Miscalculation - Don't Trust Me With Quantities

It is a long time since we had a new bathroom installed. Years have passed and it’s ready for doing again but we keep putting it off with all the ‘are we moving, are we staying’ discussions. Whether we upgrade or not, I’m keeping out of it. Last time, when the plumber completed the installation, the tiler came to measure up. I knew exactly what I wanted and where to order them from, so off I went to the tile shop with the information safely in my head. The tiler, very busy and in demand, booked us in on schedule with the tiles arrival and all went according to plan, until, when setting everything out, he wondered if there was a box missing. There were not enough tiles to complete. He measured the walls again and checked his square metre calculations. Oops. I could feel the blush of my embarrassment as I had to tell him I’d ordered the quantity in square yards. Completely my fault, no miscalculation, just an honest mistake, but he was disappointed that he wouldn’t finish the job on time and I felt stupid. More tiles were ordered. We had to wait ages for the tiler to fit us in again – it was only a small area to finish off and I began to think he was making us wait on purpose – all my fault. Don’t trust me with anything important like measurements, ordering and quantity surveying. I’m only really good for colour co-ordinating and knitting.

I expect lots of us as younger individuals still living with parents have run out of money before the next pay day comes round, or maybe that was just me. At seventeen I was the proud owner of an Austin A40. I spent my last pound on a couple of gallons of three star petrol to last me the week, perhaps a bit more, then I’d get my wages. I had been driving to work and back in town and a bit of visiting friends, nothing of any distance.  A few days later, I’d stopped not far from home and couldn’t get the car started again. I did what I’d been told to do and what anyone on their own should do, that’s find the nearest phone box and call Dad. Mobile phones were in the future. Dad listened to my description of the car’s symptoms. The ticking sound on the ignition meant it was out of petrol. He would bring me some. He knew I didn’t have money for a day or two. Bless him. Of course the petrol gauge was on zero, but it often was and I was sure it would last the week, a complete miscalculation. Dad’s words of advice which I followed from then on, was not to allow the petrol tank to run so low, otherwise sediment can get sucked up and cause problems. This might not apply to modern cars, I’m going back fifty years.

A few Haikus:

The diff’rence between
Square metres and yards,
Miscalculation.

When wages are spent
And it’s nowhere near pay day,
Miscalculation.

Austin A 40
Economical first car
That ran on fresh air.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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A 1 - Cherished Number Plate

The first car registration plate was A1 and issued by London County Council in 1903. From 1^st January, 1904 it was compulsory for every motor vehicle to be registered and have a registration plate. In modern times, it became a status symbol to have a private registration on a car, personal initials, for example, and the fewer letter and numbers, the higher the value. The most recent information I have found on the A1 plate is that it is registered to a Mini Cooper in London and the estimated value of the plate is between five and ten million pounds. The lovely photo from my I Spy Car Numbers book reminds me of one of my dad’s Jags. He never indulged in a ‘cherished number plate’.

Once, a long time ago, I think I had a ‘cherished number plate’. It was on a Vauxhall Viva, circa1969. I bought the car in desperation in 1980. Home from visiting family in the U.S.A., I needed wheels but had very little money, fifty pounds, in fact. Fifty pounds couldn’t buy much of a car, but sometimes there might be a ‘good runner’ for sale with only a month or two left on its MOT. It was worth reading all the adverts in the used car section of the local paper. This was one such car. Many shades of green, lots of filler on the sills and a very snatchy clutch, it was worth every penny of my fifty pounds. And my dad loved tinkering with cars, which was just as well. Nearly every day there was something. While I was at work, my dad would be at the nearby scrap yard looking for parts. We would guess if the car would start or not each morning. It became more efficient as my dad replaced bits and pieces under the bonnet. I did the Advanced Drivers Course with the local traffic police in that car. My tutor, a lovely police officer, used to mock my car, mostly in fun, and blame my driving, not the funny clutch, until he drove it himself. By the time I could afford something better, my dad had virtually rebuilt the engine. The bodywork, which was half metal, or more correctly, half rust, half plaster, or whatever they fill holes with, was in a sorry state. Slam the door and a bit more would drop off. It was up for sale. My neighbour thought that was hilarious and suggested I scrap it, but no, I needed some money for it. The first person to see it, bought it, and for my asking price of £100. He didn’t actually want the car, he was after the ‘cherished number plate’, which meant nothing to me but everything to him. That was the one and only time I made money on a car. HEN 63F.

A1, that was Blackpool FC on Saturday against Swansea. Another win, another three points, first class.  I was so happy to have my husband back at the stadium for the first time since November, though I’m grateful to the family members who have taken his place and kept me company at home matches during his absence.

My poem, nothing to do with A1, and not even a poem, just thoughts.

Carrying whatever they can,
Walking for miles,
Someone’s child,
Hungry, tired, scared.

Someone’s parent,
Anxious for family, friends.
Someone’s partner,
Sick with worry.

No sleep, no rest, just tears and fears.
War-torn people, devastated lives.
Broken burning buildings,
Homes, hospitals, schools.

Soldiers fighting for Ukraine,
Their lives, their families,
Their all.
Someone, something,
Put a stop to Putin.
Russians rebel,
End this now.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Roll of the Dice - Take a Chance

I was completely out of my comfort zone in the casino. I’ve got an almost zero gambling ethic – I do the lottery, that’s all – and the clientele around the roulette tables were nothing like I’d seen in the James Bond films, disappointingly.  The ‘let’s do something different for our Christmas night out’ had fallen a bit flat with some colleagues leaving soon after the meal. The food was delicious. All three courses cooked to perfection, presented well and plenty of it. Afterwards, a few of us milled around various games, being shown how to play and maybe having a go. We had complimentary chips to use. One of us won herself a small fortune and had real money to take home, not me. I dabbled with pontoon and something else to do with cards, watched someone rolling dice and quietly sipped my drink, biding time until I could leave. I was aware of someone playing the same slot machine hours on end and it bothered me. It was certainly not my business and I wouldn’t dream of interfering. They might have all the money in the world to lose, but I don’t want to be in that place. I remember wishing I was at home with Gogglebox and my knitting, where I would have been if I hadn’t volunteered to drive a few of us. And I didn’t want to be thought of as boring.

I think I’ve always leaned towards ‘cautious’ rather than ‘risky’ which makes me wonder what would have happened had I taken the less safe choice. Our lives are built on decisions and choices over one path or another and doing what it right for us at a particular time. How daring it might be to do the exact opposite. And, ‘To thine own self be true’, might surprise others, but you’ve got to go for it.

When I was younger, I thought nothing of taking off in my car, belting down motorways into unknown places for no special reason. Looking back, I think it was daring – old car, before mobile phones, no RAC cover, the list is endless – an empty, dark M6, so that dates it nearly fifty years ago, feeling scared listening to Pink Floyd’s Meddle and turning the cassette off in fear. My fear should have been the possibility of car failure and being alone. I wouldn’t chance anything like that now. I only drive if I have to and I keep off motorways.

Our five year old grandson likes to play Snakes and Ladders. He’s just about stopped throwing himself down on the floor with a whingy whine if the big snake gets him. He is teaching himself various methods of rolling the dice, usually from a shaker, to determine what number he gets. It’s useless, of course, he can’t program the dice, but I have caught him flicking it over, the little monkey.

Roll the Dice

If you're going to try, go all the way

otherwise, don't even start.

If you're going to try, go all the way,

this could mean losing girlfriends,

wives, relatives, jobs and

maybe your mind.

Go all the way

it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

it could mean freezing on a 

park bench.

it could mean jail,

it could mean derision,

mockery.

isolation.

Isolation is the gift,

all the others are a test of your

endurance, of

how much you really want to

do it

and you'll do it

despite rejection and the worst odds

and it will be better than

anything else

you can imagine.

If you're going to try

go all the way

there is no other feeling like

that

you will be alone with the gods

and the nights will flame with

fire

do it, do it, do it,

do it

all the way

all the way

you will ride life straight to

perfect laughter, it's

the only good fight

there is

Charles Bukowski  1920 - 1994

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Generosity - In All Its Forms

When I was young it was unheard of to give teachers presents at Christmas, Easter or any other occasion.  However, I noticed, when I began teaching twenty five years ago, that it had become the habit for children to present their teachers with any number of elaborate and expensive gifts.  I still have a beautiful designer vase that I received from a family who I guess weren’t short of money.  It sits in my bathroom, and I think of the little girl who gave it to me every time I look at it.  The last I heard, she was engaged to a well-known footballer.  There were always lots of bottles of wine, flowers, chocolates, and the odd ornament, and, although I was very grateful, the ornaments usually got recycled fairly quickly.  I once opened a package to find two delicate bone china Burberry mugs.  As I held them up admiringly, the child said proudly, “Happy Christmas, Miss. My dad bought them for my mum, but she didn’t like them so she said she’d wrap them up for you.”

However, the one present that particularly sticks in my mind is the tiny package given to me by a rather scruffy six year old, who obviously came from a family struggling to survive.  She handed it to me proudly, then sat down on the carpet with the rest of the class, and fixed her eyes on me.  I opened it with some trepidation and a fixed smile on my face.  Inside was the smallest, dirtiest piece of soap I’ve ever seen.  I don’t know if you’ve ever had to wax lyrical about a multi-coloured squashed ball of soap, the size of a pea, but let me tell you, it’s hard to find words that convey one’s gratitude.  

The ritual was to open each present, hold it up for all to see, say something complimentary and then make it quite clear that I was happy with a present, a card or nothing at all (“hearing you wish me , ‘Happy Christmas,’ is the best present I could have…..”etc etc) 

“Lovely,” I heard myself say, to the sounds of infant sniggering, “did you make it yourself?”  The little girl nodded self-consciously. 

“Well,” I said decisively, “home made presents are the best of all.”  At this point I didn’t care whether I insulted the wine/chocolate/flower givers, who actually appeared oblivious, and were staring at the soap with a degree of puzzlement.  All I was bothered about was making that little girl feel special for gathering up the old slivers of soap from the plughole and moulding them into a colourful gift.  I was just grateful there were no pubic hairs or any other unwelcome human detritus on show.

Hers was an act of generosity that actually meant so much more than the snatched bunches of flowers or the recycled gift sets (no offence, parents).  It meant that this little girl, who had nothing, had obviously given some thought to a gift she could produce herself at no cost in terms of money, only time and ingenuity.  I’d like to tell you that this six year old grew up to appear on Dragon’s Den or the Apprentice, but the last I heard she was on the till at Tesco.

Generosity is a funny thing.  It’s not just to do with giving money or presents, more about a state of mind.  Some people are mean-minded, both in terms of gifts and in spirit, others are the opposite, generous in every way, regardless of wealth or lack of it.  This morning I asked my ten year old grandson what he thinks generosity means.  After a moment's thought he said, 'giving, kindness, sharing, smiles."  I don't think he was far wrong.  Some of the most generous people I've known have had the least in material terms.

Thirty odd years ago I was in a very bad way mentally, having suffered from severe Post Natal depression.  I had three young children and a husband with three jobs, doing his best to hold it all together.  I wasn’t coping very well, and my parents lived two hundred miles away.  One weekend they came to visit, and my mum told me she was staying on till I was feeling better, however long it took. Anybody who has ever suffered from depression (and needs their mum, at whatever age) will know the relief I felt as I heard this plan.  My mum was teaching at the time, had arranged unpaid leave and wasn’t going home till I could cope without her.  And this was after she’d driven up one weekend following a week teaching, driven back on the Sunday night, then turned round and driven straight back up after a desperate phone call from me.

Now that’s what I call selfless giving, kindness, generosity.  And something I will never forget.

In fact, my mum and dad are two of the most generous people I have ever met, frequently helping out children, grandchildren and now great grandchildren.  My dad has spend thousands over the years treating friends and family to meals and holidays, and tipping generously in restaurants, but woe betide anybody daring to ask him for a stamp.  As long as I can remember, dad has bought books of stamps, which are the most precious things he owns.  They live in his wallet, in his jacket pocket and are not to be touched.  If any one asked for one (in the days when we often sent letters instead of emails or texts) they would be subjected to a diatribe, the likes of which one wouldn’t want to hear more than once.  Similarly, the use of the landline (our only other means of communication in the 1960s) was closely monitored, with dad making frequent sighing visits into the hall to check whether I was still chatting.  I always thought it strange that someone so generous would worry about a few pence, but now I'm guessing it's more to do with living through the war years, when everything had to be scrimped and saved for, and every penny was precious. Long live dad's generosity!

Although I see myself as a pretty generous person, I’ve noticed more and more, recently,

that my books of stamps are being hidden in the depths of my purse, and woe betide anyone who has the audacity to ask for one……..

Can't Buy Me Love 

by the Beatles   (my sentiments entirely)

Can't buy me love, love
Can't buy me love

I'll buy you a diamond ring my friend
If it makes you feel all right
I'll get you anything my friend
If it makes you feel all right
'Cause I don't care too much for money
For money can't buy me love

I'll give you all I've got to give
If you say you love me too
I may not have a lot to give
But what I've got I'll give to you
I don't care too much for money
For money can't buy me love

Can't buy me love
Everybody tells me so
Can't buy me love
No no no, no

Say you don't need no diamond rings
And I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of things
That money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money
Money can't buy me love

Can't buy me love
Everybody tells me so
Can't buy me love
No no no, no

Say you don't need no diamond rings
And I'll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of things
That money just can't buy
I don't care too much for money
Money can't buy me love

Can't buy me love, love
Can't buy me love, oh

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His Dark Materialism

This is a weighty subject indeed, too big for a simple blog to do justice to. Where to start? Random musings.....Maslow's hierarchy? Religion and the rise of capitalism? The fact that 7% of the population owns 84% of the wealth? Civilisation and its discontents? Letters to Santa? Bloody hell...

Money can't buy you love, though the love of money is, reputedly, the root of all evil. It can buy well-being, security, status. But beyond that, do human beings have an 'acquisitive' gene? Why this escalating getting of possessions? Is it because we're bored? Missing some deeper satisfaction in our lives? Shoring up fragments against our ruin? Looking to challenge time and death by surrounding ourselves with totems of worth and permanence? So many questions, so few answers.

I wrote today's poem in response to the way that commerce has transformed the country's capital and its inhabitants over the time I have known it. I lived in London for many years [until it became too expensive to do so!] and have watched beautiful areas of civilised architecture and real community get bastardised or bulldozed to build more and bigger shops, stores, mega-malls. The scale is ridiculous. The need is questionable. The profit for the developers is obscene. 'Retail therapy' rules!

I've titled it simply London, partly in a nod to William Blake's own scathing poem to the city he loved...

London
Dirty city,
wet with disillusion,
you gleam through the grime
but you're rotten to the core.
Backbone of the nation,
you have cancer of the spine
and it spreads its infestation
from each market-stall to store,
down the length of every high street
to your bright satanic malls.

These scars that mar your fading glory
tell a sorry tale:
your breath of wealth is stale,
your winking
'come and buy' window-eyes
are glazed
and when our want outstrips our need
we stumble numbly
through your gaudy, soulless maze,
dazed and poisoned by our woeful greed.


Thanks for reading. Have a good week-end - enjoy some simple pleasures, S ;-)

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Finding Ambition

At some point during 1996, I saw a news article about the Newbury bypass protests: pictures of houses built in the trees, home-made tents on the ground and banners asking for protection rather than the destruction of more than 10,000 mature trees. I told my parents that this is what I wanted to do when I was older...

I never managed to make the ambition of my twelve-year-old self a reality. By the time I got older, the certainty and confidence of youth had been washed away and I found myself within a place of no ambition...

But things change, people grow, and ambition is certainly not singular.

Over the last few years, I have reconnected with my ambition, compiling a mental list of things I’d like to eventually do: learn Latin, take a photography course, travel, own a small vegan coffee shop selling delicious vegan treats, write great poetry. They are things that will never bring a great deal of wealth, but is not my ambition to be wealthy. Yes, it would be nice to be comfortable, but if I were driven by money then I probably wouldn't have ever wanted to be a poet...

As Robert Graves once said: There’s no money in poetry, but then there’s no poetry in money, either.

Perhaps some are surprised that (in terms of poetry) my ambition is to write great poems rather than achieve publication. But in a world of internet, ebooks and social network sites publication isn’t an affirmation of quality or greatness... Yes, to have a pamphlet / collection of my poetry published would be wonderful, but to be able to write great poetry would – in my eyes, at least – be a far greater achievement...

Maybe it is an unachievable ambition – but it is one I’ll follow, despite its lack of guarantees. 

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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