Sep 12 2010

The Mortality Syndrome

Most of the time you drift through life not thinking about it much, least of all when you’re a kiddiewink. It’s something that happens to other people. It’s way too far off to really think about, is something that the older people amongst you talk about – with the exception, perhaps, of a very, very young Gloom-Laden.

I’m talking about the arrival of Mr Death!

How morbid you may think. Indeed, very morbid and something most of us don’t like to talk about or acknowledge. I’m not all that comfortable writing about it. But sometimes you’ve just got to get over the fears.

Most of my childhood – outside of school – was made up of playing games and having fun. Mr Death never featured in this all that much and if he did, then it was never in a serious way. But he’s there, constantly, looking at his named egg-timers, (if one goes with the Discworld theory of Death) the one that counts down to your death, waiting for the correct moment to take you.

The First Discworld Novel

In those childhood days I was blessed – or cursed – with an active imagination. To be honest, I don’t think it’s left me. My best friend Velocipede and I were into all the science fiction games of the 1960s era and Gerry Anderson programs were at their height.
Some days it would be Fireball XL5 or Stingray, others it would be Dr Who.

During those times my mind dealt with all sorts of mythological ideas brought up by what I watched. Comic books, both of the English and American also played their part.

Spider Man was a firm favourite with me ever since Velocipede gave me a cover less copy of The Amazing Spider Man annual # 1. It contained two reprints of Spider Man #11 & #12.

Spider Man: Never did get bitten by a radioactive Spider..

In other words I was immersed in fantasy. It was often commented on by adults that I suffered from too active an imagination. I created quite a few games and was often generous enough to allow the few friends I had to join in with these games.

Probably My Favourite Doctor of them all...

I was told that around this time I had an imaginary friend as well. He was a rather strange chap whom I only ever managed to see when I was in the toilet. His name was George Cleever. Maybe I suffered chronic loneliness when in the toilet – although that would be hard to imagine because I’ve never suffered it anytime or anywhere else then or since. But it was around the time I was 11 months old, for a year or so.

I don’t know what happened to George Cleever, although lurking around toilets with children who are not blood related would take quite a bit of explaining, especially when an unsatisfactory account could lead to some time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, so to speak.

Fireball Comic Strip.

No matter, George moved on, possibly getting a healthier habit than hanging around toilets, and I got into a much healthier habit of talking to people who I could see.

At the dreaded school, I tended to do as little as I could get away with and happily though little of the future and indeed Mr Death play little part in my daily thoughts.

The nearest this old but well-established gentleman came into my thoughts was when a school friend and I chatted about ghosts. Did we believe in them? Did they believe in us? If they did exist did they go to Ghost school? And once Ghost school finished did they work for a living? On the latter point we decided they must do because there must be numerous opportunities in the haunting business as few seemed to be seen down the Labour Exchange – now called Job Centres – in those days.

For some morbid reason we came up with the idea that whichever of us died first, he would come back and haunt the other and spill the beans, so to speak, on the afterlife. A year or so later this friend and I parted company and I haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t died, at least not to my knowledge, but if he has then he hasn’t come back to confirm a ghostly afterlife. Or if he has then he’s probably the only Ghost to suffer from Laryngitis!

I also worked around the idea that when or if (oh yes, ‘if’ came into it, because I plan to live forever…so far so good!) I died then I’d probably come back as someone else. That thought always pleased me, somewhat. However, when I turned it over in my head, the thought I might come back as ‘something’ else kicked in and that was a little disturbing. I did suppose if it was a fly I wouldn’t have to endure being a fly for long, they live about a day. Ah, but what if I kept coming back as a fly, like being stuck in some sort of fly loop…(don’t you just hate it when that happens?).

My first real concerns about my mortality came during the late sixties. There was a TV series running then that I really liked called The Avengers. In an episode called ‘The Gravediggers’. Mrs Peel is buried alive in a coffin. All of a sudden the realisation hit me that one day I’d be in one of those. OK. But I’d be dead, not alive, and it would be legitimate and not a me trying to uncover a plot by a nasty villain. Not OK.

The more I thought about it, no more playing games, no more chances to see Daddy, Mummy, Grampy, Granny and Uncle Fitrambler. No more chances to see all four of my friends…(Yes, I do have friends, and despite the cries of ‘you need to get out more’, I get out).

Thinking of those things I did the only thing a right-minded eight year old could do. I began crying. This of course attracted the attention of my parents who did their best to comfort me. But unfortunately it was a stark reality that they could do little about.

“I know,” Daddy Fitrambler comforted, “but there’s nothing you can do about it…try not to worry about it…”

Yeah right! Thanks, Dad, that’s really helped!

This wasn’t the kiss it better and it all goes away type answer I was looking for. I was on my own for this one!

Days passed, the episode of The Avengers was confined to the furthest reaches of my memory and gradually I stopped thinking about it. I temporarily put Mr Death to one side.

Man-appeal - M-apeal = Emma Peel

The next time I was to suddenly begin to think about my mortality again was six years later when I was a teenager. It was some six to twelve months after Neatentidy and I became friends.

One of the things he and I did to supplement our pocket-money was deliver leaflets. I think we got £2 a thousand at the beginning. We split this 50/50. Often these leaflets (junk mail, yes, I know, I was one of the annoying people behind these things) would be delivered of an evening. Quite often during the winter months the evenings were dark.

For some reason I cannot recollect, Mr Death was back in my thoughts and the dark nights made it easy to dwell without some sort of distraction.

Not Available in my Teenager Days.

I didn’t go in for an awful lot of music then. It was also the case that walkman’s, personal stereos, iPods and the like were not around and wouldn’t enter my life until the mid to late eighties. The nearest you got to personal music devices were radios, mono, which you held to your ear or held while listening through one earpiece.

What I did was use my of cassette player. It was chunky but not overly chunky that it couldn’t go in the bag with my leaflets. As I have said, I wasn’t into music in great quantities but had recorded on cassettes a lot of Morecambe and Wise shows.

So, I played these cassettes while on the leaflets rounds and they helped me not to dwell of thoughts of death.

What must have gone through the minds of the owners of the houses I delivered to I can’t say, but it must have been irritating to hear loud laughter tracks get louder and then fade…

From my point of view it kept Mr Death out of my thoughts, so I wasn’t too concerned about the noise to others; although to be fair I didn’t have it up that loudly really, not by today’s standards…

However, those youthful thoughts about Mr Death paled into insignificance some 33 years later when I really had cause to concern myself with the activities of Mr Death and whose door he might knock on next…

Death In Discworld

Aug 11 2010

The School Conundrum

My early, very early, years seemed to me to be a very good arrangement. I knew where I was with them and the consistency was conducive to a happy state.

The first house I ever lived in was number 113 Commercial Road, Swindon. I was actually born in Seymour Clinic on the corner of King’s Hill and Kent Road, Swindon on 17th November 1957. Oddly enough, very few history books carry this momentous date in history. Though, come to think of it, even I rarely celebrate it these days, either.

So from Mummy Fitrambler’s womb to 113 Commercial Road, obviously a bigger place in which to play; something I was going to gain a great deal of pleasure from in those early days.

I have to confess I don’t know much about my days in Number 113, other than it was a little crowded. Living there at that time was Granny and Grampy Fitrambler, Uncle Fitrambler and Mummy and Daddy Fitrambler. This would no doubt account for us moving to larger premises some eighteen months later.

The place we moved to was a relatively new council estate, created, rather like me, in the 1950s. Number 3 Ripon Way, to all intents and purposes was where the memories really began. Then, there was no such thing as the dual carriageway, the Queen’s Drive was single lane road and a rather large piece of grassy land between it and our house.

The estates of Park South and North went as far as Shaftesbury Avenue and beyond Shaftesbury Avenue there was nothing but fields and an old farm-house. Eldene and Liden didn’t exist.

But in those days of youth there were the fields. But these were no go areas until I, and my friends of the time, were in double figures. It didn’t mean we didn’t go to these areas, it was just that we shouldn’t.

One of my earliest friends in those days was Velocipede, who hadn’t long moved in. He and his family were from the North and therefore, as far as I was concerned, had a funny accent, especially his mother and father.

We became great friends and shared many adventures based around the popular science fiction shows and comic books we consumed at an alarming rate.

I think I was approaching about four and a half years old when my cosy existence was first threatened. The darkness came and enveloped me for about thirteen years.

School reared its ugly head and its evil mouth enveloped me.

As far as I was concerned, being at home with the family was fine by me and I didn’t want to upset the status quo – I’ve always tried not to cause trouble. I was happy with Daddy and Mummy Fitrambler, Granny, Grampy and Uncle Fitrambler. I needed little else.

I’d heard of school of course, knew a few children that went, but no one then really explained the purpose of school? Why get up early in the morning to go to a place you didn’t know, especially in winter when it’s cold, when you can stay in the warm at home?

I didn’t really get an answer to that!

Then there was what you would do for the hours you were in this strange building. Apparently some adult would bang on about things you didn’t really want to know but for some weird reason were expected to learn. Why do that when you could be at home playing games you wanted to play?

I didn’t really get an answer to that!

You would also be amongst other children at a strange dinner table in the middle of lots of other dinner tables with other children, eating dinner prepared by strangers. Why would I want to do that when Granny Fitrambler prepared very good food at home?

I didn’t really get an answer to that!

Here’s the thing, as the school had hundreds of other children in it, did they really need me to go? After all with the other hundreds of children, surely they wouldn’t miss me?

I didn’t really get an answer to that!

What I was told, I remember, was that if I didn’t go to school then there were these men who’d come and take Daddy Fitrambler away to prison for a period undisclosed to me. (It wasn’t an easy decision for the young Fitrambler to take.) If it was to be a short period of time, like the time Daddy Fitrambler spent at work, then maybe not attending would be not so bad…

But, I was led to believe Daddy Fitramber would have to be away for a very long time and I didn’t like that idea. I was rather fond of Daddy Fitrambler! Besides, if he was away in this prison place, then who’d read my books and comics to me? You have to have a sense of priorities in life, I mean you’ve got to think of these things!

However, looking back, I must say that although I love my father I do feel rather miffed he hasn’t ever thanked or even acknowledged the thirteen year sacrifice I made to keep him out of prison!

So, young Fitrambler was left with no choice, I had to go to school or Daddy Fitrambler would be taken away. (And of course there would be no one to read my comics and books to me). So, being, as I see it, a reasonable sort of chap, I compromised. My idea of a compromise went something like this…

I would turn up.

That was it. I would turn up everyday for five days a week and sit in the classroom. To me it was the simplest solution to everyone’s problems. Once my time of sitting there was over, I would, of course, go home. A plan of the utmost simplicity and fairness, I thought…

Unfortunately, I hadn’t realised the extent of the selfishness of the education system. The compromise wasn’t enough for them. I had to do something while I was there. And not only did I have to do something, but it was the sort of something that I wasn’t particularly interested in.

Pretty soon I was beginning to feel vindicated. I was right, this school wasn’t all that pleasant and it certainly wasn’t going to be fun!

One thing they wanted was for me to learn to read. Well, how stupid! Why would I want to learn that? What was the point? It was of no use to me. I did try to explain this but it was explained to me that life would be difficult without being able to read.

“Why?” I asked, for I was a curious little chap then.

“Well, you like comics, well if you learn to read then you can read the comics.”

“Dad reads me my comics.”

“Ah, but what if Dad isn’t there?”

“Then I wait ‘til he is.”

“But it’d be better if you could read them yourself, wouldn’t it?”

“But then what would Daddy do?”

So, despite their best efforts, I didn’t learn to read – well not right then. I would take home the book they’d given me to learn from. I’d get Daddy to read it to me over and over, then memorised what he said on each page and when the teacher called me up for reading I would recite what was on each page through memory of what Daddy said rather than any recognition of the actual words.

Then, by accident, Teach turned two pages over and that threw me. We always read in order, so I was found out. Teachers can be nasty, deceitful people!

If that wasn’t bad enough, Daddy suddenly decided I was old enough to learn to read and wasn’t going to read my comics to me (traitor!). No, from then on I would have to learn to read for myself. He’d help me with words but would expect me to be able to learn. Can you believe that, after the sacrifice I made to keep him out of prison! The ingratitude!

So Fitrambler the younger was on his way to getting an unwanted education. It was blackmail of the highest order. There was no way I was going to allow myself not to be able to understand the adventures my favourite comic book characters were having each week. I’d have to learn!

Of course in with all this was the other children. There were one or two I got on with rather well. Unfortunately, there were several bands of children I didn’t get on with and they decided to elect me as their kicking and punching bag. (I think the election was done by a show of hands and exclamations of ‘Yeah, go on, do it, beat the crap out of the ginger haired bastard!’)

At that time there were only two children bullied as I remember. One was a coloured child from the West Indies, and the other was me, the freckled, skinny, ginger-haired child. Both of us had one thing in common, there were no others like us. In his case it was the skin, in mine it was the freckles and ginger hair!

It was during those few years in junior school that Mummy Fitrambler was caused some embarrassment – other than reports telling her and Daddy Fitrambler that I was intelligent but lazy – when the teacher stormed out of the class at home time and approached my mother. She told Mummy Fitrambler I was the laziest boy she’d ever know, couldn’t get me to work. Mummy Fitrambler wasn’t happy.

I wasn’t too happy then either. That particular day I’d worked quite hard. Old Teach had read a story and then asked us to write what we’d heard and I liked the story so much I worked very hard to put it down on paper. Of course, that day was laced with a liberal dozen of thumping’s from the enemies I made by just existing.

Ah yes, the memories flow. I wasn’t lazy at everything as far as school was concerned. Oh no. Within a short space of time my geography improved, my stamina improved and my sprinting improved. But then, the incentive was there to improve those skills. Either that or find a way to deploy Superman’s power of invulnerability…

To explain, the geography improvement related to where I was, the layout of the streets around me and all the various ways I could get home. Very good for out-witting the groups of children who wanted to give me my daily thumping after school. The stamina and speed were also a great advantage in out-running those children after me to give me my daily thumping.

Learning not to go through narrow alleyways which could be blocked at the end by one’s enemies, always ensure you take a seat where you have a good view of everyone and no one can sneak up behind you…always avoid groups of people, three and upwards…

Even today I tend to avoid groups of people or am weary of them and change course…

Of course, the kids grew out of the bullying, and so by 12 years old it was practically over, all bar the shouting…of insulting names. By then, I’d learnt to read and write very well. I still read, predominantly, comics, American ones with the superheroes in but at around 14 years old I read a book which really encouraged me to move onto books. “Rex Milligan’s Busy Term” by Anthony Buckeridge.

It was around this time that I began to improve at art and English. The interest sparked from comics. I wanted to write and draw my own comics, so felt it was pretty obvious I should teach myself these subjects, which I did. Spoken English hadn’t been much of problem as I started talking at eleven months, holding a reasonable conversation at around then; apparently amusing my next door neighbour no end. Art and written English I hadn’t been all that good at but now felt there was a reason to learn and so did to a reasonable standard.

So I began illustrating my own comics, writing the scripts as I went along. Then, when my aforementioned interest weighed more heavily towards books rather than comics I began to attempt to write books.

I still didn’t like school much, I still found it oppressive. But in the end there were things about it that gave me access to an education I wanted rather than the one they probably wanted to give me.

I always remember my father always telling me that I’d look back on my school days as being amongst the best of my life. It was a thought that rather terrified me. I considered that if my school days were going to be the best, then I was in for quite a shitty little life.

Jul 13 2010

The Job Interview

Having been working for a Warehousing Company for over thirty years the thought of having to move on isn’t all that an inviting prospect.

There was, however, recently, a bloke I worked with who seemed to relish the prospect of moving Company to Company and increasing not only his skills base (buzz words) but his salary. I have to admit I’ve done a variety of jobs over the thirty odd years with the Company and this has been central to my not needing to move on. I’ve handled Stock Control, Publicity Material, Buying of Motor Vehicle parts, then Buying of Print & Stationery, Database Maintenance, Key Performance Indicators…I could go on, (and Frequently do). But to do what he does, from Company to Company every couple of years isn’t my thing.

However, the need to move on has become pressing of late and so job applications have been flying off my work PC at a hell of a rate.. one, two, three or more every six months, my productivity knows no bounds.

During this period all sorts of ideas came to the fore from my employer. One was a Networking Course. This was something I was sceptical about. The idea of using friends and family to tout for job opportunities didn’t appeal, it seemed like an abuse of friendship. Besides, constant mutterings of ‘Give us a job, I can do that,’ would, after a while, strain the friendship, and constant enquiries about whether they had heard of any jobs, or were there jobs coming up would really niggle!

Of course, when I went on the actual Course with Miss Penguin, who is also seeking a job elsewhere, we found the Networking idea wasn’t as bad as we thought; although getting to the course was!

It was in London and started at 9.30am. Miss Penguin who quickly grasped the nettle of organising passage, suggested we get a train at about 7.05am, which would mean getting up around 6am.

“There is no such time!” I exclaimed; I’m not much of an early riser, you see.

Miss Penguin was unmoved. She just gave me a frown. Miss Penguin is good with frowns, they can convey a lot. There’s the stop being stupid frown. You’re going to get a clout frown. Stop talking like a prat frown. The latter being the frown she was currently giving. Besides, she knew she was right and therefore would truck no objections from me…

“It’s the only way to get there on time,” Miss Penguin insisted.

Of course, I gave in, even tried to pretend I was only joking. I’m unsure whether Miss Penguin was so easily fooled, she never has been in the past despite my best efforts. I think Miss Penguin asked me a couple of times over the next few weeks whether I could make it in time for that particular train; I suppose the prospect of being stuck on a dark, cold station so early on a Monday morning didn’t appeal. So much so that even my company was acceptable.

Well, it’s so easy to agree to anything when it’s so far away, and it was a couple of weeks away, so I told Miss Penguin it definitely wouldn’t be a problem.

Despite my doubts, I set my alarm to 6am – surprised such a numeric existed on my alarm clock and got to sleep just after 11.30pm.

I got up the next morning at about 6.10am, it would have been earlier but I wasted my time arguing with the alarm clock about whether it might be mistaken about this being the correct time to get up. I lost.

Once at the station (and on time) I met Miss Penguin and we had time to get coffee. Which was nice as it was cold and it kept the old digits warm while we waited on the station platform, that dark and chilly morn.

The train arrives, leaves and we get to the course about fifteen minutes late.

Ah, the joys of public transport, now owned by the private sector who are more efficient at making it inefficient!

One thing distracted me straight away was the course tutor. He looked and sounded rather like Norris from Coronation Street. It took me a little less than twenty minutes to get that out of my head. Be fair, it’s one hell of a distraction but he knew his subject.

Networking is about chatting to people a lot (I can do that) and through them, particularly at work they get to know you and your circumstances and are often able to give you job leads without going on and on at them…Hm, ok. Loved the chatting bit. The art, so I was told, was not to go all out with asking for a job or job lead, cultivate them and really become friends first with as many people as possible, particularly in other firms. Not being the most social of people – it’s my shy nature, you see – I didn’t feel too at home with that last bit. But I could see where it was all going.

It’s not long after this, through a contact Miss Penguin and I made (Mrs Rusharound) that I managed to get myself seconded to a Project. We talked to Mrs Rusharound for quite a few weeks until the project came into being on and she suggested I go on it with her. Miss Penguin, by this time, was unavailable as she was on her own project for another part of the Company.

I wasn’t sure I really wanted to do it but I felt the experience would do me good; something new. I think it basically came down to the fact I didn’t have any good reasons not to do it. Besides, it was just a step into the unknown which was really putting me off!

I decide to give it a go and got the blessing of my boss.

Oddly enough, despite the several telephone calls, the e-mails and many promises to meet up for coffee, I didn’t get to meet Mrs Rusharound until the day we began the journey out of Swindon to the Workshop. On one of the conference calls, which was my only involvement in the project until then, I did meet Mr Motorcross, but not Mrs Rusharound. It was suggested I speak to Mr Motorcross as he and Mrs Rusharound would be driving up together, so there was room for one more.

Over the next eight weeks get to know those two better and it was Mrs Rusharound who pointed out the possible vacancies in a department who were linked to our current project and for me to look out for them.

So look out I did. But they were well hidden on the Company job site and basically the result of a job review. This meant they were initially going to be dealing with the people either in post or who worked for that part of the business. In other words outsiders – which meant me – need not apply.

But apply I did (devil that I am) and it was pointed out again during the application process it was unlikely I’d be selected unless I was one of them. I don’t think I’ve ever been ‘one of them’. I’ve been one of us…

But I applied using the lottery principle. If I didn’t apply then the answer would be no. If I did, it might be the remotest chance, million to one, say, that I’d get an interview…hey ho!

Now here’s the thing. On 30th June I got a text asking me to check my e-mails because I was to be invited to an interview. Although I’d applied for the 9 jobs available at the Company, I wasn’t expecting a response as several other applications elsewhere have gone the same way.

What pleased me all the more once I’d booked my interview was there was no mention of the assessment prior to the interview, the bit of the recruiting process I really hated. So, for some reason I’d got out of that part.

Yahoo!

So a couple of pints in the evening with Neatentidy ensued and I told him about the interview and I’d got away without having to do the test!

The next morning at work I’ve another e-mail from the Company. Could I log on to a site a prepared for the assessment part of the recruitment process!

Chin hits deck!!!

I remembered yesterday’s smugness and felt rather silly. Of course I wouldn’t get away without the assessment/test. I’ve never got away with anything. I had until the 7th July to complete it; two days before my interview.

Fortunately, I was able to work it so I got to do a couple of practise tests along the lines of the one I’d have to do for real. Seeing what I had to do didn’t make me feel any better, in fact it made me feel quite depressed – a “I didn’t want the job anyhow” mood. (As you may tell, I’m not easily discouraged.)

After the test, test, so to speak, especially the verbal reasoning where I got 77% I felt a little better. Not so the numeric reasoning. 30%; not good (and a wonky calculator didn’t help). I did get a second bite at both, on the latter with a calculator that worked (and yes, calculators were permitted). Verbal reasoning this time was 81% and Numeric Reasoning 51%. An improvement. But I couldn’t find anything on the checking test. What the hell did that involve?

By Wednesday I knew the office would be empty so I got on with the tests, feeling a lot better than I had but still dreading it.

Yes, I know I’m dumb but being forced to prove it to people…well, it’s a bit much, isn’t it.

With the test over I started working on the interview which was down as being a Competency Based Interview. I studied the questions involved, linked them to life experiences and then tried to drum it into my nut for regurgitation at the appropriate moment…

Some people tell me I lack confidence. Well, here’s the thing, you always seemed to be knocked down when you reach a state of high Confidence! You feel so good and consider nothing can possibly go wrong so when you’re smacked down it’s more painful to deal with! (Fitrambler, Chapter 1, point 3.)

And as if to prove the point…I got someone to fire some of the Competency Based questions at me, feeling Confident about my studying and frozen on the first three, needing to be prompted to give something that vaguely resembled the answer. My confidence destroyed!

QED?

So I went away, thinking I’d work really hard in the evening on the questions, with thoughts of “did I really want the job” and “is it the end of the world if I fail”…etc.

By the next day I felt better but was determined not to travel to the Confidence Zone. (Do, do, do, do, do, do, do, or something like that, however the Twilight Zone tune goes!) The freezing on the questions still niggled but what could I do?

I carried on working through the questions throughout Friday. I didn’t ride the bike. It was a particularly hot day and I was hot enough as it was without riding into work, by then wearing what would have been a sodden mess of clothes.

Anyway, time ticked away and for some reason I couldn’t get the High Noon soundtrack out of my head. A final check at quarter past one, suited up, tie, even proper shoes – now there’s a novelty – all in place; after all it’d be pretty silly to wear the shoes as gloves… (It’s ok, I didn’t laugh at that one at the time, either.)

Come the time, I was summoned to the top floor. I was feeling rather hot after a couple of flights of stairs. Not the weather for suit and tie, really.

Once there, Topman, whom I’ve met before, greeted me and then said: “Ah, take that jacket off!”

I frowned, slightly, a little unsure, after all this wasn’t the interview I’d studied for. Then came: “And the tie!”

Now I was really getting worried. Well, you hear rumours about how people get their jobs and I was a little wary about what I was going to be asked to do to get this one. I’m mean, I like to think I’m broad-minded but…

“That’s better,” he said, “you were beginning to make me feel even hotter than I am. Fair play, we can cut the formalities on a day like today.”

I relaxed again, but only for a short time.

“We’ll have to wait a few minutes because the room’s being used and your assessor is on a conference call with his boss!”

Assessor? Assessor? I did the test Wednesday? What was going on? I hadn’t prepared for an assessment. What type would it be?

Oh hell! Well, “did I really want this job?”

Anyway, as it turned out it was just a matter of semantics. It was an interview in the manner I was expecting. There would be one other in the interview besides Topman, and that was Otherjob.

It was explained to me there would be four competency based questions by Otherjob and then Topman would be asking me a few afterwards.

The first question came, there was only a fraction of a second’s hesitation from me and I launched into my answer. I didn’t exactly go by the script I’d written and studied, the questions seeming to have more depth. However I was pleased the answers I gave not only to that one but second and third were even better, more structured answers than I’d rehearsed. I felt a little less happy with the fourth but there were supplementary questions by Topman, a prompt or two on that fourth question, which seemed to knowing help me with my answer, which was somewhat unexpected.

Then afterwards, Topman asked me about my Microsoft Office skills. I felt when I was honest about not having used PowerPoint for about 5 years and would probably need to refresh myself, that he wanted me to say I was okay with it. I stuck to honesty but told him I was – which is true – working my way through on a “Step By Step Guide to Microsoft Office 2003”. If PowerPoint was important I was sure it wouldn’t take me long to learn it. (No, it wouldn’t honest, I can be quite dogged when I want to be!)

I also mentioned I’d worked with the old version of Visio and had a newer version on my computer, which I’d done family trees and charted processes on. Done some work on WYSIWYG software for both Apple Mac and PC operating systems. That also went down well. (old Fitrambler was in his stride now!)

Once it was all over I felt I’d given an extremely good account of myself to both Topman and Otherjob. But of course, only time will tell…

Apr 13 2010

The First Pub

The Kings Today

Movenon celebrated his 50th birthday last Saturday. Some time ago he told me and the rest of the Wednesday Group he intended to have a party.

He’s the last of us old school chums to get to 50. At least of the little group that still keeps in contact. I was the first to hit that number in 2007. It doesn’t seem all that long ago but 53 is hovering gloatingly over the horizon.

Movenon decided he would hold the celebration in the Kings and asked us to clear our calendars and attend, although his actual birthday isn’t until later in the month. But it was a convenient time for him to get his family and friends together.

Knowing that he’s got quite a large family and quite a group of friends, I knew it would be quite a big party. I’m not over keen on big parties these days, not so sure I ever was. When he handed out the invitations a couple of months back, I tried not to commit, being that I’m rarely free on Saturdays.

Getting nearer to the date I still my doubts but the way my Saturday panned out, I decided to go. Admittedly, it wasn’t a decision finalised until a few hours before the event.

When I got there around 9pm, I remembered what Mr Pointyview told me about the Kings these days. He’d been there over the Easter Weekend and while other places were heaving with people celebrating the extra days off, there was hardly anyone in the Kings.

It was like that this Saturday. Although going into heaving pubs wasn’t something I enjoyed, seeing a pub as large as the Kings with only about four or five customers made me feel rather self-conscious.

I headed out the back way, near to the toilets, because I thought Movenon’s party would be there, but most of the spare rooms were darkened. It was another of those times I wished I’d paid more attention when being given instructions.

Neatentidy said he would be there around 9pm, so I texted him to see where I needed to go.

As I strolled back towards the bar a few memories stirred. I don’t know why that night of all nights. I’d been there often enough in the past…

The Kings, or Kings Arms as it’d been then, back in 1974, was the first pub Neatentidy and I visited on a regular basis; and that was due to a touch of serendipity. In that year, mid-teens but out of the pubescent acne stage, I had a weekend job in a shop now long gone. G.J. Handy’s.

It was a hardware shop and initially I worked there Saturdays. The following summer I worked during there during the school holidays.

Not long after I got the job Neatentidy got himself a Saturday job as well; in his case a grocer’s around the corner. It was convenient, we sometimes met up lunchtime.

However, some months later Neatentidy left school and I decided to stay on to take a couple of A Levels. Although I expected at the time we would lose touch, Daddy Fitrambler found that to be the case when he left school.

Fortunately, it never happened that way as Neatentidy and I – after a gap of a few weeks – began meeting up on Tuesdays. Being about 16 we tended to just stroll around talking.

Then one weekend, I agreed to help with stock-taking at Handy’s – extra money always welcome – and as it was an all day job, the boss would provide the lunch.

On the day I found out that lunch was to be at the Kings Arms. I wasn’t really keen on drinking in those days, but come lunchtime, a colleague, some twenty years older than me, ordered a half of lager and lime. I did the same.

In those days I didn’t use pubs except when with the parents, so my knowledge of beer wasn’t all that good. What little knowledge I did have, came (frighteningly) through tv adverts. So I took the lead from my co-worker – my senior by around twenty or more years – and followed his lead. What he ordered was good enough for me; or at least it would have to be as I was unlikely to go through all the keg taps until I found something more agreeable. (That sort of thing was to come later in life; 1977 springs to mind but that’s another story.)

I drank about a pint that lunchtime and felt very light-headed for many hours afterwards, but managed to do an afternoon’s work; a possible trial run for later dinnertime sessions of the late 70s at my current employer.

It was that lunchtime dinner and drink that gave me a good idea; I’m occasionally prone to them. So on our usual Tuesday meeting, I put it to Neatentidy that we could go there for a drink. He was quite keen on the idea. I suppose to be fair and honest, I believe something like that was what he wanted to do all along, he’d probably suggested it but I hadn’t been keen.

Yes we were only 16, so underage, but dressed a little more like adults in jackets and ties, we got into the Kings Arms and were ordered two halves of lager and lime. We drank a further two halves each and left at around 9pm to get home by 9.30pm at the latest.

We felt quite light-headed, merry and things became a lot funnier than normal.

The King’s Arms wasn’t the same then, internally. As you walked through the doors you could go straight ahead to the toilets, dining room, to the left a reception, to the right was a long room, a bar away from the rest of the place.

On most Tuesdays over the next few months we were mainly served by a rather rotund barman, balding, the little hair he did have was grey. His face was a smiling face, a cheerful chap, but with some of his teeth missing at the sides of his mouth, only obvious when he grinned.

He was a nice bloke, but we found him a little amusing; or to be more precise, his name was amusing.

Cyril!

I suppose Cyril isn’t the most amusing name in the world and thinking purely about the name, it still isn’t but it was the context, I suppose, the history of the time.

You see, around this time there were these adverts on the box about Wonderloaf, a sliced bread nationally available. The commercials were set, unsurprisingly, in a bakery. The baker – dressed in white with the cap shovelling loaves in and out of ovens, presenting them to the cameras – was called Cyril. His grinning face and the loaf were in turn presented a few times to the audience accompanied by a jingle; something to plant itself in the minds of the viewers as in so many adverts then and now.

It went: “Nice one, Cyril, Nice one son, Nice one Cyril, Let’s have another one…”

I daresay you’d be hard pushed to really latch onto a belly laugh from that. But Neatentidy and I did. We racked our brains to see how many times we could use Cyril or better still ‘Nice one, Cyril,’ in our conversations or brief bar encounters with him, when buying a round.

After handed over our halves…”Nice one, Cyril…” or going up to the bar with empty glasses. “Yes? Another round?” he’d asked pleasantly .”yeah, let’s have another one…”

You get the drift…

Yeah, ok, you had to be there!

I rather liked that old layout with the separate bar, rather than its open plan look. I reflected on that as I got back into the bar.

Wonderloaf Magazine Advert

I suspected the ‘do’ for Movenon would be upstairs and I could hear the loudness of music as I approached the bar. Neatentidy probably wouldn’t have been able to hear the text alert, so I asked about the party at the bar.

A couple of minutes later I was upstairs and in a small room with a bar, which led to a larger room. The music was really blaring out now and I was beginning to wish I hadn’t decided to come. After all, I had a blog to write and I could have used the time to do it. But that was unfair.

Neatentidy was at the bar, with Mrs Neatentidy. We greeted each other and that meant I was trapped, I couldn’t sidle off. With normal lights of the room, being invaded every so often by multicoloured lights from the disco room, the 70s music and the dance floor populated with the over the top 70s costumed guests along with some bewildered old ‘uns (and apprentice old ‘uns like me).

Neatentidy suggested a move to the Disco room. I went along with it but I groaned, inwardly. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to help Movenon celebrate the half-century, but the flashing lights and the noise…

Mar 18 2010

Velocipede Comes to Town

Mr Fitrambler remembers how Mr Velocipede came to town and created some great childhood memories before a gap of 36 years passed and they are again creating memories…

I was told, but don’t know when and by whom, that the brain has all that you’ve seen and learnt stored perfectly within. The problem lies in finding the correct link. When you’re trying to remember something and can’t and sometime later it pops into your head, people often give a variation of ‘if I don’t think about it, it’ll come to me’ or ‘It always comes to me when I’m not thinking about it.’

The First Doctor

Doctor Who

That’s not quite true. You may think you’re no longer thinking about the ‘thing’ that’s eluding you, but your brain is. It’s rather like using ‘search’ on a computer. The computer may be running another program but it’s also looking for what you set it off to look for. The brain does the same thing and works on the problem long after you’ve moved onto other things.

When I recall some of my earliest memories it’s just the same. Some things the brain is successful in recalling the link and the memory pops up, or brings back a snippet. Sometimes you need the help of someone you shared the experiences with.

When I think back to my early childhood, say around 6 years old (1963) it’s snippets the old noggin has in it. Like most people, I can’t run the memories like a film, scene by scene and in order.

One of first friends around then was Mr Velocipede, who hadn’t long moved in. He and his family were from the North and therefore, as far as I was concerned, had funny accents, especially his mother and father.

They owned a car, a Mini, no more than five years old (the first being produced about five years before in 1959). I’d never seen a Mini before. There weren’t that many who owned cars in the Street in those days.

Mr Velocipede Junior and I became great friends shortly after his arrival. When I think back it seemed like he was around a long time, but it was only a matter of four years, unfortunately.

We shared a love of fantasy programs. By this time, Doctor Who started on 23rd November 1963, and repeated again on the 30th due to black outs and the hot topic the week before which was the assassination of President John F Kennedy. (Aren’t everybody of mine and my parent’s generation supposed to know what they were doing when he was killed ) and was essential viewing to the young Fitrambler and Velocipede. It shows how little has changed because I must confess it’s still essential viewing for me now.

My back garden was the interior of the Tardis and the gate leading into the road was the latest planet, which we pretended not to notice was exactly like the last planet we visited. The TV Series suffered the same dilemma in later years, having to pretend the same quarry was a different planet.

Prior to Doctor Who, it was Fireball XL5 we invented our own stories for. I was Steve Zodiac. Funnily enough being the eldest and tallest allowed me to have all the hero roles!

Steve and Venus

Fireball XL5

Over the years other shows came on television and we played them. After Doctor Who it was Stingray (1964/5), then Thunderbirds (1965). Nearly all these shows had their own strip in our favourite comics.

We rushed indoors when the program was on. Needless to say Mr Velocipede and myself played our own versions of the games. I remember having all the Thunderbird models over the years. Thunderbird 5 was remote controlled, it circled round and the lights flashed. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to play with it much because my sister found it too scary.

If we couldn’t get the models then Mr Velocipede and myself would still find ways around it to play our games. Plasticine was always good for games, you could mould it to suit whatever you were playing.

I remember shaping it into a Steve Zodiac ray gun. Or sometimes making it into a space ship. Neither Mr Velocipede or myself ever let not having the appropriate toy stop us having fun. This was because we had something far superior to any toy or gadget available then or now…

Imagination.

If it didn’t exist in reality, then we’d let our minds create it.

Of course, when Mr Velocipede came to town, we both used our most entertaining gadgets. Our bikes. Three wheelers, with a tin boot where we would store all sorts of things. Space rocks (broken bricks or flint found lying around), toys and anything other junk that took our fancy.

We stuck to a small area, although as young children it didn’t seem that small. Going outside the area, right outside, beyond the park at the bottom of Ripon Way was a really scary adventure. It wasn’t something you did lightly.

At the bottom of the back streets, across another large road, was a field. There were two entrances. One was between a block of flats and the back of some gardens. The other was an alleyway. It was often a dangerous place to be.

There was one time that we got into a stone throwing fight with another group. I don’t remember who won or whether there were any winners. I believe we got away without much harm coming to us.

Getting to school in those days was on foot. Mr Velocipede and I often walked together. For me my four years or so at school was a dangerous place. Unfortunately, Mr Velocipede’s father increased that danger, not intentionally, but he still increased it.

It was bonfire night the problem started. Mr Velocipede Senior and Mr Fitrambler Senior held a joint fireworks display. I remember lighting one which went straight up Daddy Fitrambler’s jumper and out the other end while he was bending down. Lucky it was a baggy jumper and he wasn’t hurt. Unsurprisingly, I was told off for that. Can’t be the most pleasant of experiences, a firework whizzing through your Aaron jumper; probably unsettled Daddy Fitrambler.

A little later in the evening two kids a couple of years older than Mr Velocipede Junior and myself came up to our end of the street. They messed about with fireworks in an even more dangerous way than me, setting off one aimed at us in the garden.

Mr Velocipede Senior wasn’t happy. He dashed out at the kid, grabbed a handful of his jacket and pointed out rather vigorously what would happen if it aimed one again at the Fitrambler household. Today, a rights-knowing kid, would’ve got Mr Velocipede a night or two in the cells.

There was some fall out. The kid in question wanted revenge. So catching me alone, he and his brother decided to make life unpleasant for me. They pushed, shoved and hit me around at every opportunity on the walks to work. This went on for a very long time. I suppose I should have told them it wasn’t my father that did the deed but Mr Velocipede’s, but I couldn’t. I’ve always had this sense of loyalty – despite my ongoing subscription to the Cowards Society.

It was a good four years and I have fantastic memories of them. I never really got the same sort of closeness of others who moved into No 1 Ripon Way. Even another family of four brothers who lived at No 11, I never managed to form ties as close as I did to Mr Velocipede. It was a merging of similar child minds…

TV 21 Vital 6 year old's reading,

Newspaper for boys

Then Velocipede family moved away. I was just about old enough to understand that they were going to live miles and miles away in a house of their own, rather than a rented council place.

Distances seemed longer in those days and although there were one or two times in my teenage years I managed to cycle to his house, the gaps between seeing each other grew wider. In fact it was usually accidental if we saw each other in our teenage and early adult life. Quite often he used the same barber as me, but it was rare it was on the same day…

There are always those friendships that circumstances cause to just fade and become pleasant memories…

….But this was not one of them, some 36 years after Mr Velocipede moving away from Ripon Way, I went to a beer exhibition in the town (2006), held at the Steam railway Museum. While paying for a half I detected someone standing next to me, staring, trying to get my attention…

Mr Velocipede was back in town….

Mar 4 2010

Last Man Standing

“There’s nobody about these days,” said Uncle Fitrambler as he settled himself on my settee.

It was a Sunday morning, the weather pretty good considering what has been dished out since Christmas. I was thinking of a good walk or cycle ride after lunch while the weather was behaving.

Uncle Fitrambler usually arrives on Sunday mornings, it’s often part of his routine for the day, once he’s helped his wife with the shopping. I think it’s because it’s the one time in the week he’s a good chance of catching me in.

“No, there’s nobody about these days…” Uncle Fitrambler repeated.

I agree. He’s actually right, because as far as he’s concerned, there isn’t anyone about.

Perhaps I’d better explain. Uncle Fitrambler is 84. He lives in a nearby street to me, no more than a five minute walk; or probably ten for him these days. He’s my father’s – that’s Daddy Fitrambler – brother.

It will come as no surprise that I’ve known Uncle Fitrambler since I was born. He, my Gran and Gramp, Mum and Dad, lived together in a house in Park South for about five years. Uncle Fitrambler and I got on quite well, more so than most of my uncles. He’s always liked to keep in touch. Like me, he’s always quite enjoyed a good walk.

When he talks of nobody being about, which he’s done for many years now, I feel more in tune with him and have begun to form an empathy with that phrase; one he’s so often used in the last ten years or more.

You see, Uncle Fitrambler has outlived all his friends and most of his brothers and sisters. It’s a side-effect of survival. It’s something most of us don’t think about most of the time, but obviously the longer you live the more it happens. (Ten green bottles, anyone?)

The reason I feel more in tune with this phrase nowadays is because several friends of mine have died in recent years, most of which have been younger than me. I’m only in my fifties, two didn’t quite get that far, a third at least was approaching 80; which was something of a fuller life.
Life goes on, we are told, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept the deaths of those you are close to.

It makes you think of the ones who are left and you can’t help but wonder how many of them you’ll see off before you yourself are burned or buried?

One such friend was only 47 when he died, another no more than 51. Then there have been nearly half a dozen work colleagues who haven’t been much older than me before entering what could be termed ‘The Undiscovered Country!’

Before I can be accused of entering Gloom-Laden’s territory, I can report that after my latest check up – and not including ‘the cough’, which seemed to turn me into a pub carpet inspector – I seem to be fairly healthy. The cough and weather has slowed me down, but now a change in weather and the cough easing off I’m getting a lot more exercise again. Getting the Fit back into Fitrambler, so to speak, before age gets too firm a hold. Plenty of long walks left in me yet, I hope.

Velocipede remarked once – while I was enjoying a pint of beloved Entire Stout in the Glue Pot – that he didn’t mind the numerical advancement each additional year brought, but disliked the fact it seemed to bring with it failing parts. Being an extremely keen cyclist and collector of bikes, ‘parts failing’ seemed to be a reasonable analogy.

Still, unlike poor Uncle Fitrambler, I get about very easily, with, I might say a bounce in the old stride. These days he shuffles a lot more, looks more drawn in the face, still got a fairly good head of hair, greying but still with a lot of its original colour. But he doesn’t give up. He’s got a bus pass, but walks most places, usually alone, as Auntie Fitrambler is not as keen on Shanks’s Pony as he is.

Uncle Fitrambler isn’t much of a conversationalist really. He never has been, and the ground covered in our meetings is more or less the same.

You see, he likes to check to see if I’m alright, even though, really, it should be the other way around.

Within ten minutes Uncle Fitrambler and I have finished our somewhat ritualistic chat and he’s ready to shuffle off again. I’ve offered him a cup of tea, but he always refuses. Well, once he accepted but never since. Perhaps that’s a subtle critique of my tea.

“There’s nobody about, not like there use to be. All gone…” he tells me one final time as he walks to the front door.

I sympathise again and think, I’m around; and I’m thirty-two years younger than you, so hopefully, there’ll still be somebody about for a long time when you venture out…

Feb 10 2010

It Wasn’t The Drink, Honest!

 

Wednesday evening usually starts around 8pm where Neatentidy (a best friend of many years standing; known for his immaculate ways) gets a taxi to my house and from there we go to the first pub. Quite often the first hour is only us but after that we are joined by Pointyview (who has rather strong views on many a subject) and Movinon (who seems to always want to move on after each pint.).

We began at the Railway, Old Town, Swindon. From one of a selection of six beers we chose “Proper Job”. Forgot to check the brewery, though.

We talk a little on the new design of this very Blog – which from Neatentidy’s comments led me to believe I’ve got two readers. (It’s a start, it’s a start, ok! Little acorns and all that!)

I try to explain why I was doing it but sometimes explaining things can make them seem even more pointless than before you explained them…if you see what I mean?

In the end I settle for the fact I’ve got a lot of words trying burst out of my head and they needed to go somewhere, lots were siphoned off to the six books I’m at various stages with. The Blog seemed an appropriate home for the balance.

We moved on after Neatentidy finished his second pint and I my first (I’m not the drinker I once was). We are to meet the other two, Pointaview and Movinon in the Plough.

The Plough is an Arkells pub in Old Town, Swindon. Many years ago I loved Arkells, despite it’s reputation of going through the intestines and stomach rather like a sweep’s brush through a chimney.

I braved a pint in the Plough but not to my taste.

Soon Movinon and then Pointaview joined us and the conversations, as they do, fragmented. From work to cars, cars to beer, beer decorating…

According to type, Movinon, wanted to go elsewhere after the first pint. So we ended up back at the Railway, and Proper Job. Somehow, second time around it didn’t taste as good. In fact after a few sips and knowing I’d be leaving in less than half an hour I intended to bequeath the remains of the beer to Neatentidy; whereby he and Pointaview would go on for another hour.

By this time we’d got onto the subject of Laurel and Hardy. It was the one where Stan has been guarding a post on a island for some years after WWI. He’s found and put into a nursing home to much publicity and Ollie decides to visit. We’d got to the bit where there was a mix up over Stan’s legs and Neatentidy and myself were wheezing over it and the cough began and didn’t seem to want to stop…

After a minute my head felt ready to explode and I was going to try and take a swig of beer to dampen the cough, when….

Well, that’s it, I don’t know. Wednesday seemed to disappear. It was gone, over, home, other things were done, new days began and went, or so it felt…

Then…

For some reason, for a split second, I feel I’m in bed. Quite comforting, really, then it begins to get noisy and I open my eyes. I feel carpet next to my cheek and Neatentidy kneeling over me…

“Are you alright, Fitrambler?” he asks.

“Of course,” I respond, “Why am I on the floor?”

A young woman from the bar brings me a glass of water and asks if I’m alright? I say yes and drink the water gratefully. Although I admit to being a little shaken (not stirred) and surprised I didn’t actually hurt myself. The girl moves away and after a few seconds I wonder if she really belived it was the cough or just thought I was some old fart who couldn’t handle his drink anymore…

Although, I left feeling a little disorientated, I felt I was alright. That turned out to be a false dawn as I found on the way home when my left temple began to throb and by the time I slipped into bed my shoulder was aching like mad!

On the way home Movinon tells me they thought I was just messing about when I fell out of the chair…

Pratfalls in my fifties, I think not. I mean the old body just isn’t up to it these days!

Movinon convinced me I should see the doctor tomorrow. I was also annoyed that I broke my glasses in the fall. I was overdue for an eye-test, but kept putting it off. Now I hadn’t any choice. It was weird seeing most things around me as a blur, after only three pints!

As we said Goodbye, Movinon said ‘I hope you wake up in the morning…’

Hope you wake up in the morning? Hope you wake up…

As if I wasn’t worried enough. I’d passed out, the aches and pains were coming, thoughts about the expense of new glasses…Now he’d planned doubt about whether or not I’d get up in the morning! I mean, what if the bop on the nut was more severe than I thought? What if there was more damage – a nasty concussion? Maybe I was leaking blood already to the brain?

Aahhhhhhh!

All those thoughts went through my brain as I got into bed. I began to wonder if I should drag my copy of “War & Peace” off  and use it to fill in time until morning! No, too much trouble with the names of the characters. It’d been difficult enough getting through “I Claudius”, and “Claudius The God”, with all those Roman names!

Eventually, I turned the lights off – hoping my personal lights wouldn’t be turned off – and tried to get to sleep. It took about an hour but I managed it as tiredness defeated the fears!

Next morning, booked an appointment with the Optician’s for later that day and then got an emergency appointment with the doctor.

He checked me out and sort of agreed with my own diagnosis (obviously an intelligent man) but flowered it with technical terms (smarty pants). Excessive coughing (in layman’s terms) stopped any oxygen getting to the brain and shut something down that caused me to faint! Hmm. Faint? I prefer passing out, less girlie. He’d get me fixed up with an X-Ray, because I’d had the cough for so long; and then sent me away with a prescription for some liquid to ease the old throat.

Getting that at the Pharmacist’s almost led to my first (of two) muggings. The 500ml bottle would cost with the prescription £7.25! If I took the 200ml bottle, and didn’t use the prescription, however, £1.96. It was the proverbial no brainer!

Later at the Optician’s, I was having the eye test. You know how it works, half-blinded with a pencil flashlight, then asked to read things. After the tests, he asked what glasses I was using now.

“None,” says I.

“None,” replies he.

“None,” confirms I.

“With your eyes, you need glasses. I’m surprised you haven’t got any.” It was then I placed the two pieces in his hands. “Ah,” he said.

“Ah,” I replied, because I agreed with him. I quickly explained, however, offers to repair came there none!

He then finished the prescription for the glasses and took me downstairs to choose my frames. It was here that the second mugging came in. The young lady started to tot things up. I was expecting around £150.

“You want photo chromic lenses,” she said, to which I nodded (always did, saved on sunglasses. “Two pairs for the price of one..a pair for reading?” Again I nodded. “So, the optician recommends anti-glare?” I shrug and finally nod. “Anti-scratch?” I hesitate and then nod. “Then there’s the cost of the eye test.” To which I had no input.

Kerching!!!

“£266,” she says.

“£266,” I croak hesitantly. “Seems a lot compared to last time. Over one hundred and two quid more.”

She frowns, looks at the records, a little worried, and then smiles as she’s found the perfect out… “Ah,” she begins, and I lean a little nearer. “Last time the anti-glare was on special offer and the photo chromic lenses were free for a short time.”

The smile told me I should be grateful I didn’t pay that last time and so shouldn’t be so surprised to pay it now. She was a little put out that I wasn’t falling over with gratitude, kissing her hand, singing ‘Praise be,’ to the Company.

“I need to do a fitting for the glasses, so that we have the vari-focal lenses made correctly.”

For some reason I lingered on the word ‘fitting’ and part of my brain amended the phrase to ‘fitted up’ for the glasses to the tune of £266.00. Oh the pain, the pain of it all! It was becoming an expensive bash on the nut!

Finally, “Shall we go up and pay now…?” The ‘we’ therein, gave me false hope. She didn’t actually chip in a penny…

A few minutes after I left I got a text from Movinon. ‘Did you wake up that morning?’ For a second or two I lived with the hope that my visit to SpecSpenders was a nightmare…

Unfortunately, it wasn’t and my wallet was £266.00 lighter!

It’s quite amazing what comes back after an incident. I could compare my hitting the pub carpet to being drunk.

How so? Asks you?

Well, says I, sometimes (ok, all the time) an excessive amount of alcohol blots out a lot of what happened the night you guzzled it back. Often, bits and pieces are put together by the memory, and other bits by friends who may have shared the same volume of alcohol.

The same sort of thing applied to my passing out and hitting the pub floor (scoring high on Richter scale, I might add) where things come over a period of a few days. Like eleven days ago when the laughing and coughing fit starved the nut of oxygen, and then a second or two after grasping my pint, to refresh the throat, I’m out.

Dead to the world. For ten seconds, thereabouts.

I suppose the weird thing is that usually when I slip into unconsciousness it’s because I’m overcome by tiredness. But on those occasions, from falling asleep in the chair (more often these days as I get older) to just being overtired and getting my nut down late at night. However, the thing in coming with these things are that I usually dream, a sort of narrative that might not make sense, but something that is with me the moment I wake up and throughout the day, if I think back.

I have never passed out like I did in the Railway; not even in my high guzzling days with Blameworthy; that great man who introduced me to the delights of Real Ale when I’d all but given up beer.

Anyway, the night I dropped to the floor. Well, then, it was like nothing happened inside my head from the moment I was about to swig at my beer, to the moment Neatentidy was shaking me to see if I was alright. Even then, for milliseconds afterward, information started to come back slowly.
First, I concluded I was at home, in bed, and the Wednesday night was some time ago, even though there was no memory of its conclusion easily assessable. (This was incorrect.) Then, there was the realisation that I was lying on a carpeted floor, not in bed, which seemed to make more sense that Neatentidy was kneeling in front of me. More information trickled through in those milliseconds. The smell of beer, a familiar pub chair and the bloody annoying fact my glasses were in two pieces.

It was then that Neatentidy asked if I was ok and I answered. After that memories came back a lot faster. I was getting up when I saw a man, just below one of the televisions, thick grey-white hair, brushed back, leathered complexion, I guessed about late sixties. I remembered he was reading a paper long before I passed out, on his own, fresh pint in front of him. As I was getting up, that flashed through my mind and now the present, him still reading a newspaper, as though nothing had happened. Unlike others in the Railway, he seemed quite disinterested. What went through my mind was that he probably thought I was some ‘youngster’ who’d drank too much and suffered the embarrassing consequences for it; it was all beneath his interest.

Next thing, Neatentidy is helping me back to my feet. I note that my beer glass is in my hand empty. Fortunately, especially as I was wearing one of my best jackets, it’d spilt all over the floor and not on me. Well, pub carpets can take it; it’s a pub carpet occupational hazard. At least they didn’t have to contend with the cigarettes anymore.

As I was settling back into the chair, concerned comments coming from Movinon and Pointaview, I noticed the young girl from the bar. At first, I thought I might be thrown out for drunken behaviour, which would have been upsetting for Fitrambler, having only drank two pints and never been forcibly ejected from a pub in nearly thirty-seven years. Fortunately, it was concern and a glass of water she brought over.

Of course, since then, a lot of thought has passed through the noggin. Coughing particularly became something worrying rather than just irritating. Hitting the deck was not something I wanted to be a regular feature of my life.

I am happy to report that coughing occasionally makes me a little dizzy, but with the medicine I’m taking it’s become rare.

In my quieter moments, like walking to work, the experience did make me wonder whether it was like (often reported) near death experiences. Somehow I doubt it. But if it was, then…

No white light, no St Peter, white gown with flapping wings and a harp beckoning, just lights out, that’s your lot mate, hope you enjoyed it because you aren’t going to get another go!