Henry was sick of his foam mattress. In fact he was so sick that he decided to do something about it, rather than just moan inside his boggy, clogged-up head. He was enduring a particularly stubborn cold which the mattress wasn’t helping. Each morning he produced a peculiarly admirable ball of solid mucus. To help his virus pass he needed to be upright, not sagging. Besides, sprung mattresses were more comfortable than stolid, unmoving, ungiving foam, weren’t they? He didn’t know why he’d endured it for so long.
Henry drove to the intimidating space station of Ikea in the outskirts of the city. After clumsily parking he scaled the escalators and began pacing blearily down the endless corridors and different home sections, looking for beds and mattresses, intermittently blowing his nose.
Eventually he found them. Yes, that was all the selection they had, confirmed a member of staff, but to buy one he’d have to go and select it from the Marketplace downstairs. Henry thanked him, which sparked a sneezing fit.
The Marketplace had the feeling of a large warehouse, boxes stacked upon boxes, everything grey, cold and faintly nightmarish. Pick a large insecurity from the rack, it appeared to goad the wide-eyed shoppers. Bet you can’t assemble me.
Henry found his item and wrestled the mattress onto a metal trolley – a larger sibling of the ones you get in airports. Even so, there was no way of neatly fitting it onto the trolley, so he dragged it by one handle and coaxed one corner of mattress carefully between obstacles and shoppers, towards the cash desks.
He paid a smiley teenage girl before steering his load into the industrially sized elevator, which eventually sunk into the car park. The giant doors parted and it took Henry a few moments to remember where he had left his car, between a pair of white lines but at a sloppy diagonal he was too lazy to correct. Following gradually more certain paces and several breaks to allow motorists to pass him and his trolley, he stopped at the rear door of his car.
Henry looked at the dimensions of the mattress, then looked at the dimensions of the car, then looked at the mattress again.
How is this going to fit?
Is this going to fit?
Might this all get rather embarrassing?
This is Ikea. Surely they deal with things like this all the time, Henry reasoned. There must be clever burly staff around. One of them will see me being useless. In the meantime, he unpeeled the protective plastic seal and withdrew supporting cardboard slats which lined the edges of the mattress and clearly made the whole package much bigger. That would help. He opened the rear door and tried squeezing…
It was ridiculous. He felt idiotic, like an exceptionally hapless Tetris player.
A man appeared to his right. A member of staff. Praise be.. The ideal kind of simple – logical, practical; he was helping two women a few cars away. You need to take out ALL the cardboard and fold it over on itself, he shouted over two vehicles to Henry. Wait there.
Henry extracted all of the supporting cardboard and waited there. Here was the man who knew what he was doing. Henry would be saved. Between the pair of them they folded and contorted and jammed the double mattress into his modestly sized car, then snared the beast by closing the door. It was done.
Driving back, Henry wondered how he was going to transfer the mattress from his car, across the courtyard, up three flights of stairs and into his flat, entirely without help. He wasn’t even sure he could carry it on his own. It was large, heavy and cumbersome. At a set of traffic lights he stopped worrying for a moment, turned on Classic FM and blew his tireless nose.
He parked in the usual way, reversing into his space to allow a quick exit. On cutting the engine he realised that on this occasion he should have entered nose first, giving him more space to remove the mattress, and less distance to carry it to his building. It didn’t occur to him at all that he could have parked as close to his building as possible and moved his car to his space afterwards. Instead he unpopped the handbrake and let the car roll forwards a yard or two, giving more space in which to wrestle. Then he went to pave the way by opening and leaving ajar doors to his building and flat.
Upon attempting to wiggle the mattress out of his car under falling rain, Henry realised that he still hadn’t devised any plan about how to carry the mattress. He wasn’t even sure if he could. He was also aware his nose was running and he wasn’t in a position to address it. And it was raining so he was getting wet. And he was beginning to sweat considerably, but would probably sweat much more before this was all done.
That was, if he could get it all done.
Was he able to do this? Or was it conceivable that in a couple of minutes he’d be sitting on his new mattress in the middle of the residential car park, crying; snot, rain and tears rolling down his face? Just try it, Henry, he told himself. See what happens. You’re on your own. Nobody else is going to help you.
Keeping the mattress folded in half, he wrapped his arms around its sides, hugged it to himself and waddled quickly across the car park, propping himself up against a bush at halfway to get a tighter grip. He was red and sweating and not feeling very well.
Henry made it through his front door and breathed out. Not much further. The stairs though. They did present a considerable challenge. Help would have been nice. Had none of his neighbours seen his brave struggle? Were they staying in, surreptitiously peering around their curtains, laughing at him? So much for Neighbourhood bloody watch.
Henry dragged and tugged and hauled and rolled the mattress up the stairs, frequently pausing to rest. Where was everyone? Anyone? H-E-L-P me! He felt his life-force dimming, his head pounding, the waterfall in his nose unrelenting. He felt like he’d been climbing the stairs for several weeks, and still not a soul..
ENOUGH.
Away with the self-doubt now, Henry, he told himself. You’ve come this far. You CAN do this! One last push. With a growl-charged exertion, a sweat-drenched and beetroot coloured Henry yanked the mattress up the final step, and tugged, pulled and tumbled it through the doorway of his flat.
Thursday 22 September 2011
Thursday 4 August 2011
steaming envy
Gymnasium Steam Room. Steely, no-shit looking mother, late 30s enters with blank but friendly young daughter, mid-teens.
Daughter: gaw, it smells in yur doesnit?
Mum: yeh, they put summink on the thing down there.
They settle and breathe, enjoying the fumes, although Mum retains a general look of disapproval at the world.
Daughter: Stef Jones just got back from Jamaica, she has. Lovely tan.
Mum: What’s her Mum’s name?
Daughter: Can’t remember. Young mum. Works in the bank, I think.
Pause.
Mum (having thought hard): Claire!
Daughter: That’s it!
Mum: I noes her. Natwest. On the counter.
Mum’s disapproving face stronger than ever.
Mum: who’d she go to Jamaica with then?
Daughter: boyfriend and his family.
Mum: Ah right.
Mum smoulders, steams.
Daughter: gaw, it smells in yur doesnit?
Mum: yeh, they put summink on the thing down there.
They settle and breathe, enjoying the fumes, although Mum retains a general look of disapproval at the world.
Daughter: Stef Jones just got back from Jamaica, she has. Lovely tan.
Mum: What’s her Mum’s name?
Daughter: Can’t remember. Young mum. Works in the bank, I think.
Pause.
Mum (having thought hard): Claire!
Daughter: That’s it!
Mum: I noes her. Natwest. On the counter.
Mum’s disapproving face stronger than ever.
Mum: who’d she go to Jamaica with then?
Daughter: boyfriend and his family.
Mum: Ah right.
Mum smoulders, steams.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
inadequate lighting
Tony entered the small, square-shaped sauna and saw the man sitting proudly astride the middle of the top bench. Two thick, gold neck-chains swayed low beneath his stocky, sweating, dark brown torso. “Arrite?” he said to Tony an abrasive native Welsh accent. Tony nodded, said “arrite” back and sat down to one side.
They sat there for several minutes.
“Nice few days we’ve had but now it’s..”
“-Clouded over again,” Tony finished for him.
“Clouded over, yeah.”
“Yeah. It is April though,” Tony reasoned.
“Nice few days though.”
A couple more minutes passed.
“You local?”
“Oh yeah, just one of the flats out the back,” Tony said, and waved his arm in the direction of the flats out the back. “You?”
“Yeah, just down the road. Been a member long?”
“About eight or nine months I suppose. You.”
“Four and a half years. Does me, like. Got everything I want.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“You know what gets me though?”
Tony had a feeling he was going to hear. It was a rhetorical question.
“Well they say they want your comments and they get em and don’t do nothing about em, like. You know the lights by the sinks? I want to freshen up like. The point of the gym’s to leave fresh innit, have a shave. But those lights, you know what I mean?”
That was an actual question.
“Oh, um..” The lights over the basins never struck Tony as being inadequate. They seemed fine. But was perhaps slightly darker over one sink than the other. “Yeah, one side seems a bit darker than the other.”
“Exactly! You’ve seen it. You can barely see what you’re doing! I tells em it’s not good enough like. Health and safety, innit?”
At this point he does one of his squitty spits on the floor, between the wooden slats of the sauna bench. It’s revolting, and the third or fourth time he’s done since Tony entered.
“Health and fucking safety, you know? Else you’ll cut your fucking neck open when you're shaving like. What they want, I tells em, is proper, posh lighting. You think you’re a posh hotel like, you should get posh lights, all in-built to the walls, you know. Proper. I could do it for them, I’m an electrician too see.“
The man continued in this vein for several minutes, Tony intermittently nodding and shaking his head, sighing and swearing his support.
He lost the thread for a moment and glanced up to see his companion snarling firmly back, “…don’t know what they’re fucking doing, I tell you.” The lighting over the changing room basins was a huge deal to him, an ongoing cause. He spat again. The glob of saliva splutted onto the tiled floor below.
Tony nodded back seriously, then shook his head in disbelief at the incompetence, wondering if this man had ever killed people. He wouldn’t be surprised.
“No, you're right. Fucking crazy,” Tony said, because it felt right, on a few levels.
“Fucking right it is. You see, what they want is more people complaining about the lights. At the moment they say I’m the only one who’s said anything about it. If they get more complaints then they might do something about it like. Put posh ones in so you can see what you’re doing when your shaving. They just need more people to say it’s not bright enough.”
It was getting boring now.
“Ah, right. Well I’ll mention it if I see anyone,” Tony said, and got up to leave.
They sat there for several minutes.
“Nice few days we’ve had but now it’s..”
“-Clouded over again,” Tony finished for him.
“Clouded over, yeah.”
“Yeah. It is April though,” Tony reasoned.
“Nice few days though.”
A couple more minutes passed.
“You local?”
“Oh yeah, just one of the flats out the back,” Tony said, and waved his arm in the direction of the flats out the back. “You?”
“Yeah, just down the road. Been a member long?”
“About eight or nine months I suppose. You.”
“Four and a half years. Does me, like. Got everything I want.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
“You know what gets me though?”
Tony had a feeling he was going to hear. It was a rhetorical question.
“Well they say they want your comments and they get em and don’t do nothing about em, like. You know the lights by the sinks? I want to freshen up like. The point of the gym’s to leave fresh innit, have a shave. But those lights, you know what I mean?”
That was an actual question.
“Oh, um..” The lights over the basins never struck Tony as being inadequate. They seemed fine. But was perhaps slightly darker over one sink than the other. “Yeah, one side seems a bit darker than the other.”
“Exactly! You’ve seen it. You can barely see what you’re doing! I tells em it’s not good enough like. Health and safety, innit?”
At this point he does one of his squitty spits on the floor, between the wooden slats of the sauna bench. It’s revolting, and the third or fourth time he’s done since Tony entered.
“Health and fucking safety, you know? Else you’ll cut your fucking neck open when you're shaving like. What they want, I tells em, is proper, posh lighting. You think you’re a posh hotel like, you should get posh lights, all in-built to the walls, you know. Proper. I could do it for them, I’m an electrician too see.“
The man continued in this vein for several minutes, Tony intermittently nodding and shaking his head, sighing and swearing his support.
He lost the thread for a moment and glanced up to see his companion snarling firmly back, “…don’t know what they’re fucking doing, I tell you.” The lighting over the changing room basins was a huge deal to him, an ongoing cause. He spat again. The glob of saliva splutted onto the tiled floor below.
Tony nodded back seriously, then shook his head in disbelief at the incompetence, wondering if this man had ever killed people. He wouldn’t be surprised.
“No, you're right. Fucking crazy,” Tony said, because it felt right, on a few levels.
“Fucking right it is. You see, what they want is more people complaining about the lights. At the moment they say I’m the only one who’s said anything about it. If they get more complaints then they might do something about it like. Put posh ones in so you can see what you’re doing when your shaving. They just need more people to say it’s not bright enough.”
It was getting boring now.
“Ah, right. Well I’ll mention it if I see anyone,” Tony said, and got up to leave.
Wednesday 23 March 2011
The Maintenance Of Headway
There are times when you stumble across just the right book for your mood, completely by accident. I’ve been undergoing a saggy period of late, when I’ve been anxious by a number of things and relentlessly beating myself up for being a mopey twat. It’s not healthy.
In the library on Monday I selected a wafer sized novella by an author who I’ve been a fan of for many years. Magnus Mills drives London buses and writes books which brilliantly skewer the inane pointlessness of modern life. He won his most acclaim over ten years ago for the Restraint Of Beasts, but appears to still produce material now and again, and still drives London buses, as far as I’m aware.
His is a very specific type of humour which might be best appreciated by those who don’t take themselves, or any form of authority too seriously.
This novella, “The Maintenance Of Headway” was all about driving London buses – a home subject but not one I’d seen him write about. (Erecting high-tensile fences was an earlier subject). I was surprised to see that this one was published a few years ago but I hadn’t read it before. The Maintenance of Headway is the guiding principle which governs (or governed) the gaps between buses in any service. When your bus stops and waits for no apparent reason, to ‘spread out the gaps in the service’ – as they say on the tube, they are effectively maintaining the headway.
The book’s quirky officious characters inspect the buses and their drivers, constantly ensuring none are too early and headway is maintained. But its quirky, officious characters clearly stand equally for the self-important officious characters who work in practically all sectors and industries. Their importance is always questionable and the random behaviour of people and circumstance will always be prone to upset plans.
However much you might enjoy considering yourself an outside or a nomad, you are always – or at least for the most part, respecting those inspectors and working for them. We shouldn’t take it so seriously, but we do, because we do it day in, day out. All the time. That repetition is critical and makes it seem more personally important than it should be. Nobody knows the general torpid drudgery of our own existence like ourselves.
But Mills is somehow able to inject light and air into this and make us laugh at ourselves, by laughing at the bus inspectors. His commentary is injected by wickedly deadpan dialogue, unfussily delivered. Although my favourite and most obvious gag was as follows.
(Bus drivers on a tea-break)
‘Jason was quite interested in the articulated bus,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s applied for a transfer.’
‘But most of those buses are still in the factory,’ said Edward. ‘It’s going to take a while till they come off the production line.’
‘Maybe he got the sack,’ suggested Jeff.
‘You don’t get the sack from this job,’ said Davy.
‘What about Thompson?’ I said. ‘He got the sack.’
‘Oh yes!’ retorted Davy. ‘You’re always mentioning this Thompson who no one else can remember. Go on then! Tell us why he got the sack.’
‘He lost patience with his people,’ I replied. ‘They were complaining he was late when he was actually early, so he drove his bus into the vehicle wash and switched the water on.’
‘Full of people?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All the windows were open.’
‘Good grief,’ said Edward. ‘No wonder they sacked him.’
The Maintenance of Headway, Magnus Mills. [Bloomsbury 2009]
The book is 152 easy, joyous pages long. Find it.
We all have to numbly adhere to the maintenance of headway because life tends to disappoint. I’m sure I’ll be bored and frustrated and navelgazing and full of self-loathing again in a mere matter of minutes. But for right now, thanks Magnus.
In the library on Monday I selected a wafer sized novella by an author who I’ve been a fan of for many years. Magnus Mills drives London buses and writes books which brilliantly skewer the inane pointlessness of modern life. He won his most acclaim over ten years ago for the Restraint Of Beasts, but appears to still produce material now and again, and still drives London buses, as far as I’m aware.
His is a very specific type of humour which might be best appreciated by those who don’t take themselves, or any form of authority too seriously.
This novella, “The Maintenance Of Headway” was all about driving London buses – a home subject but not one I’d seen him write about. (Erecting high-tensile fences was an earlier subject). I was surprised to see that this one was published a few years ago but I hadn’t read it before. The Maintenance of Headway is the guiding principle which governs (or governed) the gaps between buses in any service. When your bus stops and waits for no apparent reason, to ‘spread out the gaps in the service’ – as they say on the tube, they are effectively maintaining the headway.
The book’s quirky officious characters inspect the buses and their drivers, constantly ensuring none are too early and headway is maintained. But its quirky, officious characters clearly stand equally for the self-important officious characters who work in practically all sectors and industries. Their importance is always questionable and the random behaviour of people and circumstance will always be prone to upset plans.
However much you might enjoy considering yourself an outside or a nomad, you are always – or at least for the most part, respecting those inspectors and working for them. We shouldn’t take it so seriously, but we do, because we do it day in, day out. All the time. That repetition is critical and makes it seem more personally important than it should be. Nobody knows the general torpid drudgery of our own existence like ourselves.
But Mills is somehow able to inject light and air into this and make us laugh at ourselves, by laughing at the bus inspectors. His commentary is injected by wickedly deadpan dialogue, unfussily delivered. Although my favourite and most obvious gag was as follows.
(Bus drivers on a tea-break)
‘Jason was quite interested in the articulated bus,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s applied for a transfer.’
‘But most of those buses are still in the factory,’ said Edward. ‘It’s going to take a while till they come off the production line.’
‘Maybe he got the sack,’ suggested Jeff.
‘You don’t get the sack from this job,’ said Davy.
‘What about Thompson?’ I said. ‘He got the sack.’
‘Oh yes!’ retorted Davy. ‘You’re always mentioning this Thompson who no one else can remember. Go on then! Tell us why he got the sack.’
‘He lost patience with his people,’ I replied. ‘They were complaining he was late when he was actually early, so he drove his bus into the vehicle wash and switched the water on.’
‘Full of people?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All the windows were open.’
‘Good grief,’ said Edward. ‘No wonder they sacked him.’
The Maintenance of Headway, Magnus Mills. [Bloomsbury 2009]
The book is 152 easy, joyous pages long. Find it.
We all have to numbly adhere to the maintenance of headway because life tends to disappoint. I’m sure I’ll be bored and frustrated and navelgazing and full of self-loathing again in a mere matter of minutes. But for right now, thanks Magnus.
Tuesday 22 March 2011
Eire 2007
Circa May 2007..
From Rosslaire harbour on the south-eastern tip of the country, a good three hours solid, simple scenic driving took me to Cork. I stopped to refuel, have another couple of dry biscuits and a handful of dates, thinking I was probably now under an hour away from my destination on the westerly side of the country. Shortly after smaller, bumpier roads began persuading me otherwise. They stretched and wound on and on, under the never quite total darkness. As I chased the sun, villages and small towns came and went, sometimes without even a signpost. By 10pm I was growing tired, knowing I was on the right track, yet the road just kept unravelling like a magician’s hankerchief. By 10.30 I began thinking that the Atlantic Ocean was just a cunning ruse and I was sure to hit New York soon any time soon.
Signposts for Bantry, Glengarriff; I was nearing, it was getting close. I was actually on the right road they’d given me directions to by 11.15. There was still, unbelievably a very dim ember of sun which it felt like I’d been pursuing for hours. New York couldn’t really just be over the next hill, could it? I accidentally drove through some oceanic wormhole?
I grew paranoid about overshooting my final destination bar / campsite / hostel / boarding house / whatever the hell it was that I'd booked on a whim without looking to closely. I stopped at an isolated pub to ask two men exiting the building if they knew of the Glenbrook Bar. I needed to listen hard to interpret the man’s words, obscured by accent and alcohol into one punctuation-free dirge of sound. They knew it: 3 miles further on the right hand side. I hadn’t passed it already. Excellent news.
A young man serving at the bar ticked me off my list, handed me my key, and gave what proved to be wholly inadequate directions to my room: out there, round the side, and up the stairs - giving the impression that the room was in the same building. Precise and deliberate in his manner, I presumed that it wouldn’t be difficult and heaved my bags to my shoulders, looking forward to seeing a bed. I looked outside, round the side of the building, the back of the building, the other side of the building, the front of the building. No open doors or anything looking faintly like accommodation. I re-entered the bar again. He came out and showed me, apologising for not showing me the first time. While we walked I asked where could I hire a bike for tomorrow. Ah, they’d stopped renting them out here, I was informed. But, the chap furrowed his brows, stopped walking - as if walking and thinking this hard at the same time was a tall order. He looked down at the floor, concentrating hard. He put me in mind of Father Ted’s sidekick priest, Dougal, his anxiousness not to get the detail wrong. “Right,” he said, like he’d now prepared all his words. “If you go to the next town, Castletown Bere, and a store called Supervalue, ask for Denys. He’ll sort you out.”
With that drama resolved, he pointed me towards a narrow exit through the corner of the back yard, and a small lawn over which I needed to walk. The building itself was the other side with a small light over the front door. He could have told me to take my car from the front of the pub and drive it into the site and up a short drive to the front of the building. How did he think I’d got there?
*
Sure enough, the next morning I drove the short distance further along the sunshine-dappled coast to Castletown Bere. One of the first shops on the main street parade was a Supervalue, opposite which was a car park overlooking the pretty harbour. I parked, went to the store and asked a timid looking eastern European checkout girl if Denys was about. She didn’t understand me so I asked a native (Siobhan, her name badge reassuringly said), if Denys was about. Siobhan gave him a call. Denys arrived promptly and cheerfully, sporting a red face which appeared like it might always look a little drunk. He showed me a short way up the street to a small hut full of bikes, and lifted one out from the mesh of steel and wheels. He handed it over to me, saying was easiest to ride. It looked a fine steed, light and durable. I took it away and kitted up beside my car, swiftly changing trousers for shorts in the driver’s seat, in what I hoped was a swift and discreet style.
The best part of a day’s pleasurable yet unplanned cycling around various parts of coastline, hills and mounts was blighted halfway by my first bout of irritating hay fever this season. Much sneezing, eye-wiping and nostril clearing was relentlessly required. A stunning day, bright and warm, left me with predictably sunburned neck and upper arms where my T-shirt had ridden, a bruised inside left knee – from a precarious rocky hill descent , and a regional back bruise from the edge of something in my rucksack which I lazily never rearranged.
From Rosslaire harbour on the south-eastern tip of the country, a good three hours solid, simple scenic driving took me to Cork. I stopped to refuel, have another couple of dry biscuits and a handful of dates, thinking I was probably now under an hour away from my destination on the westerly side of the country. Shortly after smaller, bumpier roads began persuading me otherwise. They stretched and wound on and on, under the never quite total darkness. As I chased the sun, villages and small towns came and went, sometimes without even a signpost. By 10pm I was growing tired, knowing I was on the right track, yet the road just kept unravelling like a magician’s hankerchief. By 10.30 I began thinking that the Atlantic Ocean was just a cunning ruse and I was sure to hit New York soon any time soon.
Signposts for Bantry, Glengarriff; I was nearing, it was getting close. I was actually on the right road they’d given me directions to by 11.15. There was still, unbelievably a very dim ember of sun which it felt like I’d been pursuing for hours. New York couldn’t really just be over the next hill, could it? I accidentally drove through some oceanic wormhole?
I grew paranoid about overshooting my final destination bar / campsite / hostel / boarding house / whatever the hell it was that I'd booked on a whim without looking to closely. I stopped at an isolated pub to ask two men exiting the building if they knew of the Glenbrook Bar. I needed to listen hard to interpret the man’s words, obscured by accent and alcohol into one punctuation-free dirge of sound. They knew it: 3 miles further on the right hand side. I hadn’t passed it already. Excellent news.
A young man serving at the bar ticked me off my list, handed me my key, and gave what proved to be wholly inadequate directions to my room: out there, round the side, and up the stairs - giving the impression that the room was in the same building. Precise and deliberate in his manner, I presumed that it wouldn’t be difficult and heaved my bags to my shoulders, looking forward to seeing a bed. I looked outside, round the side of the building, the back of the building, the other side of the building, the front of the building. No open doors or anything looking faintly like accommodation. I re-entered the bar again. He came out and showed me, apologising for not showing me the first time. While we walked I asked where could I hire a bike for tomorrow. Ah, they’d stopped renting them out here, I was informed. But, the chap furrowed his brows, stopped walking - as if walking and thinking this hard at the same time was a tall order. He looked down at the floor, concentrating hard. He put me in mind of Father Ted’s sidekick priest, Dougal, his anxiousness not to get the detail wrong. “Right,” he said, like he’d now prepared all his words. “If you go to the next town, Castletown Bere, and a store called Supervalue, ask for Denys. He’ll sort you out.”
With that drama resolved, he pointed me towards a narrow exit through the corner of the back yard, and a small lawn over which I needed to walk. The building itself was the other side with a small light over the front door. He could have told me to take my car from the front of the pub and drive it into the site and up a short drive to the front of the building. How did he think I’d got there?
*
Sure enough, the next morning I drove the short distance further along the sunshine-dappled coast to Castletown Bere. One of the first shops on the main street parade was a Supervalue, opposite which was a car park overlooking the pretty harbour. I parked, went to the store and asked a timid looking eastern European checkout girl if Denys was about. She didn’t understand me so I asked a native (Siobhan, her name badge reassuringly said), if Denys was about. Siobhan gave him a call. Denys arrived promptly and cheerfully, sporting a red face which appeared like it might always look a little drunk. He showed me a short way up the street to a small hut full of bikes, and lifted one out from the mesh of steel and wheels. He handed it over to me, saying was easiest to ride. It looked a fine steed, light and durable. I took it away and kitted up beside my car, swiftly changing trousers for shorts in the driver’s seat, in what I hoped was a swift and discreet style.
The best part of a day’s pleasurable yet unplanned cycling around various parts of coastline, hills and mounts was blighted halfway by my first bout of irritating hay fever this season. Much sneezing, eye-wiping and nostril clearing was relentlessly required. A stunning day, bright and warm, left me with predictably sunburned neck and upper arms where my T-shirt had ridden, a bruised inside left knee – from a precarious rocky hill descent , and a regional back bruise from the edge of something in my rucksack which I lazily never rearranged.
Tuesday 1 March 2011
the wrong man with one leg
She hovered nervously outside the weights’ room, a meek but well-presented old lady. She looked at Tony as he exited, sweating.
“Hello,” Tony said.
“Oh hello, I wonder if you could do me a favour?” she asked, predictably well-spoken.
“Certainly,” Tony smiled reassuringly. “How can I help?”
“Would you mind looking in the changing room to see if my friend is there. His name is John and he only has one leg. Do you know him?”
“I know of a chap with one leg who comes here, yes. I can have a look for you. Message?”
“Oh, yes. Well I’m not sure if he’s even here you see but if he is there could you say Heather is waiting if he wants to go for coffee, like we..” she trailed off.
“No problem at all.”
“Oh thank you so much.”
Tony walked the few paces down the corridor to the male changing room. The one person in the room had one leg. He was slowly drying himself.
“Hello, are you John?”
The oldish man looked up from what looked like a complicated operation. “No. Frank.”
“Oh, I..” This threw Tony. “A lady outside was asking me to check if a man called John with one leg was in here. And here you are: a man with one leg.. But you’re not John.”
“No. Frank.”
“Didn’t think there’d be so many of you around!”
He chuckled merrily.
“Check in the pool. Not sure if there was anyone in the Sauna.”
“Good idea.”
Tony poked his head around the doorway and into the pool area, conscious that he was still wearing his sweaty gym gear. There were a handful of men in the pool and around the Jacuzzi, but they all appeared to have two legs. There was no discernible presence through the door of the Sauna either.
This meant he would have to disappoint Heather. Maybe she’d been stood up by a man with one leg.
He walked back through the changing room and addressed Frank.
“I don’t suppose you want to go for coffee with her anyway? She seems nice.”
He chuckled merrily again, which Tony took as a No.
“Hello,” Tony said.
“Oh hello, I wonder if you could do me a favour?” she asked, predictably well-spoken.
“Certainly,” Tony smiled reassuringly. “How can I help?”
“Would you mind looking in the changing room to see if my friend is there. His name is John and he only has one leg. Do you know him?”
“I know of a chap with one leg who comes here, yes. I can have a look for you. Message?”
“Oh, yes. Well I’m not sure if he’s even here you see but if he is there could you say Heather is waiting if he wants to go for coffee, like we..” she trailed off.
“No problem at all.”
“Oh thank you so much.”
Tony walked the few paces down the corridor to the male changing room. The one person in the room had one leg. He was slowly drying himself.
“Hello, are you John?”
The oldish man looked up from what looked like a complicated operation. “No. Frank.”
“Oh, I..” This threw Tony. “A lady outside was asking me to check if a man called John with one leg was in here. And here you are: a man with one leg.. But you’re not John.”
“No. Frank.”
“Didn’t think there’d be so many of you around!”
He chuckled merrily.
“Check in the pool. Not sure if there was anyone in the Sauna.”
“Good idea.”
Tony poked his head around the doorway and into the pool area, conscious that he was still wearing his sweaty gym gear. There were a handful of men in the pool and around the Jacuzzi, but they all appeared to have two legs. There was no discernible presence through the door of the Sauna either.
This meant he would have to disappoint Heather. Maybe she’d been stood up by a man with one leg.
He walked back through the changing room and addressed Frank.
“I don’t suppose you want to go for coffee with her anyway? She seems nice.”
He chuckled merrily again, which Tony took as a No.
Friday 25 February 2011
doorstep challenge
I pocketed my keys and glanced down the stairs to the building’s front door. Through the clear pane of glass I saw feet and legs, horizontally splayed across the doorstep.
Erm.
Was someone trying to extract a letter from one of the flat’s letterboxes? Was it a labourer working at a meter I didn’t know was there? I descended the short flight of steps and opened the flimsy door. Ours was a block of flats tucked into a missable corner of the court, but it had long concerned me that the lock was weak, the door easy to break if you wanted to. One not especially hard, well-placed kick could see you inside without much problem.
On the doorstep I discovered a man in his mid twenties, lying prone across the doorstep. He wasn’t addressing the letterboxes or any concealed meter. He wasn’t addressing anything at all. Closely cropped hair, unshaven and wearing dark clothes – a black shellsuit-type top, he wobbled unsteadily on his knees, neither conscious nor unconscious.
“Hello mate!” I addressed him, wondering if he posed me any immediate threat. I didn’t want to touch him but carried on talking loudly at him, trying to rouse him. “What’s going on here?! You alright pal?!”
Gradually he stirred, facing away from me, heavily concussed, never looking directly at me but aware I was there. His face was bleeding; crusty red, caramelised-marks scarred his face from a beating he’d taken maybe an hour or two earlier. He slowly found his unstable feet and staggered away from the building.
I followed close behind. This wasn’t good but did it merit an emergency call? I gestured the sign of telephone to him as he sketchily looked back at me, tottering off in zigzags, knock-kneed. He walked squarely into a bush and bounced out of it. “You sure you’re all right? You want me to call anyone? Ambulance?” He found the narrow gap out of our courtyard and away, towards the canal, perhaps retracing the same route he’d used to get in.
Maybe it didn’t warrant blocking up an emergency phone-line, but it needed reporting. I remembered seeing an Ambulance parked out the back before I left the flat, just over the footbridge. It struck me as peculiar because if it had been for a hotel resident – the only building in that immediate vicinity, it would have driven into the hotel car park, not outside.
Compelled to report it I decided to walk in the direction of town, rather than in the direction of the bay, as planned. I’d find a policeman or car or ambulance soon enough. A police van overtook me and stopped at a set of traffic lights fifty yards ahead. I broke into a run to catch up with it, knocked on the window and, faintly embarrassed to feel breathless after what was a short run, quickly explained my findings to a distinctly nonplussed looking driver. “Oh yeah, we’ve just come from there,” he said, looking pissed off. “I’ll turn round now.” Clearly something had happened but he wasn’t going to tell me what. Our short exchange concluded before the lights changed from red.
While I’d clearly judged the character as unsavoury from the outset and might have extended more basic human sympathy had he not fit a certain type quite so well, I’d done my bit.
As I was headed in that direction, I walked on into town, a taste of unsettling violation permeating within. Whatever criminal violent shit had brought that guy to my doorstep? What actually goes on a stone’s throw from where I live, work and sleep? A cosmetically safe, respectable place where other singles, couples and families live? It’s city living.
Even so, you don’t really want those things happening so very close to home. They’re just for films and fiction. Not for what happens when you open your flimsy front door.
Erm.
Was someone trying to extract a letter from one of the flat’s letterboxes? Was it a labourer working at a meter I didn’t know was there? I descended the short flight of steps and opened the flimsy door. Ours was a block of flats tucked into a missable corner of the court, but it had long concerned me that the lock was weak, the door easy to break if you wanted to. One not especially hard, well-placed kick could see you inside without much problem.
On the doorstep I discovered a man in his mid twenties, lying prone across the doorstep. He wasn’t addressing the letterboxes or any concealed meter. He wasn’t addressing anything at all. Closely cropped hair, unshaven and wearing dark clothes – a black shellsuit-type top, he wobbled unsteadily on his knees, neither conscious nor unconscious.
“Hello mate!” I addressed him, wondering if he posed me any immediate threat. I didn’t want to touch him but carried on talking loudly at him, trying to rouse him. “What’s going on here?! You alright pal?!”
Gradually he stirred, facing away from me, heavily concussed, never looking directly at me but aware I was there. His face was bleeding; crusty red, caramelised-marks scarred his face from a beating he’d taken maybe an hour or two earlier. He slowly found his unstable feet and staggered away from the building.
I followed close behind. This wasn’t good but did it merit an emergency call? I gestured the sign of telephone to him as he sketchily looked back at me, tottering off in zigzags, knock-kneed. He walked squarely into a bush and bounced out of it. “You sure you’re all right? You want me to call anyone? Ambulance?” He found the narrow gap out of our courtyard and away, towards the canal, perhaps retracing the same route he’d used to get in.
Maybe it didn’t warrant blocking up an emergency phone-line, but it needed reporting. I remembered seeing an Ambulance parked out the back before I left the flat, just over the footbridge. It struck me as peculiar because if it had been for a hotel resident – the only building in that immediate vicinity, it would have driven into the hotel car park, not outside.
Compelled to report it I decided to walk in the direction of town, rather than in the direction of the bay, as planned. I’d find a policeman or car or ambulance soon enough. A police van overtook me and stopped at a set of traffic lights fifty yards ahead. I broke into a run to catch up with it, knocked on the window and, faintly embarrassed to feel breathless after what was a short run, quickly explained my findings to a distinctly nonplussed looking driver. “Oh yeah, we’ve just come from there,” he said, looking pissed off. “I’ll turn round now.” Clearly something had happened but he wasn’t going to tell me what. Our short exchange concluded before the lights changed from red.
While I’d clearly judged the character as unsavoury from the outset and might have extended more basic human sympathy had he not fit a certain type quite so well, I’d done my bit.
As I was headed in that direction, I walked on into town, a taste of unsettling violation permeating within. Whatever criminal violent shit had brought that guy to my doorstep? What actually goes on a stone’s throw from where I live, work and sleep? A cosmetically safe, respectable place where other singles, couples and families live? It’s city living.
Even so, you don’t really want those things happening so very close to home. They’re just for films and fiction. Not for what happens when you open your flimsy front door.
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