermarkets! What happened to the old grocer’s shop? Like the one that we had in my village when I was a boy: sawdust on the wooden floor and a huge marmalade cat - it disappeared suddenly during the period of post-war rationing; my mother wouldn’t buy sausages for a month.
And Mr Hankinson, the ironmonger, in his brown overall. I used to love running errands to his wonderful Aladdin’s Cave of a shop that smelled of paraffin and candles: ten 1 inch nails in a paper bag; two sheets of sandpaper: one fine, one coarse; One six inch nail; a small tin of ‘scumble’ varnish; a pint of paraffin (bring your own bottle). I never knew why my mother needed all this stuff when she was baking.
(Ignore that last sentence, Anna: I put it in for “humorous effect”).
Where is that wonderful world now? All gone. Along with Diphtheria, Whooping Cough and National Service.
A bird staggers down the roof of Big Bill’s house. I don’t know his other name. I know his name is Bill, and he’s a big guy – so I call him Big Bill. Not to his face – I’ve never spoken to him.
I haven’t seen a bird stagger before. It looks drunk. But the roof is quite steep and is of tiles, not slate, (We’re not in Wales.), so there is a big overlap. Obviously this adds to a bird’s difficulty in negotiating the roof’s steep pitch.
I wonder what might be the evolutionary effect, on birds, of the gradual replacement of slate by tile as roofing material. Will natural selection favour those birds best adapted to the tiled roof?
But enough of this speculation.
Now, no more nonsense, my Scandinavian slapper (joking), I want a rapid reply telling me what this is all about.
Oh, and by the way, what’s all this about you lot burning rabbits to keep warm? I heard something on the news.
Just one incident in the life of George: I visited an osteopath (perhaps you call them chiropractor?) I’ve had trouble with my neck for a while. Anyway, it turned out that, like me, he was a drummer, so we had a pleasant chat about music. Then he broke my neck. Well, it sounded like that. He said I had 5 displaced vertebrae. I think he meant before he did that, rather than after.
Oh, and I have sorted out accommodation for us – so no worries on that score.
Your lover in waiting,
George
I have just seen the comment from the ‘French Lady’. She wasn’t trying to ‘correct’ but to enlighten.
I bet she’s a Buddhist.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Oh Georgie, it is with much amusement I read comment from French lady what correct you about Wal-Mart. (Usually you are receiving correction from Swedish ladies, eh? Not true. Just little joke, eh?)
Personally I do not give the bugger who own Wal-Mart shop, but expect you to be more over the ball on such detail. Especially since even we in Sweden see the lots of television programme about these people which is called ‘The Waltons’.
In these programmes Sam and family do not talk about famous shop, instead tv show them busy with hobby which is woodwork what they are into in big way. Maybe they do not talk shop because they do not wish to boast of success. They seem very humble folk – living in old house and always helping people who come to stay and such like. Perhaps these shopkeeping family are showing the good neighbourness that makes unnecessary the Health Service in America. But they got some bloody funny neighbours.
Anyway my Georgie, next time to be getting your factions right. Only joking – you can be make as many mistakes you like with Anna.
But now come to serious purpose to do with why I do not reply quickly, which is because I have a little confessional and not sure how to make. It is not a big one, just a teensy weensy one. Still, am hoping you will not be too hard when I tell you.
Before I tell you though I must be knowing you will not be mad at your Anna, which may be difficult if you not yet know what confessional is about. Just a clue I will give to you – it is to do with the place Purley.
I do not tell you lie – I just may have been bit ecumenical with truth.
Anyway look forward to hearing from you very quick pronto so that we may get this little matter out of our hair and our eventual meeting be free of skelingtons what are hanging in cupboard.
Loving you in all ways – looking forward to.
Anna
Personally I do not give the bugger who own Wal-Mart shop, but expect you to be more over the ball on such detail. Especially since even we in Sweden see the lots of television programme about these people which is called ‘The Waltons’.
In these programmes Sam and family do not talk about famous shop, instead tv show them busy with hobby which is woodwork what they are into in big way. Maybe they do not talk shop because they do not wish to boast of success. They seem very humble folk – living in old house and always helping people who come to stay and such like. Perhaps these shopkeeping family are showing the good neighbourness that makes unnecessary the Health Service in America. But they got some bloody funny neighbours.
Anyway my Georgie, next time to be getting your factions right. Only joking – you can be make as many mistakes you like with Anna.
But now come to serious purpose to do with why I do not reply quickly, which is because I have a little confessional and not sure how to make. It is not a big one, just a teensy weensy one. Still, am hoping you will not be too hard when I tell you.
Before I tell you though I must be knowing you will not be mad at your Anna, which may be difficult if you not yet know what confessional is about. Just a clue I will give to you – it is to do with the place Purley.
I do not tell you lie – I just may have been bit ecumenical with truth.
Anyway look forward to hearing from you very quick pronto so that we may get this little matter out of our hair and our eventual meeting be free of skelingtons what are hanging in cupboard.
Loving you in all ways – looking forward to.
Anna
Friday, October 23, 2009
Come in SWEDEN
Where are YOU?
You usually reply quicker, Anna. Are you alright?
There have been no news reports of earthquakes or tsunamis in Sweden.
But you might have been knocked down by a bus (or a tram), and I would never know.
Sven hasn’t come back – has he?
You’re not on a ferry in the middle of the North Sea – are you? (I have not yet normalised my financial situation)
Please let me know you are well.
A worried George.
You usually reply quicker, Anna. Are you alright?
There have been no news reports of earthquakes or tsunamis in Sweden.
But you might have been knocked down by a bus (or a tram), and I would never know.
Sven hasn’t come back – has he?
You’re not on a ferry in the middle of the North Sea – are you? (I have not yet normalised my financial situation)
Please let me know you are well.
A worried George.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Social comment (a bit)
********************************************
Yes, Anna, I was seeking the “humorous effect”. Better luck next time, eh?
But coincidentally, the day after I wrote that piece I found myself in ASDA - the nature of my purchases need not concern us here, suffice to say they did not include alcohol. Anyway, upon approaching the checkout, I smiled and said to the woman, “I’m afraid I do not have any ID”
She laughed and said, “Oh dear”.
I then told her about the reported case of the woman who was stopped from purchasing alcohol because she had her 17 year old son with her. The assistant said that she herself had been ‘reprimanded’ and had lost her bonus because, whilst on duty at the ‘self-checkout’, had failed to stop the teenage son of parents who were buying alcohol to actually put the notes into the machine himself.
I thought this was a bit much. I mean ‘reprimand’, okay, but to stop the woman’s bonus (I did not ask whether this was weekly, monthly or what) was harsh to say the least. But what struck me was the way she just accepted that that was the way things were.
And I thought of the directors of Wal-Mart and wondered what kind of bonuses they awarded themselves. Do they go in for ‘self-reprimands’? And do they punish themselves by stopping their own bonuses?
Once again, Anna, “It’s the rich what gets the pleasures/It’s the poor what gets the blame.” (Old cockney song).
It is only quite recently that I have come to understand how it is Economics (as interpreted and practised by Big Business) and not political ideology that shapes society- and runs the world. Yes, of course I have known this for a long time – but not really understood the implications.
But enough of this philosophising (do you remember how you used to say I had “philosopher’s fingers”?) Let us turn our minds to more personal matters.
Purley is indeed en route to Swindon from the port of Harwich – well, sort of. But the question occurs to me: how are you going to find Big Winston? I assume you do not have his home address, if indeed he has one; he may well sleep on the premises, doubling as night watchman.
Do you know the name of the nightclub at which he bounces? Or are you going to trawl downtown Purley late at night? If so, I am relieved that you do not drink alcohol but only still spring water - one needs to keep one’s wits about one in Purley.)
Still, you are a big girl now, and I am sure you know how to handle yourself.
I have been doing a spot of painting. No, not oil on canvass – Dulux on window frames. Actually I have painted in oils – and water colours, but I thought that I might be spreading my talents (as well as my paints) a little too thinly, so I have given this up, for the time being: it is still my ambition to do you in oils.
Looking forwards – as always – to hear from you.
Your George
Yes, Anna, I was seeking the “humorous effect”. Better luck next time, eh?
But coincidentally, the day after I wrote that piece I found myself in ASDA - the nature of my purchases need not concern us here, suffice to say they did not include alcohol. Anyway, upon approaching the checkout, I smiled and said to the woman, “I’m afraid I do not have any ID”
She laughed and said, “Oh dear”.
I then told her about the reported case of the woman who was stopped from purchasing alcohol because she had her 17 year old son with her. The assistant said that she herself had been ‘reprimanded’ and had lost her bonus because, whilst on duty at the ‘self-checkout’, had failed to stop the teenage son of parents who were buying alcohol to actually put the notes into the machine himself.
I thought this was a bit much. I mean ‘reprimand’, okay, but to stop the woman’s bonus (I did not ask whether this was weekly, monthly or what) was harsh to say the least. But what struck me was the way she just accepted that that was the way things were.
And I thought of the directors of Wal-Mart and wondered what kind of bonuses they awarded themselves. Do they go in for ‘self-reprimands’? And do they punish themselves by stopping their own bonuses?
Once again, Anna, “It’s the rich what gets the pleasures/It’s the poor what gets the blame.” (Old cockney song).
It is only quite recently that I have come to understand how it is Economics (as interpreted and practised by Big Business) and not political ideology that shapes society- and runs the world. Yes, of course I have known this for a long time – but not really understood the implications.
But enough of this philosophising (do you remember how you used to say I had “philosopher’s fingers”?) Let us turn our minds to more personal matters.
Purley is indeed en route to Swindon from the port of Harwich – well, sort of. But the question occurs to me: how are you going to find Big Winston? I assume you do not have his home address, if indeed he has one; he may well sleep on the premises, doubling as night watchman.
Do you know the name of the nightclub at which he bounces? Or are you going to trawl downtown Purley late at night? If so, I am relieved that you do not drink alcohol but only still spring water - one needs to keep one’s wits about one in Purley.)
Still, you are a big girl now, and I am sure you know how to handle yourself.
I have been doing a spot of painting. No, not oil on canvass – Dulux on window frames. Actually I have painted in oils – and water colours, but I thought that I might be spreading my talents (as well as my paints) a little too thinly, so I have given this up, for the time being: it is still my ambition to do you in oils.
Looking forwards – as always – to hear from you.
Your George
Friday, October 16, 2009
You reply pronto, for which I am gratified. Thank you. And you will see that I am reciprocal also.
Yes, you are right.
I am not really interested in social doings of your little country because of having doings of my own life what is quite complicated enough
.
But, my darling, if it is bothering you then I read carefully what you are saying.
Such views you are expressing I think are not making any sense to me. For what can be wrong selling the alcohol to adult what has kid type person with her? What if she single mum like what goes on your Sticky place? Is she to leave small infant behind in house all by himself exposed to who knows what dangers in this crime-ridden country what you have. I read newspapers.
Surely is better bring baby toddler to supermarket, safe and warm in perambulator (also excellent place to store bottles of wine, vodka and other such boozy drinks to take to car.) Using such means she would not need bring trolley back to storage place in pouring rain like you have in England, leaving infant alone in car, so as could be snatched away by some sad woman what cannot have baby. This too, I read is happening often.
So how can you be agreeing with such nonsensical going on?
Then I think – wait just a minute, Anna. Perhaps Georgie is having the joke. Maybe this what English call the “irony” So I look up word in dictionary (M&S, half-price in sale) and it says “Irony – The expression of humour through the use of language which normally signifies the opposite, usually for humorous effect.”
Is it such humorous effect that you seek?
Now, my sweet, to more serious matters.
I am touched at your concern for Anna’s comfort and safety, and advice given regarding suitability of various types of truck for purpose of transportation from docks to Swindon. (Though I do not know why you think I might want be sniffing at certain type of vehicle. I would not go sniffing round any vehicle. I am not police dog what go searching for drugs)
Anyway, I look at England map and suddenly idea pops into head. The place Purley is on way from Harwich to Swindon! What luck! I could be killing same bird twice with one stone.
Remember I tell you Big Winston is residing in Purley? Well, Sven has talked often about me to his friend and he say he would love to meet me. And I have always found ethnic gentlemen from these warm and sunny lands of Jamaica very friendly, and generous with their affections. So why not do I pause journey and make acquaintances with this large man? We could be having coffee together at pavement cafe. Also Winston perhaps tell me what is happening to Sven since I have not heard from my brother for some time and fear he is rotting away in dungeon of Tower of London.
This place I would very much like sometime to visit with you – tower, not dungeon - and see beef eating men in funny costumes, also ravens what cannot leave tower until monarch is dead. Not just this but historical sights like big chopping block on which heads of wives removed by Henry Eight. Not himself of course – he have nothing against these women personally (unlike you with Georgina – though you don’t chop off her head… joke, ha. ha). No, they just get in the way of doing his job as monarch. Likewise is what Pope man is doing, so Henry give him and his church the chop. (This is metaphor, although perhaps Big H would really have like chop off papal head, but not worth journey to Italy – Henry is busy man.)
Did you know that Henry Eight was not always fat slob who has to have special horse to carry him (wonder how wives managed)? When young man, he was most handsome and write poetry and play banjo. Was on banjo that he compose famous hit ‘Greensleeves’, which is still played today – though not on banjo.
I learn all these things during short time I am at school (before I am getting expulsed over activities with professional ice hockey team – such happy memories.)
But I digress.
Can you tell me if Purley is this cockney place where they have own king and queen what sew millions of buttons on suits and dresses and go walk about streets and no one laugh at silly buggers because it is fine tradition going back to Magna Carter?
Also is this home of gangsters like the Kroy twins what are really lovable rogues, thieving from rich to help the poor like they was Robin Hood, only don’t live in forest? This Eastern End of London sounds most jolly place. Perhaps Big Winston could show me charming historical sites. For example - Blind Beggar public house – once used for shooting people - and gentlemen hairdressing salon of Sweeney Todd, who has nice sideline in meat pies. Such colourful folk are the cockney Eastern Enders. Fagin and Bill Sykes are made-up characters by Mr Dickens but I bet he knew such people only was afraid to use real names in case he coming out of gin-palace one night and catches mighty blow from cudgel around earole (cockney slang), removing head from shoulders and bringing early end to well paid book-writing job.
But listen to me going on about self. How are you keeping it up? You sound on more of up beat note recently. Perhaps therapist (even though Scotch woman) doing some good to you. I know you do not discuss things what you talk about with your therapist, and that is fine.
I am going now to have interview with bank manager. He is very pleasant and understanding man, who has helped Anna before as regards to money. Pity he smells - but I ask him leave window open.
Write soon and hoping to be quickly reunited (via Purley)
Anna
PS. I do not understand why you should be wishing to teach ancient relative such disgusting habit.
Yes, you are right.
I am not really interested in social doings of your little country because of having doings of my own life what is quite complicated enough
.
But, my darling, if it is bothering you then I read carefully what you are saying.
Such views you are expressing I think are not making any sense to me. For what can be wrong selling the alcohol to adult what has kid type person with her? What if she single mum like what goes on your Sticky place? Is she to leave small infant behind in house all by himself exposed to who knows what dangers in this crime-ridden country what you have. I read newspapers.
Surely is better bring baby toddler to supermarket, safe and warm in perambulator (also excellent place to store bottles of wine, vodka and other such boozy drinks to take to car.) Using such means she would not need bring trolley back to storage place in pouring rain like you have in England, leaving infant alone in car, so as could be snatched away by some sad woman what cannot have baby. This too, I read is happening often.
So how can you be agreeing with such nonsensical going on?
Then I think – wait just a minute, Anna. Perhaps Georgie is having the joke. Maybe this what English call the “irony” So I look up word in dictionary (M&S, half-price in sale) and it says “Irony – The expression of humour through the use of language which normally signifies the opposite, usually for humorous effect.”
Is it such humorous effect that you seek?
Now, my sweet, to more serious matters.
I am touched at your concern for Anna’s comfort and safety, and advice given regarding suitability of various types of truck for purpose of transportation from docks to Swindon. (Though I do not know why you think I might want be sniffing at certain type of vehicle. I would not go sniffing round any vehicle. I am not police dog what go searching for drugs)
Anyway, I look at England map and suddenly idea pops into head. The place Purley is on way from Harwich to Swindon! What luck! I could be killing same bird twice with one stone.
Remember I tell you Big Winston is residing in Purley? Well, Sven has talked often about me to his friend and he say he would love to meet me. And I have always found ethnic gentlemen from these warm and sunny lands of Jamaica very friendly, and generous with their affections. So why not do I pause journey and make acquaintances with this large man? We could be having coffee together at pavement cafe. Also Winston perhaps tell me what is happening to Sven since I have not heard from my brother for some time and fear he is rotting away in dungeon of Tower of London.
This place I would very much like sometime to visit with you – tower, not dungeon - and see beef eating men in funny costumes, also ravens what cannot leave tower until monarch is dead. Not just this but historical sights like big chopping block on which heads of wives removed by Henry Eight. Not himself of course – he have nothing against these women personally (unlike you with Georgina – though you don’t chop off her head… joke, ha. ha). No, they just get in the way of doing his job as monarch. Likewise is what Pope man is doing, so Henry give him and his church the chop. (This is metaphor, although perhaps Big H would really have like chop off papal head, but not worth journey to Italy – Henry is busy man.)
Did you know that Henry Eight was not always fat slob who has to have special horse to carry him (wonder how wives managed)? When young man, he was most handsome and write poetry and play banjo. Was on banjo that he compose famous hit ‘Greensleeves’, which is still played today – though not on banjo.
I learn all these things during short time I am at school (before I am getting expulsed over activities with professional ice hockey team – such happy memories.)
But I digress.
Can you tell me if Purley is this cockney place where they have own king and queen what sew millions of buttons on suits and dresses and go walk about streets and no one laugh at silly buggers because it is fine tradition going back to Magna Carter?
Also is this home of gangsters like the Kroy twins what are really lovable rogues, thieving from rich to help the poor like they was Robin Hood, only don’t live in forest? This Eastern End of London sounds most jolly place. Perhaps Big Winston could show me charming historical sites. For example - Blind Beggar public house – once used for shooting people - and gentlemen hairdressing salon of Sweeney Todd, who has nice sideline in meat pies. Such colourful folk are the cockney Eastern Enders. Fagin and Bill Sykes are made-up characters by Mr Dickens but I bet he knew such people only was afraid to use real names in case he coming out of gin-palace one night and catches mighty blow from cudgel around earole (cockney slang), removing head from shoulders and bringing early end to well paid book-writing job.
But listen to me going on about self. How are you keeping it up? You sound on more of up beat note recently. Perhaps therapist (even though Scotch woman) doing some good to you. I know you do not discuss things what you talk about with your therapist, and that is fine.
I am going now to have interview with bank manager. He is very pleasant and understanding man, who has helped Anna before as regards to money. Pity he smells - but I ask him leave window open.
Write soon and hoping to be quickly reunited (via Purley)
Anna
PS. I do not understand why you should be wishing to teach ancient relative such disgusting habit.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Cause for concern
**********************************************
Now then Anna, see how quickly I am replying to your post.
I did not realise you had such a tiring journey to come to England (my knowledge of the geography of Sweden is, to say the least, scant), and I feel privileged (and loved) to know that you will undertake such a long trek for me!
As regards accommodation: I would not want you to stay Chez Gwen.
Yes there are hotels in Swindon – some of them quite decent – and although (as you rightly say) I am broke, perhaps a little juggling with the old credit cards may provide the wherewithal: balance transfers and all that! I know this is just robbing Peter to pay Paul, but – what the hell.
Unfortunately I will not be able to meet you at Harwich (money again) but perhaps you could hitch a ride in one of the many lorries (trucks) travelling from the port? Try to avoid the Romanian and Latvian ones (little joke, eh?). But seriously, I would be most upset (not to mention being overwhelmed with guilt) if something happened to you on your way to see me.
The English drivers will know where Swindon is, and even if one cannot take you direct I am sure he will be able to drop you at some transport café where it will be possible to pick up a ‘connection’.
Oh, and do not wait to find a ‘Volvo’, there are many other fine trucks on our roads nowadays: Mercedes do a very nice range; Scania, Nissan and Fiat are not to be sniffed at. And of course the Anglo-Dutch DAF has a reputation second to none. Most will have a bed in the back of the cab where you could get your head down for a couple of hours, and since these modern trucks are automatic, or semi-automatic you should have an undisturbed sleep, and arrive fresh and invigorated.
I know I am probably trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but your comfort and safety are of paramount importance to me.
Anyway, let me know what you think of this arrangement. Of course, when we have fixed dates etc I will give you instructions as to time and place of our meeting in Swindon. But let us not rush things. Our long awaited reunion is something to be savoured – n’est ce que pas?
Now you know I am not one for dwelling on the sadder aspects of our modern society, but I must tell you this. I heard something on the radio today about Morrisons (a supermarket) refusing to allow a woman to purchase alcohol because she had her seventeen year old daughter with her.
And, do you know, there were people ringing in to criticise this public- spirited company!
I say BRAVO MORRISONS. And BRAVO ASDA (now part of the –Wal-mart group, renowned for putting social responsibility before profit) for stopping a woman with a 20 year-old son who looked much younger and did not have any ID.
It is all very well his mother saying she will vouch for him, but you just cannot trust people. Incidentally, does not this reinforce the already strong case for a compulsory ID scheme to be brought in as quickly as possible? (Before Mr Brown loses the next election. That Cameron chap says he’s going to scrap it – fancy having a man like that in charge of the country!)
This admirable vigilance on the part of our supermarkets does not, however, go far enough. It is all very well, stopping a woman purchasing alcohol if she has her seventeen year old daughter with her, but what about those crafty women who leave their daughters outside the store? Isn’t it time these supermarkets had patrols in the car park? Just to make sure mummy is not going to hand the bottle of vodka to a trembling and shaking wreck of a teenager, clinging to the tailgate of a 4x4?
But it isn’t just teenage alcohol abuse that’s a problem: what about teenage obesity? I think supermarkets should refuse to sell food to people with fat kids. I know the mother may say, “Well, the chocolate gateaux is actually for me.” Oh yes – pull the other one, ducky. Leave your trolley where it is and bugger off – or I’ll call Security.
And there are other opportunities for supermarkets to use a bit of imagination. How about refusing to sell pork related products to anyone with a teenager who looks Jewish?
And what about Muslims? They’re not supposed to drink alcohol at all, are they? What’s Morrisons’ policy on that? I’d like to know.
There are cynics (‘malcontents’, I call them) who point to the aisles of beckoning booze, dazzlingly displayed, and say that if the supermarkets want to do something to discourage teenage alcohol-abuse why not stop selling the stuff altogether? These people just do not seem to understand: this would penalise those adults who want to abuse alcohol in a responsible way.
People are allowed to get away with far too much in this country. Next thing you know, they’ll be shouting for ‘free speech’
Oh, I have just discovered a pimple on my neck! Does this mean I am entering my second adolescence?
Anyway, my darling, I will look forward to hearing from you.
Yours, ever,
George.
(Oh, and thanks RJ for your comment – good editors are hard to come by these days.)
Now then Anna, see how quickly I am replying to your post.
I did not realise you had such a tiring journey to come to England (my knowledge of the geography of Sweden is, to say the least, scant), and I feel privileged (and loved) to know that you will undertake such a long trek for me!
As regards accommodation: I would not want you to stay Chez Gwen.
Yes there are hotels in Swindon – some of them quite decent – and although (as you rightly say) I am broke, perhaps a little juggling with the old credit cards may provide the wherewithal: balance transfers and all that! I know this is just robbing Peter to pay Paul, but – what the hell.
Unfortunately I will not be able to meet you at Harwich (money again) but perhaps you could hitch a ride in one of the many lorries (trucks) travelling from the port? Try to avoid the Romanian and Latvian ones (little joke, eh?). But seriously, I would be most upset (not to mention being overwhelmed with guilt) if something happened to you on your way to see me.
The English drivers will know where Swindon is, and even if one cannot take you direct I am sure he will be able to drop you at some transport café where it will be possible to pick up a ‘connection’.
Oh, and do not wait to find a ‘Volvo’, there are many other fine trucks on our roads nowadays: Mercedes do a very nice range; Scania, Nissan and Fiat are not to be sniffed at. And of course the Anglo-Dutch DAF has a reputation second to none. Most will have a bed in the back of the cab where you could get your head down for a couple of hours, and since these modern trucks are automatic, or semi-automatic you should have an undisturbed sleep, and arrive fresh and invigorated.
I know I am probably trying to teach my grandmother to suck eggs, but your comfort and safety are of paramount importance to me.
Anyway, let me know what you think of this arrangement. Of course, when we have fixed dates etc I will give you instructions as to time and place of our meeting in Swindon. But let us not rush things. Our long awaited reunion is something to be savoured – n’est ce que pas?
Now you know I am not one for dwelling on the sadder aspects of our modern society, but I must tell you this. I heard something on the radio today about Morrisons (a supermarket) refusing to allow a woman to purchase alcohol because she had her seventeen year old daughter with her.
And, do you know, there were people ringing in to criticise this public- spirited company!
I say BRAVO MORRISONS. And BRAVO ASDA (now part of the –Wal-mart group, renowned for putting social responsibility before profit) for stopping a woman with a 20 year-old son who looked much younger and did not have any ID.
It is all very well his mother saying she will vouch for him, but you just cannot trust people. Incidentally, does not this reinforce the already strong case for a compulsory ID scheme to be brought in as quickly as possible? (Before Mr Brown loses the next election. That Cameron chap says he’s going to scrap it – fancy having a man like that in charge of the country!)
This admirable vigilance on the part of our supermarkets does not, however, go far enough. It is all very well, stopping a woman purchasing alcohol if she has her seventeen year old daughter with her, but what about those crafty women who leave their daughters outside the store? Isn’t it time these supermarkets had patrols in the car park? Just to make sure mummy is not going to hand the bottle of vodka to a trembling and shaking wreck of a teenager, clinging to the tailgate of a 4x4?
But it isn’t just teenage alcohol abuse that’s a problem: what about teenage obesity? I think supermarkets should refuse to sell food to people with fat kids. I know the mother may say, “Well, the chocolate gateaux is actually for me.” Oh yes – pull the other one, ducky. Leave your trolley where it is and bugger off – or I’ll call Security.
And there are other opportunities for supermarkets to use a bit of imagination. How about refusing to sell pork related products to anyone with a teenager who looks Jewish?
And what about Muslims? They’re not supposed to drink alcohol at all, are they? What’s Morrisons’ policy on that? I’d like to know.
There are cynics (‘malcontents’, I call them) who point to the aisles of beckoning booze, dazzlingly displayed, and say that if the supermarkets want to do something to discourage teenage alcohol-abuse why not stop selling the stuff altogether? These people just do not seem to understand: this would penalise those adults who want to abuse alcohol in a responsible way.
People are allowed to get away with far too much in this country. Next thing you know, they’ll be shouting for ‘free speech’
Oh, I have just discovered a pimple on my neck! Does this mean I am entering my second adolescence?
Anyway, my darling, I will look forward to hearing from you.
Yours, ever,
George.
(Oh, and thanks RJ for your comment – good editors are hard to come by these days.)
Sunday, October 11, 2009
So. At last you write. Perhaps you have been too busy having time because you correspond with bus-driving writer in America? (I read Mr Adams comment). This is what I am wishing to know.
Do not think that I am jealous.
Are you not knowing how much your postings mean to me? Even though you now talk much about sticky bar, which does not sound right sort of place for you to be spending time in because is full of harlots and unmarried mothers what are probably looking for husband to support squalling kids – and give them more. Greedy buggers.
But you say you are making the change. I am with you on that one and will do all I can to help.
As regarding visitation of police force. Do I not tell you that you have nothing to worry about? This man Plankton is fool. (Did not you encounter this person before? Long time ago? Maybe I make mistake.) Anyway since you do not have in your possession the cd videos how can they prove anything? So if they invite you to police station to help them in their enquiries – do not go. But you do not need Anna to tell you that, eh?
As regarding you wish me to take ferry boat to enjoin you, I would very much like this. Even though is involving me in much time and expense.
For example, being long train ride (500km) across my country of Sweden to reach port of Goteborg (costing much money because in middle is bloody great lake of water what train has to be detouring around and therefore adding many kilometres to journey.)
And then to catch ferry boat and sail across stormy North Sea (with danger of chucking guts up over rail) to port of Harwich.
All this Anna will do to be with her Georgie. I am not minding to spend money (what I have earned by toil and sweat of my body) on these travelling expenses but am wondering how you plan to accommodate me when arriving on your shores?
You say landlady will not allow guests in room but anyway I would not want to accommodate myself in house of slovenly woman with filthy habit of washing undersides of herself in same bowl where she wash cabbage for the dinner. This is most unwholesome practice. Dirty bitch.
Do you have hotel in this place Swindon? If so do you have money for such hotel? I will have no further money having paid for transportation costs and you always are saying you are broken.
Please reply earliest.
Your loving Anna
Do not think that I am jealous.
Are you not knowing how much your postings mean to me? Even though you now talk much about sticky bar, which does not sound right sort of place for you to be spending time in because is full of harlots and unmarried mothers what are probably looking for husband to support squalling kids – and give them more. Greedy buggers.
But you say you are making the change. I am with you on that one and will do all I can to help.
As regarding visitation of police force. Do I not tell you that you have nothing to worry about? This man Plankton is fool. (Did not you encounter this person before? Long time ago? Maybe I make mistake.) Anyway since you do not have in your possession the cd videos how can they prove anything? So if they invite you to police station to help them in their enquiries – do not go. But you do not need Anna to tell you that, eh?
As regarding you wish me to take ferry boat to enjoin you, I would very much like this. Even though is involving me in much time and expense.
For example, being long train ride (500km) across my country of Sweden to reach port of Goteborg (costing much money because in middle is bloody great lake of water what train has to be detouring around and therefore adding many kilometres to journey.)
And then to catch ferry boat and sail across stormy North Sea (with danger of chucking guts up over rail) to port of Harwich.
All this Anna will do to be with her Georgie. I am not minding to spend money (what I have earned by toil and sweat of my body) on these travelling expenses but am wondering how you plan to accommodate me when arriving on your shores?
You say landlady will not allow guests in room but anyway I would not want to accommodate myself in house of slovenly woman with filthy habit of washing undersides of herself in same bowl where she wash cabbage for the dinner. This is most unwholesome practice. Dirty bitch.
Do you have hotel in this place Swindon? If so do you have money for such hotel? I will have no further money having paid for transportation costs and you always are saying you are broken.
Please reply earliest.
Your loving Anna
Friday, October 09, 2009
An inspector calls
********************************
Wednesday, October 7th , 2009
In the House of the Sticky Carpets
The pint-drinking blonde is in again with her usual companion, a tall, morose looking man with a white goatee, and a bald head. Surely he cannot be her husband (she wears a wedding ring).
She looks lovely tonight; her long blonde hair hangs, clean and shiny, halfway down her back. And she is smartly dressed in a black skirt and frothy white blouse.
The two of them seem to be in here every night. Of course they may think the same about me, but they are usually here when I arrive, and still drinking when I leave.(and looking set for the night). Still, who am I to decide that one style of life is better than another? She has a most attractive smile – even though her face is a bit bloated, from the drink.
Tonight I have a pint of Campion’s fine bitter. Usually though I drink Kroenenborg lager.
Cricket is on the big plasma screen facing me. They have ‘Sky Sports’. I don’t like ‘Sky’ for some reason; I associate it with, acquisition, instant gratification, a chav lifestyle) I remember when I used to play cricket. My ambition was to play for my Lancashire (my county) and, of course, England. But somehow I never fitted it in; well, you can’t do everything, can you?
A thin, villainous looking woman has caught my eye a couple of times. I shall have to be careful. She is sitting at one of those high tables with the tall stools. The man she is with isn’t saying much; she is doing all the talking. He looks like one of those men for whom civilised discourse is not the communication of choice. As I say, I shall have to be careful.
I don’t really feel threatened in this place, though. I mean the clientele – some of them - are a desperate bunch, but the place has a sort of charged atmosphere: mobile phones, trainers, jeans, jogging bottoms, sweat shirts - any dress code is acceptable in this house. The women though – most of them young – are fashionably dressed, exquisitely made up, perfumed. Very nice.
There is a feeling of “All life is here”, as the News of the World” used to trumpet. I have been coming in here for over a year and have not yet been offered drugs - but who knows, tonight may be my lucky night! That’s a joke. I have sampled most things this wonderfully wicked life has to offer – but I am not interested in drugs (yes I know alcohol is a drug – but apart from that.)
I like this place; it has given me rest and shelter on many a fine evening. No one bothers me. I sit here quietly with my little notebook, writing away. Like a latter day Toulouse Lautrec (I know he sat in the Windmill in Paris, and sketched, whereas I sit in a pub – my favourite pub - in Swindon, and write) Actually I would like to take some candid photographs, a la Cartier Bresson – and, many years ago, I did take photos in pubs like this, but now I would probably be locked up.
Well you have to be so careful these days. And they have mums (most of them single) with prams, push- chairs, buggies and what not, and toddlers running around. So any lone male producing a camera is bound to be a paedophile.
There’s a couple over there, been sitting for ten minutes or so, not saying a word. They are, I would guess, in their thirties. Isn’t it sad when you have nothing to say to your partner – and at such a young age? What barren wilderness of silence stretches into their future? I often wonder about things like this.
This bitter is really good. It has just hit my legs, and I have that pleasantly woozy feeling. Not drunk - I never get drunk - just slightly anaesthetised,letting the frowsy, blowsy atmosphere wash gently over me, the sound of raucous voices a kind of pleasant background music.
Two small boys chase each other across the room and proceed to bash away at the buttons on the ‘games machine’ at the side of me. They don’t annoy me; I treat it as part of the ambience.
Largish, attractive lady in a full-length summery dress walks over to join a group in the corner. I watch her finish off a pint of lager and go to the ‘Ladies’
Look around, I wonder how many of these folk will appear on the ’Jeremy Kyle Show’ at some later date? Perhaps some already have. I am in no way patronising them; I admire their directness, openness, the fact that they ‘gulp’ at life instead of sipping.
I wonder what they think of the man with his little notebook, scribbling away in a corner. Do they know I am writing about them? I think not. They probably don’t give me a second thought.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, like a commoner.
‘Summery dress’ walks past on her way back from the ‘Ladies’, rubbing her hands together. I catch a whiff of perfume. Nice.
A youth leans on the bar. He is wearing a T shirt and scarf – actually the ensemble looks quite stylish. He in conversation with a mature lady behind the bar (she looks like she might be the landlady: short and blonde, with an understated air of authority) Next to him, three men in their twenties – they look like they have come fresh from the building site – are talking, and laughing raucously. One seems to be the leader; he has tattoos all the way up one arm and a shoulder, and he has the sort of face you would not want to meet in a dark alley.
I don’t drink much: no more than a couple of pints – mostly just a pint and a half. I like the alcohol but I don’t like the hangover. So it is a question of balance. But you can be too balanced. You can only move forward by pushing yourself off balance, correcting it, and then pushing yourself off balance again; that’s the way we walk.
This rather handsome, middle-aged gent at one of the high tables to my left, has an attractive companion in a red and black squared dress. He keeps getting up to go outside and have a smoke – leaving her looking rather lonely. (I wouldn’t leave her to go out for a smoke – but I don’t smoke).
I was served, this evening, by the barmaid with the tattoo on her left breast (you can only see the top half of it). The miniature barmaid is also on duty; she can’t be more that 4’8” and can barely see over the top of the bar. But she is perfect in every detail.
Isn’t it strange how we look at things but don’t really see them? For example, I am looking at the cover of this notebook and have never really noticed the rich colours: the browns, the golds, the rich blue. I rub my fingers against the thick fabric, really feel it.
Alcohol is a great leveller; I’ve probably said this before, but no harm in repeating it. And surely there can be no harm in calling in here for a pint or so of the old ‘falling down liquid’ – as a one-time friend used to call it.
They didn’t have any plain crisps. I don’t like the flavoured sort. I bought a packet of ‘cheese and onion’. I was hungry; I’ve only had a bowl of soup today. Actually I am sitting quite near to the door to the kitchens -the place is crowded and I couldn’t get any other seat- and a pleasant aroma of curry wafts under my nostrils. But I am not going to buy a meal – got to watch the old pennies.
Oh, here come the two ‘business ladies’. I call them that: they are both wearing dark tailored suits, white shirts and sporting Gucci handbags. They seem to have identical hairstyles: short and blonde. In fact, they could be sisters. I’ve seen them in here a few times. They look a bit out of place but I think they may be friends of the management: the landlord (now there’s a strange character) usually comes and sits with them. They drink pints of Kroenenborg. I wonder if they are from the brewery. I don’t think so because they would drink the beer, wouldn’t they?
The landlord, now, he never serves behind the bar but just seems to prowl around the huge room, collecting glasses and talking to one or two of his regulars. A little man with a shaven head and glasses, he usually wears a grey sweat-shirt, jogging bottoms and trainers. He never smiles.
I feel pleasantly tired. I could go to sleep in here. I don’t think anyone would mind.
The above, Anna, is an extract from my journal. I thought I would share it with you so that you could get a glimpse of my world – well a cosy corner of it.
But there are changes I want to make. Sometimes change happens of its own accord. But I think it is better to initiate the change yourself. Take control
I have decided against a career as a shelf-stacker. And I never had any intention of driving a bus. I don’t know what I shall do next – but I will do something.
The police came round. Inspector Plankton – mob handed. He said “We are investigating the illegal importation of pornographic material, and I have reason to believe there may be some such material on these premises.”
He never mentioned Sven. When I asked him who had made such a preposterous allegation he just said, “We are acting on information received.” Anyway he brandished a search warrant and he and his merry men marched straight in.
Gwen was furious – at me, mainly.
Of course they found nothing. But as he was leaving, Plankton assured me that he would be back.
“And by the way,” he said, “Is that your car?”
“No,” interjected Gwen, “It’s mine.”
He seemed disappointed. “Well the tax disc is out of date.”
“Yes, I know.” Replied my landlady, icily, “I renewed it online and am waiting for the new disc – I suppose you know there is a postal dispute?”
“Nothing to do with me, madam – just make sure it is properly licensed before you take in on the road.”
And with another baleful stare at yours truly, he led his officers down the drive.
Anyway Anna. I can’t think of anything else to say, except that I hope you are well – and free of disease.
I’ve had an idea: why don’t you pop over on the old Stenna? We could snatch a few precious hours together.
Yours ever,
George
Oh, I don't mean to be picky, but Glasgow is not the capital of Scotland - it is Edinburgh
Wednesday, October 7th , 2009
In the House of the Sticky Carpets
The pint-drinking blonde is in again with her usual companion, a tall, morose looking man with a white goatee, and a bald head. Surely he cannot be her husband (she wears a wedding ring).
She looks lovely tonight; her long blonde hair hangs, clean and shiny, halfway down her back. And she is smartly dressed in a black skirt and frothy white blouse.
The two of them seem to be in here every night. Of course they may think the same about me, but they are usually here when I arrive, and still drinking when I leave.(and looking set for the night). Still, who am I to decide that one style of life is better than another? She has a most attractive smile – even though her face is a bit bloated, from the drink.
Tonight I have a pint of Campion’s fine bitter. Usually though I drink Kroenenborg lager.
Cricket is on the big plasma screen facing me. They have ‘Sky Sports’. I don’t like ‘Sky’ for some reason; I associate it with, acquisition, instant gratification, a chav lifestyle) I remember when I used to play cricket. My ambition was to play for my Lancashire (my county) and, of course, England. But somehow I never fitted it in; well, you can’t do everything, can you?
A thin, villainous looking woman has caught my eye a couple of times. I shall have to be careful. She is sitting at one of those high tables with the tall stools. The man she is with isn’t saying much; she is doing all the talking. He looks like one of those men for whom civilised discourse is not the communication of choice. As I say, I shall have to be careful.
I don’t really feel threatened in this place, though. I mean the clientele – some of them - are a desperate bunch, but the place has a sort of charged atmosphere: mobile phones, trainers, jeans, jogging bottoms, sweat shirts - any dress code is acceptable in this house. The women though – most of them young – are fashionably dressed, exquisitely made up, perfumed. Very nice.
There is a feeling of “All life is here”, as the News of the World” used to trumpet. I have been coming in here for over a year and have not yet been offered drugs - but who knows, tonight may be my lucky night! That’s a joke. I have sampled most things this wonderfully wicked life has to offer – but I am not interested in drugs (yes I know alcohol is a drug – but apart from that.)
I like this place; it has given me rest and shelter on many a fine evening. No one bothers me. I sit here quietly with my little notebook, writing away. Like a latter day Toulouse Lautrec (I know he sat in the Windmill in Paris, and sketched, whereas I sit in a pub – my favourite pub - in Swindon, and write) Actually I would like to take some candid photographs, a la Cartier Bresson – and, many years ago, I did take photos in pubs like this, but now I would probably be locked up.
Well you have to be so careful these days. And they have mums (most of them single) with prams, push- chairs, buggies and what not, and toddlers running around. So any lone male producing a camera is bound to be a paedophile.
There’s a couple over there, been sitting for ten minutes or so, not saying a word. They are, I would guess, in their thirties. Isn’t it sad when you have nothing to say to your partner – and at such a young age? What barren wilderness of silence stretches into their future? I often wonder about things like this.
This bitter is really good. It has just hit my legs, and I have that pleasantly woozy feeling. Not drunk - I never get drunk - just slightly anaesthetised,letting the frowsy, blowsy atmosphere wash gently over me, the sound of raucous voices a kind of pleasant background music.
Two small boys chase each other across the room and proceed to bash away at the buttons on the ‘games machine’ at the side of me. They don’t annoy me; I treat it as part of the ambience.
Largish, attractive lady in a full-length summery dress walks over to join a group in the corner. I watch her finish off a pint of lager and go to the ‘Ladies’
Look around, I wonder how many of these folk will appear on the ’Jeremy Kyle Show’ at some later date? Perhaps some already have. I am in no way patronising them; I admire their directness, openness, the fact that they ‘gulp’ at life instead of sipping.
I wonder what they think of the man with his little notebook, scribbling away in a corner. Do they know I am writing about them? I think not. They probably don’t give me a second thought.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, like a commoner.
‘Summery dress’ walks past on her way back from the ‘Ladies’, rubbing her hands together. I catch a whiff of perfume. Nice.
A youth leans on the bar. He is wearing a T shirt and scarf – actually the ensemble looks quite stylish. He in conversation with a mature lady behind the bar (she looks like she might be the landlady: short and blonde, with an understated air of authority) Next to him, three men in their twenties – they look like they have come fresh from the building site – are talking, and laughing raucously. One seems to be the leader; he has tattoos all the way up one arm and a shoulder, and he has the sort of face you would not want to meet in a dark alley.
I don’t drink much: no more than a couple of pints – mostly just a pint and a half. I like the alcohol but I don’t like the hangover. So it is a question of balance. But you can be too balanced. You can only move forward by pushing yourself off balance, correcting it, and then pushing yourself off balance again; that’s the way we walk.
This rather handsome, middle-aged gent at one of the high tables to my left, has an attractive companion in a red and black squared dress. He keeps getting up to go outside and have a smoke – leaving her looking rather lonely. (I wouldn’t leave her to go out for a smoke – but I don’t smoke).
I was served, this evening, by the barmaid with the tattoo on her left breast (you can only see the top half of it). The miniature barmaid is also on duty; she can’t be more that 4’8” and can barely see over the top of the bar. But she is perfect in every detail.
Isn’t it strange how we look at things but don’t really see them? For example, I am looking at the cover of this notebook and have never really noticed the rich colours: the browns, the golds, the rich blue. I rub my fingers against the thick fabric, really feel it.
Alcohol is a great leveller; I’ve probably said this before, but no harm in repeating it. And surely there can be no harm in calling in here for a pint or so of the old ‘falling down liquid’ – as a one-time friend used to call it.
They didn’t have any plain crisps. I don’t like the flavoured sort. I bought a packet of ‘cheese and onion’. I was hungry; I’ve only had a bowl of soup today. Actually I am sitting quite near to the door to the kitchens -the place is crowded and I couldn’t get any other seat- and a pleasant aroma of curry wafts under my nostrils. But I am not going to buy a meal – got to watch the old pennies.
Oh, here come the two ‘business ladies’. I call them that: they are both wearing dark tailored suits, white shirts and sporting Gucci handbags. They seem to have identical hairstyles: short and blonde. In fact, they could be sisters. I’ve seen them in here a few times. They look a bit out of place but I think they may be friends of the management: the landlord (now there’s a strange character) usually comes and sits with them. They drink pints of Kroenenborg. I wonder if they are from the brewery. I don’t think so because they would drink the beer, wouldn’t they?
The landlord, now, he never serves behind the bar but just seems to prowl around the huge room, collecting glasses and talking to one or two of his regulars. A little man with a shaven head and glasses, he usually wears a grey sweat-shirt, jogging bottoms and trainers. He never smiles.
I feel pleasantly tired. I could go to sleep in here. I don’t think anyone would mind.
The above, Anna, is an extract from my journal. I thought I would share it with you so that you could get a glimpse of my world – well a cosy corner of it.
But there are changes I want to make. Sometimes change happens of its own accord. But I think it is better to initiate the change yourself. Take control
I have decided against a career as a shelf-stacker. And I never had any intention of driving a bus. I don’t know what I shall do next – but I will do something.
The police came round. Inspector Plankton – mob handed. He said “We are investigating the illegal importation of pornographic material, and I have reason to believe there may be some such material on these premises.”
He never mentioned Sven. When I asked him who had made such a preposterous allegation he just said, “We are acting on information received.” Anyway he brandished a search warrant and he and his merry men marched straight in.
Gwen was furious – at me, mainly.
Of course they found nothing. But as he was leaving, Plankton assured me that he would be back.
“And by the way,” he said, “Is that your car?”
“No,” interjected Gwen, “It’s mine.”
He seemed disappointed. “Well the tax disc is out of date.”
“Yes, I know.” Replied my landlady, icily, “I renewed it online and am waiting for the new disc – I suppose you know there is a postal dispute?”
“Nothing to do with me, madam – just make sure it is properly licensed before you take in on the road.”
And with another baleful stare at yours truly, he led his officers down the drive.
Anyway Anna. I can’t think of anything else to say, except that I hope you are well – and free of disease.
I’ve had an idea: why don’t you pop over on the old Stenna? We could snatch a few precious hours together.
Yours ever,
George
Oh, I don't mean to be picky, but Glasgow is not the capital of Scotland - it is Edinburgh
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
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