Tales from the A55 - the Badger run...

I’m off down the A55 this evening. I call it the badger run. It might sound a bit ghoulish but I’ve taken to counting the number of badgers that I see dead on the side of the road along my regular sixty mile or so stretch.

I feel sorry for badgers. I remember a time when they were a rare sight. These days you can't drive even five miles west, let alone sixty without seeing a dead one. A few weeks ago I counted six - maybe it’s better to be scarce. Just what makes them walk slowly out in front of cars and the speeding trucks of the A55, surely they enough noise to warn them of the danger? Maybe they’re suicidal, or hard of hearing, or a little blind, or maybe they really are stupid as the talking badgers of Narnia.

But aren’t badgers supposed to be wise? After all, Sergeant Badger (of Tufty Club fame) certainly seemed to have all the answers when I was a kid, and Mole (in Toad of Toad Hall) was desperate to see Badger because he was such an important personage that ‘though rarely visible’ was able to make ‘his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place.’

At one time badger blood was drunk to cure disease and during the Second World War and well into the fifties badger meat was eaten regularly in the UK and still is in Russia, China, and even France as Blarieur au sang. Who knows with the way things are going perhaps we’ll soon be eating badger meat again, apparently it’s a very red meat and tastes like a cross between beef and venison.

I didn’t realise it but badgers are members of the weasel family, Mustelidae, nor did I know that witches smeared badger grease mixed with herbs onto their broomsticks to help them to fly, or that a bridle made from badger leather will give you power over horses. One crossing your path will bring you good luck and if you hear one calling that will bring you luck as well. Badgers are also supposed to be able to change their shapes at will. They are the keepers of the stories and will teach passers-by which herbs and plants are good to eat.

So, with all this going for them you think they’d be able to do something as simple as crossing the road wouldn’t you? Even chickens can do that. Perhaps they need some help - but then there’s never a policeman around when you need one is there? I'm off down the badger run again in a while. I wonder how many I'll count this time?

From Pottersville to Bedford Falls…

It’s not all Bedford Falls around here you know, would that it was, sometimes it can get distinctly Pottersville. I’m on a drive through Pottersville at the moment, oh I’ll come out of it, I always do, but right now it’s raining, the streets are grubby, and everyone I meet is a stranger – even people that I know, or thought I did.

Right back at the beginning it was Bedford Falls that inspired me to throw together WAWL. At first I tried linking to a quote from the film that almost shares the same name, but that didn’t last long. The film is too heart warming, and Bedford Falls is too good a place to be able to stay for too long. Sometimes you need a trip to Pottersville, dark and grimy though it may be, to make you understand what’s really going on. Maybe I stayed too long in Bedford Falls for my own good, who knows?

There, I’ve just passed the city limit boundary line. No going back now.

An inspirational friend of mine who lives just over the border in Lesser Blogfordshire, a little down the way from Bedford Falls and on the Pottersville limits, recently wrote that he admired my abstract flights of fancy and my ability to find something life-affirming to say – well I try, but sometimes the effort is great and often it’s all just polish on cheap plastic shoes when I’d rather be wearing the worn, old, leather ones that I’m used to.

Thinking about it, there are lots of people wearing those cheap shoes in Pottersville. It’s not that they can’t afford leather, they just prefer plastic. You know the ones I mean, you’ve met them. They seem to be okay, but when you look closely at them their shoes are a slight veneer of polish that barely covers the thin, plastic, substance beneath. They seem to sparkle but it’s all shine - the reflected light from a fluorescent tube, the glare from a headlight beam as the start-frozen rabbit is crushed beneath the speeding tyre. No sunshine. Not even a candle burning bright to guide you home to Bedford Falls.

These are the shoes of movers and shakers, smilers and talkers, slide pack presenters, glib answering, quick-thinking, self seeking, bringing things to life in a moving forwards, matrix driven, ticking off the actions kind of way - a way that the Pottersville council would admire. So much easier to ignore the poor citizens trudging around in the mud and rubbish, getting their shoes all shitty when your shoes are gleaming – even if the gleam is false.

I can still just see Bedford Falls from here. It’s a long way back and it’s getting smaller all the time as I drive, but it’s still there in the distance. Last time I was there the townsfolk were wearing shoes that were a little battered, heels slightly turned down with wear, but they had got that way because we were on a journey, one that we shared with the other residents of the town. Our shoes were just as polished as Pottersville’s plastic pumps, but underneath that polish was good sturdy leather, sewn up where it’d split and rubbed down to remove the scuffs, but good solid leather none-the-less, leather that would shine in the sunlight. The dirt of the day and the shit still clung to them, but it was never swept under the carpet and hidden. And it was never passed on for somebody else to pick up on their soles to walk away with, dirtying the pavement as they wandered through our town.

Bedford Falls? Pottersville? I’ve lived between the two and I know which I prefer. Drive on boy. Drive fast. Who knows, another Bedford Falls may be ahead far away from Pottersville.

Good at drawing...

'Good at drawing' - yes that has been my downfall.

Why oh why couldn't I have been 'good at surgery 'or 'good at house conveyancing'. Even, 'good at sticking bits of pipe together so that water can pass through them' would have been a more serviceable path to tread than drawing.

The problem began at junior school where I was always introduced as ‘Andrew, he’s good at drawing’ by my teachers. The headmaster even arranged for me to have my picture taken by the local paper - ‘The Thame Gazette’ – holding one of my ‘good drawings’, a pencil drawing of a peregrine falcon. They even wrote short article about my incredible drawing ability.

It wasn’t even a very good drawing, but it furthered the legend that I was - and you know what happens when you begin to believe your own publicity.

After that my fate was sealed. I spent most of my time drawing this and drawing that, sketching here and sketching there. My Saturdays were spent painting, my evenings were spent painting, it simply became what I did in most of my spare time and I’d find any excuse to draw. Everyone encouraged me to draw and ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at my dexterity with a pencil, they even commented on how good I was at colouring-in; no going over the lines for me, and blocks of colour were nowhere to be seen as I subtly shaded inside the outline drawing of a young deer. I came from a drawing family you see - my uncle Charlie could draw, cousin Leslie could draw, even my Mum could draw the most intricate paisley pattern shapes freehand.

And so it went on. At secondary school I did pretty well at any subject where drawings could be included along with my written work – history, geography, biology, even chemistry; nobody could draw a vacuum flask as well as me and my retorts were to be marvelled at. Unfortunately subjects where drawing was unimportant, like maths, held no interest for me, so I didn’t really try very hard. My school exercise books were littered with comments like ‘excellent diagrams’ and ‘extremely good drawings of a dissected frog’. I once spent a whole week of evenings on a drawing of the Acropolis and then about thirty minutes writing the essay to go along with it. I got an ‘A’ and my history teacher (Primo) commented ‘the best drawing I have ever seen from one of my pupils’ – no mention of the scrappy, rushed, badly spelt essay though.

Each year I won the art prize, after school trips my drawings and paintings were exhibited in the hall on parent’s evenings, I illustrated the school magazine. Yes, I was good at drawing and after taking my art ‘A’ level it seemed only natural to go to college to study art. So I did. After that (give or take a slight change in direction from fine art to graphics) I worked in the graphics industry as a designer for a number of years, then as a manager of designers and artists, and on and on until I arrived where I am today - kind of nowhere - and all because I was ‘good at drawing’.

These days I wonder if I'm good at anything at all, I'm not even sure if I ever was. I keep telling myself to get out my brushes and paints and take it out on the canvas – I’m building up to it and some day soon who knows.

I'm thinking of trying a bird painting, but it won’t be a peregrine falcon. After all, look where that got me.

Romance is dead...

It was St Valentine’s day yesterday. It passed me by without a single paper heart, smoochy kiss, or even a loving smile. Life gets less romantic as time passes, besides it’s always struck me as strange that we celebrate a man who was beheaded for marrying couples at a time where marriage was outlawed so that men would become good soldiers rather than good husbands (although in my experience both mean going to war occasionally).

But then it’s probably no stranger than having Catherine wheels on Bonfire night (St Catherine was burned to death on a revolving cart wheel) or small children dressing up as vampires and witches on All Saints Day (Halloween), or not giving up chocolate for forty days and forty nights because it won’t stop raining (no, that’s not right is it? I’ve got that muddled).

Yes, yesterday was Saint Valentine’s Day - the day where young men everywhere rush to the supermarket to buy ridiculously priced red roses and good husbands take their wives out for a special meal (and do the driving so that she can have some wine – just in case).

I did neither. I didn’t even buy a card, but then it would be true to say that I didn’t receive one either. First time ever - how times have changed. Once there were cards and chocs and roses galore, candlelit dinners and fizzing champagne, balloons and teddy bears and sometimes I even did the driving.

‘For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings.’

Yes, romance is dead in our house. Well, perhaps not quite dead. I did buy Gaynor some longiflorum lilies (but only because I saw them, they were a good price, and they are her favourite flowers) and she did make me Valentine strawberry hearts (but again, only because the strawberries were a good price, she has sugar in the cupboard, and I like sticky fruit).

Just a few strawberries, some sugar and boiled water reduced to a syrup; taking care not to burn the mixture by brushing the edges of the pan with cold water continually - hardly any trouble at all, made in moments. Yes, just some discount store strawberries, dipped in this sweet, sticky mixture and left to cool and harden until the sweet red juice inside the toffee flows freely as the strawberry slowly cooks.

‘Sweets to the sweet, farewell! I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife.’

Totally delicious, far better than kisses, more edible than a card, and - as I choose to see them as a gesture of undying love - a romance on a plate. Yes, as Shakespeare almost said: ‘If food be the music of love, eat on’ (or some other such nonsense). And best of all? I didn’t have to do the driving, so I got to drink my half of the bloody bubbly as well for once.

Yes, romance is dead in our house – but marriage lives on.

Dark birds, pale sky...

The tree was full of them. Thousand on thousand with more joining each and every moment. The chittering of their long sharp beaks filling the air, wiping out the sounds of the sheep and the farmyard vehicles going about their clumsy labour.

I just stood and watched, wondering why so many birds had decided to gather in this quite unremarkable tree and then, with a dull clap like distant not-quite-thunder, they took to the air as a single thing and were all at once gone. Throop!

Silence echoed around as the dark smudge spread on the grey-blue tissue sky.

Of course I was too far away to see the individual movement, from where I stood the sudden rise was smoke dissipating into the afternoon. I wasn't aware of the feathers, each quill individually drawn as the birds rose up. I couldn't see the flap of a single pair of wings, each a different twist of pattern in the air; like a series of stills from a black and white film.

Static blurs of movement, intricate patterns of life caught in a blown up photo and frozen forever.

I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I can't begin to think why you'd find it of any interest at all. But as the birds took to the air and scattered away to the vanishing day, and as I stood listening to the bleat of sheep and the drone of that tractor in the field the empty sky seemed to fill me up.

Where were the birds?

Signing on...

Just an old photograph, but I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be today. I’d love to walk along that beach, sand between my toes, just as the sun was setting again.

Antigua – another great holiday from far too long ago.

I signed on this morning. First time in my life. The JobCentre was a much nicer place than I’d expected – open plan, light, airy, very clean, quiet. The woman that saw to me was very helpful and professional; guiding me through the mass of paperwork I needed to sign; ensuring that I was aware of the contract I was making with them. ‘Are you actively looking for work?’ ‘Have you a CV?’ ‘You realise that you need to keep a record of your job applications and bring this along with you every fortnight.’ Fair enough. It’s no hardship to do these things and they aren’t asking for anything unreasonable.

Meanwhile only a few hours away the sea laps at the white sand of a palm strewn beach and the sun beats down on an azure blue sea.

Back in my car, parked in the grey, drizzled, side road, I look at the form detailing my attendance arrangements - Box 5 / 1^st floor / cycle D, every Wednesday at 9.25. No worries, I quite enjoy routine - and it won’t be for long.

I love the feel of the warm water around my feet as I walk along the edge of the gently breaking waves. Small fish dart amongst the coral beneath the crystal clear water – red, blue, orange, yellow. A local man in a snorkel emerges from the sea with a harpoon. Large colourful, silver- red, fish hang from a rope belt tied around his waist. He smiles and asks if I want to buy some fish. Of course I do and pick two. Red Snapper. ‘Just grill them in a pan with some butter and garlic man. There’s no better taste to be had on the island.’

He was right, the fish tasted good. Fresh and firm and flavoured with the garlic and butter.

I wonder what fish he caught today?

Every two weeks.

I'm lucky.

I don't believe it...

So it’s official. The work on our road which started over a year ago is now complete. I know because I have a letter telling me so. The big clue from United Utilities is in the heading which reads: Completion Letter - and then the name of our road, printed in a clear bold sans serif type.

It isn’t a very long letter it just states that the work on the drains is now completed and that they’d like to thank us for our patience and cooperation and that if we have the need of any further information to contact them on the 0845 number printed below.

The letter was delivered by hand by a nice young man who asked me if I had any comments or concerns about Project NCA 80015939, so I told him that it had taken far to long and he replied that ‘yes, everyone has said that’. It was so reassuring to know that I wasn’t alone in my Sherlockian observations.

The letter goes on to say that they would value my feedback and that they have enclosed a short freepost questionnaire – which they didn’t, so I had to ring the 0845 number and request one. I hate to say this but it was delivered by an extremely pleasant young lady less than ten minutes later (they must have rung her immediately), so that rather spoilt my plan to rant about them not really valuing my feedback at all – they obviously do.

So here it is - well more Victor Meldrew than me actually.

Was I satisfied with the information I received regarding the work? Yes I was. You sent me a lovely letter every few days (or at least it felt like that) telling me that the work was taking longer that expected and thanking me for my patience, although I actually knew that it was taking longer than expected and I wasn’t bloody patient at all. I was bloody furious. At various times the work seemed like it was going to be completed in May, then July, then early September, then November, then definitely January (or maybe that was just me imagining the best, I generally do you know) so here we are, February 10, and at long last I have my Completion letter. Maybe I was a tad too optimistic back in those early days.

Do I understand the benefits of the work? Yes I do. Is it moist? It’s stopped a few houses at the other end of the road from having some water in their cellars every now and then. In terms of benefits to me personally though – well I expect the mile long walk on the many occasions that I couldn’t get a parking space outside my own home as most of the road was closed was good exercise for me. And let’s not forget all the other calories I must have lost cleaning and polishing the hallway floor, mopping up the continual dust and scrubbing away the tarmac marks brought in on the bottom of my bloody shoes. All my own fault, nothing to do with you, obviously.

Did I find that your representatives were always helpful, professional, polite and considerate? Yes I did; always a smile, a nod, and a sucky sweet. Even if they did cone off large chunks of the road each evening so that they could park their cars on arrival in the morning; and I’m not even going to mention the cigarette butts that they carelessly dropped everywhere. I particularly found their cheerful early morning whistling and shouting enormously uplifting as I hobbled the mile or so to my car which was parked three streets away.

Did you ensure access was made available for pedestrians and vehicles during the work? What in the name of bloody hell? No, there were times when you simply couldn’t walk the length of the road without clambering over cones and bits of rubble. For much of the time I was made to feel like a bloody prisoner from Cell Block ‘H’, what with all the bars and eight foot high steel wire mesh fencing that you erected. It was a very depressing and oppressive experience to walk down the path to be met by a steel barrier, almost a Berlin Wall of steel and concrete. If I wasn’t so very well adjusted I’m sure it could have had a negative effect on my outwardly cheery disposition.

Did you keep the public area safe, clean and tidy during the work? Sorry, but no you bloody didn’t! It was none of those things. It was downright dangerous and filthy, it looked like a bloody bomb had gone off. There was rubble and rocks everywhere. The pavement slid into the gutter and for months the paving slabs were uneven and cracked. People were tripping about all the time, even I (agile fox that I am) tripped on one occasion spilling the bloody shopping all over the road.

Do I believe the worksite has been restored to its original condition? In the name of Sanity, you’re having a laugh aren’t you? Before you began work on the road we had a nicely paving stoned pavement with sensible old kerbs. We now have an ugly black tarmac walkway with far too many dropped kerbings and overly long white line parking restrictions. You’ve made a nice old road into an almost impossible to park eyesore in my opinion - not that ‘that’ counts for much these days.

Did you correctly set my expectation about the level of disruption to expect? Please excuse my spluttering, I'm just choking on my own disbelief. Let's leave the fact that a few months work stretched like an elasticated waistband and became over a year aside. Let's forget the residents's meeting where you used the words 'Minimum Disruption', and lets not even mention that it was meant to be resident's only parking (fat lot of good those silly slips of paper did), stating that it'd all be over before we knew it. Let's leave all of that aside; but in no way did you prepare me for the noise, the mess, the earthquake-like cracks in the road, or the months of resettling required before you even began to resurface the road. 'Correctly set my expectations?' Oh, for Gods sake! I think I may throw up!

Do I feel that you met those expectations? I think that you already know the answer to that one, don’t you?

Overall how would I rate the work carried out on site? Dissatisfied.

Overall how would I rate my customer experience? It’s been a bloody nightmare – Very Dissatisfied.

Has the work improved my perception of United Utilities? Oh look – there’s a flying pig!

Apparently you welcome customer feedback and you’d like to know if I have any ideas that would help you to improve customer experience. Well, far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, but broadly I’d suggest that you to stop painting a best case picture and tell the truth about what could happen. My advice on this one would be ‘stop telling rose-tinted porkies’. Also, it seems to me that you underestimated the work required and the damage that you were going to do to the road and my advice might be ‘make sure you know what you are bloody doing and get it right my friend’. Lastly despite the constant letters, lovely as they were, you really didn’t tell us much at all. My advice would be ‘don’t treat me like a flaming idiot, I’m not senile yet you know’.

Well, at least it’s over. I don’t count it as one of the best experiences of my life and in many ways this last year has been like living through a Beirut terrorist attack; what with the flying stones hitting my car and the road full of cracks and three inch deep potholes. Our lovely irreplaceable paving-slab pavements have gone and the bloody parking is even worse that ever, I can hardly believe it. We’ve been living in a bloody exclusion zone for months, one side of the road unable to cross to the other (without climbing the barricades and risking those imaginary border guards), but at least it’s all over now and at least it was done with minimum disruption.

Yes, it seems to be all over but as you’d expect me to say ‘I don’t believe it!’

Victor Meldrew