The zipper that wouldn't budge

Two weeks ago, Mrs Jones and I attended the evening wedding reception of a friend’s daughter. Such events always provide a valid excuse for dusting off the glad rags and slipping into our favourite outfits. On this occasion I opted for my buttock-hugging royal-blue slacks, providing firm hold around the nether regions and an arse shape that screams ‘squeeze me’ to the ladies in the vicinity.

‘Not bad at all for someone nearly 60’, I muttered as I admired myself in the bedroom mirror prior to departure for the venue, an upmarket country hotel.

Two hours into the event, and four pints of cask ale imbibed, I needed my first pee of the evening. The toilets were opulent, all tiles and gleaming porcelain, the pedestal basins adorned with a variety of scented hand washes. I was the only one there, unexpected given that the occasion was well attended. I approached the urinal and pulled on my zipper; it wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, several times, but it refused to go south.  

Standing there, shoulders hunched, I inspected my groin in search of the source of the obstruction. Drops of perspiration appeared on my forehead. As tends to happen in such situations, the awareness of being denied the opportunity to urinate was making the desire to do so more urgent. In anticipation of the embarrassment should someone enter the toilet, I moved into a cubicle so as to permit a more thorough intra-trouser exploration. With one hand on my zipper, and the other down the front of a (very tight) waistband, I pulled and yanked in a to-and-fro motion, an action that might have been open to misinterpretation if  observed by a third party. But all to no avail; the zipper refused to move, as if welded shut.

The fumblings of the hand down the front of my trousers – already growing numb through the lack of blood supply – had identified the problem: a flap of material near the fly hole that had entwined with the zipper along its full length. With increasing desperation, I reviewed my options. Perhaps I should call Mrs Jones on her cell phone, requesting she comes to my aid armed with a pair of scissors? (An option I quickly dismissed, on the basis that she would only piss herself – excuse the pun – laughing).

As my desperation escalated, catastrophic images pushed into my mind:

Wedding guests pointing at my gusset and shrieking in disgust as my trousers morph into two-tone, a deeper shade of navy extending in waves from the abdomen.

Firemen armed with heavy-duty cutting equipment rushing into the hotel to free me from my contour-hugging slacks.

Lying prostrate on the table among the Singer sowing machines at the local textile factory as the seamstresses debate how best to unpick the stitching. (Or maybe that was a fantasy rather than a catastrophic image?)

Mercifully, after a 10-minutes ordeal – one that felt like an age - my repeated tugging released the zipper and I was able to relieve myself in the appropriate receptacle. (Is there any human experience more pleasurable than emptying a full bladder after a period of inhibition?). 

And the next time I wear my favourite blue slacks, I will replace vanity with practicality, focusing on that rogue flap of material under the zip rather than the shape of my arse.

Image courtesy of hin255 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Spewing and sprawling on the Ionian Sea

When the captain of a boat sits on his own in the corner, hands over his face, his bowed head shaking from side to side, it is reasonable to suspect that all is not well.

Such was the scene Mrs Jones and I witnessed while on a boat returning to the Greek island of Corfu after a day trip to Albania. We were ensconced, below deck, in the covered area of a pleasure cruiser along with around one hundred other tourists. The Ionian Sea had been choppy since we left the port. Ten minutes into the voyage, and the boat was swinging from side to side like a giant hammock in a gale. At first it was amusing to watch: unoccupied chairs and tables sliding around like a scene from Poltergeist; young men zig-zagging to the toilet, grasping the hands of seated fellow passengers to steady themselves; and an Italian beauty, wearing more makeup than clothing, sliding to the floor and unable to get back up, her long legs akimbo.

From the outset I’d been making eye-contact with an obese, disabled Romanian gentleman sitting directly opposite, leaning forward on his walking stick, our mutual nods and smiles showing smug acceptance of the situation. Two old sea dogs like us were not going to be phased by a bit of choppy water. White foam rendering the windows opaque, as if we were all entombed inside an iceberg, didn’t worry us. Real men, made of sturdy stuff, while lesser mortals floundered. Suddenly, the boat lurched violently to starboard catapulting the 17-stone Romanian towards me; he landed at my feet with a thud.  

I, and others, feigned to stand up to help him – if we had, the pendulous swing of the boat would have put us all on our arses – but the prostrate fella oozed calmness and rationality.

‘I’m fine on the floor,’ he said, palm of his hand raised with the authority of a traffic policeman. ‘It’s the best place for me’.

And then the vomiting started. The kids who’d been screeching and running amok on the outward journey were now sat in a line, motionless, their faces displaying various shades of green and yellow. In response to their communal retching, a number of plastic shopping bags had appeared and were now being used to catch the dribbling puke. Some adults with sea sickness – including the two holiday reps – had braved the wobbly walk to the outside deck and were now vomiting over the side, their white-knuckled hands clinging to the rails.

A young man who had been laid horizontal across three seats, apparently sleeping, roused himself. He sat upright, appearing confused. In an instant, perplexity was replaced by horror and he sprung to his feet and made a dash for the toilet, his cheeks puffed out like an inflatable toad. He stumbled, falling in my direction, and for a second we were almost nose-to-nose. I resigned myself to being peppered with a semi-digested Albanian buffet, but – and give the lad his due – like a skilled fighter-plane pilot, he pulled off a last-minute swerve to the right and vomited over my shoulder into a recess behind me.  

Mrs Jones and I had remained seated throughout, absorbing the chaos around us: upturned tables and chairs randomly sliding back and forth; a chorus of retching and gurgling; white froth slapping against the windows as if the sea had morphed into a fizzy drink; and a rotund east European lying on his side at our feet, his chin resting on his hand, nonchalantly perusing the mayhem. As the boat continued to veer like a giant swing at a funfair, we had focused on the behaviour of our Greek captain. Oblivious to the stumbling, vomiting passengers, the skipper continually ventured outside onto the exposed deck – the open door letting in a howling gale – returning wet and windswept, only to then repeat the action.

But now the captain had sat down in our midst. I – and I suspect many others – looked to him for reassurance that everything was under control. But we couldn’t see his features: he was slumped, hands over his face, shaking his head from side to side. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: the boat was sinking.

Mrs Jones began texting a farewell message to the kids.

I considered ringing my son to remind him of the cabinet drawer where our will was kept.

My hand started to grope under my seat in search of a life jacket.

And then the horizontal Romanian calmly asked the question we all wanted answered. ‘Captain, is there something wrong with the boat?’

As if wakened from a trance, the captain lifted his head and looked around, perplexed, trying to locate the source of the voice that had intruded into his inner world. It took a few seconds to notice the fixed stare from hulk on the floor and realise this was his interrogator.

‘No, no, the ship’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve just banged my head on one of the rails outside’.  

Ten minutes later, the sea calmed and we arrived safely in Corfu town.

‘That was horrendous,’ said Mrs Jones as we got off the boat. ‘I thought we were doomed’.

‘Just a bit of choppy sea,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss was about.’      

 

Image courtesy of bplanet et FreeDigitalPhotos.net

 

Five things that make me angry

I like to see myself as an easy-going fella who can smile at adversity and not take life too seriously. Yet, over the last few weeks, a number of situations succeeded in triggering annoyance, even rage. Here are five of my most snarl-inducing experiences.

1. Telephone helplines where the person reads from a script

Information technology is awesome, enabling us to access the answer to any question at the touch of a button. In contrast, when it goes awry, it can cause such teeth-grinding frustration. Recently, my Internet connection ceased to function so I rang the provider to speak to an expert technician. The subsequent telephone conversation went something like this:

ME: Hi there. I can’t get an Internet connection. I’ve checked that the cables are all plugged in correctly and I’ve tried switching my router on and off, but I still can’t get online. So could I talk to a technician please?

HELPER: OK – what I’d like you to do first is to switch your router off, leave it for 10 seconds, and then switch it back …

ME: I’ve already done that – can you just put me through to one of your techy people

*Pause*

*Shuffling of papers*

HELPER: Would you now check the cable leading from your computer to the router and ensure that it …

Give me strength! If I was more compassionate I’d recognise what a shit, poorly-paid job it is working in a call centre but, at this particular moment, I want to put my fist through the telephone line and punch him in the face.

2.      People who believe they are transparent

There’s a football match I’m eager to watch so I’ve arrived at the pub early in order to obtain a seat with a full view of the television. I’m enjoying my third pint of cask ale when the game starts, and then … some bloke stands directly in my eye line, totally obscuring my view. I wait a while, expecting him to soon realise the error of his ways, but no, he remains oblivious.

After a few seconds of staring at the fella’s back, I shout, ‘Excuse me; could you move to the side so I can see the TV.’

He turns and looks at me with disdain – like he’s just seen me shit on his dining table – and, grudgingly, moves a few millimetres. If I wasn’t such a wimp – and he wasn’t four-foot wide with neck scarring and tattoos – I’d have stood up and confronted him.

Instead, I seethe in silence, muttering into the froth of my beer.     

3.      Pedestrians who don’t give way

I’m walking along the pavement/sidewalk with Mrs Jones when I notice three people, side-by-side, walking towards me. While my lady and I make some effort to make space for them, by turning to the side or adopting a one-in-front-of-the-other formation, they march on, three abreast, brushing us away from their flight path. Did they not notice us? Did they see us but thought, ‘Fuck you – we’re much more important?’

I vow that when I next meet such blinkered on comers I will stand my ground and shoulder them into the oncoming traffic (that is as long as they are not four-foot wide with neck scars and tattoos).

4.      When restaurants run out of your favoured menu choice

Following a detailed inspection of the restaurant’s menu, enticingly displayed in the front window, we enter and are shown to our seats. While the internal hunger monster forces saliva out of the corner of our mouths, we eagerly order our favoured dishes, only for the waiter to say,

‘Sorry sir, but we’ve run out of the goat’s cheese starter and the salmon main.’

Perhaps because he’s noticed my disappointment, he adds, ‘We’ve been really busy today.’

OK, so it’s the previous customers at fault for woofing down my cheese and salmon; the no-shows in the menu have nothing at all to do with the incompetence of the restaurant manager and in-house chef. After all, how could they know that demand might increase a bit on a bank holiday? 

5.      The blanket coverage of the royal wedding    

I have zero interest in the royal family. All that pomp, tradition and elitism leave me cold. So when Prince Harry recently hooked up with some wench called Megan Markle this royal wedding held the same allure for me as hearing about the marriage of a couple of strangers – that is, no interest at all.

Nonetheless, in the days leading up to the ceremony I was forced to endure blanket coverage by the media. Newspapers devoted page after page to the ‘happy event’. The TV news channels dedicated hour after hour to such riveting stuff as who would walk Meg down the aisle, what her wedding dress would look like, and whether Harry would opt for a pre-ceremony bowel movement or wait until after the service – OK, I made that last one up; but now I think about it, his colonic activity would have been more interesting than all the other guff.  

On the wedding day itself, Mrs Jones and I decided to escape the frenzy and hysteria by taking a very long walk in the hills that overlook our town. The solitude of the countryside was bliss. But when we opted for a pit stop in a rural village tavern, over the top of the bar was a small TV showing – you’ve guessed it – the royal wedding. Behind us, a group of middle-aged ladies excitedly discussed the wonders of the current queen, princes and princesses. Give me strength!

The sooner the UK morphs into a republic the better.

Photo courtesy of imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net 

                                             

      

  

How to never write a novel

It is often said that each of us carries a book inside us. I don’t mean an actual oblong chunk of paper swishing around in one’s intestine, but a story – somewhere in the multi-corridors of the mind - that is clamouring to get out and is sufficiently interesting to comprise a saleable novel. Sadly, as I approach my 60^th birthday, I’ve yet to find my potential blockbuster.

Instead of producing the next Harry Potter bestseller, what I have discovered is that I’m an expert in procrastination. When I sit down with the intention of crafting my masterpiece, I soon manage to distract myself onto another activity. It seems I have developed a deft range of strategies to impede and sabotage the creative writing process.  

Here are my wonderfully effective ways of putting off until tomorrow what you should be doing today:

1^st-level strategies: (before sitting down in front of the laptop)

1. Convince myself I need to use the toilet – it is amazing how paying attention to the bladder or bowel can evoke activity therein.
2. Long for the smell of cocoa beans until there is no choice but to go and make myself another cup of coffee.
3. Prod the flesh above my trouser belt to the point where vanity kicks in and I decide to go and engage in 30 minutes of high-intensity exercise on my static bike.
4. Wonder if Mrs Jones is in the mood for love.

2^nd-level strategies: (once I’ve opened the file titled ‘novel’)

1. Decide that much more preparation is required before starting my story.
2. Opt to research the history of World War II on the basis that the father of one of my peripheral characters fought in it.
3. Reread my multiple ‘how-to-write-a-novel’ books.
4. Succumb to the pull of ‘Naughty America’.

3^rd – level strategies (Once I’ve started writing)

1. Agonise over the third word of the first sentence and dedicate the next half-hour to flicking through a Thesaurus.
2. Re-read book on punctuation to decide whether to use a semicolon, dash or comma in 1^st sentence.
3. Carry out a word count every 60 seconds.
4. Succumb to the pull of ‘Naughty America’.    

4^th – level strategies (Once I’ve written a couple of pages)

1. Imagine a potential reader peeing her pants with laughter at what I’ve written (despite my novel being a crime/thriller).
2. Decide it’s crap, and press ‘delete’ button.
3. Reflect on the possibility that the fact that I loathe anything written by Ernest Hemmingway might indicate I’m clueless as to what makes a decent writer.
4. Google how to access treatment for my sex addiction.

   

  Photo courtesy of freeimages.co.uk   

https://www.freeimages.co.uk/

The things my elderly mother shouts

My father had a fall last week and I accompanied him to the hospital, along with my 87-year-old mother. The old fella spent 4 hours in the resuscitation area of the Accident and Emergency Department - part of it in a cubicle, most of the time on a trolley in the corridor. My mother and I sat with him, perched on plastic chairs. Contrary to what you might expect, this extended period of waiting was rarely dull.

My lovely mum is hard of hearing and this long-term affliction, together with some short-term-memory loss, can cause confusion and disorientation. When she speaks she tend to shout, presumably as a consequence of her deafness. Also, as she gets older, she seems to be less inhibited about sharing what’s on her mind. While sitting in the crowded Accident and Emergency Department - surrounded by bleeping equipment, suction machines and the night’s ill and bleeding casualties - she announced the following:

1. ‘LOOKING AT ALL THESE POOR SODS, WE DON’T KNOW HOW LUCKY WE ARE.’

2. (When an obese nurse walked past and smiled in our direction) ‘GOODNESS, SHE’S A FAT LASS’.

3. ‘I HOPE THESE CLICKS AND SQUISHING NOISES AREN’T GOING TO CONTINUE ALL NIGHT.’

I inform her that these noises are from emergency equipment that is keeping people alive. On hearing this, she expresses remorse, and says the Holy Trinity while making the sign of the cross.

(Thirty seconds later)  ‘THIS RACKET ISN’T GOING TO GO ON ALL NIGHT, IS IT? WHY DON'T THEY JUST TURN THEM OFF?’

4. ‘SORRY, I’VE JUST TRUMPED – IT DOESN’T SMELL THOUGH’

5. (On being told that dad hasn't broken any bones and we can all go home, mum stands over dad and says) PICK YOUR FEET UP NEXT TIME, FAT ARSE - WE'RE NOT BRINGING YOU HERE AGAIN'.

    

Photo courtesy of PaulR at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

A man's got to know his limitations

I’m good at some things. My Sunday roast propels fellow diners into orgasmic rapture, I’m a more-than-decent public speaker, and the speed of my mental arithmetic makes Sheldon appear mathematically challenged. Nonetheless, it is important to be aware of one’s weaknesses – in the words of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations’.

So here is a list of my limitations. And I’m not referring to the ‘I’m-not-quite-as-strong-at’ sort of deficiencies – no sirree – these are activities where I demonstrate such stunning incompetence that onlookers assume parts of my brain have gone walkabouts.

1. Opening cereal boxes

Mrs Jones begs me to ask for her help when opening breakfast cereals. By the time I’ve prised off the cellophane wrap from my Kellogg’s cornflakes, I’m in no mood to explore the subtleties of the cardboard re-fastening device on the top of the box. Instead, I assault it from the flank, penetrating it with a forefinger and tearing it open. For its remaining shelf life, it sits bloated with its inners exposed, as if opened by a stick of dynamite.

2. Singing

I love listening to popular music, but when it comes to singing I’m tone deaf. When I let fly in the shower with my rendition of the Eagles’s Lying Eyes, Mrs Jones cringes, the local authority sees a sharp rise in reported incidents of noise pollution, and the nightingales self-destruct. My attempts at the high notes have even been known to interfere with my neighbours’ Wi-Fi connection.  

3. DIY

Men are expected to shine in the Do-it-yourself department, delighting their ladies with displays of competence around the home and garden. Not this bloke; I’m utterly useless. I’ve no idea how to rewire a plug (all those colours are so confusing), the prospect of putting up a curtain rail causes me sleepless nights, and my sole contribution to assembling a flat-pack wardrobe from Ikea is checking we’ve received the correct number of nuts and bolts (as I’ve said, I’m great at counting).

My level of ineptitude reached a humiliating high last week. Armed with my brand new hedge trimmer, I strutted into the front garden to prune the bushes. Within ten seconds, I was left holding an impotent machine with a limp six-inches of wire dangling; yep, I’d inadvertently cut through the electric cord and short-circuited the house.

  

4. Wrapping presents

For 30 years, the task of wrapping Christmas and birthday gifts has usually defaulted to Mrs Jones. She excels at it. Her dressed parcels always display crisp, symmetrical edges, with a skin-tight paper covering, minimal sticky tape, and a decorative bow.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t seem right to ask Mrs Jones to wrap my gifts to her (although I have considered this option) and I’ve no choice but to do it myself. On these rare occasions, the end product looks as if it presented a moving target, one I didn’t quite catch up with. Excess wrapping paper loiters at each end of the parcel, forming unsightly bulges, and the (half-a-roll of) sticky tape appears to have been applied via a scatter gun with each piece creased and misshapen.    

5. Drawing and artwork

I can recall sitting in an art lesson as a child and the teacher leaning over my shoulder and whispering, ‘You’re bloody useless, Jones’. That man was a shrewd judge. If I’m denied the use of words, I’m void of all creativity. My attempts at drawing resemble the scribblings of a three-year-old and, if it’s not painting by numbers, the colouring stuff remains in the box.   

6. Directional sense

When God was giving out internal radars, he must have skipped my name. Either that or he had a sense of humour, and relished the prospect of me groping around the earth in a permanent state of spatial confusion. My sense of direction is dreadful. In a strange town I can enter a building and, when I exit, I often fail to recall which direction I approached from. Many hours have been wasted trying to find my parked the car. And when driving to a specified destination I’ve sometimes, after hours of futile circling, given up and headed for home - that is, of course, if I can find it. 

Thank goodness for the greatest invention of our time: satellite navigation.

Does anyone else care to disclose their ineptitudes?

What do doctor's receptionists talk about?

My haemorrhoids are misbehaving again. After completing my morning evacuation, the bathroom porcelain resembles the aftermath of the siege of Leningrad, with sufficient of the red stuff to supply the national blood bank for the next decade. So, reluctantly, I decided to see my doctor.

As per the formal procedure, I rang the health centre at 8.00 am to request an appointment. After noting my name and date of birth, the receptionist found me a slot later that morning. But the conversation was not yet over.

‘I’m now obliged to ask this,’ she said, followed by a short pause. ‘What is the problem that you want to see the doctor about?’

Somewhat taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question, a range of retorts pushed into my mind:

I’ve ruptured my foreskin while engaged in athletic love-making;

I’m farting so much I’m a fire risk when near a naked flame;

I tried on my wife’s bra and the metal wire from the left cup has punctured my lung;

My testicles are hanging so low, when I sit on the toilet they plunge into the water like depth charges.

But I resisted the temptation and, instead, told the truth.

‘I’m bleeding from the arse-hole.’

‘Oh … right … sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m told that I must ask, but it seems … it feels a bit…’

‘It’s OK, no worries,’ I said, starting to feel sorry for the lady’s awkwardness.

***

As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room two hours later, listening for my name to be called, I sensed eyes on me. When I glanced up, there were three female receptionists behind the glass talking and giggling to one another. I wondered which of the trio I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Was it the young blonde lass, barely out of her teens; her inexperience might have been responsible for the awkwardness? Or was it the older, worldly-wise woman in the middle of the threesome, who seemed to be in charge? Maybe it was the smirking receptionist on the end, whose gaze was fixed in my direction?

And what were they discussing? The weather? What each was planning to eat for lunch? Or whether I was the bloke with rivulets of blood trickling down the crack of his arse? When I arose to see the doctor, I imagined them checking my waiting-room seat for stains.

But I subsequently realised that all my speculations were likely to be groundless. As I was leaving the doctor’s surgery, I overheard another patient - an old lady - standing at the reception window.

‘I need a follow-up appointment with the doctor,’ she announced. ‘I have to let him know whether I’m still leaking yellow goo out of my cherry.’

Clearly, the receptionists hear more spectacular stories than mine.

Photo courtesy of pixtawan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

   

The elusive cucumber

‘On your way home, will you stop off at the supermarket for some salad stuff?’ asked Mrs Jones.

My car was in for its annual service so I took the call on my mobile while sitting in the garage waiting area. ‘Yes, sure. What items do we need?’

‘Oh, the usual: lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes and red onions.’

Two hours later I returned home and deposited the contents of my supermarket bag onto the kitchen worktop. Mrs Jones exhaled – audibly – and I detected a roll of the eyes followed by an implosion of her cheeks which, after 36 years together, I knew could mean only one thing: I’d cocked up, big time.

Failure to live up to a wife’s expectation typically means that a man is subjected to a circuitous form of interrogation that is intended to shame and humiliate.

‘Where’s the cucumber?’ she asked, while her foot tapped on the tiled floor, as if delivering a countdown to the moment of my execution.

‘There,’ I said, pointing to the large, cylindrical item in front of us.

‘What makes you think that’s a cucumber?’

‘Well, it looks like a cucumber; it’s dark green, shiny and … … phallic.’

‘It’s much bigger than any phallus I recognise,’ she said, now relishing the role of the strident prosecutor. ‘That is not a cucumber.’

‘What is it then?’

‘It’s a courgette.’

‘A what?’

‘A courgette. A marrow-like vegetable, sometimes referred to as a zucchini.’

‘It looks like a cucumber, so how was I supposed to know?’

‘Maybe the sign over the box in the supermarket that read, COURGETTES, might have given you a clue.’

Mrs Jones, savouring the taste of blood, broadened her onslaught. The tomatoes were insufficiently ripe, the onions partly rotten, and the lettuce much too big and shabby. (I must admit the lettuce resembled the severed, semi-decomposed head of an obese gladiator. Although it could have been worse; I almost brought home a cabbage).    

And to add to my pain, I now recall that I don’t like the taste of courgettes. Something tells me they will be served up with every meal for a week.

   

Hovering over the cash machine

Life can be difficult for older people. In particular, advancing years and technology can be a discomforting mix, as I recently discovered when trying to teach my 85-year-old father how to use a cash dispenser.

Throughout his life, my lovely dad has always drawn his money from the local post office and, if paying his bills by cash is not an option, he has always chosen to write a cheque. Credit and debit cards are alien to him. Alas, all the post offices in his locality have shut down so he is now compelled to rely on the ‘hole-in-the-wall’ cash machine to get his hands on his money. He asked if I would show him how to use it and I agreed to accompany him.

The first time, he watched as I carried out the procedure step by step, while providing a running commentary. On the second occasion – in an attempt to consolidate his learning – I suggested that he perform the whole operation himself, while I observed. We chose a quiet moment at the cashpoint located 200 metres from his home.

The process went something like this:

DAD: Am I holding my card the right way up?

ME: Yes, it’s the right way up.

DAD: Then why won’t it fit in the hole?

ME: Because you’re trying to shove it into the slot where the notes come out; you need to put it here, where it says ‘INSERT CARD HERE’.

Card inserted, the menu of options appears on the screen.

DAD: Do I put my 4-digit number in now?

ME: No, not yet. You first need to read the options and decide which one you want.

DAD: But I can’t read them – I need my specs. (Starts rummaging in his pockets in search of his reading glasses). OK – I can see it now. So do I want ‘CASH ONLY’ or ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’?

ME: Well, do you want a receipt?

DAD: Oh yes – I always get a receipt. You can’t trust anybody these days; they’re all trying to rip you off. I need a receipt to …

ME: So press the ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’ button then.

DAD: Where is it now … let’s see … (Finger hovering over the screen, as if carrying out a subtle piece of black magic)? Oh, what’s happened now?

ME: It’s timed you out. Take your card out and we’ll try again.

DAD: Just my luck to get an iffy machine!

Dad inserts card again.

DAD: Do I put my 4-digit number in now? It’s 672 …

ME: No, not yet. Push this button here to say you want cash with a receipt.

Dad pushes said button.

DAD: Can I put my 4-digit number in now?

ME: Wait a moment. What does it say on the screen?

DAD: It says … (moves his face closer to the screen) … ‘DO …YOU…WANT…TO…CHECK…YOUR…BALANCE…BEFORE…WITHDRAWING … YOUR…CASH?’

ME: Well, do you?

DAD: Why would I want to do that? I wouldn’t be withdrawing money if I didn’t have it in my bank account. Me and your mother don’t spend money we haven’t got – unlike this younger generation who … …

ME: Then press this ‘NO’ button dad.

DAD: Oh, the damn thing’s timed me out again

By this point, a queue had formed behind us. Their facial expressions suggested that, after witnessing this odd couple hovering over the cash dispenser, many of them suspected I was guilty of elderly abuse, trying to rip off the old fella.

We let those waiting go before us and, about 20 minutes (and three further attempts) later, my old dad was able to withdraw his £250. He then proceeded to count it out – note by note – in the midst of passing shoppers. I think I will need to accompany him a few more times before he gets the hang of it.

Photo courtesy of jk1991 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My 'time-and-motion' job

I’m sure we’ve all had jobs in our youth or young adulthood that trigger a smile when we reminisce about them. As a naïve 19-year-old, I recall a temporary summer job during college vacation that instantly rendered me the most unpopular person in the whole factory.

It was 1978, during my 12-week summer recess from university. To earn beer money I needed to work, so my mother helpfully found me a job at the local textile mill where she was employed as a weaver. Initially, my efforts were directed to general labouring tasks – such as scraping grease off the weaving-shed floor – but after a couple of weeks the boss called me into his office.

‘I’d like you to become my “time and motion” man,’ he said.

I was unsure what this role involved. Was it something to do with shit? A toilet monitor, perhaps? Or would I be running errands for him, maybe nipping out to the shop to buy his cigarettes? Maybe he wanted me for his bitch, to bugger me over his work desk whenever the urge arose? Whatever the job involved, it would surely be a step up from chiselling a year’s worth of detritus from between the power looms.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘When can I start?’

The boss was engaged in a mission to boost productivity. The factory was not churning out enough cloth and he wanted to know why. My – terribly important – role required me to sit on the top of a step ladder (like a tennis umpire) in the main weaving shed with a clipboard in one hand and a stopwatch in the other. This room contained 10 looms that rattled away transforming threads of yarn into linen, each machine manned by a responsible weaver. When a loom was active, a green light flashed above the machine; when stopped, a red light flashed. My job was to record the cumulative time that each machine was dormant.

As one might imagine, my presence in the weaving shed was not generally welcomed by the weavers; if their machines were stopped for any length of time, the management would ask questions. Nevertheless, I took to my ‘spying for the bosses’ role seriously, and was soon transformed into a Gestapo-like overseer of the inmates. Each time that red light flashed, my stopwatch started and remained on until the green light was restored; the period of inactivity was then noted on my chart.

Throughout each day of employment in this lofty position, a typical interaction went something like this:

WEAVER: What stoppages have you got for loom 7 this morning?

ME: (scrutinising my chart, my lips pursed in readiness for delivering bad news) Inactive on just the one occasion between 8.14 am and 8.35 am, that’s 21 minutes in total.

WEAVER: But that shouldn’t count. It wasn’t my fault – the warehouse bloke was slow bringing me my yarn and I ran out.

ME: Sorry, pal, but there is not a column on my chart for explanations. My task is to solely record the period of inactivity.

After a few days in the role I even noticed that a couple of the workers would strategically position themselves in front of their lights, obstructing my view, thereby requiring me to descend from my stepladder and strut through the weaving shed to (invariably) discover their red bulb flashing; the subsequent dramatic flash of my pencil on chart screamed the message, ‘you can’t fool me’.

My ‘time-and-motion’ role lasted two weeks, after which I returned to removing grease and other debris from the factory floor. To their eternal credit, none of the weavers held a grudge and I received no criticism in the aftermath. Come to think of it, they didn’t say much to me at all. And, now I look back, there did seem to be a sharp increase in number of accidental spillages that required my attention. And my break-time cup of tea acquired a strange yellowy-green tinge and a whiff of ammonia … …

Has anyone else ever worked in a role that made you unpopular?

Image courtesy of artur84 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

       

      

A bus ride, Greek style

After another afternoon in Kefalonia, lolloping by the swimming pool under the scorching Greek sun, Mrs Jones and I followed our usual holiday routine. We returned to our apartment, showered, admired our tanned skins in the mirror, plastered our flesh with generous splodges of hydrating lotion, and dressed in smart night-time attire in readiness for the evening meal in a local restaurant.

Macho madness in the front garden

I’m not a gardener. It typically requires all my self-motivational powers to hoist me out of my

armchair to mow the back lawn once a month. But a recent house move, male pomp, and a desire to impress our new neighbours, spawned some frenetic green-fingered activity that almost resulted in my hospitalisation.

The front garden comprises a sloping rockery down one side, and a gravel area in the centre with flower beds around the edges. A two-day combined onslaught by me and Mrs Jones successfully removed all the weeds. Job complete, I was anticipating a few weeks of rest until I noticed my lady gazing at the pebbly expanse with an expression that could only mean that she was forming a cunning plan.

‘We need some decorative slate for this middle section,’ she said. ‘It’s looking a bit shabby.’

I held back my sighs. There was no point arguing – her mind was made up – so off we went to the local garden centre.

‘This blue stuff would look nice,’ she said while pointing to a mound of hefty bags stacked outside the main entrance. ‘How many would we need?’

‘Four?’ I ventured, mindful that they were £4.99 ($8) each.

‘We’ll require more than that,’ she sneered.

‘OK, eight then; but let’s remember whose fault it is when we have loads left over.’

When we’d paid the lady cashier, she insisted that one of her boys load them into the back of my car. I thanked her for her kindness, while inwardly affronted that she thought that my 57-year-old frame was not up to the task.

The same afternoon I set to work, while Mrs Jones attended to indoor domestic chores. Yes, they were heavy, but I managed to unload each of the eight bags of ‘blue slate decorative aggregate’ and dispense the contents onto the gravelly stretch of my front garden.

Thirty minutes later, my sweaty brow and dusty eyebrows appeared at the open front-room window, prompting Mrs Jones to turn off her noisy vacuum cleaner.

‘We’re going to need a few more bags,’ I said.

She immediately gave me the ‘I told you so’ look. ‘How many?’

‘Thirty-five more should do it.’

This time I ordered online, and the following afternoon the garden-centre van reversed onto my drive. A muscular, gypsy-looking 30-something with a shock of black hair, wearing a flimsy white t-shirt that struggled to contain his rippled torso, opened the rear doors of his vehicle.

‘I’ll need to unload these bags next to where you’re going to spread them; they’re heavy.’

‘No, stack them over here, next to the garage,’ I replied, pointing at a spot about 20 metres away from my front garden.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking me up and down as if assessing my body mass index.

‘Yes, here will be fine,’ I said, smugly.

The hulk proceeded to flip each of the bags from the van onto his shoulder and stacked them on my driveway as directed, completing the whole venture in less than five minutes.

Immediately he’d left, I set to work. How difficult could it be? I’d earlier managed to spread eight of the things, so another 35 shouldn’t be too difficult. The warm, sunny afternoon had brought a few neighbours out into their gardens. I sensed they had clocked my conversation with the delivery man. I had an audience. The challenge was on.

The first few bags caused little difficulty. I flipped each onto my thigh before raising it to chest height (like a professional weight-lifter) and strutting across to my garden for spreading. Indeed, I imagined I was in ‘The World’s Strongest Man’ competition showing those hairy Neanderthals (who, in my imagination, comprised the other contestants) how it was done. I could swear that the lady next door was almost swooning at my raw athleticism.

By the time I reached double figures, I could feel the burn of lactic acid accumulating in my arms and legs. The bags were no longer reaching chest height, instead dangling around my legs as I dragged them while clinging to two corners of the plastic packaging.

When I reached the twenties, I was panting like a Viagra-fuelled dog. One lift triggered an audible fart, and I prayed that the neighbours were out of earshot, or that the sound of my gaseous emission had been muffled by all my gasping and wheezing. I felt dizzy, and suspected that I was now swaying as I heaved each load to the garden. My vision blurred as salty perspiration stung my eyes. 

I think it was around bag number 31 that I wet myself, the energy behind my upward thrust, while barely sufficient to move the blue slate, was enough to contract my bladder. Thankfully my navy-blue tracksuit bottoms concealed the damp patch emerging around my groin.

Despite these adversities, I somehow managed to complete the job. As I staggered back indoors, feeling confused and disorientated, my clothing stained with sweat, piss and spittle, Mrs Jones was stood gazing out of the front-room window.

‘Ah, that looks much better,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ I muttered, while hurrying to the bathroom to clean myself up before she turned round. ‘They weren’t that heavy.’     

The excruciating 3rd meet

Micky Flanagan, a superb British comedian, tells a gag about the social awkwardness of unintentionally meeting someone you know on three occasions within a short period of time. I didn’t grasp what he meant until last Wednesday at the local supermarket.

Four months ago we moved into a new house and, not being the most outgoing person – OK, I accept I’m a smidgeon away from a full-time hermit – interactions with my new neighbours have been rare. There is, however, a bloke who lives opposite who, several times each day, stands in his garden smoking a cigarette; I’ve yet to discover his name but Mrs Jones and I refer to him as ‘nicotine Norman’. I like to be civil so, when leaving or entering my house, when he’s standing there puffing on his Capstan full-strength, we have exchanged nods and one-word greetings.

Anyway, last Wednesday I’m pushing my supermarket trolley along the fresh-meat aisle when there he is, nicotine Norman, lumbering towards me.

‘How you doing?’ I say.

‘Fine thanks,’ he replies.

We exchange smiles and proceed with our weekly shops. I feel pleased with my show of friendliness.

No more than a couple of minutes later, while rummaging in the men’s haircare section, I look up to find Norman bearing down on me.

‘We must stop meeting like this,’ I say, feeling a bit uncomfortable at my feeble attempt at humour.

‘Yes, people will start to talk,’ he replies.

Fast forward five minutes and the worst social scenario known to man unfolds next to the fruit and veg: the 3^rd meet. I’d exited the frozen-food lane, and taken a sharp left-hander, when I spot him. He is 20 yards away but approaching fast. A kaleidoscope of questions rush through my mind: has he seen me?; can I do an about turn without him noticing?; perhaps I can look down, as if deep in thought, and pass him as if I haven’t registered his presence?; or maybe I can whip out my mobile phone and pretend to be immersed in conversation with Mrs Jones?

But it’s too late; our eyes meet.

I shrug my shoulders and emit a, ‘Gee-whiz’.

He pulls a strange face, his mouth curling on one side as if suffering a stroke.

I spread my arms, with open palms, and grunt.

He shakes his head and smiles, in that ‘would you believe it?’ way.

Excruciating!

Has anyone else endured a third meet? Or is it just a British thing?  

Photo courtesy of renjith krishnan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

   

A review of my life - the concise version

It is often said that people's attention spans are getting shorter, particularly when reading online. With this in mind - plus the fact that I can't be arsed to string a full sentence together - today's ramblings will comprise single-word descriptors (OK pedants, a few phrases and compound words as well) of each decade of my life; a sort of concise, pocket-sized version of my time on planet earth.  

0 – 10 years: hazy, poo, magical, summery,  Procol Harum, giddy, peeping, kaleidoscope, chips, ice-cream, Santa, tooth fairy, kiss-chase, Dion, climbing-rope tingles, doctors-&-nurses & tonsils.                                                        

11 – 20 years: wanking, rejection, heartbreak, fear, fury, idealism, wanking, Chi-Lites, exploring, experimenting,groping, fingering, wanking, Eagles, dribbling, escaping, wanking, Barley Wine, preening, angst,  puking, posing, pissing & wanking.

21 – 30 years:  shagging, intoxication, studying, shagging, bingeing, all-night parties, achievement, qualifications, love, commitment, Leonard Cohen, shagging, poverty, worrying  & shagging.     

31 – 40 years: weddings, breeding, striving, promotion,  progression,  frenetic,  sleepless,  fathering, exhaustion, caring, doting, vasectomy & cask ales. 

41 – 50  years: mirror-gazing, plucking, introspection, Merlot, fillet steak, trimming, blogging, lettuce, regretting,  reflecting & mid-life wobbles.. 

51 – 60 years: retiring, writing, publication, walking, Viagra,  haemorrhoids, greyness, drooping, sagging,  loss, funerals,  closeness, intimacy, shrivel, Port, aching, holidaying, cruising, spending kids inheritance & contentment. 

What would your life look like in single words or phrases?



Photo courtesy of Vlado at FreeDigitalPhotos.net