In Laws, Monday 24th August

Lia’s mum and dad came to stay a couple of weeks ago. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but they are, without doubt, the perfect in-laws, being Italian and speaking no English. I speak very little Italian, so for the last twenty years we’ve never had a conversation. Perfect in-laws!

Interestingly, whenever they see Lia and me having an argument, they always take my side!

   “Smetta di gridare lui” (stop shouting at him), they’ll say to Lia, or some such thing, even though they don’t know what we’re arguing about, or the fact that Lia is almost 100% justified in whatever she’s having a go at me about.

This of course only get’s Lia even more annoyed.

They also do all the jobs around the house when they are over. They are getting on a bit now, so I tend not to let them do any more painting and decorating, or heavy lifting. Just the housework and the gardening.

Sadly they’ve gone back to Italy now, but they left behind one of the Italian magazines that they bring with them. This one’s called OGGI (rhymes with dodgy), which means TODAY.

Being Italian, it does reveal a higher proportion of scantily clad women than its English counterpart, but otherwise its very similar in content, particularly the small ads, for example Stannah Stairlifts (il leader mondiale dai montascale), and walk-in baths (Fare il bagno e una fatica?)

The only difference, of course, is that in Italy, the Stannah stairlifts go up the right hand side of the stairs.

Thursday 20th August, 2009

I went for my first run this morning. Ever.

Lia’s been running most mornings for a while now. “Get up,” she says to me, “Come for a run, you’ll enjoy it.” She’s training for a charity run in October – see her website if you’d like to donate at

http://www.run10ksponsorme.org/liaparkinson

- so she’s getting pretty good at it.

Anyway, this morning, I decided to give it a try, as Diane, her usual running partner, is on holiday.

I liked the bit that Lia calls “the warm up.” This involves walking (I’m good at that) to the Rose & Crown in the village (I’m very good at that).

But then you have to do the running bit. I started off OK, but then Lia began to get ahead, and I became very conscious of all my fatty bits jiggling about, which then made me realise how unfit I was, and then my legs started to hurt, and the vicious cycle continued until I had to stop. I’d gone about fifty yards.

Lia jogged on ahead, then eventually turned around and jogged back to me, lending words of encouragement such as “not so hard is it?”. I would have answered if I’d had any breath left.

The really difficult bit was when we met people on the path, and I had to try to look cool and know what I was doing as we approached them. I got a bit of satisfaction by putting on an extra sprint and overtaking Lia just as we got level with them, then turning back and shouting “try to keep up!!” to her, at the top of my voice. 

Then there was the cool down, which involved a walk home from the Rose & Crown (I’m not so good at this under any circumstances).

Then back to bed for a couple of hours.

I can’t actually move at the moment, as everything’s seized up.

But I might try it again tomorrow morning.

Queuing, Bristol, Thursday 6th August 2009

I've been a big admirer of Banksy, ever since my daughter Lucy got me a book of photographs of his graffiti. His work is very political, but with a sharp witticism aimed at society's easy targets (bureaucracy, the police, that sort of stuff). Now he's got an exhibition at the Bristol City Museum & Art Gallery, hatched in secrecy with a handful of museum staff. I wanted to see if he'd sold out on his beliefs.

Come early, Lucy had warned us, the queue is enormous. And indeed it was. The museum opened at ten, we joined the queue at nine, and we finally got into the exhibition at eleven. The queue zig zagged all the way up and down the side street next to the museum.

Enterprising tradesmen were positioned at strategic points, selling the punters ice cream, sandwiches and the Big Issue.
There were a lot of cool people in the queue - hip student types, sitting cross legged on the road playing bridge, or gin rummy, or something chinese with ebony playing pieces. I personally wouldn't sit in any Bristol road, having seen what the locals do in that area after a night out.

Other people in the queue, evidently healthy but just too lazy to stand for a couple of hours, had brought folding chairs. I wondered if they'd thought this through, a) because they wouldn't be allowed to take them in to the museum, and b) once the queue was moving, the chairs would be an irritation rather than a comfort. Experience has taught me never to clutter myself with any stuff that has the potential to be left in pubs, on buses, on trains or in restaurants.

Like my dog, for example.

At ten, the queue started moving, fairly rapidly as it turned out. The cool card players doggedly continued playing, but the Jenga players were clearly experiencing some difficulty. We zig zagged up and down, meeting the same annoying people dragging their folding chairs along the ground. Eventually the cool kids packed their cards away, but the chair bound continued to sit for ten seconds, then pull their chairs ten feet along the ground, to justify their decision to bring them along. It looked like very hard work to me.

Eventually we got to the entrance, passed a pile of discarded folding chairs, and went in.

I'm sure you'd like to know more about the exhibition, but this blog isn't an art review, so I've attached a link at the end of this post.
Has Banksy sold out? Yes. But don't let that put you off visiting. Hurry though, the exhibition ends this month.

Also, if you're a cool type of person who likes to sit in a vomit and dog excrement stained street playing mahjongg or some such, then I apologise if I offended you. No actually, I don't, but I thought you might find this web site useful:

http://www.weeklygripe.co.uk/a97.asp

And here's the BBC news report of the the Banksy exhibition:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/arts_and_culture/809681

0.stm

D Day, 1971

Levenshulme, Manchester -
Stockport road -
Monday morning, February 15^th, 1971 -

I’m working at my Uncle Bob’s greengrocery shop. I’ve got a Saturday job there – at least, it used to be a Saturday job, but it’s gone full time since my A level disaster.


It’s a terraced shop, open at the front, and set back from the road under a wide veranda. Uncle Bob takes full advantage of this. It doubles the size of his selling space, and he fills the pavement beneath the veranda with his fruit and vegetables, piled up in wooden boxes, row upon row. They spill out on to the wide, dirty pavement beside the busy Stockport road.


To the right of the shop is the Union Inn. To the left, the terrace continues; dry cleaners, chip shop, newsagent, bookies, florist.


Today, the queue is much longer than usual. It’s Decimalisation Day, and everyone’s checking their change, thinking decimal, getting impatient, worried that Uncle Bob’s cheating them, the long division far too challenging for everyone this morning.


        “How much is that in old money,” a customer asks him. “Are you rounding the prices up?”


Auntie Margaret, Uncle Bob’s wife, is serving an old man.


        “Are these grapes sweet,” the old man asks. “They’re for my wife. She’s confined to a wheelchair”.


        “Well you can eat them standing up or sitting down,” snaps Auntie Margaret.


Political correctness is a still long time off.


I’m serving a pretty, dark haired girl. She’s wearing a black mini skirt, cropped red t-shirt and black boots. It’s February though, and her legs are marbled blue and white. We’re hard in the North.


At least, the girls are.


I can’t take my eyes off her belly button, the way it reveals itself between her skirt and t-shirt whenever she raises her arm to brush her hair back from her face.


         “Five pounds of King Edwards please Chris,” she says. She knows my name, but I don’t know hers.


I dig into the bag of potatoes, the soil fresh, earthy, smelling like mum’s allotment. I can’t feel my fingers, it’s so cold. I drop the spuds as I put them on the scales. She laughs. I pick them up add an extra one for good measure.


        “That’ll be one and sixpence,” I say. She gives me two shillings and I give her sixpence change. The till is stuffed full of shiny new ten pence pieces, but I’m not ready for decimalisation. I’d fumble, add it up wrong. The girl would correct me and I’d look stupid.


        “See you later,” she says, dropping the change into her purse, and she walks away up the Stockport Road. At the newsagent’s, she turns, sees me staring after her, and smiles.


        “She fancies you,” Uncle Bob says behind me. “She told me yesterday. You should make a move, my son.”


He takes the Kensitas cigarette that’s tucked behind his ear, lights it from the stub of the one he’s just finished, and inhales deeply.


        “What’s her name?” I ask him.


        “Dunno. Maybe you should ask her next time. Anyway, you’ve got another visitor.”


He nods in the direction of the ‘phone box next to the shop. Bill is leaning against it. Uncle Bob reaches for the Kensitas pack next to the cash register, puts a fresh cigarette behind his ear, and begins serving another customer. I leave them both arguing about how much cheaper everything is at that new Tesco up the road, and join Bill at the ‘phone box.


Bill is also smoking. He pulls the packet out of his parka, and offers me one. Embassy Regal.


        “Not here,” I say. “It’ll get back to mum before I’m even home tonight!”


He puts the pack away, and blows smoke in my face. It’s delicious.


        “How you doing?” I ask.


        Not good. Can’t stand it at home any longer. I need beer. What time you finishing tonight?”


I hesitate. I’m thinking about the girl I’ve just served. See you later, she’d said. Maybe she’ll be coming past the shop later on, and I’d rush out, pretend I’d given her the wrong change, maybe see what she was up to tonight –


        “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “But I thought you should know thatI’m going to do it. I’ve been stealing a few of mum’s mandies. One a day. She never notices. I reckon I’ve got enough to do the job properly. No one’s going to miss me-“


        “Six thirty,” I say. “In the Union. Let’s talk about it.”


        “When you’ve got a moment Chris, there’s some customers want serving,” says Uncle Bob. I go back to the shop. Bill flicks his cigarette into the road and walks slowly away.

A diary isn't a viable option...

At least, not for the moment. Let's try some fiction instead, and see where it leads to...