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Writing distractions

When, dear fellows of the forum, you are hard at it, writing the latest sizzler and cogitating  the next phrase which depicts the feeling dear old Nap Bonny had when he realised that the first snows of winter were upon him whilst on a junket  to Moscow and still no sight of the dastardly, cunning Russian army. ‘He must have been a trifle miffed’, you think. However, just before you can commit this wondrous insight to paper, as it were, the wife/husband shimmies in armed with a hoover and proceeds to make a damned nuisance of themselves with the suction end. You are catapulted away immediately from the Russian steppes. All thoughts of Bonny’s plight are sucked up into a bag and torn asunder.

The above example is only one of the many intrusions the helpless writer has to endure during the course of epic penmanship. Others, like shopping for life’s necessities, tobacco and single malt whiskey can be planned according to ones whim, or sobriety but not the bloody hoovering.

If you find this hoovering business resonates within you, don’t despair, I have found the perfect answer. Whilst the memsahib was away visiting somewhere, Crab Nebula I think, I  managed to cover the floor  ankle deep with ash and empty whiskey bottles, leaving only a narrow passage to extricate myself when needed. The better half, upon returning from her intergalactic sojourn, went berserk and vowed never to enter my hermitage ever again.

  This method has, of course has it’s imperfections. But if you know of a better way please let us know.

Brick Walls and Vimto

An illustration of times past, when drinking in the English country Pub meant just that. When father and son built a relationship,  a relationship not  learnt at mother’s knee.

 

 

            Cast your mind back, if you’re old enough, and see if you can remember this scenario. It could be anywhere in the country and it lasted some forty years, from the nineteen twenties to the mid sixties.

Just before six o’ clock on a warm summer’s evening, usually at the weekend, when insects are high on the wing, chased by swallows and swifts. The time of day when the delicious fragrance of pasture and meadow flowers in full bloom bestow their bouquets.

Now picture the Country Pub, stone clad, ivy covered, with an inviting red glow emanating from leaded windows. The front door is unlocked from the inside and gently propped open by a kindly, ruddy faced and somewhat portly gentleman of some fifty odd years.

Suddenly the first car arrives. Inside, the driver staring fixedly ahead, pulls up sharply between some roughly drawn white lines, as close as possible to the now open front door. The passenger, a petrified boy of perhaps ten years unfolds his hands from his panic-stricken eyes and stares at a brick wall, inches from the front bumper.

The driver, obviously the thirsty father, turns the engine off, smoothes his hair into a semblance of respectability and alights with some alacrity. He is oblivious of the cigarette ash cascading down his sports jacket and rumpled flannel trousers as he makes a beeline for the open front door. With a series of judders the overwrought engine eventually shudders to a standstill. From under the bonnet a faint wisp of steam escapes, accompanied by various ticks and the aroma of hot oil as it drips gently from assorted vents in the engine onto the car park.

Within a few minutes other cars arrive, all roughly in the same manner and all parked as close as possible to the pub door for quick access, complete with freaked out sons and the occasional terrified daughter. Very rarely do they contain the mothers of these children at this ‘early doors’ time. These whole family groups role up later, with much more decorum.

Usually it takes about fifteen minutes for the first Vimto and straw to emerge, carried by a much less stressed father. The handing over of the said victuals is always accompanied by the immortal words, ‘Won’t be long.’ It’s a fallacious statement, both parties know it, but it’s mandatory nevertheless.

As time goes on the lad gets bored, remember there were no car radios, let alone Play Stations in those days. He has studied the wall and determined the number of bricks or stones that fill the windscreen. He has accounted, with as much knowledge as he can muster, the types of vegetation that the wall sustains and dug as much gunge out of his nose as is humanly possible.

By the time the next Vimto arrives, father is so full of sweetness and light, and half-full of best bitter that a bag of crisps may also be on the menu. The aforementioned ‘won’t be long’ humbug is again enthused and back goes father to continue his replenishment.

The lad now knows that it’s safe to move over into the driver’s seat and enter the world of Stirling Moss and Silverstone. The seat is adjusted, the rear view mirror, if there is one, is tilted downwards and throaty rasps start emanating  through pursed lips until the sound of a Jaguar’s highly tuned engine is judged to be just the ticket.

Foot flat down on the accelerator, the lips convulse with paroxysms of vibration and floods of half digested Vimto and crisps cover the windscreen. The steering wheel is wrenched from lock to lock as the gear stick is forced into gears that it wasn’t designed for and a scream is unleashed, denoting the screeching of tyres, as each corner is encountered. Feet are stabbing at pedals like a demented tap dancer as double de clutching manoeuvres are executed whilst death defying four wheel drifts through Woodcote corner are fought with the expertise that only a ten year old lad knows. And he knows them because he’s learnt them from his father on the way home…but more of that later.

It’s about this time that cars containing families arrive. They drive in with much more propriety than the first flush. The cars are parked so that the families have a view of the meadows and distant hills. Tractors still plough the occasional furrow with flocks of rapacious birds following in their wake. The unmistakable fragrance of haymaking assails their nostrils. The whiff of hot oil and burnt rubber is not for this category. Not for them the paltry study of brick walls and what grows out of them.

The father leaves the car and ambles across the car park, leaving his wife and children to their vista and returns in quick time with the requisite bottles of Vimto, bags of crisps and a medium dry sherry for mother. Occasionally he will bring his own half pint of bitter with him and actually stay with the family. This scenario however is unusual; the call for the Gent’s only bar is compelling even for the most downtrodden husband.

At this point in the evening’s production the next round of Vimto is normally brought out by the early starters. This is characterised by respective fathers weaving passages, through the now more congested car park, with only a hazy idea of the placement of their own car. It is often a circuitous route which necessitates a call at other cars in order to find their own. Quite often their own cars are never found and consequently boys find bottles of Vimto thrust through the car’s window by complete strangers. It is not uncommon for some boys to end up with three or four bottles and conversely of course, some with none. It is, as ever accompanied by the ‘Won’t be long’ gibberish.

Eventually, of course the father has had his fill. The realisation that home beckons is often brought on by the sight of his offspring peering in through the window in a forlorn, waif like manner. The fact that he is well into spending next week’s house keeping/gas/electricity and even mortgage money is immaterial. He bids the ensemble a fond farewell and after a lurch to theGent’s lavatory or sometimes the Ladies, proceeds with varying degrees of animation into the fast gathering dusk. He stands swaying gently outside the door and surveys the cars, then eventually makes a concentrated effort to walk steadily and with purpose to the one he perceives to be his. More often than not his son, being used to this performance, has to go and rescue his father from the far reaches of the car park and guide him back before a felony is committed involving the taking and driving away of a stranger’s car and the kidnapping of the chap’s petrified wife and mother in law.

Eventually the right car comes into focus and father girds his loins for the drive home. The car has, if you remember just completed a full Grand Prix at Silverstone and apart from the driver’s seat being covered in spilt Vimto and crisps, is now pushed as far up towards the sticky steering wheel as possible and has been turned onto full right lock. All this, plus the fact that the windscreen is covered in spittle and the gear lever is in first gear, goes completely unnoticed as father engages the starter and the car performs a stunning bound forward into the brick wall, modifying the dents on the already dented front wing.

The offspring learns lots of new words and perhaps earns a cuff around the ear at this stage of the proceedings and scrunches himself into a ball, ready to dive into the footwell if the need arises.

It is however, a well known consequence that six pints of best ‘Bitter’ bestow an automatic driving mode in this phase. This was a natural phenomenon which due to new laws and a changing perception seems to have been lost on today’s generation.

Never mind that, in those halcyon days the drive home was always incredibly exciting for sons of a certain age and it was the whole reason for accompanying father in the first place. A time to unite with a parent when the rest of the week was a ‘seen and not heard’ existence.

In those days, the Austin Seven and Morris Eight could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be thought of as fast, but could in the hands of a chap with a few pints of best bitter under his belt, certainly be made to perform in various ways not intended by the manufacturer; especially by impressing the young sprog, when the inducement to impress is most buoyant.

Instead of the son zooming around Silverstone at astronomical speeds we now have father zooming through the countryside at speeds sometimes approaching forty five miles an hour.

Being flung around the countryside by a father showing off his driving skills on these memorable drives home, adds another facet of the offsprings education, other than controlling out of control cars. Earlier he had learned a little more about the types of vegetation that grow out of brick walls and now he learns balance, more words not in common usage, two finger saluting and last but not least, bowel control.

My father showed me marks on such things as stone bridges and iron railings that his father had caused by inducing overzealous four wheel drifts. I showed my children where chunks have been taken out of telegraph poles and kerb stones where my father had under estimated braking distances and no doubt my children will show their children particularly large gaps in various hedges which I made during courageous forays, on the way home, by provoking the limits of tyre adhesion.

Upon arriving home the motor car is parked, scratched, dented, bits of flora and fauna hanging off the door handles and bumpers and steaming like a burst boiler. Father and son eventually get out and stagger to the front door. This is when the last and probably most fundamental piece of advice ever conveyed from father to son is imparted,

‘Needn’t bother to tell your mother…she wouldn’t understand.’

The Perfect Husband

‘George.’
‘Yes dear.’
‘I want a divorce.’
‘Yes dear.’
‘I said I wanted a divorce.’
‘Well take an aspirin dear,’ I said trying to concentrate on the rugby. ‘You’ll soon feel better.’
‘I’m not ill.’
‘I thought you said you feel worse?’
‘Turn the bloody television off for a moment; you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.’
I looked across at Hilda. She was in one of her moods again. I turned the television down. It was half time anyway.
‘Now what’s all this about you feeling ill?’ I said, doing my best to look concerned. ‘You don’t look ill to me.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she declared, sitting down on the edge of a chair, gripping the armrests.
‘That’s all right then,’ I said, turning the television up in time for the second half. ‘Go and fetch me a six pack, there’s a love.’
This is the life I thought, putting my feet up on the coffee table. Hilda trundled off to the kitchen, muttering to her self. Yes indeed. A good game of rugby, a wife that adores me and a belly full of beer.
What indeed, I reasoned. Well I could do with the beer for a start. Where was that woman?’
‘Hilda,’ I shouted. ‘Where’s the beer?’
She loves these weekends. Got me at home to herself. The kids grown up and left home. I think she misses them. Can’t say I do. I suppose I should take her out occasionally. Can’t find the time though; what with the golf club and so forth.
Where has she gone with that beer?
Yes, the golf club takes up the time. Pity she’s not interested in golf. If she was, I could take her, now and then.
I don’t know what she’s playing at. Looks like I’ll have to get the beer myself. Selfish bloody woman.

Mind you, she’s getting very forgetful these days. Hope she hasn’t forgotten I’ve got a ‘do‘on tonight at the club. I got up and fetched the beer myself, and sat down to watch the game.
The front door opened and closed. She must have gone next door to borrow something. They are always borrowing or lending something or other. Last week they borrowed the iron, well he did… can’t remember his name. Anyway, his wife left him a couple of months ago. Hilda always seems to be helping him out.
Hell, I hope she’s remembered to iron my shirt.
The front door opened and I heard her going up stairs.
‘Hilda,’ I shouted. ‘Where the hell have you been? I nearly missed a drop goal getting my beer.’
No reply; just a sound, from the bedroom, of draws and cupboards opening and closing.
‘Hilda…Hilda,’ I shouted. ‘Have you gone deaf?’
‘George,’ she shouted from the hall, ‘I’m leaving you’.
‘OK dear,’ I said.
‘George. Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes dear, just leave it in a chair,’
‘I said I am going to leave you. I’m going to live with Henry.’
‘Well don’t be back late dear. I might bring a few of the lads back.’
‘You can bring Prince Charles back, for all I care.’
‘Good idea love; and while you’re at it you might make a few tit bits. You know, a couple of chickens and some cold meats and stuff. Oh, and some salad things. And while you’re at Tesco’s get another case of beer.’
I don’t know why she’s gone round next door. He’s never got any beer. Hasn’t got much of anything, come to think of it. I came back early from the club, last Sunday and found him in our kitchen, with Hilda. Returning our hedge trimmer, he said. I didn’t know we’d got one. Funny time to return it, I thought, eleven thirty at night.
Then there all the DIY tools he keeps borrowing from Hilda. DIY mad he must be. Never goes out. Tried to get him to go with me to the golf club once. Wasn’t interested. No wonder his wife left him. Must have driven her mad.
I opened another can. He wouldn’t do for my Hilda, I thought. She likes a man of action does my Hilda. Couldn’t put up with me under her feet all day. Loves my involvement with the golf club. Mind you, she didn’t at first, but she seems to encourage it lately.
Just as I was about to doze off, I thought I heard the front door open and close again. It’s Hilda with the beer, I suppose. Good woman…one in a million.
Waking up an hour or two later. I went upstairs and stumbled into the bedroom. Looks a bit bare, I thought. No ironed shirt. No suit, come to that. And why are all the draws pulled out and empty.
‘Bloody hell!’ I said, ‘We’ve been burgled.’
I rushed downstairs into the hall and picked up the phone. I had dialled the second of three nines when I caught sight of the letter.
‘Dear George,’ it began.
______________________________

Brains for Sale

Written 25 years ago, not nostalgia, just a muse. 

            ‘Good morning doctor,’

‘Ah  Mr Chapman, welcome to the Brain Swap shop, do sit down.’ The Doctor stabbed a few buttons on his console and stared intently into a screen.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘haven’t we met before, I seem to recollect your…’

‘Could have. I’ve only been doing this job for a month, used to be an astronaut, got me name in the paper, quite famous I believe. Had to give it up though, travel sickness you know’

‘Ah, that accounts for it, must have seen you on the tele.’

‘Probably, although I can’t remember anything about it of course. Change of brain cells and so forth.’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’ve been told I was the President of an African Republic once and can’t remember any of my Swiss bank account numbers.’

‘Terrible isn’t it. I sometimes wonder why we want to change our brains at all.’

The Doctor scratched his head, ‘It’s the novelty I suppose.’

Time I thought to drag the doctor out of his rumination. I leant forward. ‘Not in my case it isn’t,’ I told him. ‘This is caused by my wife’s change of circumstances. It is not novelty.’

‘Oh well,’ said the doctor, then swivelled around to his computer and stared at the screen. ‘Let’s have a look at your application form.’

‘I must say, ‘I said, leaning back, ‘You’ve been jolly quick with the paper work.’

The Doctor smiled, ‘Oh we’re quite proficient in this department now the Government has dropped the restriction on only allowing five brains per lifetime.’

‘Has it?’ I said.

‘You should know. It says here you’re the leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition.’

‘Am I?’

He jabbed a finger on the screen. ‘Says here you are.’

‘I wondered why I was chairing these high powered meetings. Mind you I’ve had a lot on my mind recently; what with Winifred’s condition and so forth…mind you come to think of it I did think they were a pretty rum lot, I wonder if…?’

‘Well the brain you’ve got now has a waiting list of six people, so you should be able to trade it in for something half decent.’ The Doctor jabbed at the key board, ‘but according to regulations I must ask you why you want to change?’

I looked at him. I rather hoped he’d not ask.’ It’s the wife,’ I said painfully, ‘she’s inherited her mother’s brain you see. The old bat left it to her in her will, and Winifred was close to her mother and feels obliged, as it were, to comply with her wishes.’

‘What is she now?’

‘A topless lap dancer.’

The doctor grimaced, ‘Hardly goes with your image,’

‘I should say not,’ I said, the fog suddenly clearing, ‘There I am chairing these dynamic meetings, discussing matters of state and what have you, when the wife comes in half naked, jumps onto the table and starts gyrating her navel and god knows what else into the faces of what I suppose is the Shadow Cabinet.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Seventy four.’

‘Good god, what happened to her mother?’

‘Fell off the stage at the Tocadero and drowned in a bath of Champagne.’

‘Very nasty,’ said the doctor.

‘They say she came up for air twice,’ I winced at the memory, ‘But I don’t believe ‘em… She only drank Gin.’

‘Is her brain alright?’

‘I think so they got it out before rigour mortis set in.’

The doctor sat back, ‘Well,’ he said punching some more keys, ‘I can’t see any problems, you pass all the criteria.’ He peered intently at the screen, ‘My word you’ve had some interesting brains in the past,’

‘Have I?’

‘One hundred and twenty odd brain years. Two Prime Ministers, The Archbishop of Canterbury, a champion pole vaulter and President of some obscure Republic inEast Africa, for a start.’

‘Pity we can’t remember past lives,’ I said.

‘Good job in your case I should think, you’ve been shot fifteen times  and run through with an assegai twice.’

‘Have  I?’

‘Yes…but no good dwelling on the past, what do you fancy now?’

‘Well,’ I said sinking back into the chair and putting my hands behind my head, ‘I thought about something in the arts field might be interesting.’

The doctor pressed some more keys and we watched as a printer gurgled into action. He read the print out. ‘You may be in luck,’ he said, ‘We have a ballet dancer’s brain just come in, it might suit you, sort of fits in with your wife’s life style, both working at the same sort of thing.’

‘Why did the ballet dancer want a change?’

‘It was forced on him actually,’ replied the doctor, ‘he only had one leg.’

‘How did he…?’

‘Oh we fitted him up with one of those artificial screw on ones of course, but every time he did an anti-clockwise pirouette he unscrewed himself. Very disconcerting for the audience.’

‘Let me think of that one,’ I said. ‘What else have you got?’

Well,’ said the doctor, ‘The trouble is most of the swaps in the arts field seem perfectly content at the moment and not many want to change with politicians.  Hang on we’ve got a pop singer, he’s been on the books for quite a while.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s stone deaf.’

‘Stone deaf?’ I gasped.

‘Yes he had six number one hits before anyone noticed.’

‘What is he now?’

‘Nothing…he’s in limbo.’

‘Can you do that?’ I asked, mind whirring.

‘Oh yes,’ replied the doctor, shuffling some papers, ‘Just leave the department with a list of preferred options and we’ll pop you in a freezer until something comes up.

‘How long can you stay in limbo?’ I asked, somewhat taken aback.

‘Three years is the maximum. After that we take a random brain and fit you up with that; a bit like the lottery really.’

‘Oh, I bet that leads to all sorts of…’

‘Well we can’t have bodies and brains cluttering up the place.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘otherwise people would stay here forever, frozen up and become a real drag on the tax payer.

‘Exactly ,’ said the doctor, warming to the subject. ‘It all started with the other organs of course. Livers, kidneys, spleens and so forth.’

‘I know, jolly handy when you can pop into a body bank and pick up a new part.’

‘Your so right,’ said the doctor,’ I’ve drunk myself to death regularly and had three new livers fitted.’

‘I’m on my third set of lungs,’ I said, ‘Lovely when you can smoke sixty a day and not give a damn about the old wheezing and coughing.’

The doctor gave me a conspiratorial sort of wink, ‘Tell you the truth I only wanted this job so I could get myself fitted out with a new set of family jewels.’ He smirked. ‘Perks of the job don’t you know. I’ve got contacts in other departments; they’ve promised to give me the nod when something decent comes in.’

‘Say no more,’ I said ‘but if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look much like a doctor.’

‘Oh this,’ he pointed to his forehead which was impregnated with a large purple tattoo. ‘Yes I must get it removed. Can’t go around doctoring with ‘Manchester United rules OK’ plastered across my face for ever.’

‘Bad for the image.’ I agreed.

‘Suppose I must have been a football hooligan a few brains ago,’ he muttered.

‘It never fails to surprise me,’ I went on, ‘I mean when you think what strides have been made in the last few years. Now you can just wander into any of these swap shops and get a whole new persona. Why, just a few years ago you had to go through life with what you started off with.’

‘It’s good isn’t’ he replied, ‘A quick snip here and there and the next minute you’re off the operating table sitting up in bed with a cup of tea and a biscuit and a whole new person inside your head.’

I nodded agreement, ‘But I’m glad that the powers that be stopped issuing synthetic brains,’ I added. ‘I mean who wants to go around with a computer stuck in your head.’

‘It wasn’t that. It was the weight of the batteries you had to lug around with you. It was all right when you could plug yourself into the mains at home or work but not much fun otherwise. I mean who wants to lug two bloody big lorry batteries around strapped to your back when you’re wandering around Tesco’s or jigging the night away at the local disco.’

‘To say nothing of the Olympics,’ I added, I mean bit of a disadvantage when you’re going for gold in the high jump.’

‘Exactly, mind you, tell you confidentially we’ve had a bit of trouble fixing bodies up with brains. People don’t always tell us the truth about any abnormalities they might have.’

‘I suppose you’ve got to be careful.’

‘I should say so. We’ve had some god almighty cock ups.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well we had in Interior Designer who didn’t tell us he was colour blind; created havoc wherever he worked.’

‘What happened to him?’

The doctor sniggered, ‘Fixed him up as a champion snooker player, just to get our own back.’

‘I suppose, ‘I said, ‘You get a lot of people in here applying for brains without thinking of the consequences?’

The doctor rolled his eyes, ‘Do you know, my predecessor actually fixed up a BBC football commentator who had an uncontrollable stammer. By the end of full time he was still trying to describe the bloody kick off.’

‘Gosh!’ I said.

‘Too right,’ said the doctor. He leaned back in his chair and gave me an appraising sort of look. ‘I could get you a very good deal on a juggler. These ones even got a guaranteed eighteen months circus contract.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said, ‘What’s  wrong with him?’

‘Cross eyed, kept dropping his balls.’

‘How very careless.’

‘They kept him on at the circus for a while though, as a catcher in a trapeze act, until we fixed him up with something.’

‘I’m glad I wasn’t his partner,’ I replied, mind boggling.’ But what I really want is something in the real arts.

’We’ve had a wine taster one that came in yesterday for a swap.’

‘Why did he want to change?’

‘He didn’t, it was forced on him. Kept getting the sack, an absolute alcoholic, chronic shakes, kept swallowing the wine, wouldn’t spit it out,’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I want something that will fit in with my wife’s routine.’

‘Well can’t you get her to change her mind?’ he asked.

‘No, she’s absolutely adamant. I think she quite enjoys it.’

‘Everybody to their own I suppose, but if you ask me I think she needs her head examining.’

‘I suppose there’s no use hanging around, for say, an opera singer?’

The doctor pushed another few buttons,’ we’ve got one here who’s looking for a swap; had him on the books for weeks now but I wouldn’t recommend him.’

‘Why not.’

‘Got a cleft palate.’

‘Oh right,’ I mumbled. ‘Anything in the classical Shakespearean mould?’

‘Only one, a dyslexic brain, it’s OK but can only play Falstaff, and that took the man whose got it five years to learn the part, so he has to wait for  Henry the Fourth to come round, which isn’t very often. He’s been on our books for months.’

‘Doesn’t sound too bad,’ I said, ‘plenty of time off…that’ll do me.’

‘Are you sure, I mean if you can’t learn your lines you are gong to be a bit stuck with this Falstaff chap? ’

‘No, I’ve made my mind up,’ I said. ‘When can you fit me in?’

The doctor looked at the screen. ‘Next Tuesday be alright, ten in the morning?’

‘Fine.’

‘I tell you what though, the surgeon will need watching.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘why’s that?’

‘He used to be the wine taster I was telling you about.’

Journeys Taken on Mother’s Knee

For the first fifteen years of my life, at least three times a year, father drove mother and me usually every Easter, Christmas etc, from our home in Codsall to Sydenham in South London to stay with my maternal grandparents. It was always an eventful journey and has left me with an indelible love of car heaters ever since.

As the crow flies it was a hundred and forty four miles from our village in Staffordshire to Sydenham in London. Nothing these days; jump into the car and zoom up the Motorway, with perhaps only a stop for a coffee or pee at the Rank Services to break the journey. Sitting in an air conditioned car with satellite navigation systems, radios, play stations and all the paraphernalia we take for granted to smooth our way. Three hours maximum, perhaps another half hour accounting for the rush hour.

But how different fifty years ago when I was a young ten year old. Twelve hours minimum along the A5, with more than the occasional stop to replenish father at various hostelries en route, not to mention the breakdowns. Journeys in old cars, long before MOT’s were heard of, in austere times when Motorways were a far away dream and pot holed roads, ravaged by wartime use were not high on the list of repair priorities by Government departments.

Mother, father, various dogs and yours truly made this journey at least three times a year to visit grandparents. Christmas, Easter and school holidays were the agreed times, and now in hindsight all the journeys were horrific, or wonderful according to how you remember them. For a start the cars were nearly always pre 1930 and none of them cost more than fifteen quid. None of them had heaters and most of them had hoods which were torn or held together with sticky tape or coat hanger wire. None of them were capable of more than forty five mph and that was down hill, with a following wind. Brakes were a hit and miss affair, almost literally, and head lights were as dim as a nun’s nightie. Streetlights were the same… if there were any. White lines with cat’s eyes suddenly seemed to veer off into muddy ditches or fields and road signs pointed the way to intended destinations via bridle paths and farm tracks.

However we didn’t know any better, it was a way of life, it was normal and so were the drink and drive laws. Father wouldn’t contemplate such a monumental expedition to the Metropolis without a monumental amount of alcohol to steady the nerve. Anyway, he always drove better after a couple or six. And he was a Barrister!

So picture a typical scene. The day before Christmas Eve and Mum and I plus a dog are all packed and ready for father to come back in the car he has been testing after a day spent underneath putting in new piston rings. It’s now early afternoon and father disappeared at eleven. We both know that he’s at the Bull, fortifying himself for the journey ahead, but more than that, being a crafty devil, the journey is planned according to pub opening and closing times, and there are lots of watering holes along the A5. We stare out of the window; we always stare out of this same window at these times, we’ve done it for years. Any thought about phoning the pub and ordering his swift attendance was as alien, in those days, as drinking and driving is today.

Eventually we hear the car, it’s now about three in the afternoon, and father pulls up outside. He gets out, gives a front tyre a perfunctory kick and opens the bonnet. This is all show; we know that. He thinks we will think he’s been having more trouble with the engine and has spent the last two hours fixing it. We say nothing.

The car is a Morris Cowley. A typical mode of conveyance. A fine motor car in its day, unfortunately its day was in 1928 it is now around 1954. The hood is in tatters and my seat, is called a dickey (A specially designed seat in the boot). The luggage is tied to the running board.

Eventually we were ensconced in the car, me, sometimes in the boot, the dog under mother’s legs, under the dashboard. Three flasks of sweet tea and Marmite sandwiches catered for our hunger pangs and hot water bottles provided the heat, as did various blankets and at least four layers of clothing. The hood was kept down as father thought that the various draughts induced by the exceptional speed he could now induce out of the finely tuned engine would give us lumbago.

By five to six we had got as far as the outskirts of Coventry and father stopped for replenishment at a pub. He said he needed the gents, which he probably did and he disappeared with alacrity together with our hot water bottles and flasks into the warm, welcoming bar, leaving us to shiver by the light of a solitary street lamp. The customary Vimto and sweet sherry was brought out to us, together with the newly replenished hot water bottles and flasks.

By seven thirty we were on our way again, by nine we got as far as a nice little pub near Fenny Stratford we had to stop because the engine was over heating! The fact that it is minus five degrees outside and the engine water temperature gauge registered little more than slightly warm had nothing to do with it. The same pattern follows… sweet sherry for mum and a bottle of Vimto for me, plus the necessary filling up of hot water bottles and flasks. The dog poked his nose out of the door, shivered and declined the invitation to perform against the pub wall. By nine o’ clock father, well refreshed and swaying gently managed to sprain his wrist whilst cranking the starting handle, a not uncommon occurrence and sometimes used as a ploy to go back into the pub for medicinal purposes. This time however he managed to kick the engine into some sort of life by jumping up and down on the handle. Mum and I made the right noises praising his heroic endeavours and huddled together.

We made about another thirty miles before father heard a distinct knocking in the engine and decided we had to stop to investigate. Luckily a pub car park was on hand and father decided he had better go inside to phone grandfather and tell him we may be a little late as the car had developed a distinct ‘big end’ rattle. The phone call took a good thirty minutes which uncannily coincided with kicking out time. The sprained wrist somehow managed to coax the engine into action and we were off again. Try as we could mother and I, who were very tuned in to engine sounds, could hear no discernable rattle, but there again we didn’t expect to.

By the time we reached the outskirts of London, the car had developed a nasty habit of jumping out of gear. Mother was elected to hold it in. Along the Victoria Embankment we heard Big Ben strike twelve and the clutch started to slip. As we edged past the Oval at a sedate fifteen miles per hour the exhaust fell off and took the wires, which operated the brakes with it, rendering us unstoppable. This state of affairs was again not uncommon and we took it in our stride; our stride being stopped when necessary by double de clutching into first and allowing the engine to stop us…after a hair raising interval.

In those days, there was not the amount of traffic there is today, the police seemed to want to help rather than hinder and when the lights went out as the battery gave a last gasp, we carried on regardless, unworried about prosecutions and all that stuff until at last we reached my Grandparents. They, as always, stayed up in case we required a tow but rarely was this necessary, and especially not by Grandfather who had an old Austin seven which was more un roadworthy than our car, to say nothing of a grandfather who was himself about as un roadworthy as a headless chicken trying to cross the road.

Whilst father usually spent the next few days, when pub opening times allowed, repairing the car ready for the journey home, mother and I recuperated from severe frostbite The journey home was just as exhilarating but we usually went the Oxford route on the way home. At least it meant a different view of pub car park walls for mother and me.

Ah, such is life.

I suppose knocking around the world for over 35 years firstly in the Merchant Navy and later mostly inEast Africa imbues one with a sense of the ridiculous. Ridiculous and funny, and funny stuff is what I write. I’ve run scuba diving trips in the Indian Ocean, sold books door to door inEngland, dug deep bore holes in the African bush, and earned $35 a night growling out jazz inNew Orleans. Managed a Vineyard inCornwall, been shot at in Somalia, run Safaris in African game reserves, tried plumbing in Wales and apart from being shot at, enjoyed every minute of it. I’m sixty six odd now and have been writing humorous short stories for years, mostly for my own benefit and now with no compunction to ever board another airplane or ship, see another exotic beach I’ve written a couple of books  and list within these immortal web pages a summery of short stories that are for sale to any bugger that’s interested

Writing Drivel

In days far gone, I always found that basking half-submerged in a bath, smoking a very large herbal cigarette, was a wonderful way of starting the old grey cells off. In the meantime, my fiasco (a far better description of my wife to be than fiancé) would sit on the loo seat, drink half a case of brown ale, and take notes of my creative thinking.

The herbal induced creativeness, aided by the extraordinary thought processes, inspired by the brown ale, would yield story lines of unimaginable drivel.

And yet…and yet, out of the plethora of scribbled, hardly decipherable notes, there was nearly always  a germ of  an idea that blossomed, nay sprang, into the most marvellous story line or  passage of prose. A piece that even a certain Mr P.G Wodehouse may well have ticked as sportsmanlike… but more of that later.

This bath was always taken at about four in the afternoon, after the compulsory two-hour, after lunch nap and mandatory bottle of wine or two. The evening was spent decoding the aforementioned notes and bashing away at an old Remington with another mandatory bottle or two of the grape and Duke Ellington or similar burbling away in the background. The evening usually finished with a self-induced coma, induced, in part, by resorting extensively to Mr Roget’s lovely invention, which although having no story line, at least explained every word as one went along.

The cold light of morning always brought an air of sober thought into the proceedings; when last night’s scribblings were analysed and put into some sort of order. This is when, if the nicotine and caffeine levels are up to par, the convoluted story lines etc, showed their true colours. The ideas, those that seem plausible, were put into some sort of order and re written into a state of semi comprehension.

At midday, the first of the wine corks flew across the room, indicating luncheon. Soon after the body had been refuelled, a horizontal pose was affected affording the mind the same sort of replenishment. Upon waking, the bath would be filled and the whole process started over again.

This mode or method of artistic creation can go on for months if not years. Indeed, when you are suffused with this way of life, birthdays, Christmases, New years and all the other holidays went by without a murmur. You didn’t notice them and certainly didn’t miss them.

Now the problem with this wonderful mode of writing best sellers, blockbusters and what have you, was the fact that at some time you had to go out and shop for replenishment, i.e., food and wine, not to mention brown ale. It completely spoiled the thought processes and threw you off the finely tuned balancing act, which the routine had imbued. The best method of shopping was to send out for it. If you could not, you made it quick and made sure that the thought processes were ticking over somewhere in the dark recesses of the cranium. We were married during one of the very few times we ventured out into the wide world, but neither of us can remember the year let alone the date… the twentieth century rings a bell though.

However all good things come to an end. Now we sit in front of a screen and the inspiration comes from surfing the net and suchlike, or in my case the occasional glance at  my on line bank balance.         Depressing isn’t it.

I think I’ll take a walk up to the herb garden, run a bath, and write this article.