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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Factory Tales 3 A few years ago, I watched a re-run of the American Who Wants To Be A Millionaire show. No excuses; when I slump down in front of the television, I'll watch anything. But, on this occasion, I'm glad I happened to be watching the show for it included an interesting contestant. He was a big guy with very long hair tied in a ponytail and it was obvious, when Regis asked him what he did for a living, that he didn't really want to answer. Almost apologetically, he replied that he stacked shelves in a supermarket. Now, there's nothing unusual in that; plenty of people stack shelves at one time or another in their career. The reason for the guy's embarrassment became clear when Regis asked how long he'd been doing it: thirteen years. I am as susceptible to preconceived notions as anyone else and I admit that I was surprised at this answer. Many of us would assume, no doubt, that the guy was a "loser" to have stayed so long in such a dead-end job. And this, no doubt, was what caused the man's discomfiture at his admission; he was used to others' reactions on hearing this. The problem with the assumption was that he was articulate, intelligent and eventually went on to the point most contestants reach on the show - he walked away with $32,000 in his hand. I must suppose, therefore, that he had stayed a stacker because it suited his purposes, not because he was incapable of doing anything else. How quick we are to define a person by his or her job. Males especially are used to being asked what they do and being classified according to their answer. Yet there are many who persist in menial jobs because it happens to fit with their life's goals; very often this is because what they really enjoy doing doesn't pay. I know this because I've done it myself often enough. The period of five years in which I worked as a machinist in a car factory is the prime example of this. I accepted the job because I needed to find work as soon as possible on arriving in England; I stayed in it for so long because I liked it. It was very physical work but the body learns quickly and grows accustomed to the demands made on it. Operating any machine becomes second nature in a few days, thus freeing the mind to do whatever it fancies. The only mental requirement was counting each piece until one achieved the stated quota and even this became automatic in time. So the job suited me in that it gave me plenty of time to think. If I have a vocation in life, it seems to be thinking, but I have yet to find anyone who will pay me to do so; working as a machinist is as close as I've come to that ideal situation. The job had benefits beyond this, however. Most importantly, it provided me with the opportunity to come to know the English working class. Although both of my parents came from working class backgrounds (my mother would argue with this, stating that her father had a white collar job; but he was a clerk only, fitting into the complex English class structure at lower middle class at best), I was brought up in the colonies where the culture is uniformly middle class. My roots remain with the working class, however, and it was the factory that taught me this. I am quite sure that I started the job with all the usual prejudices and assumptions of what my fellow machinists would be like. The work was classed as "semi-skilled", meaning that it did not take too much intelligence or training to learn, and it would be natural to think that those who stayed at this level did so because they could rise no higher (see how even the language predisposes us to think of some jobs as higher than others). I soon found that this was nonsense. As I came to know my workmates and make friends amongst them, I became aware that they were no less intelligent than myself, indeed, that many of them could think far quicker than I could. The only real difference was in education; I had been privileged to receive an academic education, whereas they had been consigned by circumstances to the worst schools, where little was expected of them because they were, after all, working class. Society, their parents, their peers, all assumed that they would leave school at the age of sixteen and go directly into some blue collar job. Without any alternative, they complied without demur. It was chess that was the most outstanding illustration of this and I stumbled upon it during my first night shift. Even more so than on days, the aim on nights was to churn out the quota as fast as possible and then do whatever we pleased. And what pleased some of them, I found, was to play chess. In my early twenties I had become quite good at chess, having several friends who played it and eventually meeting someone who read books on it. This started me reading too and I arrived at a time when I knew that I could become very good at the game. But I also knew that, to reach the top flight of chess, it was necessary to devote one's life to it; I was not sure that I wanted to do that. The dilemma was decided for me when I met someone who lived and breathed chess. He lived in a bare apartment with only a television, a table and a chair, and he spent his nights in poring over a chessboard in the light from the TV. It was weird. I gave up all thought of ever playing chess seriously and allowed it to drop out of my life. So I was pretty rusty when I discovered the little group of chess players in a corner of the factory. I watched for a while and, when they invited me to join in, I accepted, thinking that I would slaughter them easily. And so I did, at first. But they learned so quickly that very soon I was having to shake off the rust and get down to some real thinking. It seemed that, as fast as I could recall old opening strategies, they would catch on and make me work for a result. I was quite relieved when my two-week stint on nights came to an end and I could go back on days. One of the chess players, a fellow called Malcolm, had become a friend during that night shift and, a few months later, he gave up night shifts and became a daytimer. He set up a chess group immediately and we began to play at lunchtimes. Malcolm was a great organizer (just one example of talent apparently wasted in the factory) and he introduced a series of chess tournaments with trophies for the winner. Suddenly everything became more serious. When it comes to chess, I am extremely competitive. The game is a measure of intelligence and to lose is to feel humiliated. My pride insisted that I win those trophies. And I did win a few, although those guys made me work for it. Soon I was getting out my old chess books at night and studying to stay ahead. But they just kept on learning from me and remained hot on my heels. It got so bad that I can remember waking up one night with the solution to an adjourned game in my head. I was even thinking about it in my sleep! It all came to an end when the factory closed down and I must admit to a feeling of relief. At last I could put chess back where it belonged and relax a bit. I had won a few tournaments but also, to my shame, lost a few. Malcolm could give you details; he kept records of every game played and rated the strength of the players. But the whole story is a perfect example of the lesson I learned: never assume that a man's job is the measure of the man. And that guy on Millionaire brought this flooding back to me. We are all different and have different goals and ways to achieve them; who is to say that the millionaire stockbroker is any more successful than the man who mows his lawn? Word count: 1,425 |
| There's No Cure The worst moment of old age is when you realise that it isn't going to get better. |
| An Old Song Remembered The strangest things pop into my head at times and what follows is a song/routine that I must have heard as long ago as the fifties. It is actually dated 1923 so it was a surprise that Google found it immediately when I entered the few words I remembered. The song contains a lesson that would do us all good (especially in the depths of winter) and I print the lyrics here in their entirety: My Word You Do Look Queer By Bob Wesion & Bert Lee (I923) Performed by Ernest Hastings I’ve been very poorly but now I feel prime, I've been out today for the very first time. I felt like a lad as I walk'd down the road, Then I met old Jones and he said, 'Well I'm blowed!' My word you do look queer! My word you do look queer! Oh, dear! You look dreadful: you've had a near shave, You look like a man with one foot in the grave.' I said,'Bosh! l'm better; it's true I've been ill.' He said,'I'm delighted you're better, but still, I wish you'd a thousand for me in your will. My word, you do look queer!' That didn't improve me, it quite put me back, Still, I walk'd farther on, and I met Cousin Jack. He look'd at me hard and he murmur'd,'Gee whiz! It's like him! It can't be! It isn't! It is! By gosh! Who'd have thought it? Well, well, I declare! I'd never have known you except for your hair. 'My word you do look queer! My word you do look queer! Your cheeks are all sunk and your colour's all gone, Your neck's very scraggy, still you're getting on. How old are you now? About fifty, that's true. Your father died that age, your mother did too. Well, the black clothes I wore then'll come in for you. My word! You do look queer!' That really upset me; I felt quite cast down, But I tried to buck up, and then up came old Brown. He stared at me hard, then he solemnly said, 'You shouldn't be out, you should be home in bed. I heard you were bad, well I heard you were gone. You look like a corpse with an overcoat on. 'My word you do look queer! My word you do look queer! You'd best have a brandy before you drop dead.' So, pale as a sheet I crawl'd in the 'King's Head', The barmaid sobbed, 'Oh you poor fellow,' and then She said, 'On the slate you owe just one pound ten You'd better pay up, we shan't see you again. My word you do look queer!' My knees started knocking, I did feel so sad. Then Brown said, 'Don't die in a pub, it looks bad He said, 'Come with me, I'll show you what to do. Now I've got a friend who'll be useful to you.' He led me to Black's Undertaking Depot, And Black, with some crepe round his hat said, 'Hello, 'My word you do look queer! My word you do look queer! Now we'll fix you up for a trifling amount. Now what do you say to a bit on account?' I said,'I'm not dying.'He said,'Don't say that! My business of late has been terribly flat, But I'm telling my wife she can have that new hat My word, you do look queer!' I crawl'd in the street and I murmur'd,'I'm done.' Then up came old Jenkins and shouted,'Old son!' 'My word you do look well! My word you do look well! You're looking fine and in the pink!' I shouted, 'Am I? Come and have a drink! You've put new life in me, I'm sounder than a bell. By gad! There's life in the old dog yet. My word I do feel well!' Word count: 646 |
| Reading Newsletters makes me ponder on those who seem to spend their lives making up wise-sounding quotations for the rest of us. |
| I must admit that I have a good feeling about 2024. This is in sharp contrast to my feelings about the early years of the 2020s - and I turned out to be right about them. Add that to the fact that I'm rarely optimistic in my view of the future, and I think it's entirely possible that we'll see an improvement in the coming year. If nothing else, it'll make a change. |
| An Uplifting Vision One of the greatest blessings in life is to be happy in one’s work. Far too many of us toil away at jobs we tolerate so that we can survive to work another day, and few indeed are those lucky enough to be paid for what they enjoy doing. Just occasionally, however, we get to see someone involved in work they love and this gives us encouragement to know that it’s possible at least. There is one instance of this that I remember with perfect clarity, a sight so unexpected and heartwarming that it still makes me smile to remember it. It was set in a time long ago when trucks were starting to acquire those audible warnings broadcast whenever they reversed. The designers of this addition to modern conveniences had not yet decided upon an acceptable standard for the thing, and so we were subjected to a range of truck announcements, some in words (“Caution! I am reversing”) or musical sounds. There were even those that used a simple tune to alert the unwary pedestrian. It was one of these that created the circumstances of the vignette that I remember so well. It was in the town of Bedworth, just north of my ancestral city of Coventry, that I observed this little demonstration of pure joy. Beduff, as the locals pronounced it, was a solidly working class place, a dormitory town that supplied much of the muscle and labour for its neighbouring city. Its inhabitants were well known for their no-nonsense and down-to-earth character and attitude to life. At the time, I was working as a painter and decorator and had a large clientele amongst Bedworthians. I was taking a smoke break outside the house I was working on when I heard the musical jingle of a garbage truck reversing some way down the street. It was a considerable distance from where I stood but, being the only activity going on in that quiet morning, my eye was attracted to the scene. Sure enough, there was a large, dirty and disreputable truck reversing slowly and producing its merry little warning of danger. In the middle of the street there was a garbage man. He was dressed as a garbage man should be, in steel-toed, heavy boots, thick clothing against the cold and a weighty black jacket, and he was dancing to the music of the vehicle behind him. His arms akimbo, he leapt and twirled with complete abandonment as he proceeded to the next bin to be collected. In that moment, he was a visible expression of sheer joy in life, an unembarrassed explosion of happiness and carefree existence, an unfettered spirit released into freedom in spite of his apparent servitude in a mean and unenviable task. He made my day. I know, of course, that he was performing for the amusement of his workmates, the driver and the other garbageman, that he was making a mockery of the silly alarm music of the truck. It was, in fact, typical of the humour of the English working class, a silent rebellion against the drudgery of everyday. But that does not negate the wonder of his innocent outburst of joy. Without an awareness of and disdain for the limitations of his world, he would never have thought of entertaining his mates with so hilarious a display. It’s the existence amongst us of those that can rise above circumstances that gives us the ability to carry on. Life is never as bad as it may seem to be at times, and it’s the jokers among us that can lift us beyond despair. Word count: 601 |
| Of Water Many years ago I worked in the High Court of Zimbabwe. It was a very large and rambling building, constructed in the 1920s I'd guess, and contained several courts and many large offices. Wandering corridors connected the various parts and in some areas the building became a maze in which it was easy to get lost. Walls were thick and strong, ceilings very high and the floors were that polished, wear-resistant concrete that seems the norm for government buildings everywhere. I was employed in the deceased estates and company liquidations section and, because there was so much space within the building, for most of my seven years there I had an office to myself. In those days I had dreams of becoming a great artist or a great writer (I had not yet decided which) and it became my habit to speed through the work so that I could have plenty of time for writing poetry or drawing afterwards. In time I could guarantee having a clear desk by about 11:00 am and would spend the rest of my day scribbling on the backs of old court reports or merely pondering and dreaming. The powers that be eventually discovered that they could give me any amount of work and it would be done in a morning; they steadily increased my workload, perhaps to see whether I had any limits. And, not wishing to give up my free time, I accelerated to stay ahead. I worked there for seven years and, by the time I left, I must have been doing everyone else's work for them; certainly, they seemed to spend most of their days in sitting around and chatting. Perhaps that is just normal for any government department, however. I remember a day when I was sitting back in my chair, musing, when I noticed a drop of water hanging from the ceiling just above me. There was no sign of how it had come to be there; it could have been condensation for the thick walls, narrow windows and large rooms kept the place pretty cool, or it may have been a leakage from some part of the plumbing in the floor above. But, whatever the reason for its appearance, it did not seem to grow or change. It just hung from the ceiling, being a water drop. I watched that drop for a long time, expecting it to fall, but it did not. It seemed to have found its place in the world and have resolved to stay there forever. I pondered its existence and what it meant. After a time it dawned on me that there was much to be learned from this one drop of water and I wrote a poem about it. This was in about 1972 and is entirely reproduced from memory, so you will understand that it may have the odd word or two not quite as it was in the original; but it is as close as I can get: O Water Surface tension Inner calm Like a woman The water drop In grasping the holdless ceiling Defies the sight and mind of man Denies the fact of river Lake and stream Proposes cloudbed rivers borne By windy banks To seas and oceans Of the sky Your human laws Of gravity and surface Do not describe the natural fact But only lend it reason I do not subscribe to the idea that any artist should explain his work; it should stand alone for so it will have to do after his death. On this one occasion, however, I must mention that the word "describe" is not meant in its narrow sense of telling what something looks like. This is rather in the sense of "giving the complete story of" and comes very close in meaning to the word "circumscribe". And that's all I'm saying. Line Count for the Poem: 16 Word Count for the whole essay: 643 |
| Polly Theism was a girl so fickle she lost count of her boyfriends. |
| The Lightness of Being Right Even when Andrea and I argue, it turns out we're both right. I used the word "obfusticate" and she said, "Don't you mean 'obfuscate'?" Google says they're both valid. |
| What Did You Say? I am in constant muttered conversation with an imaginary audience. If I had a part in a play, its name would be Aside. |
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I've always remembered that episode and thought that was a fun idea.
Quite good is quite a good compliment 
As someone who just reviewed an item in your port, I can't help but wonder, Did I pick an item that you'd throw out? 