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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.     |
| Crab of the Day Yesterday I realised that, apart from my music posts, I only post about old age these days. Obviously, this is a result of my having reached an age that even I consider old but I suppose I ought to strive to extend my outlook beyond the narrow confines of my own experience, if only to keep the young and middle aged entertained. The problem then becomes that I have pontificated often enough in the past on those more youthful ages of man and I really don't want to repeat myself. Even that is presuming that you were listening at the time, which is surely an almost life-threatening presumption, if you ask me. So I am left with the proposition that I should write about what interests me now, rather than set myself up as some sort of archaeologist of ancient pre-history. And what interests me at present is this phenomenon of ageing. It seems I might as well get on with it. All of which turns out to be a long-winded way of saying that I post about old age and, if you don't like it, why are you reading it? Word count: 191 |
| Old Age Old age is your reward for having survived thus far. |
| Ghostly Laughter A wonderful quote from season 2 of Slings and Arrows, spoken by the ghost, Oliver Welles: "Oh, come on, Geoffrey, you're speaking to a ghost. Wake up and smell the coffin." |
| There seems to be a lot of talk of the weather on the Newsfeed these days. Me, I live in New England so I just keep my head down and mouth shut. Catch me annoying the weather gods! |
| Writing Recently I've been coming across a lot of blogs reflecting on why writers write. The most common reason seems to be that we write because we like doing it but, thinking about this, I realize that it's not true for me. I hate writing. If it were not for the keyboard, I would never write anything longer than a poem. At the age of sixteen I commandeered my mother's old Imperial typewriter and bashed out half a novel. And I do mean "bash". It was a tank of a machine, weighed a ton, and required real force to work the keys. I did not know it then but it was to affect my typing style ever afterwards; I am still heavy-handed on the keyboard. Twenty years later I was working on a lightweight electronic typewriter and pushed it all over the desk with my pounding. And now I have cause to thank the computer keyboard manufacturers for producing such a robust and reliable product. Which is not to say that I don't break modern keyboards - I do. But it takes a while and, invariably, it's the Enter key that goes, the microswitch underneath finally battered into submission. That's when another brilliant invention of the manufacturers comes into play; there's another Enter key at the bottom right of the board and, with a swift adjustment of my habits, I can type just as fast using the alternative. And that brings up the matter of speed. I never learned to type properly and I use one finger, index on the left (I'm left-handed so this works for me), and my right index finger has responsibility for the Enter and Shift keys. It's called the Hunt and Peck method, I believe. This means that I can never aspire to the typing speed of a true touch typist but I can rattle along at a fair old pace, even so. The "Hunt" part of my method has become more of an instinctive awareness through long years of practice and my typing speed is reasonable as a result. Yet I do not trust my instinct; I still have to watch the keyboard while typing, if only to confirm that my finger is hitting the right keys. I envy those who can watch the screen while typing. But I will never take one of those software typing courses and teach myself to do it properly. Partly, this is because I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks but, more importantly, I have discovered that my typing speed fits perfectly with the rate at which I think. By the time I've completed one sentence, the brain is just about ready to supply the next. Were I to increase typing speed, I would merely waste the time saved in sitting motionless while the mind catches up. So it is the keyboard that enables me to "write". This is reinforced by the fact that, thanks to another event way back in the mists of time, I switched my handwriting from lower case to capitals and this makes my writing very slow. I have become a creature of the keyboard. As to why I set words on a page, I think that must again be a speed-related matter. Whether we write books, short stories or poems, what we are doing is to set out our thoughts in a logical, understandable manner, with the intention of arriving eventually at a conclusion. Speaking is an unsatisfactory solution to this need for communication, too subject to interruption by others, stray thoughts that lead one into side streets of irrelevance, and omission of important facts through the heat of the moment. Writing gives us the time to organize and sharpen, concentrate and refine, so that the finished product is that much more effective in attaining its goal: to communicate something we feel is important. And, for me, the keyboard is the perfectly-paced tool to enable me to do this. Without it, I doubt I'd even blog. Why is there this need to communicate? Ah, there I think we're getting into what is called "the human condition", something common to us all and yet totally inexplicable. We can say that we are social animals but this does nothing to explain why we feel so compelled to tell each other stories, be they fact or fiction. It's just one of those things. Word count: 728 |
| Yet Another Apology Well, as I have mentioned elsewhere in WDC today, I woke up as sick as a dog. Looking back in this blog, I see that I last apologised for the slowing down in production due to illness only two months ago. It looks bad, I know, but what can I do? When the sickness fairy strikes, I'm clearly not dodging quickly enough. Anyway, this is my latest humble apology. I will try to continue to produce my usual daily fare but it ain't easy at times. Began a story for SCREAMS!!! a few days ago and the deadline is not far off - no guarantee now that I'll finish it in time. All I can do is try. Word count: 117 |
| 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. |
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