tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49213958390880453672024-03-13T21:43:35.156+00:00Public OxygenAs breathed by Jem BarnesJem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-36125502189738294142012-02-03T18:46:00.005+00:002018-06-19T20:11:23.892+01:00Shopping trip - a modern Odyssey<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3iTKPpVEhd8/TywvBYMQZ_I/AAAAAAAAAMI/f6wP-EoiC68/s1600/TV.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704986528691808242" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3iTKPpVEhd8/TywvBYMQZ_I/AAAAAAAAAMI/f6wP-EoiC68/s320/TV.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 204px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left;">
<b>Shopping trip</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%;">1</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
‘Over time, Jem,’ Jenny, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Slightly stoned, says to me, ‘The basis <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Of the universe is <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
An ineluctable decline to stasis.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I never take entropy specially seriously <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
And certainly not as my destiny,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
But I guess you don’t mess <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
With a philosopheress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
2 <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
The squat is hot. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
‘There‘s nothing to drink,’ I think.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Then: ‘Let’s go shopping,’ says Ken, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Fingers at home on his chrome smart phone,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
‘I’m on BBN and Fatty has tweeted that Curry’s is open, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Stacks of stock. No staff.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
With a meat pizza hurled at a video of Queen,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Last week, Ken trashed our present screen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
3<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I think, ‘A new screen would be good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Maybe two. A pair of Vieras?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
‘It’s late,’ says Jenny, tottering across the room, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
‘But never too late to consume.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Ken says, ‘But there’s time for a line.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Jenny grins but I decline.You can’t be stoned all the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
4<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
So, later, we three mates clatter down eighteen flights. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
The lift has never lifted, never shifted. It’s a toilet nowadays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
On the way we stay away from the pleading of the bleeding <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Crackheads and avoid their chemical gaze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Indoor parcours on the banisters is fun <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
And soon we’re standing on a landing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Ken says, ‘It’s a dump,’ and nuts <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
A passing, grasping tramp who spills his guts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
5<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
On the ground floor the outside doors are stuck shut<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
But, thank fuck, someone’s nicked the glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
No blame, no shame. We step right through the frame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
And Jenny, me and Kenny, on a night-time shopping trip, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Skip across the grass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
6<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
A hurried, harried crowd at Curry’s strips <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
The shop of all its stock. The air is hot and feral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Jenny bags a hairdryer, a one-bar fire <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
And an HTC Desire. Kenny disappears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I spot an overlooked, boxed Sony HX-723, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
A forty-two inch plasma, just the thing for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I grab the screen, its power pack. The box is open wide. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
To the door I stride and take a look outside.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
7<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Shit! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
By the multi-storey, a fucking copper stands, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Dressed up like a robot, truncheon in his hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
He’s looking at me looking at him and looking at the Sony<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
He’s eaten too much pizza with too much pepperoni.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
He’s overweight and ugly, alone and looking lost, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Talking on a cellphone. No signal, fingers crossed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Fleeing with a telly is a challenge but we’ll see <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
If agility and rapidity will save my new TV.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
8<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
So, I’m running very quickly and I’m leaving him behind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I think that I’ll surrender but then I change my mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I hear his laboured breathing as he gets a bit too near. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
He smells of sweat and plastic with a hint of rancid beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I’m zigging down the precinct, he’s zagging through the crowd. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
They’re shouting and applauding. It’s getting pretty loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Faster and then faster the two of us career.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
And then he stops.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
9 <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
So I stop too and turn around. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
He’s bending over, doubled up, being sick. Vomit on the ground!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I leave him to his heaving and scoot up to the squat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
I am thrilled with my new flat screen. The best I ever got.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Ken and Jen are dancing round piles of stolen goodies<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
They love my Sony so much they undo their hoodies!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
We set the lovely Sony up, a tribute to Nippon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Excited and delighted we switch it on to see what’s on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
11 <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Nothing!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
BBC is snoring. ITV is boring. Freeview’s chewing gum.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
We need a DVD! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
Blockbusters here we come!<o:p></o:p></div>
Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-91475741457829354832012-01-28T17:26:00.002+00:002012-01-28T17:29:48.583+00:00Riotous poetry<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5gEBHOHr_dM/TyQwAxp-R_I/AAAAAAAAAL8/WIV_0Gk6lzE/s1600/Police_running_through_streets_of_Croydon_during_2011_riots.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 235px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5gEBHOHr_dM/TyQwAxp-R_I/AAAAAAAAAL8/WIV_0Gk6lzE/s400/Police_running_through_streets_of_Croydon_during_2011_riots.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702735818045409266" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Late<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal">London in July. Night, Hot - like sweaty. Sirens in the air, Blue lights abound.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m on a late, patrolling, my Day-glow jacket, like a beacon, crowd controlling.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Radio buzzing like a wasp or two. Helmet shining. Handcuffs dangling. Goldfish visor gleaming.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A shop, popped open riotously, burns. Acrid smoke invades my visor, my nose.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A hoodied, bloodied, muddy, yoof, yawning, steals a Sony, the only screen for him. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He turns and runs. The chase begins. “Stop!” I shout but he is fit, nimble and swift<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My lunchtime Big Mac (and large fries), breaks my wind, brakes me, makes me sick. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A copper can’t hurry when he’s stuffed with McFlurry, slugged by nuggets, choked by large Coke,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, breathless, I lean against a rust-red railing and think, ’Am I on overtime?’<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-5297261743300460242012-01-23T18:51:00.002+00:002012-01-23T19:09:24.842+00:00Harry, Charles and Joan<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9FDRHgacGgw/Tx2sdYqb2PI/AAAAAAAAALU/kdnojQ7uvyY/s1600/case.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9FDRHgacGgw/Tx2sdYqb2PI/AAAAAAAAALU/kdnojQ7uvyY/s400/case.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700902324157536498" /></a><h2><span style="font-weight: normal;">One - Harry</span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p></o:p></span></h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">In his front garden, Harry Baker smiled. His roses were a profusion of colour and perfume, a more than adequate reward for the hours he had allotted to their care. He inhaled with delight as he walked along the path towards his home.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">A small, pale, forty-two year-old man, he had delicate hands, a round tummy and thick, black eyebrows. His suit was a reasonable fit but its seat was mirrored by sedentary friction. His brogues gleamed. His umbrella, tightly furled, dangled on his left arm. In his right hand his briefcase contained only an empty sandwich wrapper. He took the case to work every day because of its rich brown leather, rugged stitching and brass combination locks. It was an expensive way to carry a sandwich but Joan had given him the case on their first married Christmas.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">The umbrella was superfluous on this bright June evening but Harry’s occupation demanded certain standards. They were a small price to pay for a regular income, a useful occupation and a fulfilling married life. He toiled in the offices of a large insurance company. His mortality calculations formed the basis of contracts between his employers and people who wanted to transform their inevitable death into good news for their family. He knew, statistically, about death.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He came home each day on the Metropolitan Line tired but looking forward to an evening with his wife. He had never understood why Joan was willing to spend her life with him. She was an inch or so taller than him, a year or two older. Her mouth was large and usually smiling. Her figure was trim, her makeup perfect and her eyebrows punctiliously tweezered. Her hair sometimes suffered from an surfeit of hairspray but was, in all other ways, tonsorial perfection. Harry considered himself lucky to have met, wooed and married her.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">At the front door his left hand vanished into his jacket pocket and emerged clutching a key-ring with two keys and a transparent plastic block containing a tiny model of St Paul’s Cathedral. The smaller of the keys unlocked his office desk so he used the larger to open the door.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘I’m home, darling,’ he cried in an affectionate sing-song tone.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He closed the door with a brogue, dropped his briefcase on the parquet and the umbrella into the hallstand. A flight of stairs grew out of the hallway, his staircase to marital delight. ‘Soon,’ he thought and headed for her daytime empire, the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">It was almost new with white cupboard doors and thick wooden worktops. It was warm and held not Joan but a hint of her perfume. There were two circular sinks, a ceramic hob and glass-fronted oven. A large window looked out on Harry’s roses.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘Where are you?’ he sang, ‘You’re not in the kitchen. Where are you hiding? I’m coming; ready or not.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He opened the fridge and found the lemonade. He collected glasses from a wall cupboard and partially filled them. A glass in each hand, he set off for their living room.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘Drinky, darling,’ he said, ‘I bet you’re thirsty.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Harry was used to Joan’s games. It had started on their first wedding anniversary. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">She’d made a spectacular dinner: Beef Wellington with scalloped potatoes, green beans, sugar snap peas and a Caesar side-salad. He’d bought a bottle of Sainsbury’s champagne but they’d drunk the Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion she’d somehow found. It was divine. The evening was a great success until she asked him to do the washing up. He was quite merry at the time but she insisted, reinforcing the order with a wink, raised eyebrows and a seductive glance upwards. By the time he’d finished she was in bed, fast asleep.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Her engaging coquettishness wasn’t limited to the dining room. In the bedroom she was active, demanding and innovative. Her closet contained interesting clothing and selected items from the Ann Summers catalogue. Her inventiveness was lightened by her smile and gentle insistence. They seldom slept early but always slept well.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Harry’s living room was about fifteen feet square with an unlit wood-burning stove, presently unlit, in an Inglenook fireplace. The south wall held large patio doors giving out on to some decking and Harry’s garden. The doors had Roman blinds in a dotted pattern matching the fabric on the three piece suite. The sofa was angled to face a flat-screen TV. The blinds were down. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Harry put the glasses on coasters on the coffee-table and hit the switch. Nine ceiling-mounted LEDs flooded the room with light. No Joan.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He pushed the button on the remote. The blinds hummed up making a blue pelmet at the top of the doors. Beneath them, through the double-gazing, he could see the privet hedges that bordered the garden, the two sun loungers, his kettle barbecue and the neatly mown lawn.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He killed the LEDs and sat in his favourite armchair.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘Come on, Joan,’ he said, ‘It’s a lovely evening. I thought we could have a barby.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; "> He could not prevent a wisp of annoyance in his voice. She was a wonderful woman in every possible way, he reflected, but her tendency to go just that bit too far was sometimes a challenge.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He shouted ‘Joan! Come on. Let’s stop mucking about and have something to eat.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Then he saw the note stuck in the iron band at the base of the chimney.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">She had pencilled it on a piece of paper torn out of a reporter’s spiral notebook. Twelve words that drove him back on to the chair, unable to breathe, stunned: <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">“I can’t stand it any more. I’m leaving. It was fun. Joan.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">He read and reread the note, as if trying to divine a hidden meaning. At last, he groaned, crumpled the note into a pocket and drank some lemonade. He staggered into the hall, grabbed the telephone and called his brother.<o:p></o:p></p> <h2><span >Two - Charles</span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p></o:p></span></h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Charles Baker was three years older than Harry and lived around the corner. Harry had been surprised when Charles, fitter, taller and richer than Harry, announced his intention to move closer to “tighten family ties” but Joan had reminded him that, as the artist Jane Howard said, “Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.” When Harry told him this, Charles growled through his neatly trimmed moustache, ‘Bloody artists, Idiots. Spongers. Shoot ‘em all, I say.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Harry knew irony when he saw it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Charles’s new garden backed on to Harry’s and their relationship was lubricated by the Screwdrivers they shared across the hedge. Charles made a mean Screwdriver with ice-cold orange juice and Beefeater 24 gin. Not much orange, of course.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">A writer by trade, Charles had had a number of novels published with one, “Death Cairn,” made into a reasonably successful Hollywood movie. He specialized in science fiction thrillers wherein the central character embarked on violent crusades of bloody retribution, pausing only to spread his genetic code. Charles claimed to be a realist and told Harry that a Hollywood movie’s success was proportional to its body count and the exposed area of its leading actress’s flesh.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Soon Charles was Harry’s and Joan’s regular supper guest. Joan remarked on this development a number of times and treated Charles not as one of her clan but, rather, a visiting celebrity. She wasn’t fond of celebrities; Harry was usually able to soothe the occasional friction between his two favourite people. He enjoyed the competition they displayed for his support. He always, eventually, sided with Joan and laughed off Charles’s rage. Such disagreements, often noisy, never came to blows.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Harry’s knuckles were white on the telephone handset. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘She’s left me,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘Harry?’ Charles didn’t seem surprised and his beautifully modulated, glutinous voice was calm. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">She’s gone.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘Joan?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘Of course! There’s a note. I don’t know what to do.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">‘You’d better come over.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; ">Harry dropped the phone and made for the door, collecting St Paul’s Cathedral on the way.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Five minutes later he was sitting in one of his brother’s four leather armchairs sipping a Screwdriver. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">The room couldn’t be more different from Harry’s. Oak panelling, brass candelabras, a modern open fire, a log basket. A faint aroma of warm circuit boards came from the loudspeakers and TV screens all over: on the walls, on pedestals, on towers, under the furniture, on the ceiling. Harry never understood why Charles should want to sit in the middle of an orchestra. Surely the auditorium would be better. When he had mentioned this, Charles pressed a button and his living room instantly transformed itself acoustically into the Albert Hall. Less crowded, of course.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Harry had been mildly amused when Charles demonstrated his home security, bringing High Definition images of the surrounding area to the screens. It was as if the house had suddenly vanished and they were standing outdoors. Charles obviously liked to keep an eye on things. When Harry had jokingly described the system as Megaparanoia, Charles smirked, ‘I’m watching you, sonny.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0cm; "> Tonight, they were thoughtful as the Brandenburg Concerto enveloped them, Charles examining the crumpled note. They sipped their Screwdrivers, excellent despite having been made in haste.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Charles said, ‘This is her handwriting?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Harry said, ‘Of course! Well, it must be. I’m not sure. For God’s sake, Charles. It was in the Inglenook!’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Charles said, ‘All right. I’m just trying to help here.’ He sipped his drink, ‘Was there a row?’ <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘No. Nothing like that. When I got home she wasn’t there.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Women are strange and unpredictable creatures.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Charles’s experience of the fairer sex was a mystery. Joan had once told Harry that she suspected Charles was gay, what with all the bloke toys and the moustache. Harry disagreed, confiding that Charles once, it was rumoured, had an unhappy affair at the height of which the object of his affection had run off with the “”Death Cairn” director. Charles had written a book about it: “Death Direction,’ but sales were disappointing. Joan was unconvinced.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘What are you going to do?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘I don’t know. I don’t know where she is, why she left, what happened. I’m entirely in the dark about my marriage. My God, Charles, that’s fifteen years down the drain.’ Harry was close to tears.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Charles said ‘Has she got a mother?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘A mother? She died when Joan was a child.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘In extremis, women always go back to mother. It’s genetic. Has she got any money?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘We have a joint account with Barclays and she has a housekeeping account with the Post Office.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Not a problem.’ He stroked his moustache, ‘Right! What you need is my Seven Step Plan for the Innocent Victim. You are innocent, aren’t you?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Yes!’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Okay. Step one: Call the office. Tell them you’ve got a virus but will be in tomorrow.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Right.‘<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Step Two: Call your doctor. Make an appointment. When you get there, appear glum. Feign depression. Weep. Talk about stress. Get a note for a least a week.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘I am stressed!’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Even better. Go for a fortnight, then. Send the note to your office. Enclose a tear-stained note.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘I can do that.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; "> Good. Step Three: Call Barclays. Open a new account in your name and transfer all the money to it. To survive you’ll need money. It’s your money, after all. Step Four: call a locksmith and change the locks. She might come back.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Charles -’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Step Five: Make a big pile of all her possessions, clothes, frying pans, make-up, tights, toiletries etcetera on the front lawn.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘But -’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘Step Six: Go out for dinner. Choose a restaurant that she wouldn’t like. Harvester, maybe. Keep your eyes open for unattached women. You never know.’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘I couldn’t -’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Step Seven: Sleep the sleep of the innocent wronged.’ He took a significant pull on his Screwdriver, ‘Would you like me to write all that down?’<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">‘No. I think I’ve got it.’ <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; "> Charles insisted though, booting up his desktop computer and making an Excel spreadsheet which he printed on his laser printer. Harry noticed that the heading, “Seven Step Plan,” like the plan itself, was bold. Charles extracted a promise that Harry would start the Plan first thing in the morning. Harry finished his drink, thanked his brother for everything and wandered home to his empty bedroom.<o:p></o:p></p> <h2><span >Three - Joan</span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-size: 100%; "><o:p></o:p></span></h2> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Charles strolled into his own kitchen. It was entirely unlike Harry’s. It had screens, stainless steel surfaces, switches and dials, twinkling LEDs, a walk-in freezer of dazzling aluminium, seven feet tall, six feet wide and an electronic combination lock on its door. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">Charles added his and Harry’s Screwdriver glasses to the neatly racked crockery in the dishwasher and, with nimble fingers, hit a pattern of twelve digits on the freezer door panel. Deep inside, electric motors whirred and tumblers shifted. The door opened. Bright freezer light, cold air and an unusual smell filled the room.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; text-align: justify; ">With the freezer door open’, Charles could look into Joan’s eyes. She stared, sightless, eyes wide, through the clear polythene he’d wrapped her head in before parking it on the fourth shelf. A rip in the polythene explained the smell, a combination of hairspray, perfume and blood.<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-9966827409152259402012-01-20T19:44:00.006+00:002012-01-21T12:42:24.627+00:00Tough outlook for the Major<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MWt8n_RchTY/TxqnSkNYMZI/AAAAAAAAALI/PzoKFug1_Cc/s1600/major.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MWt8n_RchTY/TxqnSkNYMZI/AAAAAAAAALI/PzoKFug1_Cc/s400/major.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5700052215790055826" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I do a bit of computer training; just for fun really. There’s a bunch of elderly people in the village who love to look at a screen, adore the Internet and email each other with links to interesting stuff. I’ve been doing it for about four years now and we seem to get on. I get out and bask in their undisguised admiration. They find out how to get their shopping delivered. They also make a contribution to the local church. We meet there for coffee, world right-putting and curriculum planning from time to time. Everybody’s happy.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Then one day a new bloke turns up.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">He’s quite a loud retired Major from the Education Corps or similar.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">We buy him coffee. When he finds out about our IT interest he tells us that he’s got a computer running XP, Outlook Express and Word 2000. He says it’s absolutely ideal for him. I point out that it’s twelve years out of date and he says it doesn’t matter. I say, ‘If it works for you,’ ‘It does!” he says.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">He enjoys writing to local newspapers about stuff that annoys him and his letters often get published. We read them. The old blokes congratulate him and sometimes agree with him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">One day he says that I should provide computer training for his wife. ‘She needs to know how to get to all the family information if anything happens to me,’ he says and tells me about his backup routines which involve USB drives. I say, ‘Sure, but I can’t really talk about XP or Outlook Express or Word 2000 because they’re all obsolete and I don’t have them installed. He says that that’s okay. I should deal with general principles. This goes on for about a year.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> And then a</o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; "> week or so ago he sends me an email and mentions his wife again. I say, ‘Okay. Let’s make a date.’ I notice his ISP is the Post Office, his email address is something like </span><a href="mailto:inyhydthhe999@mypostoffice.co.uk" style="font-size: 100%; ">inyhydthhe999@mypostoffice.co.uk</a><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">and his email footer invites me to have a free computer scan for VIRUSES and click on a link to buy</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">a Spambuster program.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I ask him why he uses it and he says that he’s happy with it and that an email address doesn’t need to be memorable.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">He adds that he and his wife have the same email address because 1: We only need the one, 2: We have no secrets from each other, 3: She doesn’t need one and 4: “She doesn’t have the skills.” It turns out that there is only the one shared account on his computer.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">He says that’s all they need.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Anyway, she comes round one afternoon. She’s a slight attractive lady with a quiet manner. We muck about with Windows for a couple of hours. She’s keen to learn but clearly hasn’t spent a long time with a mouse in her hand. I set her up a Gmail account which, amazingly, happens to be her: firstnamesecondname@gmail.com ! Result, I think. Then things go weird.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The Major sends me an email and asks me what her Gmail address is. I am instantly confused. Hasn’t she told him? Has she forgotten it? Is there something going on? Can I not tell a bloke his wife’s email address? Who cares anyway? I think for a day and then send him her address. I explain my dilemma.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">A couple of hours later I get another email from him – using his wife’s Gmail account! He says he doesn’t like it and it’s not half as easy as Outlook Express. He attaches a photo of his wife.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I reply expressing surprise that he’s using her account.</span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I list Gmail’s advantages over OE. He returns my email with my reasons annotated in green and red. He doesn’t agree.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">I tell him that I won’t be working with his wife again. He knows best. He’s a teacher. Teach her!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; ">One of the old blokes tells me that if Major is the rank someone retires with it means they were rubbish. Funny thing is that I read the same thing only the other week in Lee Child’s book ‘The Affair.’ He should know, I guess.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-16298872302788076202012-01-13T18:41:00.004+00:002012-01-21T12:41:43.426+00:00Hello Vodafone - it's Friday 13th!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2E7acZ5M3Q/TxB7JPadTkI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/e0X5Ouk5IWY/s1600/img_vodafone_logo.png" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 40px; height: 40px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2E7acZ5M3Q/TxB7JPadTkI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/e0X5Ouk5IWY/s400/img_vodafone_logo.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697188927310220866" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">The Chief Executive<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">Vodafone<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">Vodafone House, <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">The Connection, <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">Newbury, <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">Berkshire RG14 2FN<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Friday, 13 January 2012</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">Dear Sir</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><o:p> </o:p><b style="font-size: 100%; ">SureSignal</b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">If you care to examine my customer records you will find that I have called your Helpline an amazing number of times over the past few weeks in a doomed effort to persuade the SureSignal you sold me to work. The SureSignal will provide me with a strong cellphone signal in my home, apparently, as I’m sure you know. There is no cellphone signal where I live, despite my house being 900 feet above sea level and almost the highest point for about twenty miles.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">Each time I call I inform you of my cellphone number (both via keypad and voice,) my PIN, the first line of my address and my date of birth two or three times. I have spoken to your Helpline, your Technical Support Department and your Escalated Technical Support Department. I have had your Technicians remotely accessing my computer and my router. They have modified lots of settings. Each call, some of which have lasted more than two hours, ends when your Technician tells me that all is well, I have no more worries and the SureSignal will be working well in 24 hours.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">Sadly, events have not emancipated their claims. It still doesn’t work.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">I am moved to write to you, sir, because the other day I struggled through to your Technical Department, politely explained the problem for the umpteenth time and the Technician hung up. Fortunately you “record these calls, to improve your service,” so you can check my assertions with ease.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">There are insufficient words in English to describe the rage that overcame me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">Nonetheless I calmed and rang again, eventually speaking to a person named Lena in your Technical Department. I asked her how to reset the SureSignal. She was really helpful with a terrific telephone manner. She said that I should:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "></p><ul style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">Press the reset button until all the lights flash</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">Let go of the button when they flash</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">Unplog the power and the internet connection</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">Plug the power and the internet connection back in.</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">Within six hours it'll be working</span></li></ul><!--[if !supportLists]--><span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">I carefully checked these instructions and, as usual was politely told that all is well, I should have no more worries and the SureSignal would be working well in 6 hours.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">I followed her instructions to the letter. 24 hours later the SureSignal wosn’t working. I did it again with the same result. And again, It still didn’t and doesn’t now work.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">I have tried and failed to to make it work. I wonder if you, as Chief Executive, have been told that:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "></p><ul style="font-family: Georgia, serif; "><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">SureSignals don’t work</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">Your Technical Department hangs up on callers</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">You have an excellent, if misinformed, staffer in Lena.</span></li><li><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; font-family: Symbol; ">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt; "> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -18pt; font-size: 100%; ">I am the unhappiest customer you have ever had.</span></li></ul><!--[if !supportLists]--><span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: -18pt; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">You may feel that, in my case, Vodafone has fallen down in the maintenance of its usual high standards. If so, you may want to help me to get my SureSignal working. I would welcome any such feelings and look forward to hearing from you.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">Yours sincerely<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; "><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; ">Jeremy G Barnes<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-27459385847969234072012-01-12T18:06:00.000+00:002012-01-12T18:09:43.972+00:00Letter to the Editor<a href="http://img.21food.com/20110609/product/1306463950338.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 259px;" src="http://img.21food.com/20110609/product/1306463950338.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The Editor</p><p class="MsoNormal">Haslemere Herald</p><p class="MsoNormal">Dear Sir<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The other day I was excited to receive a beautifully wrapped Jiffy bag through my letterbox. It had been mailed from the States and bore the correct postage and a perfectly addressed and printed label.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I opened it in the kitchen. You can, I’m sure, understand my surprise when I drew from it a tin of Spam. As it happens, I quite like Spam, or Spiced Ham, especially in fritters with chips. peas and tomato ketchup. I already had a couple of tins in my larder, just in case.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am writing to you because I am sure that this unusual event is the beginning of a new surface mail problem. The Internet’s habit of sending UCE (Unsolicited Commercial Email) or Spam to the world’s inboxes has now spread. It’s a worrying trend. Something must be done!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I dropped my unwanted Spam straight into my wheelie bin. My recycle bin was clearly inappropriate.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yours sincerely<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jeremy G Barnes<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-6129041487821306732012-01-10T16:18:00.001+00:002012-01-10T16:22:18.800+00:00Vacuum filling itself<a href="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/59/209908327_c17641729a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 333px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/59/209908327_c17641729a.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Hello Hoover, I won't waste your winsome wiles, your wonderful ways<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The children have charmingly chucked chocolate chunks round the room.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">They think they can thwart my threats to thrash them, that I am theatrical.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ll say I’m sorry.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I'll plug you in, power you up and push you to the appropriate position<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And you, with lungs like luminous lagoons, will lull the living room into lovely litterlessness<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You can breathe in bits of broken books, dessicated dollies, hacked Action Men, mashed Meccano, Limp Lego.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's so gory!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You'll bring order to them all. Your electric inhalation is my eclectic exculpation<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Move over Hoover! Let's suck some stuff, Afterwards I'll squeeze your bag. It's the least I can do.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Room clear, kids clean, tea eaten, curtains drawn, fire flaming. then TV<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We'll cuddle the kids on the sofa, so far so good. And, wide-eyed, we’ll gaze.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's Jackanory!<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-48090694180738538452012-01-09T17:04:00.002+00:002012-01-09T17:08:36.631+00:00The wife - the VIPER<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rY-sCLzmsuY/TwseP5MXoLI/AAAAAAAAAJk/HMqhuiSKXiY/s1600/fat.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 90px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rY-sCLzmsuY/TwseP5MXoLI/AAAAAAAAAJk/HMqhuiSKXiY/s400/fat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695679412139696306" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">In the nineteenth year of our marriage, the anniversary of which is, coincidentally, today, the wife has revised her health and fitness regime. I have never known her to believe that she was anything but grotesquely obese. She is not, never has been and doubtless never will be. She is fit, shapely and perfectly proportioned. Had I a boat, she would float it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">She is, however, unable to believe the truth. She owns enough herbal remedies, vitamins and assorted unproven remedies to open her own branch of Holland and Barrett. If ever we fall on hard(er) times we could hold a sale which would square the mortgage. She thinks it’s better to keep them, just in case.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">For the past nineteen years she has been locked in a daily battle with the image she sees in the mrror. The image is bent by her distorted perception which interprets “tasty” as “hideous.” It’s a battle she can never win.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">She’s tried the Atkins Diet, The Low Fat Diet, the cabbage Soup Diet, the Fresh Air Diet, the Gluten – Free Diet, the Boiled Water and a Kipper Diet, all to no avail. She’s eaten Healthily, Sensibly and No Carbohydrately. Recently she‘s taken to eating Annoyingly. I swear it’s the Next Big Thing: The Annoying Diet. She won’t eat what I eat. Too easy. So no bread, no cheese, no beer, no steak, no chocolate. We sit down for supper. I’m lucky if I get a piece of boiled fish with spinach. I have to hide he Toblerone. Such is the fate of the long-married man.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-size: 100%; ">And now to celebrate nineteen years of married bliss would you please welcome the latest weapon in ther War on Waist. The VIPER. The Very Irritating Physical Exercise Regime. She’s up at six running around like people with iPods. Inspired by our (obviously </span><span style="font-size: 100%; "> </span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">younger) kids she’s signed up for a ten kay. I guess the idea is that she’s so knackered she doesn’t worry about her weght. It might work.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-80074035595480757192012-01-03T14:16:00.003+00:002012-01-03T14:21:12.025+00:00What? Hoovering?<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yoSToqk58yE/TwMOQJY9VdI/AAAAAAAAAI0/q8vW98Q8Xds/s1600/Asda.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-yoSToqk58yE/TwMOQJY9VdI/AAAAAAAAAI0/q8vW98Q8Xds/s320/Asda.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693410024487736786" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">(Reuters) - The government unveiled a 250 million pound industry-financed plan to promote good eating on Sunday under which millions of people will receive vouchers offering discounts on healthy foods. The coalition government is promoting the scheme as part of its Change4Life programme…<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, in an expensive Whitehall Office:<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Top Civil Servant: People are just too bloody fat, sir<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Health Secretary Andrew Lansley : Fbviously. They should just bloody well eat less.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">TCS: The food industry might have something to say about that, sir.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lansley: Right. Rewind, then. What can we do? There’s no money.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">TCS: Of course not, sir. Your usual response is to let the private sector carry the can.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lansley: Is it? Good idea. We could launch an initiative.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: Labour did enough initiative launching to see us into the 22<sup>nd</sup> century, sir. What we need is an industry-financed plan. They’re bound to agree once they understand the alternative.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: Eating less?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: Precisely, sir.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: I’m sorry to rain on your parade, but I’ve spotted the fatal flaw in this otherwise briliant, scheme.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: And that is, sir?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: The supermarkets haven’t got any money either.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: I see where you’re going with this, sir. There’s two kinds of supermarkets. There’s those that work, make a bundle and don’t need any government help. Tesco is a case in point. The other kind never makes money. They’re gagging for customers because they don’t have any. Think of ASDA. Patting your bottom? They’re American. Hence the fat bum image. Everyone hates Americans so they won’t shop there, sir. ASDA’ll chip in a few bucks so people think they care too. You may have noticed, Americans are fat.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: I see what you mean. They get free government advertising and we get points for caring. Mind you, it’s an intriguing irony. Fat Americans paying to get Britons to lose weight.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: Indeed, sir.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: One thing. We’re the government, not nutritionists. I’m not sure that we should be telling people what to eat.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: If we don’t, who will?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: Nutritionists? They know what they’re talking about, don’t they?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: Haha.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: Okay. Their mums, then.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: Haha.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: It’s the thin edge of the slippery slope. They’ll be wanting us to tell them how to do the washing up. Make beds. Hoover.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">TCS: Yes sir. Shall I get on to that?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:42.55pt;text-indent:-42.55pt;tab-stops: 42.55pt">Lansley: Immediately.<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-58700798482642583862011-12-18T14:48:00.009+00:002011-12-18T15:07:56.393+00:00Sunday Night Story - Parenthood<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1lqd-zIPq5M/Tu39YX5dC6I/AAAAAAAAAIo/-tTvBI5gyn4/s1600/Princess.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 129px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1lqd-zIPq5M/Tu39YX5dC6I/AAAAAAAAAIo/-tTvBI5gyn4/s320/Princess.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687480499612486562" /></a>The problem is, she’s so hideously ugly,’ said the Queen. ‘We’ll never find her a husband. He’d have to be blind, deaf and stupid.’<br /><br /> The King knew there were such people in the world but didn’t want to be related to them.<br /><br /> ‘We could bribe someone,’ the Queen continued.<br /><br /> ‘Money can’t buy happiness,’ the King suggested.<br /><br /> ‘Happiness!’ his wife snapped, ‘What’s happiness got to do with anything? We’ve been married for years. Are we happy? Of course not! Where does the word ‘happiness’ appear in the wedding vows?’<br /><br /> The King regarded his wife’s habit of answering her own questions, of conversing with herself, as disturbing; but it did, at least, allow him to pursue his own, private, regal thoughts, as befitted a kind and powerful ruler.<br /><br /> ‘We’ll run a competition for her hand in marriage and a thousand pieces of silver. Suitors will overlook her ugliness for a life of luxury.’<br /><br /> At that moment Florence entered the chamber, just too late to hear her mother’s devastating opinion.<br /><br /> ‘Is breakfast ready?’ she squeaked, in that annoying voice of hers. The King looked at her hump, her lank hair, her limp and her squinty eyes.<br /><br /> ‘Better make it two thousand,’ he said.<br /><br />---<br /><br /> One story from the hundred in SIXTY SECOND FICTION. Free from: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/107004>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-17459200241076934552011-12-17T17:48:00.007+00:002011-12-17T17:56:21.994+00:00Fatherhood<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U55uV1FNfQw/TuzWH8UkzUI/AAAAAAAAAIY/Tei6Bbk7o04/s1600/baby.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U55uV1FNfQw/TuzWH8UkzUI/AAAAAAAAAIY/Tei6Bbk7o04/s320/baby.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687155861401947458" /></a>At the age of three, my son looked at me, ‘Where did I come from, Dad?’ he said.<br /><br />We sat by warm fire on a cold evening. His eyes, big, blue and trusting, demanded honesty. It was a genuine father/son moment so I did not hesitate.<br /><br />‘Well,’ I said, ‘Your mum was desperate for a son. She’d had a couple of daughters and they’re lovely but there was something missing. She was inconsolable. You know how she gets.’<br /><br />He nodded.<br /><br />‘So, we went down to Mothercare to see if they had anything in. Well. They’d had a rush. The shelves were bare. Your Mum rushed up to a saleslady and asked what had happened. The lady explained that they’d had a sale and crowds of people had turned up. It’d been advertised on the telly. Every single baby had gone. Your Mum cried something terrible. She threw her arms round the lady and just wept. I even felt a bit weepy myself. I disentangled her from the lady and said, “Come on, love. We tried.”<br /><br />‘We’d just got to the door when the lady called us back. “Let’s have a look in the Stockroom,” she said, “just to be sure.” So we went into the Stockroom. Huge, it was, lined with empty wooden shelves from floor to ceiling. The lady and your Mum started to look around. <br /><br />‘There was nothing there except dust. Then the lady got this ladder and climbed to the very top. She leaned over the very top shelf and picked up a grubby cardboard box. She brought it down the ladder and put it on the floor in front of us. “There you go,” she said.<br /><br />‘Your Mum knelt down and opened the box. She squealed with delight when she saw your face in a nest of polystyrene packing chips looking up at her. Someone had stamped “REJECT”on your forehead. It was, obviously a clerical error because we brought you home, cleaned you up and you were perfect!<br /><br />‘We were both really happy because you were so gorgeous and we’ve loved you ever since.’<br /><br />‘What’s for tea, Dad?’ he said.Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-30958080734890763422011-12-16T17:21:00.006+00:002011-12-16T17:46:12.450+00:00On being grown up<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/vDSQnu7THaA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />I’m cold. I’m wet. I’m tired. It’s an early Autumn evening in Thetford Chase and I’m sitting on wet, muddy grass in a semicircle of exhausted schoolboys dressed in 1940’s battledress. <br /><br />We have survived a day of pretend warfare, firing blanks from .303 rifles and throwing thunderflashes at each other. The Blue Team captured the Red Team’s flag. I’m in the Red Team and am not enjoying our collective failure. Mr Topsfield thinks its good for us. Helps us grow up. Makes men out of us.<br /><br />He’s right. On this day I discover the truth about being a man. The hope, the risk, the ultimate disappointment. <br /><br />He introduces us to a Major from the Inniskilling Dragoons who snaps to attention in front of us.<br /><br />The Major is beautiful. He is handsome. He is the bloke we all want to be. <br /><br />His boots are mirrors, his trouser crease sharp enough to shave with. His medals gleam. His belt is blinding white and carries a shining leather holster. A white lanyard is fixed to a ring at the base of the pistol’s grip at one end, the other end a loop around his neck. He is over six feet tall and obviously in tip top nick. He smiles at us. His teeth glint. We hold our breath.<br /><br />‘I am now going to show you how to throw a thunderflash five hundred yards,’ he says, his voice, crisp, business-like, mellifluous.<br /><br />We are stunned. It’s impossible to throw a thunderflash more than fifty feet. It’s made of cardboard and weighs nothing. It’s a big banger that cadets like us throw at one another to simulate a grenade attack. It’s explosive but not very. It certainly makes us jump. We know this Major is talking rubbish. But he has the look.<br /><br />‘You will need,’ he says, ‘One Thunderflash.’ It appears in his left hand. He holds it up. We can see that it is, indeed, a real, pretend grenade.<br /><br />‘And,’ he says, ‘One Verey pistol.’ He unbuttons his holster and extracts a flare gun. It looks like a real gun except it has a rather large muzzle.<br /><br />‘First,’ he says, ‘You load the Verey pistol with a flare.’ He breaks the pistol open, produces a flare and puts into the pistol. He snaps the pistol shut.<br /><br />‘The colour of the flare doesn’t matter,’ he says, ‘but my pistol is now loaded with live ammunition so I need to exercise care.’<br /><br />We shrink back. Pointedly, he doesn’t point it at us.<br /><br />‘Now comes the tricky bit,’ he says, ‘You insert the thunderflash into the barrel of the pistol.’<br /><br />He does this as he speaks, It’s a tight fit and he uses a number of powerful shoves to force the thunderflash into the barrel. At last, content, he looks up and smiles. His teeth glint.<br /><br />‘You’re all set,’ he says, ‘Watch!’ As if we could tear our eyes away.<br /><br />‘First, You strike the Thunderflash.’ It has an emery paper striker which through friction, ignites the fuse. It will explode ten seconds later. He strikes the Thunderflash. It fizzes. <br /><br />Everyone silently starts to count. One. Two…<br /><br />‘Next,’ he says, ‘You assume the position with the pistol at about a forty-five degree angle to the ground.’ He raises his arm, looks at us, smiles and pulls the trigger. Three…<br /><br />Click.<br /><br />It’s a dud flare. Four.<br /><br />The thunderflash fizzes bright. We are mesmerised. Five…<br /><br />The Major’s face is contorted in a rictus of terror. Six...<br /><br />Then inspiration strikes. Seven... <br /><br />He smiles and sweeps his arm back. With a mighty swing, he throws the pistol as far away as he can. Eight...<br /><br />Which is about three feet because the pistol is on a beautiful white lanyard round his neck. Nine…<br /><br />It flies to the end of the lanyard. Drops down to the Major’s stomach. Ten.<br /><br />The explosion is deafening. His stomach is black, his face black, his uniform ragged, the muzzle of the pistol a tangle of bent metal.<br /><br />‘That,’ he says, ‘is not supposed to happen.’Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-58422193800081253942011-12-15T12:44:00.003+00:002011-12-15T15:06:55.149+00:00Sense? it doesn't make sense!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mHVT1JM9Iik/TunrrJL8S1I/AAAAAAAAAIM/rw6JC6ujNJU/s1600/Bretton%2BHall.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mHVT1JM9Iik/TunrrJL8S1I/AAAAAAAAAIM/rw6JC6ujNJU/s320/Bretton%2BHall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686335130964872018" /></a><br />The other day I hear that Alyn Davies has died. <br />And yesterday a tree falls on the brother of a friend of mine. He’s still alive but hurt bad. He’s working in the garden, apparently, when the Grim Reaper decides to have a crack at him. It was a near miss but his future won’t be very clear until he graduates from intensive care. And there’s people out there who think there’s some sort of sense or meaning to life: Intelligent Design.<br />Alyn Davies was, for some years, the Principal of the college where I trained as a teacher. He was a brilliant man and created a place that nurtured students like Ken Robinson, John Godber, the complete cast of The League of Gentlemen and others who have changed the face of the country. It was a lovely place, a mansion set in a Capability Brown landscape complete with a bridge, little bits of brickwork and a couple of lakes. I sailed Enterprises, Mirrors and Fennecs on those lakes. I capsized one day and the future mother of my children rescued me in a little orange, plastic rowboat. It was a beautiful day.<br />Whether or not stoned, the students were a creative bunch.<br />The Head of Education was a tall German guy with oiled black hair. He would flatten it with a characteristic sweep of his right hand across his head.<br />In our third year, Alyn Davies, in an attempt both to run and not run exams, devised an interesting permutation. The exam paper was dished out at 0900am but the actual exam didn’t take place until 1500pm. We were allowed to research our answer all day and take one piece of paper into the exam room. I guess the research period was designed to let us get our citations right.<br />We were a creative lot, though, so we planned a wheeze. We formed a committee and divided responsibilities. The smartest bloke in the College agreed to write a model answer. Others organised duplication facilities, checked citations and made coffee. A couple of people stood by the entrance to the exam room, dishing out copies of the modal answer. A lot of people used the model answer. The exam was torpedoed. Intelligent Demonstration. <br />The following day I happened to be alone in the same room as the German guy. He smoothed his hair down and said to me, his accent light, ‘Why? Why did you do it?’<br />He knew, I’m sure, that we were young, immortal, intent. We would do anything that we could do. So we did. What difference it made to anyone or anything is one of those mysteries that hide in the mists of history. It was fun at the time, though.<br />What difference a falling tree makes when toppled by the idiot English climate on to an unlucky gardener is an immediate and terrible mystery.Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-2465139767871691412011-12-14T16:46:00.009+00:002011-12-14T19:23:29.567+00:00A pantry of toil for the gentry<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ULPnTXakM10/TujTD3XcAEI/AAAAAAAAAIA/5fi8NPG7d2I/s1600/441px-Conan_Doyle.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ULPnTXakM10/TujTD3XcAEI/AAAAAAAAAIA/5fi8NPG7d2I/s320/441px-Conan_Doyle.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686026592910573634" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">So, Mary Queen of Shops thinks we should organise town centres more like businesses? I guess that means town centres should set up helplines that really value our call.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Luckily, Beacon Hill isn’t a town. It’s a suburb of Hindhead, itself a Ghost Village, lobotomised since the invention of the motor car, by the A3. The A3 was a spear through the heart of Hindhead. The thunder of forty-ton trucks and pumping petrol drove everyone, except petrol station workers, away. They love the smell of petrol. Were Conan-Doyle alive today, he’d be spinning in his grave. And Louisa Conan-Doyle would be coughing for England.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When the railway arrived in Haslemere in the late nineteenth century, people who could afford the fare could take a day-trip to “Little Switzerland” and enjoy the bracing air. The area round Haslemere got the nickname because of the way it snuggled into the corrugated landscape. Unlike today (not,) rail travel in them far-off days was for the wealthy. And the air in Hindhead was, indeed, delicious. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">George Bernard Shaw, well known for his gentle and liberal views,led the rush, building a stately pile down here. Arthur Conan-Doyle’s wife Louisa was a frail little thing so the creator of Sherlock Holmes built her a house in Hindhead celled, punningly, Undershaw. Those Victorians eh?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Louisa died in 1906 and Conan-Doyle, by all accounts, went potty, joining up with his magic mate, Harry Houdini, to expose fake spiritualists. Meantime, JW Turner (him of the Fighting Temeraire) painted a rather savage picture of the three footpads hanged on Gibbet hill in Hindhead for the murder of a simple sailor, Apparently, the dangling corpses could be seen from Guildford, a lesson the people of the town probably took to heart. "Let's not do that with the drunken sailor!"<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">To cap it all, the then Prime Minister, Labour’s Lloyd George, moved on to a huge estate just down the road. Suddenly, a load of working class people were needed in the area to till the soil, clip the hedges and serve dinner. Thus was Beacon Hill born. A pantry of toil for the gentry.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nowadays it’s slightly more classy - or less, depending on your disposable income. There’s a butcher, a post office(!), a convenience store, a chemist, a deli, a children’s clothes shop and a splendid Italian restaurant. There’s a Chinese takeaway, an Indian takeaway, two garages and three churches. There’s a few empty shops too.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Since the tunnels coincidentally healed Hindhead’s yawning wound, the air’s been just like that which the Victorian intelligentsia so coveted. Maybe we can can it!</p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-84892527022814814602011-12-13T12:36:00.003+00:002011-12-13T13:06:38.092+00:00Keep Left, FFS<div><p class="MsoNormal"><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/FoS1o_AGQ3Y" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Here in Hindhead there are no nasty traffic jams at the A3/A325 crossroads any more. The tunnels have put paid to that. Instead there is a pair of life-or-death “mini-roundabouts.” A mini-roundabout is actually a painted roundabout. It’s just a black and white circle painted on the road. A magic circle – because people drive round it like it was a real roundabout.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The rule is “give way to traffic from the right” because in England we drive on the left side of the road. This doesn’t work when cars approach from all directions simultaneously. They all stop, look at the roundabout, look at each other. No-one can move because everyone is giving way to the traffic from the right. A twenty-first century game of chicken has begun. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sooner or later, the driver with the biggest death wish just goes. The car on his left stops. And so on. How anybody ever manages to use one of these roundabouts is a mystery. And in Hindhead, there’s two of them next to each other. They’ve been put there to remind people that they’re mortal.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">OTSOW, Driving on the left side of the road is the proper way to drive, no matter what the world thinks.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The thing is that the most important human organ, the human heart is on the left side of the body. You can’t change that. To protect the heart, therefore, humans naturally turn to the left, putting the right side of the body in front of the heart, itself as far away as possible from an aggressor. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">If you have a sword, this makes even better sense. Sword in the right hand, heart far away from an aggressor.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So the scabbard for the sword has to be on the left hip. Tough to get a sword into a scabbard on the same side as the hand that holds it. If you don’t believe me, try it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">With the scabbard on the left you can only lift the right leg to get on a horse and end up facing the same way as the horse. If you don’t believe me, try it Damage to your bits with the sword’s handle is your sole responsibility.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So you have to be standing on the pavement or a box on the horse’s left side. If you don't want to be standing in the middle of the road, THE HORSE HAS GOT TO BE ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE ROAD!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I bet that all Americans and Europeans are either left-handed or don’t care what happens to their hearts<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p></div>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-56959635318845450772011-12-12T17:15:00.004+00:002011-12-15T08:18:03.693+00:00Ignorance! Bring it on!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yF2qUCspAhk/TuY2ta201VI/AAAAAAAAAH0/XobQ2sfdZsM/s1600/Demo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yF2qUCspAhk/TuY2ta201VI/AAAAAAAAAH0/XobQ2sfdZsM/s320/Demo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5685291733533119826" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">The less I know about something the more strongly I feel about it. I don’t know a lot about the French so I don’t like them. In fact, I despise them. If a French bloke came in right now I’d probably be rude to him. If I had a Luger, I’d probably shoot him. I wouldn’t do anything like that if he smiled and said ‘Bonjour!’ because I’d immediately know he was a reasonable person and I don’t shoot reasonable people. I can honestly say that I have never shot a reasonable person - or anybody. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I don’t know much about the rights of animals,Global Warming, Nuclear Energy, the Conservative Party, capitalism, Rupert Murdoch, Iraq and the internal combustion engine. Obviously, therefore, I feel really strongly about them all. They are BAD! Or GOOD! Or should be SHOT! Or SAVED! Something MUST be done about them, preferably by someone who knows something about them. I don’t so I can’t help. Somebody else must do something. Somebody won’t do anything about them, of course. They are even worse. People who don’t do things.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-37139087165105059232011-12-11T17:44:00.004+00:002011-12-11T18:01:11.613+00:00Sunday Night Story - Suppertime<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9MeHjf6RmaM/TuTv1bi4tDI/AAAAAAAAAHc/1kNg37FDJKk/s1600/Cat.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 86px; height: 84px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9MeHjf6RmaM/TuTv1bi4tDI/AAAAAAAAAHc/1kNg37FDJKk/s320/Cat.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684932330854593586" /></a><br /><i>One for the kiddies - in exactly 200 words:</i><div><p class="MsoNormal">Mad old Mrs Frobisher sat at the dining table, her face reflected in its mahogany shine. She reached down beside her chair and brought up a large handbag on to the table.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> ‘O Kitty’ she sang, ‘suppertime!’</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> She opened the bag and took out a pair of spectacles, a six-inch nail, a claw hammer, a tin of Whiskas, a tin opener, a Spode finger-bowl and a gold chain. She put on her spectacles and examined the chain, allowing it to pour from one arthritic hand to another like a gleaming waterfall over knobbly rocks. It sparkled in the light of the chandelier.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> ‘Ah, Kitty!’ she cooed, as her marmalade cat jumped into her lap. ‘Peckish?’ </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> The cat purred as Mrs Frobisher attached the chain to its collar. She passed the nail through a ring on the other end of the chain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> She took the hammer and, with determined blows, drove the nail into the mahogany. Kitty tried to run but the chain snapped taut. Mrs Frobisher opened the can and filled the bowl, placing it an inch beyond the cat’s salivating reach. The chain hummed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mad old Mrs Frobisher settled down for her evening’s entertainment, her face alight with glee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="left" style="margin-bottom: 10pt; text-indent: 0cm; "><o:p> </o:p></p></div>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-29709866623309874552011-12-10T21:00:00.002+00:002011-12-11T15:59:52.789+00:00Born in Basingstoke? Reborn!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dj_PxKDUpEQ/TuPKFDvcP7I/AAAAAAAAAHE/QULfANgBBRU/s1600/Bay2.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dj_PxKDUpEQ/TuPKFDvcP7I/AAAAAAAAAHE/QULfANgBBRU/s320/Bay2.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684609342924144562" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I’m in the room when my first daughter is born. It’s an amazing experience so I decide to share it with people of Basingstoke. Health and Safety hasn’t been invented yet so I and a couple of mates hire a Transit and collect a vanload of old mattresses from the Town Dump. It’s not a Recycling Centre yet.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We build a larger than life model of the female reproductive system. Installations haven’t been invented yet either.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The way it works is that you turn up at the entrance and pay 50p to the Ovaries on Duty. Then you make your way down the fallopian tubes. It’s dark and the fallopian walls are strangely stained like used mattresses. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You arrive in the womb, created from a Government Surplus parachute. It’s dark and very warm, like wombs are, as you remember. You can hear a loud heartbeat and the whistling of air in and out of the lungs. There are headphones you can wear to listen to a birth-related programme of music and poetry. There are leaflets about the wonder of birth and screens showing movies about childbirth. Time passes in an developmental way until you are fully gestated, engaged and the cervix is at full dilation.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">You make your way down the cervical tract and arrive in a brightly lit, white-painted room where a masked midwife slaps you on the back and gives you a Rebirth Certificate.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The exhibition is a hit with local children, some of whom are born two or three times a day.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s destroyed on the Sunday by a visiting cleric, from whom the Ovaries on Duty fail to confiscate an umbrella.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He has no problem down the fallopian tubes, reaches the womb and gestates for an hour or so.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, during his rebirth, his umbrella becomes jammed across the cervix which has not reached full dilation. He is the cause, victim and survivor of a total cervical collapse.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At the time there are four or five people in the womb, all of whom are rescued by Caesarean Section.<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-86076461945188504542011-12-10T10:20:00.003+00:002011-12-10T12:50:22.075+00:00The human condition – could do better<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZDyQaVxEDSY/TuMy8Xn0qkI/AAAAAAAAAG4/zKFsfiAUd6Q/s1600/hindhead-tunnel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 186px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZDyQaVxEDSY/TuMy8Xn0qkI/AAAAAAAAAG4/zKFsfiAUd6Q/s320/hindhead-tunnel.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684443167386282562" /></a><p class="MsoNormal">Balfour Beatty (BB), the main contractors for the building of the Hindhead tunnels, won the hearts of more than 99% of people living in or around Hindhead for their superb organisation and execution of the almost £400m civil engineering project. Less than 1% of local people set up STOAT, Save The Old A Three, to spread doom and gloom about the scheme, to forecast death, destruction and disaster. They pointed out that when a truck or two blew up in the tunnel, everybody would die, die, die. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">BB explained the unbelievable safety systems, evacuation plans and emergency scenarios they had thought up and planned for. They even blew up a lorry in the tunnel to test their systems! Nobody died. “Nothing,” they said, “could possibly go wrong.” <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Philip Hammond, flamingo-faced Transport Minister, cut the ribbon and the traffic rolled. For the frst time, peace, oxygen and predictable travel times arrived. We looked upon BB’s mighty works and wondered.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Last week the tunnels closed for four hours. Traffic chaos ensued. Ordinary people were trapped in their cars for hours. Polish articulated trucks, driven by Satnav, tried to drive through the Punch Bowl. What BB described as a “Once in a century” event happened. Liphook became an inland island. STOAT hired skywriters to emblazon “WE TOLD YOU SO!” over the heavens. When the hysteria abated, Enquiries were launched. These would ensure that such a thing “could never happen again.” Where have I heard that before?<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was a power cut!!! Bad weather cut the power. The emergency generators failed too! The tunnels were closed for safety reasons! This was, apparently, a very, very, very unusual, completely unforeseeable, event. We spent £400m and no-one thought the power might go off!<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">This is the thing of it, of course. We humans think we’re really good at stuff, that we’ve cracked it, that we can do it. But we aren’t. We haven’t We can’t. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We’re human and, therefore, not half as good as we think we are. Reality gets my vote. Not hubris.<o:p></o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-37730821902762029882011-12-09T12:29:00.003+00:002011-12-09T14:30:27.290+00:00Strange Co-Op<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RxAVeRvH-Y0/TuIasYd3IpI/AAAAAAAAAGs/98YzokZxrH8/s1600/ST.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RxAVeRvH-Y0/TuIasYd3IpI/AAAAAAAAAGs/98YzokZxrH8/s320/ST.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684135029479252626" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I’m in Aldershot’s Co-op pushing a trolley laden only with a frozen chicken. The little doctor and I haven’t started serious shopping yet. She can testify to the strange events that occur this day, there, in that supermarket. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s a long aisle shopperless save the little doctor and I. Musak plays. To my right a large, florid woman stands behind the cooked meat counter. She has tongs and arranges the sausages. To my left a callow youth stands on a stepladder stacking upper shelves. As I pass between them the woman, in a loud and raucous voice, cries. “What’s the code for corned beef?”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am rankled. She’s shouted right through me! I bridle. Without a moment’s hesitation, doubtless possessed by an impish spirit, I shout, “Two! Six! Eight!”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The moment passes and I continue, grinning, down the aisle. The little doctor looks at me, surprised and worried. But then, I never live up to her expectations.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then I realise that no-one seems to have noticed my angry intervention. My grin fades. I turn and approach the callow youth.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Excuse me,” I say, “I’m sorry to trouble you.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He turns to me, customer-friendly face all set.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Did you hear,” I say, “That lady asking for the code for corned beef?”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I did, sir,” he says, “I did.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I say, “And did you also hear someone shout ‘268’?”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I did, sir,” he says, “I did, indeed.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I say, “I have to ask you: Is ‘268’ the code for corned beef?”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, sir,” he says, “It is.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I look at him and he looks at me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then he says, “Now you mention it I did wonder who had spoken.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-85115403869782111772011-12-08T09:37:00.003+00:002011-12-08T14:47:18.415+00:00Punning puddingThere's an awful lot of people in this world. See! I promised wisdom and there it is.<div><div><br /></div><div>I'm asleep last night and in the middle of the usual raft of pointless dreaming suddenly have this Number one, 24 carat, brilliant idea. I'm thinking about "Just Desserts" an interesting and common expression suggesting that someone got what they deserved. I'm thinking what an amazing idea for a range of puddings that supermarkets could sell. Yes! I think, my fortune is assured. Punning puddings will pay the mortgage. </div><div><br /></div><div>I could offer: Fine yogurt. (geddit? Fine!), Custardial sentence, Suspended Tapioca, Bread and batter pudding, Sticky Magistrate, Chocolate Sponger, Cellomina etc etc My dreams are engrossing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wake today and check Google. Yup! There's a range of puddings called Just Desserts. There's even a bloke who says it should be "Just Deserts!" because it started in Australia or something. I've lost interest and, possibly, the will to live.</div><div><br /></div><div>Son number One has this mate who sells teeshirts with "I think you'll find it's a bit more complicated than that" on them. So maybe my nocturnal brainwave should have read the shirt. Or perhaps, there's me with this fantastic idea stolen right from under me while I'm asleep. Those damn people eh?</div></div>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-82753173355702049292011-12-07T19:46:00.005+00:002011-12-08T15:47:28.169+00:00Weather or not? Not!I never watch broadcast TV nowadays. I fell for the Sky+ thing and tape everything. I say tape I mean "write to hard disk." The only exception is weather forecasts. The little doctor likes them for some reason. <div><br /></div><div>I find the first ten minutes is a description, with many an arm sweep, of what has already happened and what the weather is now. How is this forecasting? I can get the same information by looking out of the window. One of my more interesting pastimes nowadays as it happens. The last minute or two is the outlook for the week. </div><div><br /></div><div>I read that someone carried out a survey to compare the statement "It'll be a bit like today" and the official forecast with what really happened. The official forecast came off worst. So why bother? The little doctor likes it because of the ghastly warnings, I think, put there so we can't sue when they don't mention the storm.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>It 's all about insurance. Just because we can insure against rain insurance companies have to define what - exactly - rain is.It's a funny old world.</div><div><br /></div></div>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4921395839088045367.post-88107483072044668062011-12-07T17:09:00.001+00:002011-12-08T14:45:05.839+00:00He said I should do it...My brother says I need a blog. So here it is. <div><br /></div><div>With this here blog thingy I propose to share the pleasure and pains of using public oxygen with an increasingly enthusiastic and rapidly expanding mass of the most intellectually gifted and Concentration limited worldwide brains.</div><div>I will capitalise on the runaway success of my latest oevre, <b>Sixty Second Fiction</b> (widely available and currently free everywhere except Amazon) to promote my belief that: "If you can't get it in 60seconds it's not worth getting."</div><div>Follow the developing lunacy of a multi-disabled Englishman - or don't.</div>Jem Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03350434051690859698noreply@blogger.com1