Hyde Park in plain sight

I stepped into a time machine the other evening and travelled back to 1971, courtesy of a charming documentary currently available as part of a BBC Four collection on the iPlayer.  If you’re in need of some uncomplicated escapism and have 50 minutes to spare, may I recommend this unhurried wander through London’s famous Hyde Park amid a fascinating variety of human (and a few animal) visitors from 50 years ago. 

It’s a lovely location, but of course it’s the people who make this so interesting.  There’s the man in his swimming trunks standing on his head, the novice rider with no sense of rhythm, the humble 'Geranium King' who doesn’t like geraniums.  There are the Cockney boys eager to get on camera  (“woss it all abaht?!”) and the not-so-Cockney boys eyeing up bikini girls through their telescopes (“…an hour with her!”)  It’s like a community within a community, with unabashed orators and placard-holders at Speakers’ Corner, a fashion shoot taking place on the bandstand and a fabulously percussive performance of ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ - not on the bandstand.  Then there’s the lothario strutting around in his teeny tiny trunks who… well, don’t let me spoil it for you if you want to watch!   And so many others observed without judgement nor comment, the combination of which seems to illustrate in the simplest terms both the frustrations and joys of just being human - the collapsing deckchair and the squeaky wheel could have come straight out of a comedy sketch show.  Of course my favourite character is the beautifully spoken lady taking her beloved duck for a swim.  Where is she now?!

But one of the main things that makes this film report so delightful and immersive is its style.  It has such a lightness of touch which seems rare now.  There's no generic piano music in the background, nor those irritating pizzicato strings to lead us subliminally to an intended emotional reaction. No over-dramatic narration to humiliate its subjects and lure us towards a predictable opinion (I can't stand being subconsciously directed on what to think!) You can just let go and enjoy your guided tour... at a comfortable 1971 pace.

That’s how I like my observational documentary style.  You too?

Here's the link (Man Alive: Hyde Park):  https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00rzvww

And the song to accompany Mr Lothario:

Roy Brown: Mighty Mighty Man

Weirdness on an English walk

Not quite the follow-up to my last post that I was intending, but I'm still on the subject of fear in the fields of England....

‘Would it kill you to say hello on a country walk?’ is the question asked in this article today and I found it quite apt.

What do you do?  Generally I say a quiet “hello” or at least smile.  Seems  to me that if you’re on an empty path with no-one around apart from one other person heading your way, who then passes within touching distance,  it’d actually be quite odd not to openly acknowledge their existence.   Even if only with a cursory nod of the head – it doesn’t have to be some big, bold fanfare of a greeting, just a subtle signal that communicates, ”I’m human and so are you”.  At the same time, I know that when walking alone it’s often to be exactly that – alone - so a lengthy chat about the weather isn’t on everyone’s agenda.    But a smile will do.  A smile and a “hello” if it feels right, and then on your way.

Yesterday I went out for some fresh air and took a familiar route, part of which is up the long drive to a manor house, open to the public.  You can park along it too;  people often leave their cars on the verge and then walk their dogs across the adjacent fields. 

As I made my way down it I passed a lone parked car and was faintly aware of a grey-haired woman behind its open boot –  some yards away to my right.  Bearing in mind what I said above, I turned my head briefly in her direction and smiled.  It was one of those vague expressions you cast out when you’re not really sure… not close enough to speak but not far enough away to pretend you can’t see the other person.   It was little more than a glance really.  I couldn’t even see her response as she was obscured by the raised boot of her hatchback but I wasn’t bothered, the point was I’d just acknowledged her presence with a quick friendly gesture as I went by.

I was still walking away when I became aware of her voice.  I thought she must have had a child in the car, or perhaps a dog – I couldn’t tell.  She sounded cross, though.  Oh dear, maybe it was a hen-pecked husband?!  But she was also getting louder, as if to compensate for the increasing distance between us – as if for some reason she wanted to keep me within earshot.  Then I started to tune in to what she was actually saying…

“…Oh yes, that’s it, laugh at me.  You just laugh, why don’t you?  Oh, because my boot doesn’t work and I’m having to hold it up with my hands, oh yes, that’s very funny, isn’t it, and you think you’re so clever and you….” etc. etc. etc.

She got louder….. this was sounding very aggressive now…  really shouting.  As I got further away it was developing into quite an indecipherable tirade and all I could make out was

“you…. (something or other)” 

“(something or other) you”

“(something) YOU (something)”

and it suddenly dawned on me who this “you” was:

Me !

I know, I know, I should have just kept walking away but two things were bugging me – one was that  I still couldn’t really understand if she was talking to me and if so I wanted to know - why? what?  The other thought flashing through my brain was that, while I’d walked merrily past, was she actually struggling with her car and thus perceiving my benign smile as rude (in the way that you would if you dropped your bag of shopping all over the street and someone went by with a grin without stopping to help you pick it up)?  I know, I over-think these things.   But perhaps I could make up for this misunderstanding by helping her now; maybe she was in trouble, and frustrated?   So, anyway, I stopped.  I walked slowly back towards her and I said – very gently – “I’m sorry, but were you speaking to me…?”

Studiously avoiding looking in my direction, she yelled angrily, “NOT PARTICULARLY!”  (Weird).  She was short and stout, probably in her early‘70s, apparently sober, very well-spoken, neatly dressed and unbelievably stressed.  By now I could see there was definitely no-one else in the car (no hen-pecked husband.  At least not here).

I  wanted to be conciliatory, calming.  “I'd only smiled to say hello,” I ventured, not moving any closer “I didn’t know if you wanted some help…”  but she drowned me out, almost hysterically  – 

“Go away! 

Go away!    

GO!   

AWAY!”

I don’t know if I can impart here quite how weird it was.  I'm sure it just sounds daft, but it was so bizarre.  I think it felt particularly surreal because I was simply taking a tranquil country walk in a public place, minding my own business, at peace with the world and with myself, when I suddenly found myself on the receiving end of this abuse and misplaced aggression, and from someone whose external appearance seemed at odds with her behaviour, if you know what I mean.   She spoke to (I mean, shouted at) me as if I was somebody else, someone who wasn’t me.  I’m a fairly small, non-threatening, middle-aged female… and here’s an older woman bawling at me to “Go away!”  like I was some kind of thug.  That’s what got to me, I suppose.

I muttered “Okay, bye” (no idea why!)  turned back around and walked briskly home, but was surprised to find after a few minutes my legs started to feel wobbly and my eyes began watering.  Silly, I know, but I guess it was just a bit of a shock.

I also wondered what was behind it all, what else she may do or had already done, and if she will get the psychiatric help she needs.  Something's clearly wrong.

Plus I’ll be more careful about smiling at people in the future.  And I've kind of gone off the idea of walking up that route again.  Shame.

Notes from a semi bohemian suburban childhood #1

I didn't like it.  Perhaps as a younger child it felt slightly threatening, having to share my space with a stranger and, more to the point, having to share my mum with one too.  Car doors would open and after a brief exchange a heavy-looking haversack (and sometimes dirty boots, plastic bags, cardboard signs with 'Wigan' or 'M1' written on them in marker pen) would be loaded onto the back seat beside me.  Then we made the next leg of whatever journey we were undertaking in Mum's green and white Triumph Herald with a new passenger on board.   For however many minutes and miles required, the attention would be focused on them - more often than not a young man, occasionally a young woman too - whose back of the head was all I could see, until we dropped them off at a junction or a lay-by some way closer to their final destination.  Mum could rarely drive past a hitchhiker without stopping to at least check if she could be of any help.

So, as a child, I didn't like having to give lifts to strangers, but my mum was a warm, gregarious woman who enjoyed engaging with people of diverse backgrounds - especially young people - and as I reflect on this with the benefit of these extra years, I now envy her.  I wish I had her ability to chat with ease to anyone, the same openness of her heart and the generosity of her gestures.

One day, by which time I was a young teenager and my mum now separated from my dad, she came home from a long journey and spoke enthusiastically of a hitchhiker whose company she'd enjoyed for several miles.  It seemed as if a special kind of friendship had been formed even in that short time and in spite of them being disparate characters - she a middle-aged mother and he a young, long-haired hippie type by all accounts, but with the added exotic credentials of being French and also (or so he told her) having some Native American ancestry.  From what I remember her telling my sister and me, it didn't matter that they were ostensibly so different as they talked about philosophy and art, about spiritual and cultural beliefs - deep and stimulating conversation from the sound of it, and as far away from the usual bland small talk as you can get.  Mum was most enamoured of him, her eyes flashing with excitement as she described him and shared his stories and insights with us, just as her passenger had  with her earlier.  "And I told him to come and visit us any time, if he's ever in this area," she concluded.

 "Mum!" my big sister and I exclaimed, in a manner more suited to that of a parent admonishing their child, "You mean you gave him our address?!"  We were not impressed.

"Well, yes of course," she confirmed, unperturbed by our reaction.

This was Mum all over.  Trusting.  Maybe too trusting?  But she had helped out waifs and strays before (and perhaps I'll write about those too in another post); it was just in her nature.

It was about a year or two later I guess, hard to say as the passage of time seems to move at a different speed when you're younger, nevertheless it had been many months after Mum's encounter that I came home from school and she said we had a visitor.  He had turned up out of the blue, having walked some distance through the town (and perhaps the county), carrying a piece of paper with our address on and eventually finding his way to our front door.  And he was welcomed warmly, sleeping on the camp bed in our living room for just one night before continuing on his wanders, the perfect house-guest, grateful, kind and honest, no money went missing, no privacy was breached (mutually!):  a hitchhiking French hippie with Native American ancestry.  It was a sweet, simple reminder of what it is to truly trust a stranger.  Proof, I believe, that most people are good.

And on that cheery note - Happy New Year!

Not mum's actual car

The next table

We're having a meal down the pub, when I'm aware that two couples, 60s-ish, typical middle Englander types, are seating themselves at the table next to us. Over the following hour or so, without any effort on our part, we learn so much. All about the A14, for a start. And the finer details of waiting for trains. My chips are far more interesting, they could have waxed lyrically about the pleasures of nestling next to a portion of peas, but the loud voice to my right is a dominating force and I am unwillingly but unavoidably pulled to its endless, know-it-all monologues about roads, Sainsbury's and weddings. Why are boring people invariably SO loud, too?

“And the Americans, they can't spell, can they?” the diner says to his companions, whom I suspect are there under sufferance, even (or perhaps especially?) his wife. “Like the way they spell 'colour'” he continues. “C – O – L – O - R.  No 'U'!  And centre! They spell it C – E – N – T – E - R... ”

I mean, he actually has to spell the words out proudly, and with great emphasis... like he needs to... like anyone wouldn't know?

I can't see the man himself; he is to my immediate right and to clock him would require me to make an obvious 90 degree turn of the head. It's enough that my ears are being assaulted, so I save my eyes for appreciating the alpine peaks on my lemon meringue pie and exchanging knowing glances with Mr SDS.

Yes, it could be so much worse – he isn't spouting abusively nor expressing his allegiance to right wing extremism – however, it's just so tiresome, and by the end of the evening I really have had enough. As I turn around to pull on my jacket I come face to face with this verbaliser of inane, high volume tedium and, maybe you had to be there, plus it may not be much at all, but that's when I find some very small degree of consolation.  It's the moment when I notice his huge napkin – and it's tucked into his collar widthways, with corners pointing out jauntily to each side, like a stupid comedy bow-tie.

Some time in 1981

Got the bus into college today as usual, chatted to that girl who's on the secretarial course, she was enthusing madly about my eye make-up. I showed her my big green eye pencil, it's so fat it's like a kid's crayon, I love it! I draw around my eyes like I'm painting a picture, then smudge the black underneath them into it so it blends gradually, quite an art.

First session this morning was photography with Alan. He's a funny man, I don't know whether I like him or not, he's inoffensive enough, though. He's always telling us stories about how he used to photograph sixties models. Today he mentioned Celia Hammond, and there was another one whose name I've forgotten already, but he said that they had to give up on photographing her in the nude because her skin was so translucent that, although it looked alright in the flesh (literally), in the photos you could see all her veins! She must have looked like a road map.

Anyway he brought in his professional lighting equipment and was teaching us about how the lighting can change the mood of a portrait photo. Lighting from above is quite flattering, bringing out the shadows under the chin and nose, but lighting from below can give an almost malevolent look. Then he picked one of us to demonstrate on. Of course he bloody went and picked me, didn't he? I felt like a right wally sat there in the middle of the room while he ponced about with all these lights and everyone was looking at me. Wished I hadn't worn my baggy grey jumper, but at least I'd covered up the tatty neck with Mum's old green and blue scarf.  It still smells of her perfume.  I've got some spots on my chin, though, fuck it! Anyway he told me to sit with my head tilted upwards and look to the side for a classic portrait, really serious. I don't know quite how I did it without laughing, although I know I went a bit red. Thank god they'll be in black and white.

We're developing them tomorrow in the dark room, that should be fun, always feels like we're bunking off because there's so much waiting around time, always feels like a secret place too, must be the red light!

Katy was naughty at lunchtime. She'd brought in some dope. Apparently it's Red Leb. I think it was Black Leb that she had last time, that was when I tried it and ended up feeling so ill I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I was all over the place, I remember making some comment about Joseph and the Technicoloured Dreamcoat but I'd said Multicoloured Raincoat. God knows what the context was, I just remember that bit. Anyway Katy was well into smoking this Red Leb at lunchtime but after the last experience I didn't fancy it. I'm just not cut out for that stuff. Wish I was. As usual she rolled up some spliffs very ritualistically in the studio while John and Ray kept watch at the door. She doesn't care what she uses to roll them up on – she'd brought a Frank Zappa album in to lend me and she used the sleeve, bits of baccy everywhere. I'm not sure what I'm going to think of Zappa, I've heard of him but I don't know much about him, all seems a bit old to me. Katy keeps going on about a song with the line “Catholic girls with a tiny little moustache”... makes her laugh because she's Catholic.  But she hasn't got a moustache.  She looks like Kate Bush, and she never wears a bra. Anyway I'll give it a listen some time.

This afternoon we were working on our book cover designs. I'm quite enjoying being a bit abstract on this project, I've made a marbled design with ink and oil and I'm going to superimpose some kind of face on it.

Kris is doing the most amazing drawing for a Raymond Chandler book, from the perspective of looking up at someone, it's technically brilliant, I don't know how he does it. Bob, meanwhile, is doing a Jackson Pollock. He put large sheets of paper all over the floor and just splattered them with paint. He was pissing himself., getting paint everywhere, attacking it like a madman.  Don is running this session and he wants us to be proper graphic artists, all neat and tidy, and it's really winding him up that Bob is doing what he's doing. To make matters worse, Bob keeps coming up with all this brilliant bullshit about how that splatter there represents this and this blob here is meant to be that and he's just making it all up as he goes along, but there's nothing Don can do except twiddle with his beard.

Anyway that was college. Got home and Mum was in a bit of a funny mood. There was a pile of ironing in the linen basket and it was a load of Dad's shirts. I don't know why she's still ironing his shirts. Perhaps he hasn't got an ironing board at the place he's staying at. I know the landlord is a bit weird because he's not allowed to use the phone in the house, he has to go to a payphone. Not that I care. I hate him right now. I'm not going to fucking iron his shirts, that's for sure.

Nature vs nurture

I have a friend who grew up in a house without books. I find it hard to imagine – there were lots of books in my childhood home. There was a lot of art too; pottery, sculptures and paintings, and we watched BBC2 and were taken to exhibitions and music events, and my mum used to love holding her cheese-and-wine do's. All very middle class; although my mum's roots weren't, but she had aspirations and she also married someone who was. So really it's no wonder that I like books, art, music, culture. And cheese and wine. I grew up with the stuff.

Back to my friend with no books in the house. His father was an agricultural worker, his mother a housewife, they didn't have much money and, from what I can gather, their lives were pretty much mapped out by the tradition of their gender, class and era. He, however, in spite of struggling academically at school, displayed great interest in art, literature and history. He was never encouraged by his parents, but his creativity and ambitions were deep-founded and weren't going to be suppressed. He even taught himself how to "speak posh".

We've often talked about it... nature versus nurture. Nurture doesn't appear to have existed in his case, so it would seem that nature gave him those gifts, although not directly via his parents. Mr SDS has a similar story; whilst his mum and dad were laughing at On The Buses before going down the pub, he preferred to watch Monty Python whilst smoking a Sobranie Black Russian. His favourite subjects at school were English and Art but nobody else in his family had ever knowingly shown any interest in either and he disappointed his dad by hating football. He was telling me the other day how he'd never had yoghurt as a kid because it was considered too exotic. (I, on the other hand, regularly indulged in a strawberry flavoured Ski but had never sampled the delightful combination of baked beans with chips until I met him...so it works both ways.)

I'm curious to know where it all comes from. Maybe an artistic/literary/academic or whatever gene can skip a generation or two, or three? Maybe ancestors displayed the same tendencies or interests but were never able to indulge them? Only the wealthiest and most privileged could attend cultural events, eat unusual food, get a good education, dabble in the arts.  Maybe some of the farm labourers and serving girls from whom I was descended on my mum's side might have had similar tastes to me, but were never given the opportunity to explore such subjects?  It would have been so hard for them to realise - and probably even harder to admit to against a background of austerity and necessity.

Oh well, I don't know. And as there are no future generations to come from me and Mr SDS, I may as well stop worrying about it; this line of music-loving, book-reading, yoghurt-eating, classless wine-guzzlers ends here.

(With thanks to el hombre invisible whose blog Include Me Out unwittingly inspired!)

Walk with me

Out the front door, turn right, past the rest of the red brick terraced cottages, the two big detached houses, and then the crinkle crankle wall. I love its curves, designed to economise on bricks and help fruit trees flourish by providing a sun trap in each of its concave spaces. There are around 50 of them in this county alone, twice as many as in the whole of the rest of England, apparently.

Aerial view of a crinkle crankle wall

 On to the corner, turn right again, I'm near the top of the hill and the wide path slopes down in front of me. What a view.

A beautiful big crow swoops across from my left, its flight seems more languid so close. I stand still while it flies directly over my head, I can feel the ripple in the air from its wingbeat and I get a thrill from its proximity. It lands on the roof of the nearby house and I watch as it drops something large and brown from its beak and tries to figure out a way to eat it. It looks like the remnant of a roof tile but I guess it's a very stale piece of bread. Or toast. I could watch this lovely creature all day.

Not the actual crow.

(pic: Anemone Projectors)

A middle-aged couple, dressed from head to toe in a mossy green the same hue as the shadowy patches in the verge, stride towards me briskly, heads down. I start to open my mouth to greet them as we pass each other, but their faces remain determinedly fixed to the ground and I don't continue with my acknowledgement after all. Tourists, probably. Only tourists here make such a huge effort to pretend you don't exist. Everybody else looks up, smiles and says “Hello!”

Down to the bottom, through the gate, over the bridge and into the main street. The pub looks welcoming and I could just fancy that goats cheese dish advertised in curly writing on the board by the steps. I notice Helen inside, she looks out just as I glance in and we exchange silent salutations through the glass.

Onwards and I pass the fancy shoes and handbags shop which I've never been in. A bright pink, almost fluorescent, tiny satchel in the window catches my eye. I like it but I think it's probably for a child. And there's no price on it, nor on any of the items – not on the leopard spot court shoes or the shiny gold sandals. You know what they say about shops which don't display prices: if you can't see how much it is, you can't afford it. I keep on walking.

A shocking pink version of this.

There are prices on the items in the window of the adjacent gallery, but I still couldn't afford them. I like this gallery, though; it's full of wacky sculptures, weird things like baby dolls inside bottles and hares with incongruously long ears. It also houses some original signed prints from Bowie album covers and right now his Hunky Dory face, framed by the golden hair and clasping hands, looks on distantly from behind the wide window.

A man in a hi-vis jacket is walking towards me, checking his phone, puts it back in his pocket, looks up and catches my eye as we pass each other. His are sparkly blue, lively eyes, set in a pleasant face; I return his warm smile and they linger on me for a second. A subtle, vital, extra, second, just enough to notice, betrays an appreciative flirtatiousness which makes me feel a sudden frisson of excitement. It's just so nice to receive a little attention, to feel I haven't quite yet joined the brigade of the invisible, although I know those days won't be far off. I take this moment, meaningless though it is, and enjoy the brief boost it provides.

I say "Afternoon!" to the short fat lady with the little white dog and then, further on, the tall man and his wife looking in the window of the estate agents. "250,000!" she exclaims in disbelief.

On into the Post Office with its papery smell and racks of Haribo sweets, greet the staff and bid farewell to my parcel of artwork, then retrace my steps back home.

My mind is free as I smile at the party of pensioners coming out of the Old School, and pass the time of day with the man I seem to see every time I walk this route, the one who always wears a grey raincoat and looks like Mr Price from 'Please Sir!'

That's him, on the right.

It's an uneventful walk but somehow it feels like more: a thumbnail of my life, a snapshot of my small world. As I stroll past the oak tree and a huge group of rooks take off from its big dark boughs, I almost feel like writing about it.

Kiss this

As he stood in our doorway with the large bag of rare records that he had just bought from us, he reached out for my fingers, bent forward as he held my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Lovely to have met you”, he said.

We said our goodbyes and closed the door, and as we watched him through the window getting into his car I turned to Mr SDS and said, “I don’t trust him.”  It was the hand-kissing that did it.

I was right not to trust him.  The (substantial) cheque he’d given us in exchange for our vinyl valuables bounced.  (Yes, I know, we should have insisted on cash…)  Numerous follow-up phone calls to both his home and his workplace number revealed the horrible truth that this particularly unsavoury individual had clearly never had any intention of paying.  He had ripped off his work colleagues too, sold his flat and moved.  Obviously keen to avoid answering the door to Joe Hardnutt from Beat The Living Daylights Debt Collection Agency he’d relocated to another continent and word had it that he was living in, of all places, Kansas.  (One can only hope he tried pulling a similar stunt out there…)

If only he had kissed my hand before he wrote out that cheque, our misery at being duped could have been avoided, for it was that sycophantically sleazy, albeit subtle, gesture that gave away his dubious character.  In my experience (to borrow from Samuel Johnson’s quote about patriotism) hand-kissing is the last refuge of a sleazebag.  In every instance that I’ve had my mitt kissed by a stranger there has been something unsettling about it, and about them.  Am I right?  My lovely female readers,  I’m sure, will know just what I mean and agree.  And my lovely male readers, I’m certain, would never dream of doing such a thing.

Picture source unknown

(but with thanks to the friend who sent it to me!)

The borrowers

                                                                   The resemblance is uncanny

I wasn’t sure what to make of Mr Parsons at first.  One thing I could rely on was that he would come in to the library, where I worked every Sunday, at exactly the same time each week.   Another thing was that he always wore a long grey mac, no matter what the weather, and spent an hour or two using the internet on the library’s one public computer, taking brief breaks to pick out books about war.  There were days when he was almost the sole visitor; the place was so small and quiet that it only needed one member of staff there at a time, so it could be lonely.  For a few years I was its ‘Sunday Girl’.

First impressions of Mr Parsons being a slightly creepy old man (he did have a habit of glancing furtively at the area between my collarbone and ribs when talking to me) were soon replaced by the realisation that he was rather nice and completely harmless.  We had some interesting, intelligent chats about language; he was a retired English teacher.  Funny how you remember odd things but he was the one who taught me that you pronounce the ‘ch’ in ‘machinations’ with a ‘k’ sound and not a ‘sh’ sound.  (At the library, I mean - he didn’t teach me at school.)  By the way, I’ve no idea what we were talking about for me to use the word ‘machinations’…   Anyway, over time I quite looked forward to him being around for a natter as the library often felt bleak on a dark Winter afternoon with no-one else about, and I was convinced there was a ghost in the store cupboard.  Mr Parsons took a bit of a shine to me but without making me feel uncomfortable; I think partly because he was very predictable.  A pleasant enough friendship developed between us and when he found out that I couldn’t take lunch breaks he started to bring me cakes wrapped in clingfilm.  My delight must have been such that he continued this habit until the day I left and each week I would be ceremoniously presented with two Almond Slices or Viennese Whirls (he must have had a thing for Mr Kiplings) which I consumed voraciously.  Bless him.

Actually, he wasn’t the only customer to let me eat cake.  Sometimes G, one of my neighbours, would return huge piles of books on behalf of his mother and stop for a chat too.  He's a lovely chap who used to own a record shop in London, helped me to rescue a dove from our chimney and once had a pet pigeon called Percy (who would sit at his feet like a dog).   When he found out I was leaving he came in to the library on my last day there and gave me an Iced Finger. It was as if I had a sign around my neck saying ‘Feed Me’…

Not that Mr Gatewood ever gave me cake.  He’d always come in about ten minutes before I was due to close up and I couldn’t help but keep glancing very obviously at my watch whilst he deliberated over the autobiographies.  He had an old-fashioned moustache and always wore a peaked cap (to this day I have no idea what his hair is like).  Bicycle clips held his tweed trousers in so that they looked a bit like plus-fours, and somehow the overall effect was like that of a Victorian gent.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if his mode of transport (which he carefully wheeled in and left in the library’s cloakroom) had been a Penny Farthing.  Softly spoken with a rather shy, almost nervous manner, it surprised me when I  found out that his nickname was ‘The Terminator’.  He looked nothing like Arnie... but his job as a Community Police Officer with a passion for dishing out parking tickets had earned him the name, particularly when it came to light that in the space of 11 years he’d issued 11,000 tickets.  His zero-tolerance approach became infamous, making local news headlines and later even prompting a Facebook campaign.  But the ridicule and resistance he met from some members of the public was like water off a duck’s back when he had his uniform on and was strutting proudly around the streets on a mission.  I have to say, he was always sweet to me but, then again, I wasn’t parking on double yellow lines.  I guess the Almond Slice crumbs round my mouth may have endeared me to him too.

Always smiling and quite often just a little tipsy was the lovely Maxine.  “Hello daaarlin’!” she’d call from the doorway as she made her slightly wobbly entrance.  “I’m sorry, I’m a bit pissed!”    The days she popped in to the library coincided with  her family’s Sunday lunches down the pub, where the wine had obviously been flowing freely.  A short, buxom blonde of a certain age, Maxine was well-known in the village and when she got a job in our little Post Office she was a breath of fresh air compared to the more staid staff we were used to. She flirted delightfully with all the customers and made her rather fussy and officious boss despair when she couldn’t press the right numbers on one of those keypad machines because her red-painted nails were too long.   But she was really on the ball and quickly learned everything there was to know about sending parcels to Outer Mongolia or anywhere else for that matter.  Everyone liked Maxine.

There were plenty of other characters too whom I won’t go into here, although it is hard to forget the pretty but broken alchoholic woman who poured her life story out to me one day and her daughter who, in spite of being only eleven, had become the responsible adult in that relationship.  Very tragically the mother was found dead in her flat just a year or so later; she was only in her early forties.  I often wonder what happened to the daughter; I hope she’s ok.

I don’t miss the job, but I do quite miss the interaction with so many different people whom I wouldn’t normally have met. There was probably enough material there to inspire a book.

Outsiders of the world unite

He had pale blond hair which hung limply around his ears and down to his shoulders, with an ill-advised straight-across fringe that did little to draw attention away from his huge, hooked nose.  Skinny to the point of bony, I recall that his limbs looked too long for his body and that his fingers looked too long for his hands.  Large feet, too.  Always inside Clarks Wayfarers shoes (we used to call them ‘Cornish Pasties’.  If you know the footwear I mean you'll know why).  They were just visible beneath the hem of his light brown and highly unfashionable flared cords. 

Then there was his voice.  I first met him when we were 16 but, even at 30 (the age he was when I last saw him briefly) it was as if it hadn’t quite broken yet.  It oscillated unpredictably between high and low notes, and it took a while to get used to realising that the variation in octave didn’t actually indicate surprise or fright or any other emotion.  There was just something not quite right with his voicebox which gave him a strange kind of involuntary yodel.

I spent three years in  his company at art college when we were in our teens;  he became one of my best mates there.  I liked him, I felt safe with him, felt like I understood him.  Plus, being shy too, I was comfortable enough with him to really be myself and to not feel inferior or intimidated.   Our friendship was liberating.  We’d frequently go to the town’s record shop at lunchtime and browse through the album racks, I’d take the piss out of the heavy metal LPs he pored over while he laughed at the names of some lesser known bands I searched for.  I won him over to the B52s for a while, though - I remember that.  Like many really shy people who find themselves treated as outsiders, he had a great sense of humour - nicely dry and often wickedly caustic.  And he was the most wonderful artist, the best in the class by a long stretch.  He had an incredible imagination and an amazing talent for difficult perspectives and angles that the rest of us would never even begin to attempt  (in fact I still won’t).  But, the last I heard of him, he was long-term unemployed, long-term single and living alone in a town centre tower block bedsit.  I just don't think he had what it takes to fit.

There’s no punchline to this post, no twist, nor revelation – I don’t even know quite why I started thinking about my old college mate in the first place!  I suppose I was just wondering why it is that some of us feel like ‘outsiders’ (even if in disguise…) and others don’t.   Who decides what the ‘inside’ is?  And who decides what fits in it? 

This is the song I turned him on to.  Funny how you remember these things.

And it still sounds great to me!

All together now

I try not to think about the future very much.  I’ve got to be honest, I find it a little scary and it’s a fairly pointless thing to get depressed about because there’s nothing I can do about its imminent arrival.  Every now and then, though, I catch a glimpse of my mum when I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I realise that I really am quite old.  And getting older. 

One of the things that worries me slightly, if I let it, is the thought of spending any of my geriatric years in a care home.  It’s not the idea of a residential institution itself that bothers me the most, it’s the concept of being in the enforced company of others with whom I wouldn’t normally choose to spend any time.  Being permanently around people whose interests and attitudes are very different from mine I would struggle to just be myself.

Who might there be to chat to about obscure music?  About the youth cults of our formative years?  About similar comedy, books, art and films?  What if everybody else reads The Sun and wants to talk about Queen Kate’s latest dress and how they don’t like foreigners?  I don’t want to find myself swooning with incomparable delight because someone’s offered me a chocolate digestive (‘New recipe! Extra creamy chocolate!’), I want to be able to feel excited at something a little more edgy.   I don’t want to talk about the way the wallpaper matches the carpet oh so nicely, or how much Mrs Donnelly’s granddaughter’s new baby weighs.  I want to talk about how amazing spiders are, or what people thought about Bill Hicks, or why Never Mind The Bollocks still sounds good….

Which leads me to… what will the sing-songs and arthritic knees ups (knees-not-ups?) of our future be like?  There won’t be any "Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag”s or “My old man said follow the van”s any more, will there?  What will our generation be warbling away to in weary unison as an overworked assistant brings the tea and biscuits in before our afternoon nap?  Now that’s the bit that’s really getting to me. What if everyone wants to sing ‘The Lady In Red’ or ‘Wonderful Tonight’?  I don’t think I could take it.   So… do you reckon we could make a little deal, lovely readers?  If we all end up in a care home somewhere some day, can we make sure it’s the same one?

My favourite rendition of a favourite Smiths song.

I want to be like Doris.

Home

On every trip I make to London something small usually happens to me which sticks in my mind, always to do with a stranger. 

The time before last I was just checking my phone at a street corner and an old man made a beeline for me - uh oh - and then started to sing.  Directly to me.   I really didn’t know where to look.  He was serenading, “Everyone is beautiful… in their own way” which I wasn’t sure whether or not to take as a compliment, but he looked a little manic so I just said, “Thank you!” (?!) and then hurried off, my pace quickening as I turned my back on him.  His vocals continued in my direction and I found myself diving into the nearest shop - it could have been a funeral parlour for all I cared at that moment, as long as it got me out of his range.

Last week my brief moment of connection with a stranger was with a young guy who was homeless.  It's something I always find difficult to witness.  It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with walking past human-shaped mounds under blankets in shop doorways or studiously avoiding eye contact with swaying, swarthy street men whose hopelessness is hard to contemplate; sadly it’s something you expect when you visit any large town or city, isn’t it?  This boy, though – he was like someone I might have known.  He reminded me of the young lads I used to work with in an office several years ago.  Like the sort of fresh-faced trainee with whom I’d have shared some banter, or had a chat with at the coffee machine about the previous night’s episode of a sitcom.  Only... his face was no longer that fresh.  But I could tell he was intelligent and personable, and I wondered how come his life had got so messed up.   I realise that when he first approached me I must have automatically given him that defensive “PLEASE DON'T BOTHER ME!” expression - I just know it would have been all over my face, a kind of reflex, and I can’t imagine how it must feel to be on the receiving end of that type of response over and over again.  Anyway he asked me so politely if I had some change to help him pay for his hostel that night, but I knew I only had a handful of coppers in my purse.  “Oh I’ve only got a few coins – I’m a bit embarrassed!” I said as I scooped up the two-pence pieces.  “You’re embarrassed?” he replied, gesturing towards himself as if to say, “Hello-oh!  Don't you realise who you're saying that to?!”  My tactlessness hit me as he went on, not harshly at all, but very genuinely, “How embarrassed do you think I feel, asking you?”  Stupidly, I just hadn’t thought of it like that.  I apologised (and explained that I’d just wanted to give him a more useful amount), and then we chatted briefly and said friendly goodbyes.  On the train back I found it hard to get him out of my mind, more so than I ever have in that kind of situation before.  There was something about him.   I was going home to a safe, warm house on this chilly October night, and he was going… where?   And I’m obviously still thinking about him now, aren't I?  I find it hard to get my head around how relentlessly tough life must be if you're homeless, especially in an English winter.

Mind you, I once knew of a man who actively chose to live outside in all weathers for most of his adult life.  He had a little camp in a copse by the side of a main road in a village not far from my home town.  He'd amassed all sorts of random objects that he’d presumably either found or been given  – toys, bags, old clothes, etc. and decorated his makeshift home amongst the trees with them, the more brightly coloured and shiny the better.  It was a cheery sight - and site.  Somehow he managed to keep himself, and his little dog whom he pushed around in an old pram, alive and well for years.  His hair never went grey and his skin looked like bark.  He walked for miles every day, complete with dog and pram, and always waved to each car that passed him (including mine – it was a pleasure to wave back).  Every Christmas Day he would accept the invitation from one of the locals to join them for a full, festive dinner.  This was the one and only day of the year on which he’d take a bath too, thanks to the loan of their bathroom and some sweet-smelling unguents.  Well into his seventies when he died, he was liked and respected by all who lived in the area, his long life out in the cold no doubt made a little warmer by the kindness of strangers.

It's not about the money...

I was working part-time in my village library, eight or so years ago, just one day a week to help pay the bills.  It was in a tiny room adjoining a church hall, with a roof that leaked when it rained heavily and old-fashioned wooden bookshelves that took all my strength to wheel out from the yellowing walls and into position in readiness for opening time.  Being such a small establishment meant it only needed one member of staff there at a time.  It could be a lonely job, but I did get to look at a lot of lovely books.

Visitors were few so I made sure everyone got a warm greeting; a bit of chit-chat helped my day go faster.  When one elderly and very well turned out gent came in one afternoon I gave him my sweetest smile and we soon got into conversation.  He asked a lot of questions, but that was ok.  I somehow ended up telling him about the part-time course for which I was making the long journey down to Chelsea School of Art each week, and what I was doing to try and earn a bit of money here and there.  He liked that I was doing something artistic.  “Perhaps you could draw a picture of my house one day?” he enquired.  I said yes, that would be great, I’d done some work like that before and would be happy to discuss it further. 

The next time he came in I noticed his thick, shiny white hair looked even neater than before – as if he’d just combed it in the hallway – and his clothes were even more dapper.  Perhaps he’d been somewhere special before coming here – the strong scent of his aftershave suggested that too.  We had another pleasant chat, about the weather and keeping chickens, and his son who was a pilot, and so on.  He told me he was 86, had lost his wife some years ago and was new to the area.  Ah, seems like a nice chap, I thought.

I felt a bit uneasy accepting the box of chocolates he brought with him on his next library visit but he insisted. I took it as just his way of saying how much he appreciated some conversation and company.  They were very tasty, by the way – Belgian.

“Do you like poetry, my dear?” was his opening line the following week. Before I had chance to answer he went on, “I’d love to read some to you one day!”  How sweet, I thought.  What a sweet, romantic old man.  I feigned a vague interest – well it seemed rude not to – although to be honest my knowledge doesn’t go much beyond Spike Milligan’s 'Silly Verse For Kids'.

Looking back I think it must have been him I saw sitting in a car right outside the library when I came out at the end of work on one occasion, but whoever it was had their nose buried deep in a book. I had come out unusually early that week, though, and they didn’t notice me as I walked past.

On his next visit he reminded me about the picture he wanted drawn of his home.  He described it  – a charming thatched house with lots of rooms, a rambling garden and a private courtyard.  “The courtyard is wonderful - great for sunbathing in,” he informed me, “so if you ever want to just relax somewhere on a hot day, let me know”.  I laughed and made some joke about how easily I get sunburnt and turn red, blushing as if to prove the point as I did.  I was quite looking forward to drawing the house, though.

A week later he suggested going for a coffee to dicuss the finer details of the picture commission.  Great idea, I thought, easier than trying to discuss it here at work.  “Your husband won’t mind, will he?” the sweet gentleman asked. I assured him that my husband was very laid-back about that kind of thing and so we arranged to meet down at The Boar’s Head that Wednesday at noon.

I thought it was a bit strange that he took me into one of the little lounges off from the bar as soon as I got there but then he said he had a proposition for me: “I’m going to buy you lunch today,” he announced, “and you mustn’t say no!”  I laughed, and felt embarrassed, but it would’ve been rude not to accept.  “And that’s not all…” he continued, patting my knee.  With his other hand he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.    “I want to help you,” he said.  He thrust the packet into my hand, his gnarly fingers lingering against mine for a moment.  A moment that felt too long.  “Open it…”

I was starting to feel rather uncomfortable now.  “OPEN IT!” the old man insisted, his eyes darkening.  He suddenly seemed larger and stronger than his physical presence suggested.  I did as he said.  The envelope was stuffed full of £20 notes.  £800 worth of £20 notes.

The explanation followed – calculated and confident: “This is just the first payment to start you off” he said, “and after that I’ll give you £200 each month.”  I was, naturally, speechless.  “It’ll help pay your train fare to college, I want to help you get through your course” he smiled, but there was something not entirely altruistic about it.  He went on “and….I want something in return.”  I still couldn’t find any words, but a slight knot was forming in my stomach.

“I want you to be my, erm, my companion.  Come with me to art galleries and the theatre and trips into London.  Spend time with me.  You know, just two or three times a month.  Cinema trips and restaurants. You'll come to my house.  I have a beautiful bedroom, you must see it.   I’ll buy you jewellery too – you like silver, don’t you?  And we can travel…I know a great hotel in Greece…”  He pulled up even closer, and started to stroke my knee.

I didn’t know what to do.  I’m not one for big, dramatic gestures or conflicts, especially in public, so I wasn’t about to make a scene in the middle of The Boar’s Head.  I moved away from his groping hand and said, trying to keep as cool as possible, “No, I can’t take it… no…”  But he was insistent.  “Think about it. Take it for now and think about it.”  Not knowing quite how to tackle the situation I shrugged weakly. I guess it was the wrong thing to do but I was in shock, so, playing for time, I assured him reluctantly that I would at least have a think, and unwillingly put the envelope in my bag, a million thoughts jostling around in my head.

Lunch was a complete embarrassment.  My companion carried on as if everything was normal, like nothing was odd about the proposal he’d just made to me, while I found it hard to swallow the smallest morsel, let alone speak.  I longed for this to be over and to get home.

Of course I didn’t keep the £800 or enter into a paid, ahem, ‘companionship’ arrangement (in spite of my husband thinking purely of the financial benefits and saying, “Take it!”…)   Instead I sat down and wrote a carefully worded letter to the ageing lothario, refusing his offer as diplomatically as possible.  The next time I was at the library I took it with me along with the envelope of money and waited for him to come in.

The smell of his liberally applied aftershave signalled his arrival… then in he walked, beaming a big smile, came right round behind my desk, put his arm tightly around me and said, “I assume one may give the librarian a kiss?”   I recoiled and shook my head,  “No…no…I’ve explained it here,” I replied nervously, trying to look kind and handing him the letter with his envelope of cash.  He could tell from my face what it said.  His expression changed dramatically – once again his presence suddenly seemed larger, stronger, darker – as he snatched it from me.  Then the unpleasant accusations came – I can’t even remember what he said now, but I know it was bad and unfair.  I felt a bit sick.  Finally he stormed out of the library, slamming the door behind him.  Immediately any doubts I’d had about his intentions were confirmed by this angry reaction alone.  I exhaled and shuffled some books around, longing for another customer to come in and for some normality to be restored.

Some months later I saw him in town, looking small and unassuming, neatly turned out, just as he had before.   Just a sweet old man, eh...?

Story train

I know lots of people do it every day but, for me, travelling on public transport is a bit of a rarity.  Working from home requires no commuting and living in a rural area means that when I do occasionally go out I use the car.

I had a trip to London yesterday though, so I went by train.  I like train journeys.  I love to absorb the gradually changing landscape as the flat Suffolk fields we travel past become replaced by suburban back gardens and then industrial estates, and just before we are swallowed up by Liverpool Street Station’s gaping mouth we witness the rapidly developing Olympics 2012 site.  I used to like looking out at the old wasteland that preceded it, an unintentional wildlife haven on the edge of the urban chaos, but that’s another story.

I love observing my fellow travellers too.  I find myself wondering what their stories are, and creating some for them myself.

Yesterday a woman got on at my station and she was very, very drunk.  It was 2 in the afternoon.  She had an air of tragedy about her.  With a slur and an apologetic smile she paid for her ticket with pocketfuls of small change all spread out on the counter; it was as if she’d just raided a parking meter. 

She had one of those faces that was probably once very attractive but was now worn-looking beyond her years.  The deep tan (with a reddish tinge) that looked out of place in an English winter had given her skin a leathery finish.  She got on the train and poured a drink from an ordinary vacuum flask, but I could smell spirit rather than coffee.  Then she produced an aerosol fragrance and sprayed herself all over, for what seemed like several minutes.  Her jacket, jeans and trainers all got liberal soakings in something rather floral.  If I’d been sitting any closer I would have too.  When we got to our destination I wasn’t surprised when she got up and left her large bag behind her, realising a few moments later and having to squeeze past everyone else going in the opposite direction, wafting gin and lilies with a hint of stale tobacco over us, her eyes a little glazed and her gait unsteady. 

Her story?  I decided she was a prostitute down on her luck, maybe she’d got all that loose change from begging, or maybe she’d done a few very cheap, ahem, 'jobs' for some quick cash…  But I hope I haven’t done her a disservice and I do hope she was ok.

Halfway through the journey we go through some typical Essex towns.  I can’t quite figure out how Essex’s much-parodied stereotypes became real and why they are so prevalent.  Is it just that fashions and tastes catch on quickly in some communities and then nobody wants to be seen as the odd one out? Or is it that, if you like those particular stereotypical things you naturally gravitate there and that vision of Estuary Englishness is perpetuated? Anyway, if I had needed proof that the only way in Essex is the Essex way, I simply had to notice the passengers that got on at Romford.  Every female seemed to be bottle-blonde.  (This is not meant to be a put-down, just one of those observations that jumps out at you.)  One in her twenties sat near me and was talking on her mobile phone. “No way!  I can’t believe it!” she exclaimed to her friend on the other end.  “Kelly’s had botox?  OMG!  I can’t believe Kel’s had botox… “  I felt slightly reassured by her reaction to the botox revelation.  But then came the unexpected punchline: “But she’s a dying woman…”   There was clearly a story there too, but I didn’t really want to make it up.

I was cheered up soon after by the sight of five young Elvises.  Well, I mean five lads dressed in full Elvis attire with big black wigs and mirror Aviator shades. Just one would have been eye-catching - five was surreal. I started to wonder what the collective noun for a group of Elvises might be.  When I put this to the friend I met with later, explaining that they’d all gone for the white-jumpsuit-and-rhinestone-belt look, the perfect answer came back:  why, a Vegas of Elvises.  Of  course!  I trust they enjoyed the Elvis themed party they must have been going to; it didn’t take much imagination to work out that story.