I did some recording with one of my musical collaborators this week. He had managed to find a female singer who liked his music and was willing to add some backing vocals to our existing efforts. We turned up to the studio with our new find in tow and her backing vocals were added; she is very good. It transpires she is studying art and had recently had an open air installation on show in the local area which attracted a lot of attention. She showed us pictures of the installation and it was quite impressive. It would have been interesting to visit it and educate myself on a subject I know nothing about.
The thing about meeting new people is that they can open doors for you. Other people have hobbies, jobs and contacts that can lead you in completely new directions if you are curious enough. Take our new-found singer, we could develop a friendship which would involve supporting her in her artistic endeavours by visiting her exhibitions and meeting her arty friends. I could develop a lifelong interest and an insight into modern art which, at the moment, is a closed book to me. Alternatively my musical collaborator may give her a larger role in his music which would take it in a much more folky/country direction just by her being there.
When you are very young you believe that the way your parents do things is the only way and, as you grown up and mix socially, your friends open doors to alternative lifestyles and attitudes. I can still remember being fascinated by my friends' houses and the way they did things. My best friend at infants and juniors was a lad called David and his parents seemed to me to be so glamorous. His mum had long blonde hair and wore jeans. There was always food about and we could have whatever we wanted, she even kept glucose in a packet in the larder, imagine that, glucose. I didn't have a clue what it was but I knew we didn't have anything that exotic at home.
In my later years at secondary school there was another lad who took to knocking for me. He was well known for fighting and causing trouble. I remember how he once bragged that he managed to avoid the police by hiding in a coal bunker for several hours. I also remember being stop searched by the old bill just because I was walking down the road with him. I began to avoid him and that particular door stayed firmly closed.
As people get older and get settled with partners, life seems to become more insular. The opportunities for meeting new people with interesting doors to open diminishes. Eventually it ends up back where it started, slaves to habit and unwilling or unable to consider new things in case it rocks the boat. I suspect that keeping a curiosity about the world is what keeps people young at heart... or is it the alcohol.
Monday, 24 June 2013
Sunday, 16 June 2013
Upstairs Downstairs.
My lovely wife has a phobia. It's not one of those that affect your quality of life, more of a minor inconvenience. She is claustrophobic and won't go in lifts or travel on the underground; she doesn't like caves or tight spaces which is a shame as I quite like caves. She is a game girl and will always make the effort when visiting tourist attractions but sometimes we have to beat a hasty retreat when it becomes too much for her. The main issue is that she won't go in lifts and, as a consequence, I have become an expert on stairs.
Humping our luggage up and down flights of stairs seems to be a feature of our holidays. It's not too bad if we are on a lower floor but when you have to climb to the fourth floor or above it can become a bit tiresome. I generally request a lower floor but it's not always provided. Just recently we stayed at a hotel and were faced with a choice of a second floor room kitted out for the disabled or a standard room on the seventh floor. We ended up in the room for the disabled as we couldn't face seven flights of stairs; mind you the shower room was big enough to get a football team in.
Alternatively, I could go up in the lift, put the bags in the room, get the lift back down and then walk up with her but that seems the long way round and I would have to carry her bags as well. I am too much of a gentleman to let her walk up on her own and I would worry that she would get lost. I can imagine us wandering the corridors like dispossessed ghosts looking for each other so it seems easier to just bite the bullet and stagger up the stairs with our bags. It's surprising how many times a day you go backwards and forwards to your room, with or without bags, and it's especially annoying when you have forgotten something and then have to go back up to get it.
Multi- storey car parks are to be avoided where possible. Nothing smells quite like the concrete staircase of a car park with its bouquet of urine, vomit and dankness, sometimes with the added hazards of dodgy lighting and winos to climb over. Hospital staircases, whilst smelling much nicer, have the inconvenience of long meandering corridors to negotiate. On one memorable occasion we visited a sick relative on the 11th floor of Hampstead Hospital; I thought were going to have to send out for additional oxygen.
You would think that with all those stairs we would both be thin as whippets but that's not the case unfortunately. I don't really mind not going in lifts, who wants to be crammed in a tin can with the great unwashed anyway.
Humping our luggage up and down flights of stairs seems to be a feature of our holidays. It's not too bad if we are on a lower floor but when you have to climb to the fourth floor or above it can become a bit tiresome. I generally request a lower floor but it's not always provided. Just recently we stayed at a hotel and were faced with a choice of a second floor room kitted out for the disabled or a standard room on the seventh floor. We ended up in the room for the disabled as we couldn't face seven flights of stairs; mind you the shower room was big enough to get a football team in.
Alternatively, I could go up in the lift, put the bags in the room, get the lift back down and then walk up with her but that seems the long way round and I would have to carry her bags as well. I am too much of a gentleman to let her walk up on her own and I would worry that she would get lost. I can imagine us wandering the corridors like dispossessed ghosts looking for each other so it seems easier to just bite the bullet and stagger up the stairs with our bags. It's surprising how many times a day you go backwards and forwards to your room, with or without bags, and it's especially annoying when you have forgotten something and then have to go back up to get it.
Multi- storey car parks are to be avoided where possible. Nothing smells quite like the concrete staircase of a car park with its bouquet of urine, vomit and dankness, sometimes with the added hazards of dodgy lighting and winos to climb over. Hospital staircases, whilst smelling much nicer, have the inconvenience of long meandering corridors to negotiate. On one memorable occasion we visited a sick relative on the 11th floor of Hampstead Hospital; I thought were going to have to send out for additional oxygen.
You would think that with all those stairs we would both be thin as whippets but that's not the case unfortunately. I don't really mind not going in lifts, who wants to be crammed in a tin can with the great unwashed anyway.
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Love Thy Neighbour.
We are getting new neighbours. A seriously large van appeared in our street last week; the family across the road filled it with their furniture and drove off behind it out of the road. Yesterday, a different and not so serious van appeared and unloaded furniture into the newly vacant house causing much speculation on our part. The previous neighbours were a quiet, unassuming family who caused no problems despite the fact that there did seem to be rather a lot of them. Rather than knocking the door with a freshly baked apple pie to welcome the new arrivals, my wife and I sat and brooded about what kind of inconveniences they would cause us.
The fact that people move because of neighbours is well documented.
I know of a case where a neighbour with a shared drive put his rubbish out and the gentleman who lived next door was so aggrieved because one of the black sacks was partially on his half of the drive that he called the police. I also know of a court case involving a rotten fence and a wind chime.
The worst case I ever came across involved a lovely, elderly couple who lived in a well-kept semi- detached. Many years ago they had bought a substantial part of the neighbour's garden in addition to their existing land. They were very proud of this garden and spent many hours working on it. The gentleman who sold them the garden died, his house was put on the market and sold to a young family. Within two days of moving in, the father had ripped down the fence and reinstated the original garden. When the elderly couple complained they were faced with a hail of abuse and threats of the direst consequences if they touched the fence. The police were not interested saying it was a civil matter. They took the matter to court, the father was given many opportunities to remove the fence by the judge but failed to comply and was eventually jailed for a month. The father stated he would rather go to prison than see his children deprived of their garden. The elderly couple who had been robbed of their pride and joy became too traumatised to go out into their own garden. I spoke to the offender, he was polite, well spoken and had a responsible job with one of the London councils. His argument, which he passionately believed, was 'why should an old couple have a large garden while his children could only have a small garden' he was completely oblivious to the legal argument or the fact that he should have bought a house with a bigger garden. Your just can't reason with some people. This went on for at least two years and I didn't find out the final outcome.
On the lighter side, there was an occasion when my elderly neighbour disappeared for about six months. My wife and I convinced ourselves he had died. Imagine her shock when she went to hang out the washing and there he was, hailing her from his garden as large a life. We are still laughing about it.
As for our new neighbours, they only seem to have one car which is a newish mini cooper so don't anticipate parking issues and they are not adjacent to our house so initial impressions are favourable.
The fact that people move because of neighbours is well documented.
I know of a case where a neighbour with a shared drive put his rubbish out and the gentleman who lived next door was so aggrieved because one of the black sacks was partially on his half of the drive that he called the police. I also know of a court case involving a rotten fence and a wind chime.
The worst case I ever came across involved a lovely, elderly couple who lived in a well-kept semi- detached. Many years ago they had bought a substantial part of the neighbour's garden in addition to their existing land. They were very proud of this garden and spent many hours working on it. The gentleman who sold them the garden died, his house was put on the market and sold to a young family. Within two days of moving in, the father had ripped down the fence and reinstated the original garden. When the elderly couple complained they were faced with a hail of abuse and threats of the direst consequences if they touched the fence. The police were not interested saying it was a civil matter. They took the matter to court, the father was given many opportunities to remove the fence by the judge but failed to comply and was eventually jailed for a month. The father stated he would rather go to prison than see his children deprived of their garden. The elderly couple who had been robbed of their pride and joy became too traumatised to go out into their own garden. I spoke to the offender, he was polite, well spoken and had a responsible job with one of the London councils. His argument, which he passionately believed, was 'why should an old couple have a large garden while his children could only have a small garden' he was completely oblivious to the legal argument or the fact that he should have bought a house with a bigger garden. Your just can't reason with some people. This went on for at least two years and I didn't find out the final outcome.
On the lighter side, there was an occasion when my elderly neighbour disappeared for about six months. My wife and I convinced ourselves he had died. Imagine her shock when she went to hang out the washing and there he was, hailing her from his garden as large a life. We are still laughing about it.
As for our new neighbours, they only seem to have one car which is a newish mini cooper so don't anticipate parking issues and they are not adjacent to our house so initial impressions are favourable.
Tuesday, 28 May 2013
Happy Families.
Last weekend I attended a family party. The occasion was the golden wedding anniversary of my aunt and uncle and the less prestigious wedding anniversary of their daughter; my cousin. We drove to the small village in Somerset just outside Taunton where they live. It was a lovely summer's evening as we took our place at the table in village hall with other members of my family.
Many of the older males on the paternal side of my family have a similar look and physiology. We are all short and of stocky build sporting beer bellies. We are generally good humoured and laugh a lot. A stranger might think they have stumbled onto a garden gnome convention. I have never attended a 'do' with my family and witnessed a stand up slanging match or a fight. However, like all families, ours is no stranger to intrigue and in-fighting.
Those people who say 'my family is my rock' or 'the most precious thing is family' clearly don't have one. Most families seem to be bubbling cauldrons of jealousy and resentment flavoured with squabbling siblings, backstabbing in- laws and with a generous dash of parental disappointment. Families are not governed by the same social graces that stop you verbally abusing your work mates to their face. It seems you can criticize close relations as much as you like with impunity, regardless of how hurtful it might be to them. Familiarity breeds contempt so they say, perhaps that should be family.
Looking at my dad and his brother chatting away in the corner, it struck me that it would soon be me and my brother sitting there in the autumn of our lives with our sons looking on and thinking 'look at that those two old gits'. If we manage to live that long and we are still talking to each other, it would be a good thing.
Many of the older males on the paternal side of my family have a similar look and physiology. We are all short and of stocky build sporting beer bellies. We are generally good humoured and laugh a lot. A stranger might think they have stumbled onto a garden gnome convention. I have never attended a 'do' with my family and witnessed a stand up slanging match or a fight. However, like all families, ours is no stranger to intrigue and in-fighting.
Those people who say 'my family is my rock' or 'the most precious thing is family' clearly don't have one. Most families seem to be bubbling cauldrons of jealousy and resentment flavoured with squabbling siblings, backstabbing in- laws and with a generous dash of parental disappointment. Families are not governed by the same social graces that stop you verbally abusing your work mates to their face. It seems you can criticize close relations as much as you like with impunity, regardless of how hurtful it might be to them. Familiarity breeds contempt so they say, perhaps that should be family.
Looking at my dad and his brother chatting away in the corner, it struck me that it would soon be me and my brother sitting there in the autumn of our lives with our sons looking on and thinking 'look at that those two old gits'. If we manage to live that long and we are still talking to each other, it would be a good thing.
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
The Half-Hearted Buddhist.
I have always had a fascination with philosophy and ideas. I have read about the concepts behind most of the world's major religions and have a fair understanding of what they're all about. I have even read part of the Koran but I gave up as it is impenetrable unless you have spent a life time studying it. You can pick up the rudimentary points though. I wouldn't claim to be a Buddhist but of all the philosophical and religious teachings it's the one that appeals to me the most.
The main core Buddhist concepts make perfect reasonable sense which you can test empirically. You don't need to believe in a 'man in the sky' or do mental gymnastics to justify it. You don't need to have faith. You just need to follow the ' Noble Eightfold Path' or the eight laws which are basically: no lying or cheating, no intoxicating substances, living for the moment, showing compassion, earning your living by honourable means, don't covet shiny objects or be fooled by life's illusions. If you meditate hard enough you can even become Buddha yourself. Easy you would think... not so.
I do try and follow the Noble Eightfold Path but I am not very good at it. I make a point of being honest and truthful but anyone who knows me would say I was fighting a losing battle when it came to intoxicants. Fortunately, I am not materialistic and I do earn my living by what would be considered honourable means. I also try and take each moment as it comes. I particularly fall down on the compassion and reality fronts though.
I went to work early the other afternoon as I needed to pop into town to get some cards for upcoming family celebrations. I was already unreasonably annoyed that it had been raining all morning and I had visions of getting soaked walking into town. I had already prepaid for my parking but all the spaces were full so, after 10 minutes driving round searching, I had to park in a different zone and fork out once again. By now my mood was blacker than a coal miner's boots. I got soaked walking back from the town whilst I muttered curses at the leaden sky and the malicious wretches who had stolen all the best parking spaces. Clearly, my inner peace and harmony were disturbed because I wanted things to be other than they actually were. Whilst I was sitting in my car dripping and mentally shaking my fist at the world in general it occurred to me how ridiculous I was being. I began to smile at my own stupidity. No doubt the Buddha would be laughing at me as he was proved right once again.
I am not very compassionate. Some people are natural carers but I am not one of them. I am always happy to assist someone who's in a jam but I don't go around looking for people to help like a misguided Boy Scout. I am more of a 'pull your socks up and get on with it' type of guy. Have you ever been in one of those situations where you spot an elderly driver trying to get out of a junction, compassion kicks in and you let them out only to regret it moments later when they pull out in front of you and continue their journey at 20 MPH while the rest of the traffic disappears into the distance. I also kill spiders and various insects.
I don't think I am ready for the saffron robes just yet; they won't match my blue eyes anyway.
The main core Buddhist concepts make perfect reasonable sense which you can test empirically. You don't need to believe in a 'man in the sky' or do mental gymnastics to justify it. You don't need to have faith. You just need to follow the ' Noble Eightfold Path' or the eight laws which are basically: no lying or cheating, no intoxicating substances, living for the moment, showing compassion, earning your living by honourable means, don't covet shiny objects or be fooled by life's illusions. If you meditate hard enough you can even become Buddha yourself. Easy you would think... not so.
I do try and follow the Noble Eightfold Path but I am not very good at it. I make a point of being honest and truthful but anyone who knows me would say I was fighting a losing battle when it came to intoxicants. Fortunately, I am not materialistic and I do earn my living by what would be considered honourable means. I also try and take each moment as it comes. I particularly fall down on the compassion and reality fronts though.
I went to work early the other afternoon as I needed to pop into town to get some cards for upcoming family celebrations. I was already unreasonably annoyed that it had been raining all morning and I had visions of getting soaked walking into town. I had already prepaid for my parking but all the spaces were full so, after 10 minutes driving round searching, I had to park in a different zone and fork out once again. By now my mood was blacker than a coal miner's boots. I got soaked walking back from the town whilst I muttered curses at the leaden sky and the malicious wretches who had stolen all the best parking spaces. Clearly, my inner peace and harmony were disturbed because I wanted things to be other than they actually were. Whilst I was sitting in my car dripping and mentally shaking my fist at the world in general it occurred to me how ridiculous I was being. I began to smile at my own stupidity. No doubt the Buddha would be laughing at me as he was proved right once again.
I am not very compassionate. Some people are natural carers but I am not one of them. I am always happy to assist someone who's in a jam but I don't go around looking for people to help like a misguided Boy Scout. I am more of a 'pull your socks up and get on with it' type of guy. Have you ever been in one of those situations where you spot an elderly driver trying to get out of a junction, compassion kicks in and you let them out only to regret it moments later when they pull out in front of you and continue their journey at 20 MPH while the rest of the traffic disappears into the distance. I also kill spiders and various insects.
I don't think I am ready for the saffron robes just yet; they won't match my blue eyes anyway.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
Superstition
Last weekend was a lovely,bright bank holiday weekend. After the long dismal winter it was uplifting to see some sun and feel the warmth on your face. I love the summer and I am one of those embarrassingly sad people who have to get their shorts out at the first glimmer of sunshine; then wear them all summer regardless of how sunny it actually is. Picture the scene, there I am in the garden, in my shorts, tidying up and getting wistful about my first glass of wine in the garden when I am faced with the following dilemma, is it time to get the patio set out?
The reason it's a dilemma is because last year, if you remember, the Met Office were talking about severe droughts. I put the patio set out and within two days it started to rain and we had a very wet summer. My wife and I joked about it at the time but I love the summer and felt a tad cheated. I am not superstitious but don't believe in tempting fate either. I found myself thinking twice about getting the patio set out in case it brought the rains. Yes, I know it's ridiculous.
As stated, I'm not superstitious. I have never had a pair of 'lucky pants' or carried a rabbit's foot (which clearly wasn't lucky for the rabbit). I don't have routines to follow to ensure my world doesn't collapse and I'm not concerned about which way a black cat might be walking. I don't walk under ladders but that's due to not wanting something dropped on my head rather than any fear of impending doom.
Some people do take notice of these omens though and have rituals to ensure good fortune. For example; Ronnie Barker used to have the same breakfast in the BBC canteen before each show to ensure it went well. A slightly less believable anecdote concerns James Joyce who apparently carried a pair of doll's knickers in his pocket. A completely spurious claim I have come across states that George Orwell, before commencing writing for the day, would swim the English Channel, have a croissant and a coffee on the French side and then swim back again. I suspect this was fabricated by an American as their lack of geographical knowledge is legendary.
So you can see my dilemma, do I leave the patio set in the garage and hope for a good summer or do I get it out and tempt the rains. If you look out of your window you will see my decision, I got the patio set out. It started to rain on the Wednesday and has been cloudy and rainy almost every day since. So if we have a terrible summer it's my fault... sorry.
The reason it's a dilemma is because last year, if you remember, the Met Office were talking about severe droughts. I put the patio set out and within two days it started to rain and we had a very wet summer. My wife and I joked about it at the time but I love the summer and felt a tad cheated. I am not superstitious but don't believe in tempting fate either. I found myself thinking twice about getting the patio set out in case it brought the rains. Yes, I know it's ridiculous.
As stated, I'm not superstitious. I have never had a pair of 'lucky pants' or carried a rabbit's foot (which clearly wasn't lucky for the rabbit). I don't have routines to follow to ensure my world doesn't collapse and I'm not concerned about which way a black cat might be walking. I don't walk under ladders but that's due to not wanting something dropped on my head rather than any fear of impending doom.
Some people do take notice of these omens though and have rituals to ensure good fortune. For example; Ronnie Barker used to have the same breakfast in the BBC canteen before each show to ensure it went well. A slightly less believable anecdote concerns James Joyce who apparently carried a pair of doll's knickers in his pocket. A completely spurious claim I have come across states that George Orwell, before commencing writing for the day, would swim the English Channel, have a croissant and a coffee on the French side and then swim back again. I suspect this was fabricated by an American as their lack of geographical knowledge is legendary.
So you can see my dilemma, do I leave the patio set in the garage and hope for a good summer or do I get it out and tempt the rains. If you look out of your window you will see my decision, I got the patio set out. It started to rain on the Wednesday and has been cloudy and rainy almost every day since. So if we have a terrible summer it's my fault... sorry.
Sunday, 5 May 2013
The Great Divide
My Father mentioned to me last week that he had cancelled his internet connection because he doesn't use his computer. To anyone under 30 this would appear to be an act of foolishness akin to cutting off your own leg. The advent of the computer has brought about a sea-change in society and my generation seems to be the bridge between two alien worlds. There are some intrepid silver surfers who have managed to cross the divide but to most people over 70 the internet is a mystery of the dark arts. On the other hand, anyone under 25 couldn't imagine living without social networking, mobile phones or video games. They have grown up with computers and they are ingrained in the fabric of their lives.
My sons have no interest in making things with their hands or any curiosity about how things work. They have no idea of the satisfaction to be gained from mending something with tools worn smooth from age and use that used to belong to their grandfather. They lack the competence to take something apart to see how it works and then put it back together. People used to get fulfilment from working with wood or tinkering with cars but they don't bother anymore. Who can blame them when you can buy a brand new table from Ikea for £7 and get it delivered to your door and cars are too complicated to be tinkered with.
If you gave my Dad a physical problem to solve such as building anything from a cupboard to a patio, he would work out what materials he needed and how to put it together in his head. Then he would set about constructing it while overcoming any problems with practical ingenuity. My sons would have the same answer within a few key taps and bravely set about building it with no real understanding of what they were doing. It's not that either way is right or wrong, just far removed from each other.
And another thing... My Dad also mentioned that he would have voted UKIP had there been a candidate to vote for. He is fed up with the identikit public-schoolboy politicians in their indistinguishable parties spouting the same old rhetoric while they sell the country down the river. My wife agrees with him and so do a lot of other people judging by the big gains made by UKIP in the polls. It brings to mind another politician from the 1930's who was derided as a clown and irrelevant by the establishment but rose to power in a bankrupt country on a wave of nationalism. Perhaps Enoch Powell's 'Rivers of Blood' shouldn't be assigned to the prophesy dustbin just yet.
My sons have no interest in making things with their hands or any curiosity about how things work. They have no idea of the satisfaction to be gained from mending something with tools worn smooth from age and use that used to belong to their grandfather. They lack the competence to take something apart to see how it works and then put it back together. People used to get fulfilment from working with wood or tinkering with cars but they don't bother anymore. Who can blame them when you can buy a brand new table from Ikea for £7 and get it delivered to your door and cars are too complicated to be tinkered with.
If you gave my Dad a physical problem to solve such as building anything from a cupboard to a patio, he would work out what materials he needed and how to put it together in his head. Then he would set about constructing it while overcoming any problems with practical ingenuity. My sons would have the same answer within a few key taps and bravely set about building it with no real understanding of what they were doing. It's not that either way is right or wrong, just far removed from each other.
And another thing... My Dad also mentioned that he would have voted UKIP had there been a candidate to vote for. He is fed up with the identikit public-schoolboy politicians in their indistinguishable parties spouting the same old rhetoric while they sell the country down the river. My wife agrees with him and so do a lot of other people judging by the big gains made by UKIP in the polls. It brings to mind another politician from the 1930's who was derided as a clown and irrelevant by the establishment but rose to power in a bankrupt country on a wave of nationalism. Perhaps Enoch Powell's 'Rivers of Blood' shouldn't be assigned to the prophesy dustbin just yet.
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