Mick's less lightweight pages

Hard of Hearing

2008-02-05T14:21:00.000-08:00

"I'm sorry, they're out," said the old lady at the door. "They've gone t' boat." She fumbled in her purse. "I'll pay for their's though."
"Thanks. It'll save me coming back," replied the window cleaner. "I didn't know they had a boat..."
Momentarily surprised she looked up from her purse. "Oh yes."
She said this as though everyone had a boat... as though everyone should have a boat... as though it were a right to have a boat.
The window cleaner, bored of the whole affair, looked about... Oh but what a lovely day to be on the river, he thought. If only. It would be the perfect day today. Although it was a good day for work, no doubt... it would be even better to be on a boat, gliding silently upstream, cutting a cool breeze... a good day to be doing something... anything, anything better than cleaning bloody windows. A boat on the river sounded perfect, just perfect.
She'd gathered together four of the eight pounds by now...
"Where do they keep it?"
"On the common..."
The old lady seemed puzzled - then older people always look puzzled.
"Ah." He thought for a moment. "Are they building it?"
"Building what?"
"The boat."
"What boat?" She held the eight pounds in her hand now and offered it forward.
"The one they've gone to today," he said with a tone of mild exasperation. Tch, old people you never know where you are with them. They're all the same.
Then it occurred to him... of course - the Common...
"Oh I do beg your pardon..." He laid his hand gently on the old lady's shoulder before accepting the money. "VOTE," he added with a chuckle. "They've gone to vote!"
"Yes, that's what I said. They've gone to vote."
"I see. I do apologise... I thought you said 'BOAT'..."
"No dear, vote," she replied with a dry thin smile.

That awful moment...

2008-02-02T08:55:00.000-08:00

That awful moment of realisation that your glass is empty - (or not full), depending on your personal perspective...

The Home Help

2008-02-02T07:12:00.000-08:00

A persistent biting wind had made the morning's work all the more arduous and from the top of the ladder I could see the distant hills white with snow. Wind is unpredictable and never friendly to window cleaners and I felt miserably cold.
My fingers were just too numb to count the handful of small change proffered by the Home Help.
"He's coppered-up," she said - a woman in her late forties maybe, short and heavy, most likely she would describe herself as 'bonny' but in fact she was fat.
"I've just mashed, would you like a cup?"
Readily accepting the invite, I sidled into the kitchen.
"Go and get round t'fire a bit Duck."
I entered the living room trying to rub some life back into my hands.
"Mornin' George. Are you keepin' all right?"
My customer, grey-haired and ruddy faced, sat in front of a roaring coal fire - a smiling content sort of a character - as if he'd long discovered the secret of life, and kept it, all to himself.
"Mornin... I keep muddlin' on tha knows. Come an' sit thissen darn. It's a kewd 'un today allrate."
I sat down, much appreciating the hot blaze. The woman brought the cup and saucer and put it on the table.
"Sugar?"
"No thanks, just as it is."
"Ooo, yer not slimmin' ar y'u... you need sugar for energy this weather y'u know..," she said and gave out a short laugh.
"Does tha want a drop o'summat innit?" offered George.
Seeing that I wasn't about to dissapprove he got up, rather spritely I thought, and emerged from the pantry with a bottle of whisky.
"Don't kill it," I jested.
The old man chuckled.
A figure passed the window and a knock came on the door.
"I 'ope he's not sellin' ew't, 'cos we've got new't 'ere..," the woman said, before going to open the door.
"Good morning Madam..."
"Eee, y'u look frozzen Duck - you'd better 'av a cup o' tea... Come in an' 'av a warm."
"Morning," he repeated, entering the living room. "Cold one today."
"Ar, come an' sit thissen darn," replied George tucking the whisky bottle to the side of his cushion.
"Thanks, that's very civil of you."
With his free hand the man pulled out a chair. The other hand, red with cold, clutched a wad of leaflets.
"A' tha selling ew't," said George, looking the younger man straight in the eye. "'Cos if thy are tha's come to 'wrong house."
Momentarily the young man seemed taken-aback, but smiled politely.
"No, just got a few leaflets to deliver..."
"Oh," said George, glancing at the leaflets.
"..about total central heating," continued the man, undoing his coat.
"Oh, ar - Tha'll not get more central than that," piped George, nodding towards the Victorian range.
"Well it cetainly is a good fire... cause a lot of draughts though, open fires."
George appeared thoughtful, but said nothing.
The woman brought the man his tea.
"Sugar?"
"Er, two please."
"You need sugar for energy you know..." She gave me a sideways glance. "Specially this weather."
"Er, thanks." The young man stirred his tea.

The fire crackled softly to the chink of cups on saucers. I wondered if the man would persue his point on open fires and the draught they create as I sipped my fortified tea. It seemed a special moment and I would have liked time to stand still for a while, or at least slow down a little. The salesman burst my bubble:
"Most of the heat goes straight up the chimney," he said with sudden authority.
I suppose he had nothing to lose.
Old George said nothing, his face aglow.
The home help took her cup to the kitchen.
"You can't beat GAS," she said powerfully as she left the room.
An awkward air of politeness hung like wispy smoke.
"Let's face it..," said the man at last, rather pompously I thought. "Open fires have had their day..."
The fire roared.
"...all the dirt and the ashes..."
He was cut off by the woman shouting from the kitchen:
"Mine comes on at seven, till nine. Then it's on when I get 'ome at five. I don't know how I used to manage with fires. I couldn't do it now." She put her head round the door. "You can't beat gas."
I could sense that the last word had a deeper meaning. The salesman felt it too, for he hurriedly finished his tea and rose to leave.
"Ah well, time's money," he said, collecting his leaflets. Then carefully prising one away, as though it were a freshly-forged fifty pound note, he left it on the table.
"I'll leave a leaflet," he said. "Explains everything."
George glanced across. "Oh ar."

The woman closed the door after the salesman and came to fetch his cup. As the man passed the window he gave a business-like wave and she picked up the leaflet as if it were a fifty pound note.
"Save pounds with latest Combi Heating System," she read aloud, then went quite before adding: "Can you answer yes to three of the following questions...?"
Then quiet again...
"Oh it's gas!" she exclaimed as though the fifty were now a hundred. She took it all in with great enthusiasm: "Hmm... oooh. Aaah..."
Eventually she passed the leaflet to George, repeating her ultimate praise of gas central heating, and returned to the kitchen.
George took the piece of paper, and without so much as a peek at it, threw it onto the fire where it flared instantly - briefly bright green, it soon became a mere wisp of carbon and with bright red edges it flipped over and floated up the chimney.

Reluctantly I finished my drink and thanked George for his hospitality. Feeling refreshed, I rose to leave as the woman returned for my cup.
"Is that better?" she asked.
"Much better thanks. I'd better crack-on while it's still fine." I moved towards the door behind her.
As she entered the kitchen, George's timeless expression broke into a broad grin.
"Tha knows what's wrong wi' world today?"
"What's that George?"
George lowered his voice: "Too much o' this central heatin' 'n double glazin' if thy asks me." Beckoning me to come closer, he added: "Tha can't beat a bit o'draft... it's 'ealthy see."
He leaned forward in his chair, as if to meet me half way, his voice almost a whisper. "Tha can be too comfortable tha knows." He glanced toward the kitchen door and said aloud: "Ar, any road tha'd better get on, it's goin' to rain."
I returned to the cold with glowing cheeks. After emptying the bucket, I grabbed the ladders and started up the lane where the first of the rain came like icy pellets.
It rained for the rest of that day.

The Players

2008-02-02T06:45:00.001-08:00

During the winter months they met twice-weekly. Two armchairs would be drawn to the fireside and a chequered board unfolded onto a small table between.
Long spells of concentration would fill the evening as hands hovered over carved wooden pieces - a finger delicately placed on a newly-moved piece until a moment of cautious finality. Then a groan, and: 'I hadn't seen that one'; or: 'I had to give that one up', or more satisfactorily: 'Hmm.'
The host puffed a pipe while his opponent favoured cigars - smoke, blue-grey and swirling, would be wafted aside with great care.

The players sought privacy and solitude in their desire for deep and thorough concentration. Though tonight, concentration was difficult - footsteps on the stairs; music from another room. Bloody row the host called it - didn't know what the world was coming to. Youngsters today, obsessed with noise. Change the world?! Ha!

Usually the evening closed with a light supper of tea and sandwiches. Towards the end of the last game, the host would rise, steadily and reluctantly, to put the kettle on. Returning to his seat to resume play, he would check the details of the last move and review the consequences before deciding carefully on the next.

Tonight was different:

"Put kettle on will you?" shouted the host through the haze.
"Put it on yourself!" came the terse reply as a youth with long hair entered the room.
"That's just once too often..," muttered the host. Abruptly rising from his chair, he caught hold of the youth's arm, spun him round and punched him in the face. The force of the blow knocked the youth across the room where he crashed over a chair and fell to the floor. The host then filled the kettle, put it onto the stove, lit the gas and returned to his chair to continue his game.
His opponent wore a look of astonishment but said nothing.
"Make us a sandwich then, will you?"
"O..okay..," replied the youth. He appeared bewildered and felt his jaw. "Er, cheese all right?"

Uncle Dib

2008-02-02T06:10:00.000-08:00

I don't remember where it was but the sea was grey and flat and a long way off.
Uncle Dib let us bury him in the sand. He smoked a lot and smoked a cigarette all the time that we covered him over. He could laugh without it falling out of his mouth. He said to my mum that he hoped he didn't get sand down his trousers. She laughed a lot and then said that it hurt.
My uncle Dib wasn't really an uncle at all my sister said. He was my mum's boyfriend she said.
He used to sit and stare a lot and look sad sometimes. He shouted in the night once. My mum said it was nothing and to go back to bed. She looked scared. My sister said that Uncle Dib had seen a lot of dead people in the war but I don't think he did. I saw something dead once and cried and I saw Uncle Dib crying once. He sat me on his knee and said that I must never worry about anything, ever. Nothing is ever that bad he said.