Tag: Business

An Arkansas Razorback in Queen Elizabeth Country 2

Queen of United Kingdom (as well as Canada, Au...
Queen of United Kingdom (as well as Canada, Australia, and other Commonwealth realms) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Way back in the 1980’s when you arrived in the United Kingdom you were given a briefing by the RAF commander who was the base liaison. He was, in fact, the only RAF member attached to the base and a bit of a character. His briefing to the newly arrived ‘yanks’ was funny. Full of little anecdotes and homilies. He was very informative as well.

Part of the spiel he gave had to do with the average age of the houses in the area and the differences in the way that the local police force operated.

The average house age turned out to be about 300 to 400 years old.  We were all suitably impressed as this meant that these houses were older than our home country. The local police were called Bobby‘s if they were on foot and ‘Sir‘ if they were in a patrol car and had pulled you over.

I only met one ‘Bobby’ and in this case Bobby was a she.

I had moved off base and was living in a ‘cold-water flat’ that consisted of one room and not enough space to swing a dead cat in. I shared a communal toilet and shower with about fifteen other people.  A little later I moved from my tiny first floor flat to a much larger ground floor flat that had a communal shower and toilet in a separate room that was shared with only one other occupant. The new flat was also ‘haunted’ but that’s another story.

First floor is English for the American second floor and my ‘new’ first floor flat had curb-side parking that was only legal between the hours of six in the evening to eight the following morning, weekdays and all day for the weekend. I was dating a barmaid who worked in my ‘local.’

A ‘local’ was the term used for a public house aka pub. I loved the pub. It was a great social gathering place and a good way to meet the local folks who lived in the villages close to the bases. My first local was a very rough pub. I had decided to change my local after two rather exciting nights in a row. The first night I had sat at a table and was enjoying a prawn sandwich and a pint of lager when a fight broke out.

It sort of ranged from one side of the central bar area to the other where I was seated.  When the fight moved to my side of the pub, I kept a wary eye on the action while wolfing down my ‘sarnie’ and drinking my pint. When the action got a little too close for comfort, I decided to grab the sandwich in one hand and the pint in the other and move. I had just stood up and taken one step away from the table when the two combatants slammed into the now empty table missing me by a hair.

The second ‘exciting’ night was literally the next day when a drunk made specific threats to the publican and his wife. The publican was a huge chap and he was also an ex-policeman. Lifting the bar top up he lunged through and grabbed the drunken lout by the scruff of the neck. He drug him to the pub entrance and held the trouble maker up with his left hand gripping  his collar. His right hand flung the pub door open and then curled up into a fist which smashed into the back of the drunk’s head. He then physically threw the now semi-concious thug into the busy street.

When one of the other customer’s questioned the publican about the thugs possibly getting struck by a passing vehicle, he looked coldly at the customer and said, “Fuck him.”

Later in the same evening, a girl got glassed in the face. For those of you who are of a more peaceful nature, getting ‘glassed’ is where someone breaks a pint glass or bottle and then shoves the remaining shards into someone’s face. Very bloody and painful it leaves a large scar.

I then decided that my Uncle Sam might not be too impressed with my choice of pub so I moved to the hotel bar that was catty-corner across the street from my current pub. There I met not only local business men and their wives but folks from all over the world. I met people from Australia, Canada, and London. In those days, to me at least, London seemed  exotic enough to class as a world away from where I was living.

As I said, I was dating one of the barmaids who was half American and since she did not get off work till around midnight each night, our dates started late and finished even later. Oversleeping became a bad habit. One that got me in trouble at work and with the local police force.

Because I was oversleeping I was violating the parking laws and got three parking tickets in rapid succession. On the fourth morning, I had leapt out of bed and rushed out to move my car before I could get yet another ticket. The car was an old rust bucket that a friend had practically given me when he left. It was hard to start.

Just as I got the old heap running, someone tapped on my window. I looked up into a set of the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen on a human being. Those beautiful eyes belonged to an equally beautiful face. Unfortunately both eyes and face belonged to a female cop.

She made a window rolling gesture with her hand. I turned the car off and rolled down my window.

“Good morning, sir. May I see your driving license.”

I fumbled for my wallet and passed the license over. She took the license and walked a few steps away from the car and spoke into a radio that had a microphone attached to her shoulder epaulette. After a moment she came back and leaned down to hand back my license and look at me sternly through the window.

“I see that you have gotten a few tickets already.”

“Yes Ma-am.”

“I really should give you another one.”

“Yes Ma-am.”

“Do you think I should give you another one?”

“No Ma-am.”

“If I don’t give you another one, will you keep parking here illegally?”

“No Ma-am.”

“I hope you appreciate that I’m giving you a break here, sir.”

“Yes Ma-am.”

“I don’t ever want to catch you parking here again.”

“No Ma-am.”

“Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes Ma-am.”

“Right then, get this car moved and, sir?”

“Yes Ma-am?”

“Have a nice day.”

“Yes Ma-am, thank you Ma-am, and uh, you too Ma-am.”

As I moved the car I couldn’t help but reflect that I’d just met the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen anywhere and that the full extent of my conversation with her had been, Yes Ma-am, No Ma-am and you too Ma-am. While she was telling me off, I’d felt like a naughty two year old caught with his hand still in the cookie jar.

The worst part of the entire encounter was that I’d never even gotten this stern angels name, not that it would have done me any good. I’m sure the police have a few rules about fraternizing with known law breakers.

police officer and motorcycle
police officer and motorcycle (Photo credit: Metropolitan Police)
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And This is Why We Don’t Rush

I get home from work, my second week of a phased return, and I set down and start writing. I quickly read it, do a few edits and Shazzam it’s posting time.

I change out of my work clothes into something that’s not as hot and uncomfortable, make a coffee and settle down to ‘cruise the net.’ I notice I have a new follower so I pay them a visit and follow back. So far so good.

Then I notice I have a comment on my latest post. I check it for approval and find it is less than flattering. I scratch my head and ponder this not so polite feedback. I decide after a couple of harumps (a combination of a snort and a huh noise) to delete this offending remark.

Then I peruse reddit.com and find a similar remark. Not by the same person. Essentially saying the same thing. I decide to re-read my article (sorry, try as I might, I cannot stop calling my posts that) and really don’t see the problem.

I then call my daughter over to read it and ask for her prognosis.

It’s bad. I was indeed guilty of the offence that I’d been accused of.

Twice.

Three times if you count my family members opinion.

The offence? I’d written a film review that was basically “all shirt and no trousers.”

I’d spent a good seventy percent of the article setting up the basic plot of the film (quite well I might modestly add) but, when it came time to give proof of my claims of the films superiority, I badly let the side down.

I was in such a rush to write the thing and trying to be so careful to not spoil anything for the reader, you know just in case they might want to watch the film, that I left out any evidence of greatness.

I had to hang my head in shame. But not for long, I had to re-write the last half of the piece so I could at least substantiate my claim.

So if you read my post on Inception (2010) Matrix for the new Millenium? Please feel free to have another look.

This time I think I’ve written an article with a shirt and trousers.

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Incredible Growing Purple Foam

In my last blog I mentioned the fact that I was a huge Brains Benton fan. Brains was a rich kid who was incredibly smart. His parents pretty much left him to his own devices. This included having a laboratory that would be the envy of any mad scientist. Brains with his best friend (a juvenile version of Dr Watson to his youthful Sherlock Holmes) would solve mysteries in his local neighbourhood. These mysteries were in fact crimes and the only one I can remember now with any clarity is The Case Of The Counterfeit Coins. There were only six books in the Brains Benton mystery series and I read four of them. These books with their focus on a juvenile with the brain power (and money) sufficient enough for him to scientifically solve crimes faster than the local police force inspired me.

I still remember begging my parents for a science kit for Christmas. In those days, if you were prepared to spend the money, you could get a great science kit. After an entire year of me harping endlessly about this science kit I got one. And it was a doozy. *On a side note – if you have never heard this particular word, doozy equals wildly great* This kit had a real microscope that worked on both batteries and solar power (a mirror system), glass: slides, test tubes, and beakers; a Bunsen burner and loads of chemicals. You also got a scalpel, forceps, an eye dropper, tweezers and an elemental table. Along with all this great stuff, you also were given a bunch of experiments to do. You could, for example, make a tornado in a beaker. *that is the only experiment I can remember from the kit*
Before I was even old enough to take a proper science class in High School I was doing experiments that, in school, I would not be doing until I was a sophmore taking Biology. I remember doing an “autopsy” on a frog. When I cut open the stomach I found six of the biggest beetles I had ever seen. Yet, the stomach, before it had been cut open did not appear to have been big enough to hold half the number I extracted. I was fascinated with anatomy and all chemicals period.
Then I decided to discard all the experiments that were listed in the science kit booklet. I had never been able to get the tornado experiment to work and because of that I started losing faith in it. I was going to make my own creations instead. This was how I made the “Incredible Growing Purple Foam.”
My parents knew that I “played” with my science kit constantly. My bedroom always smelled of the strange chemicals I worked with. No matter how long I left the windows open the smell remained. My folks had no problem with this at all and I was always allowed to do my experiments in my bedroom. That all changed when I concocted the purple foam.
I cannot remember what items I mixed together to make this foam. I can remember my excitement when the beaker began foaming. I can also remember my excitement when the foam changed colour from white to a dark purple. I can also remember when my excitement turned to concern and then panic when the foam started moving out of the beaker and onto my science table.
Luckily I had put my experiment on a place holder from downstairs. The idea being that if I spilt anything it would not ruin the table. Unfortunately my “Incredible Growing Purple Foam” was not content with growing out of just the beaker. This foam just kept growing. It soon outgrew the place holder and started spilling all over the table and onto the floor. And it still kept growing.
I quickly grabbed the place mat with the ever expanding purple foam on it and headed for the stairs. I ran downstairs, through the kitchen and out the pantry door into the back yard. I dumped the whole thing, place holder, beaker and foam in the space between our garage and the storm cellar. The foam kept growing for another couple of hours at least. When it finally stopped growing it made a mound of purple foam that was about one and a half feet high and two feet across. I was ecstatic.
My parents were not.
It took repeated cleaning to get the purple stain out of my bedroom carpet. The table had to be repainted because the purple colour refused to be removed. I was banished to the storm cellar for any future experimentation.  Amazingly my banishment was not because of the mess I had caused. No, my banishment was because I shared my bedroom with my younger brother. Where I was judged to be old enough to play with what was in essence a dangerous toy, my brother was way too young to be exposed to this stuff.
I did not argue about this. I meekly moved all my things into the storm cellar. The consequences of this move was gradual. I began to spend less time being a junior scientist. Not because my interest waned. No I spent less time because I did not particularly like the storm cellar. It was dark (even with the light on and the storm doors open) and it hosted a plethora of spiders. I had an almost phobic distaste and fear of spiders.
I am not in the field of science or medicine. Both of these fields were high on the list of careers that my parents thought I would eventually pursue. Nope, the world lost a creative and devoted junior scientist who could have grown into a scientific genius if not for a fear of spiders.

The Ice Factory

I had a sort of word association moment when I saw this image. I had a flash of memory that had to do with a red wagon, my Mom, a magic slate, and getting a block of ice from the ice factory.

When I was about four years old, we lived in Springdale, Arkansas.  I am not sure, but I think it was on Cedar Street. It was a small bungalow style house with a chain link fence around the back yard and a built in garage. We had a Lassie-type dog who was my best friend in the whole world. I am told that when I had begun to walk, that I would sling an arm over the dogs back and “explore” the neighbourhood. I had that child-like capability to disappear the second my Mom’s back was turned for these jaunts. But I digress.

I remember a hot summer day. We needed a block of ice, I cannot remember why. I get a mental picture of watermelon, but, I think that is a false memory. What I do remember is Mom and me getting my red wagon and taking the long walk to the Springdale ice factory.I do not know why we did not take the green and white Chevy.

I remember us walking down the sidewalks trying to stay in the shade. It was very hot. I pulled the wagon all the way to the factory. I can also see the ice factory. It was right across the street from a “Mom and Pop” store. Mom said we would stop there on the way back from the factory to get something cold to drink.

In those days you could get blocks of ice, or if you wanted to pay a little bit extra, crushed ice. It was generally cheaper to get the blocks and you got a free wooden handled ice pick. It was a lot more frugal to chip your block into pieces than to buy the expensive crushed stuff.

Mom and I took the wagon to the back of the factory where you got your blocks. The nice “ice-man” put a huge block of ice into my wagon and gave my mother two free ice picks. I guess the bigger the block the more picks you got. We then pulled the wagon across the street to the shop and Mom not only got us an ice cold coca-cola a-piece, but she also got me a reward for helping to get the ice.

It was a magic slate. Magic slates were a piece of cardboard about the same size as a sheet of A4 paper. It had a plastic sheet over the front of it. You drew on the sheet with a stylus (a piece of plastic shaped like a small pen). When you had finished your drawing you lifted the sheet and it “erased” your picture. I can still remember my delight at getting this magical toy.

I have written about memory and it’s reluctance to leave our minds. It is amazing that something so trivial as a picture of an ‘old fashioned’ ice cube tray can bring such a strong memory out of hiding.

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Jobs

English: Chris rock at the Madagascar 2 premie...
English: Chris rock at the Madagascar 2 premiere in Israel. עברית: כריס רוק בבכורה של מדגסקר 2 בישראל (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The comic Chris Rock does a brilliantly funny routine about jobs versus careers. Chris says, ” When you’ve got a job there’s too much time. When you have a career you don’t have enough time.” “People who have careers need to learn to shut the f**k up around people who have jobs. Don’t let your career make someone else sad!” I love his whole routine about the differences between the two.

It did make me think though. My whole life has been spent doing jobs. When I was younger  I had an idea of what I wanted to do for a career. But that, unfortunately, never panned out. And I have had jobs that, like Chris says, made me shout, “I HATE THIS JOB…I HATE IT!”

So what differentiates a job from a career? The definition I hear most folks use is this: “I can’t believe how lucky I am to get paid to do this! I’d do it (what-ever it is) for free!” This is always said by someone who has a career. You know who I mean; actors, musicians, writers, etc. I have never heard someone who has a job say this. By job I mean; street sweepers, meat packers, factory workers, et al.

But not everyone has the same idea of what defines a job or a career. I personally think the main difference between the two deals with passion. Most people work jobs that they loathe, just so they have the money to (besides taking care of their basic needs) indulge their passions. At the risk of sounding like a school ma-arm I will go ahead a call these passions hobbies.

Most people have hobbies. Whether they collect stamps, train-spot, or bird watch these folks all share a common feeling. A passion for their hobby. Most of us have to live our lives working jobs that enable us to indulge our passions. A select few have  been lucky enough to get paid to ‘work’ at their hobbies.

So while it is irritating to not have the privilege of getting paid for our passions, we can at least take comfort in knowing that a lot of folks share our fate. And like the old saying goes, “Misery loves company.”

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