Hurly Burly - No Mall & No Builders!

As far as possible, I will avoid any commotion, hurly-burly and busy places, especially since I retired from work. Sometimes things happen and I find myself somewhere I’d rather not be with no immediate escape and I have to grin and bear it.

With the exception of Springfield Mall, Virginia – going back many years when such places were new to me – I don’t like shopping malls. Warm and dry on a cold, wet day they might be, but bustling and noisy does not give me a pleasant shopping experience. My friend and I once got lost trying to find a way out of Manchester Arndale. We rushed one way, then another, back-tracked, or thought we were, and eventually asked a security guard. By then we weren’t bothered which exit, we’d find our bearings outside and we did. When our daughter was about thirteen she wanted to go to the Trafford Centre for her birthday treat, shopping, lunch there, everything possible. We had to do it. Luckily, she loved it and enjoyed spending her birthday money, having the promised lunch, but it was all in the over-crowded, loud hullabaloo that made me want to scream. I might be the only person who doesn’t like the Trafford Centre. I can live with that. I would probably hate Springfield these days.

It doesn’t stop at shopping malls. I can’t cope with having workmen in at home. Running repairs are alright and our usual heating engineer is very welcome when it’s time to service the boiler. Workmen with a capital W means builders and a team of them, taking over and making a mess, making a noise, either voices or machinery. As the family grew and more space was needed, it seemed like a good idea to have extensions here, there and everywhere which meant weeks of disruption. The end results were worth it. The house we move into will be staying exactly as we find it.

This Dr John Cooper Clarke poem reminds me of being lost in the hurly-burly of a pre-Christmas Arndale Centre,

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Daily Bugle – Front Page News

A drunken posse on a booze cruise

Swear me in I got nothing to lose

High five – low morale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

I heard about it at the Taj Mahal

I nearly choked on me Taka Dahl

I quizzed Chief Wiggum and he said, “Waal

Cuff ‘em boys – trouble at the Mall”

 

Tripe stand bloody fell over

Its covered the place in a beefy odour

Better take a nosegay pal

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Bury my heart at Clinton Cards

Remember me to the old guard

These days you just gotta be hard

Because like they say in this here locale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

H & M is full of flunkies

And Tony and Guy couldn’t give a monkey’s

In the dying words of Gore Vidal

‘Appen it’s trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

JCC

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Cars - Driving Is Fun

My father loved his cars and nursed his Jaguars like they were babies. He polished them inside and out and tweaked engines until they sounded perfect to him. Before joining the Licensed Trade, he was an engineer for many years and still liked to involve himself in machinery. Wherever we lived, he always had a meticulous work-shop set up. I was very much a ‘daddy’s girl’. Wherever he was, I was, as much as possible.  That would usually be down the pub cellar, in the garage, work-shop or in the car park. I inherited his fondness for cars.

I had a cherry-red Tri-Ang convertible, my favourite colour at the time. I copied my dad. I polished the bonnet until it gleamed and tapped the tyres. My car didn’t have the twiddly, interlocking bits that make an engine and it didn’t need the smelly liquid that Dad poured down a funnel into something under his car bonnet. I could get it going very fast round the car park and I didn’t scuff my shoes that much, despite what my mum said. I had that little red car until I grew out of it.

Dad bought me my first real car when I was seventeen. It was an Austin A40. His choice, not mine. I would have gone for an emerald green convertible Ford Capri. Anyway, his choice for me was perfect and for sensible reasons like low mileage, and easy to manage. He taught me basic car care, checking oil, coolant, windscreen washer levels and tyre pressures.  Some things were learnt through necessity, like how to remove, dry and replace spark plugs, how to liberally spray WD40 or similar and how to use jump leads. Driving was fun.

I had my A40 for about five years and it served me well. I only parted with it when my grandfather gave up driving and wanted me to have his nearly new, very low mileage Hillman Hunter. I think he’d only used it to take money from his pub to the bank and take my grandmother to Chorley Market once a fortnight. It was a lovely car and I kept it for a long time.  It was the last of my decent cars for ages. 

One of my cars was at least fifty shades of green, which didn’t matter because if I wanted to cover up another blemish, any green would do. It only cost me £50, which was probably as much as I could afford at that time. I was driving along Garstang Road having turned off the A6 one night, yes,it’s always night time when something goes wrong, when the bonnet flew up. It scared me to death. The catch had broken off. I limped it home at no more than ten miles an hour, the bonnet down, but threatening to fly up again. By the time I sold that particular car, Dad had more or less replaced everything in the engine, piece by piece as each breakdown related to something else. I sold it for £50, the same as I’d paid for it. The person buying it wanted the number plate.

Another car went ‘bang’ at the top of Crossley’s Bridge and rattled all the way down the other side, freewheeling.  Reconditioned engine required.

A car that I really liked, but turned out to be a very bad buy, used a great deal of oil and the repair would be more than the car was worth. At that time, I really wasn’t any good at buying a car on my own.

I’ve had decent cars again since those lean times. I fell in love with the Nissan Micra when it first came out in the early 1980s and currently, I’m on my fourth. I haven’t owned anything else for thirty-odd years. Recently I handed over the keys to my sister who is more than happy to use it for me. I don’t like to drive unless I have to these days.

The next car I buy, sometime quite soon, will be a Little Tikes Cozy Coupe and other things similar for my grandchildren to play with in our garden. It feels like I’ve come full circle. I’ll watch out for them scuffing their shoes.

 

High time for one of my own poems.

 

 

      My Cars

My first car, Austin A40,

Not so trendy at seventeen,

But solid and reliable.

I wasn’t sure but Dad was keen.
 

I would completely trust his choice

To buy a decent car for me.

Clean and tidy, and low mileage,

The A40 just had to be. 

Smart saloon, the Hillman Hunter,

Grandad’s car, his pride and joy.

Well looked after, fully serviced,

Now mine to care for and enjoy. 

Pink Floyd in my Humber Sceptre,

M6 motorway late at night,

Flying solo in the fast lane,

A ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ delight. 

Let’s salute the Vauxhall Viva.

A quiet ride and cheap to run

When the bonnet’s been mended and

Work for the MOT’s been done. 

Huge mistake, my Austin Maxi,

It had stereo and looked cool.

I always had the jump leads out

And it supped as much oil as fuel. 

How I love my Datsun Violet!

It never, ever failed to start.

Trav’ling every day to Preston

‘Til its bodywork fell apart. 

I’m on my fourth Nissan Micra,

I’ve run them for thirty-plus years.

I keep them until the scrap yard

Means Journey’s End – and lots of tears.

 

Pamela Winning 2018

 

 

 

 

 

Read More