In November 1994 I worked in a job in a department, adjacent to a warehouse, which was very much male orientated. At this time, I was very settled at the company but my role, alongside another lad, had become too busy as the organisation's turnover had increased considerably and there was more work than just the 2 of us could cope with. This led to my manager at the time interviewing, and then appointing, a girl of the same age as me to work alongside the other lad and I. We shall refer to her as "Moose".
As stated previously, it was an all male environment but this didn't faze Moose and she quickly settled into the role. She had an effusive, cordial personality and was fully prepared to join in with the lad's banter without taking offence and became a popular and valued member of the workforce. Her work ethic and general approach breathed new life into our department and it became a pleasure to go into work every day. Of course, as in all workplaces, there were some moments of conflict but it was impossible to fall out with Moose.
Approximately 12 months after Moose started, there was a restructure within the company and a new manager was appointed and placed in charge of our department. The dynamics changed considerably and not for the better. I had an immediate "personality clash" with the new manager and Moose and the other lad in the department also clashed with him in the following few months. The old adage of "if it's not broken, don't fix it" did not apply here. For the previous 12 months we had been efficient and hard working. The previous manager had recognised this and rarely interfered in our day to day work, which worked for us and the empowerment we felt motivated us.The new manager had a completely different approach.
In February 1996, Moose told me she wasn't happy working there anymore and was now looking for another job. Within a month of this conversation, she left the company. I was devastated.A couple of months later the other lad in the department also left. I was now left up the proverbial creek without a boat, let alone a paddle. In hindsight, I should also have taken this opportunity to leave the company at this point, however, I now had a mortgage to pay, had worked there 6 years and on a point of principal, didn't feel I should be forced out like my other 2 colleagues. 7 years later I would regret my decision not to leave quietly at the point Moose left as my "career" at this company imploded.
After Moose left we stayed in touch and she became a close friend and confidante for many years. Due to circumstances, I have not seen much of her in recent times but her part in the story of my life is a key one and I still think of her fondly.
Thursday 25 October 2012
Wednesday 24 October 2012
1970s Urban Eco-Warriors
Watching Felicity Kendall on a chat show recently prompted me to recall my family's own version of The Good Life. As readers of a certain vintage will remember, The Good Life was a 1970s sitcom starring Felicity Kendall, amongst others, as one half of a middle class couple in suburbia who grew their own vegetables and kept pigs etc. As a child watching this I never fully appreciated the humour as, although we lived in the inner city, we also had vegetable patches in our back garden and ate our own produce so, as we were confirmed working class, I didn't fully understand the suburban joke.
I was the only one of my 7 siblings to be born in this house (the rest were born either in hospital or in a previous house) so I always had a special attachment to this home. The property also included both front and back gardens and it was in the back garden that my Dad and my Uncles created the vegetable patches complete with our own compost heap. To my knowledge, none of our immediate neighbours had anything like this but, as I grew up with it, it all just seemed perfectly normal to me.
In the patches we grew potatoes; carrots; lettuce; radish; swedes and many other seasonal produce. My siblings and I would help with the digging, sowing seeds etc and really enjoyed it. I only really knew vegetables to taste like they did from our garden and it was only in later life that I realised how much of mass produced supermarket food is bland and tasteless
Every year, in September, we would also go blackberry picking led by my mother. We would fill up baskets of berries to be taken home and frozen, then over the winter months she would make delicious blackberry and apple pies and crumbles. Even typing this now is making my mouth water. In many ways we were very self-sufficient and maybe in modern terms we would have been seen as inner city Eco-warriors.
As I grew older and my interest in playing football increased, my love of our home grown vegetable patches started to wane as I would, along with others, also use the back garden as a football pitch but was told in no uncertain terms to keep my ball out of the vegetable patches. As I was honing my close control ball skills, I used to think to myself "I bet Colin Bell never used to have to keep his ball out of a stupid vegetable patch".
By 1986 my Uncle had passed away, my Dad was no longer as mobile as he used to be and many of my siblings had left home. My interests had since turned to more rapscallion behaviour so the patches became disused. However, the halcyon days of playing the role of urban Eco-warriors remain very special to me and the smell of decomposing compost is still very dear in my heart, so much so that I recently asked the makers of Lynx deodorant sprays if they could bring out a "Rotting Vegetable" range. I am still awaiting a reply so maybe they already produce this under another name.
I was the only one of my 7 siblings to be born in this house (the rest were born either in hospital or in a previous house) so I always had a special attachment to this home. The property also included both front and back gardens and it was in the back garden that my Dad and my Uncles created the vegetable patches complete with our own compost heap. To my knowledge, none of our immediate neighbours had anything like this but, as I grew up with it, it all just seemed perfectly normal to me.
In the patches we grew potatoes; carrots; lettuce; radish; swedes and many other seasonal produce. My siblings and I would help with the digging, sowing seeds etc and really enjoyed it. I only really knew vegetables to taste like they did from our garden and it was only in later life that I realised how much of mass produced supermarket food is bland and tasteless
Every year, in September, we would also go blackberry picking led by my mother. We would fill up baskets of berries to be taken home and frozen, then over the winter months she would make delicious blackberry and apple pies and crumbles. Even typing this now is making my mouth water. In many ways we were very self-sufficient and maybe in modern terms we would have been seen as inner city Eco-warriors.
As I grew older and my interest in playing football increased, my love of our home grown vegetable patches started to wane as I would, along with others, also use the back garden as a football pitch but was told in no uncertain terms to keep my ball out of the vegetable patches. As I was honing my close control ball skills, I used to think to myself "I bet Colin Bell never used to have to keep his ball out of a stupid vegetable patch".
By 1986 my Uncle had passed away, my Dad was no longer as mobile as he used to be and many of my siblings had left home. My interests had since turned to more rapscallion behaviour so the patches became disused. However, the halcyon days of playing the role of urban Eco-warriors remain very special to me and the smell of decomposing compost is still very dear in my heart, so much so that I recently asked the makers of Lynx deodorant sprays if they could bring out a "Rotting Vegetable" range. I am still awaiting a reply so maybe they already produce this under another name.
Thursday 11 October 2012
When I Was Austin Powers
At the start of 2004 I decided to update my computer skills so in late January I attended Tameside College to enrol on a fast track IT course. It was an intensive day and evening course which I completed in around 4 weeks and received my certificates in early March 2004. After some recent unhappy experiences, I decided to avoid Job Centre Plus advertised work so I signed on at 3 or 4 new employment agencies instead. Armed with my new certification, I was confident that more varied job opportunities would open up for me.
Within days of signing up to these agencies I had received several offers of interviews and temp work. One of the better paid roles was working for a wooden pallet distributor in Greater Manchester through an agency I had not used before. I was invited to a pre-interview assessment at the pallet place to test the level of my computer literacy, as well as other tests. I went along to it in the first week of March and, aided by the knowledge gained on my recent course, I received a pass mark for all the tests (which lasted around an hour). A couple of days later I was invited for an interview to reach the next level. I queried the exact nature of the job with the agency as I thought all this testing was a bit excessive so far. They said it was basically a data entry job(?!). I went along to the interview and was seen by 2 managers. It was one of the most intense interviews I have ever had. I got through it but was confused as to why this vetting process was so extensive for entering details of wooden pallets on a database!
A day or 2 later the agency rang to say I had passed the interview and they now wanted to see me for a final interview with a view to arranging a start date. My inner voice said, "Am I trying to work for a bloody pallet company or are they some sort of cover for a network of international spies?!". I went along for the 2nd interview considering whether to dress as Austin Powers "International Man of Mystery", but decided to just put on a suit again (Armani, you know how it is for us power dressers). This time I was interviewed by 2 different managers. My inner voice spoke again when they sat me down, "Oh for the love of God, you distribute pallets, what are you, a top secret organisation bent on world domination, or do you want me to find the world's weapons of mass destruction or a cure for the common cold or something?!" I somehow managed to get through this stage as well and was given a quick tour of the building. All I could see were grim faced office workers and, further afield in a warehouse area, more pallets than I had ever seen in one place before. I was told the agency would be in touch with a start date. I returned home rather apprehensive about this role but decided to give it a go anyway.
The agency rang me to say it would be initially a 3 month trial period with a view to becoming permanent and, much to my chagrin, gave me a start date of 17th March. My heart sank. "Do they not realise that is St Patrick's Day?! Don't they think I have better things to do on this day (getting uproariously drunk etc) than sit in a depressing office chatting about wooden pallets!", my ever-present inner voice ranted. Reluctantly, I agreed and decided St Patrick would have to cope without me this year.
The first day was intensive training on their database (now there's a surprise!). A young dark haired girl started on the same day as me. She seemed an interesting person. She was a drummer in a 3 piece rock band who were just starting out and were playing pub gigs etc. She had no car so I offered her a lift into town on my way home. She accepted the lift. It had been mostly a boring, but also difficult, day. As I dropped her off, I had to crawl through crowds of St Patrick's Day revelers, all inebriated at 5.30pm. I was so green with envy, my face matched the colours of the outfits. This did not improve my mood.
After 3 days, I realised that they were using the most over complicated, non user-friendly database ever created. This seemed to reflect the culture of this company. The reality was they were distributing pallets, that's all. They must have created this database after watching too many James Bond films. I continued to chat to the dark haired girl. She brought in a CD of her band (it looked genuine, her face was on the cover. I listened to it later and they were quite good) but the rest of my new colleagues all appeared to be post-graduates. I was post-Iceland Frozen Foods! The managers had dressed it up in the interviews to be a fun place to work but in reality, for me, it was as much fun as scraping dog crap off recently purchased expensive shoes. When lunching with them I tried to talk about various other subjects, which mostly brought blank stares, then the chat would return to wooden pallets again. Soul destroyed and spirit crushed doesn't even begin to describe how I felt.
After just one week, I decided I didn't want any future at this place so I left the building with drummer girl to give her what would prove to be the final lift into town. During the journey, she was telling me about a previous assignment she had been on where a colleague had seemed to be doing OK then just didn't turn up the next day and she described this as "so lame". I didn't tell her that this was precisely what I intended to do! I phoned the agency the next day and explained my position. I never used this agency again. Within 7 days I was working for a different employer via a different (very good) agency.
Within days of signing up to these agencies I had received several offers of interviews and temp work. One of the better paid roles was working for a wooden pallet distributor in Greater Manchester through an agency I had not used before. I was invited to a pre-interview assessment at the pallet place to test the level of my computer literacy, as well as other tests. I went along to it in the first week of March and, aided by the knowledge gained on my recent course, I received a pass mark for all the tests (which lasted around an hour). A couple of days later I was invited for an interview to reach the next level. I queried the exact nature of the job with the agency as I thought all this testing was a bit excessive so far. They said it was basically a data entry job(?!). I went along to the interview and was seen by 2 managers. It was one of the most intense interviews I have ever had. I got through it but was confused as to why this vetting process was so extensive for entering details of wooden pallets on a database!
A day or 2 later the agency rang to say I had passed the interview and they now wanted to see me for a final interview with a view to arranging a start date. My inner voice said, "Am I trying to work for a bloody pallet company or are they some sort of cover for a network of international spies?!". I went along for the 2nd interview considering whether to dress as Austin Powers "International Man of Mystery", but decided to just put on a suit again (Armani, you know how it is for us power dressers). This time I was interviewed by 2 different managers. My inner voice spoke again when they sat me down, "Oh for the love of God, you distribute pallets, what are you, a top secret organisation bent on world domination, or do you want me to find the world's weapons of mass destruction or a cure for the common cold or something?!" I somehow managed to get through this stage as well and was given a quick tour of the building. All I could see were grim faced office workers and, further afield in a warehouse area, more pallets than I had ever seen in one place before. I was told the agency would be in touch with a start date. I returned home rather apprehensive about this role but decided to give it a go anyway.
The agency rang me to say it would be initially a 3 month trial period with a view to becoming permanent and, much to my chagrin, gave me a start date of 17th March. My heart sank. "Do they not realise that is St Patrick's Day?! Don't they think I have better things to do on this day (getting uproariously drunk etc) than sit in a depressing office chatting about wooden pallets!", my ever-present inner voice ranted. Reluctantly, I agreed and decided St Patrick would have to cope without me this year.
The first day was intensive training on their database (now there's a surprise!). A young dark haired girl started on the same day as me. She seemed an interesting person. She was a drummer in a 3 piece rock band who were just starting out and were playing pub gigs etc. She had no car so I offered her a lift into town on my way home. She accepted the lift. It had been mostly a boring, but also difficult, day. As I dropped her off, I had to crawl through crowds of St Patrick's Day revelers, all inebriated at 5.30pm. I was so green with envy, my face matched the colours of the outfits. This did not improve my mood.
After 3 days, I realised that they were using the most over complicated, non user-friendly database ever created. This seemed to reflect the culture of this company. The reality was they were distributing pallets, that's all. They must have created this database after watching too many James Bond films. I continued to chat to the dark haired girl. She brought in a CD of her band (it looked genuine, her face was on the cover. I listened to it later and they were quite good) but the rest of my new colleagues all appeared to be post-graduates. I was post-Iceland Frozen Foods! The managers had dressed it up in the interviews to be a fun place to work but in reality, for me, it was as much fun as scraping dog crap off recently purchased expensive shoes. When lunching with them I tried to talk about various other subjects, which mostly brought blank stares, then the chat would return to wooden pallets again. Soul destroyed and spirit crushed doesn't even begin to describe how I felt.
After just one week, I decided I didn't want any future at this place so I left the building with drummer girl to give her what would prove to be the final lift into town. During the journey, she was telling me about a previous assignment she had been on where a colleague had seemed to be doing OK then just didn't turn up the next day and she described this as "so lame". I didn't tell her that this was precisely what I intended to do! I phoned the agency the next day and explained my position. I never used this agency again. Within 7 days I was working for a different employer via a different (very good) agency.
Wednesday 10 October 2012
Naked Model Rescue
In mid November 2005, an agency I had been using for some time, assigned me to work for a local government adult education scheme in a converted mill in north Manchester. It was basically a data entry job
On the first morning of the assignment, I was met by mt new manager and led into a quiet room adjacent to the open plan office where I would be working. He explained fully what he wanted me to do with some kind words of encouragement. As he was talking to me I couldn't help but notice that he was the spitting image of Gerry Adams so we'll refer to him as "Gerry"
The work itself was non challenging and after about 2 weeks it was already becoming tedious. However, Gerry did his level best to freshen the work up and his sense of humour was desert dry. When everyone in the office was leaving on a Friday afternoons, and they all uttered the usual insincere "have a good weekend" stuff, Gerry would reply "ah well, soon be Monday though" or "less than 72 hours and we're all here again" and other such remarks. He always said it with a smile, nod and a wink. Some people weren't amused but I loved it and never tired of his dry wit. He was a manager who never took himself or life generally too seriously (take note managers). He got things done in his own way and never pretended the work we were doing was any more than it was. The tasks were boring but someone had to do it and he always made it known how appreciative he was for our efforts. My other colleagues in the office were an eclectic bunch and I didn't mix well with a few of them but Gerry's superb man management skills soon smoothed things over.
Within the mill there were several adult education classes being conducted at any one time. Across the corridor from the office where I was based was the life drawing class. One warm afternoon a female model from one of these classes fainted whilst naked. The first we knew of this was when the tutor from the class burst into our office looking for a first aider. As fate would have it Gerry was the nearest one so he sprung into action. The tutor had made it clear it was the life drawing class. As Gerry exited the room he stopped suddenly, turned to us and said "I may be some time". When he came back in, his face was beetroot in colour but he had managed to revive the hapless model with her dignity just about still intact. It must have been rather unsettling though to have a Gerry Adams lookalike stood over you administering first aid just after you'd fainted in your birthday suit!
When I made the decision to leave this assignment, Rob accepted it with grace. He organised a leaving drink and gifts and gave me a glowing open reference and said I could give his details anytime for future reference requests. He was a fantastic manager who always got the best out of his staff without upsetting anyone. Above all he was respectful and respected.
On the first morning of the assignment, I was met by mt new manager and led into a quiet room adjacent to the open plan office where I would be working. He explained fully what he wanted me to do with some kind words of encouragement. As he was talking to me I couldn't help but notice that he was the spitting image of Gerry Adams so we'll refer to him as "Gerry"
The work itself was non challenging and after about 2 weeks it was already becoming tedious. However, Gerry did his level best to freshen the work up and his sense of humour was desert dry. When everyone in the office was leaving on a Friday afternoons, and they all uttered the usual insincere "have a good weekend" stuff, Gerry would reply "ah well, soon be Monday though" or "less than 72 hours and we're all here again" and other such remarks. He always said it with a smile, nod and a wink. Some people weren't amused but I loved it and never tired of his dry wit. He was a manager who never took himself or life generally too seriously (take note managers). He got things done in his own way and never pretended the work we were doing was any more than it was. The tasks were boring but someone had to do it and he always made it known how appreciative he was for our efforts. My other colleagues in the office were an eclectic bunch and I didn't mix well with a few of them but Gerry's superb man management skills soon smoothed things over.
Within the mill there were several adult education classes being conducted at any one time. Across the corridor from the office where I was based was the life drawing class. One warm afternoon a female model from one of these classes fainted whilst naked. The first we knew of this was when the tutor from the class burst into our office looking for a first aider. As fate would have it Gerry was the nearest one so he sprung into action. The tutor had made it clear it was the life drawing class. As Gerry exited the room he stopped suddenly, turned to us and said "I may be some time". When he came back in, his face was beetroot in colour but he had managed to revive the hapless model with her dignity just about still intact. It must have been rather unsettling though to have a Gerry Adams lookalike stood over you administering first aid just after you'd fainted in your birthday suit!
When I made the decision to leave this assignment, Rob accepted it with grace. He organised a leaving drink and gifts and gave me a glowing open reference and said I could give his details anytime for future reference requests. He was a fantastic manager who always got the best out of his staff without upsetting anyone. Above all he was respectful and respected.
Monday 8 October 2012
Boston - American Dream Fulfilled
To date I have visited the United States of America just once. This occurred as a 40th birthday gift. When I was asked in the year prior to the trip what I would like to do for my 40th, my dream was to visit the USA. I had never had the finances prior to this to fulfill my dream and ever since I was a small boy (now I'm a small man) I had wanted to visit the US. I thought it would never happen until Connie initiated the idea which then came to fruition.
I wanted my destination to be a city where I could experience true Americana. I have never had any inclination to visit the usual tourist destinations of Florida; New York; Las Vegas etc. My city of choice was Boston, Massachusetts. I already knew this to be an American city with one of the longest histories, of which I was already interested in, and a perfect location for a 5 day break.
In late February of that particular year we embarked on the trip. There were no direct flights to Boston from Manchester so we chose to fly with American Airlines from Manchester via Chicago. The flight to Chicago was 9 hours with a quick turnaround for the Boston flight. We saw nothing of the city of Chicago (only from the air) but did experience the enormity of O'Hare airport. The internal flight to Boston was around 2 hours and we landed in a freezing, snow covered landscape in Boston in the early evening local time. It was dark, so the taxi ride to the hotel in downtown Boston didn't reveal much but my excitement was palpable. We checked in to the Lenox Hotel then retired for the night as we were shattered from the journey.
I will pick out a few highlights from the trip that may be of interest. On the first morning I awoke to sparkling sunshine streaming through the hotel room windows. I looked outside and saw the clearest, bluest sky I had ever seen. I couldn't wait to get started exploring the city so we were soon out on the sidewalk looking up at the skyscrapers. The sights before me literally took my breath away. I was so excited I couldn't speak! For me it was all very well seeing these types of buildings on TV but the sheer enormity and scale of the surroundings impressed me beyond my comprehension.
It was freezing cold and the sidewalks were snow and ice covered but this just seemed to add to the experience. On this first day we had our breakfast in Dunkin' Donuts and made our way to see Cheers bar (from the TV show). I had been told that Boston was one of the most "walkable" cities in the US and this is what made it all the more attractive to me. Once I had calmed down a bit we walked to Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. We had lunch in a bar adjacent to the stadium and I had my first taste of Boston beer (Samuel Adams). I chatted to the friendly barman who gave us further tips on places to visit. We went on a guided tour of the stadium. It was off season so the pitch was covered in snow. I am no particular fan of baseball but one didn't need to be, as the guide was informative and entertaining making the tour fantastically enjoyable. I loved his Bostonian accent.
Later that day, we visited the bars of Boston which were lively and a mixture of young and not so young. The most pleasing aspect of all this so far was how "non-touristy" it was. The bars were mainly populated by local Bostonians, with the occasional Irish voice, so I was indeed now getting my wish of experiencing authentic East coast America.
Over the course of the next few days we went aboard the ship "Old Iron sides", visited Boston Aquarium, browsed the independent shops, had a wonderful lunch in Cheers Bar and generally took in as much as we could in 5 days of all Boston has to offer. We only had to take the "T" (underground train) once when we visited the outskirts of the city, the rest of the time we walked everywhere. I believe this is always the best way to experience anywhere you visit.
Possibly, the reason why this trip was so special for me was that, as a child, I had never been outside the UK or Ireland but had dreamt of doing so. I had visited Europe many times as an adult but nothing came close to standing on American soil for the first time aged 40. It was a truly unique experience and during my time there (apart from when getting inebriated in the bars) it made me feel like a child again. Unconditionally happy which no words can fully express.
If you want an authentic slice of Americana, head for Boston, Massachusetts !
I wanted my destination to be a city where I could experience true Americana. I have never had any inclination to visit the usual tourist destinations of Florida; New York; Las Vegas etc. My city of choice was Boston, Massachusetts. I already knew this to be an American city with one of the longest histories, of which I was already interested in, and a perfect location for a 5 day break.
In late February of that particular year we embarked on the trip. There were no direct flights to Boston from Manchester so we chose to fly with American Airlines from Manchester via Chicago. The flight to Chicago was 9 hours with a quick turnaround for the Boston flight. We saw nothing of the city of Chicago (only from the air) but did experience the enormity of O'Hare airport. The internal flight to Boston was around 2 hours and we landed in a freezing, snow covered landscape in Boston in the early evening local time. It was dark, so the taxi ride to the hotel in downtown Boston didn't reveal much but my excitement was palpable. We checked in to the Lenox Hotel then retired for the night as we were shattered from the journey.
I will pick out a few highlights from the trip that may be of interest. On the first morning I awoke to sparkling sunshine streaming through the hotel room windows. I looked outside and saw the clearest, bluest sky I had ever seen. I couldn't wait to get started exploring the city so we were soon out on the sidewalk looking up at the skyscrapers. The sights before me literally took my breath away. I was so excited I couldn't speak! For me it was all very well seeing these types of buildings on TV but the sheer enormity and scale of the surroundings impressed me beyond my comprehension.
It was freezing cold and the sidewalks were snow and ice covered but this just seemed to add to the experience. On this first day we had our breakfast in Dunkin' Donuts and made our way to see Cheers bar (from the TV show). I had been told that Boston was one of the most "walkable" cities in the US and this is what made it all the more attractive to me. Once I had calmed down a bit we walked to Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox. We had lunch in a bar adjacent to the stadium and I had my first taste of Boston beer (Samuel Adams). I chatted to the friendly barman who gave us further tips on places to visit. We went on a guided tour of the stadium. It was off season so the pitch was covered in snow. I am no particular fan of baseball but one didn't need to be, as the guide was informative and entertaining making the tour fantastically enjoyable. I loved his Bostonian accent.
Later that day, we visited the bars of Boston which were lively and a mixture of young and not so young. The most pleasing aspect of all this so far was how "non-touristy" it was. The bars were mainly populated by local Bostonians, with the occasional Irish voice, so I was indeed now getting my wish of experiencing authentic East coast America.
Over the course of the next few days we went aboard the ship "Old Iron sides", visited Boston Aquarium, browsed the independent shops, had a wonderful lunch in Cheers Bar and generally took in as much as we could in 5 days of all Boston has to offer. We only had to take the "T" (underground train) once when we visited the outskirts of the city, the rest of the time we walked everywhere. I believe this is always the best way to experience anywhere you visit.
Possibly, the reason why this trip was so special for me was that, as a child, I had never been outside the UK or Ireland but had dreamt of doing so. I had visited Europe many times as an adult but nothing came close to standing on American soil for the first time aged 40. It was a truly unique experience and during my time there (apart from when getting inebriated in the bars) it made me feel like a child again. Unconditionally happy which no words can fully express.
If you want an authentic slice of Americana, head for Boston, Massachusetts !
Friday 5 October 2012
Pickpocketed in Paris
When Connie was 30 I booked a surprise 4 day break for us in Paris. I revealed the surprise a week before her birthday and once she had calmed down we prepared for the trip.
We landed in Paris on Good Friday of that year on a cold, brilliantly sunny morning. We checked into our hotel and, despite no one claiming to have even a grasp of English at the hotel, we quickly set about seeing all Paris has to offer. Over the course of the first 3 days we travelled all around the city via the underground. It was chaotically busy but we took in all the world famous landmarks, enjoyed some wonderful meals and generally had a thoroughly splendid time.
On the final day we had an evening flight home so decided to have one last half day of sightseeing. We took the underground train to visit the Sacre Coeur de Monmartre which is a world famous Roman Catholic church. We spent a few hours there and were suitably impressed. We made our way back to the same underground station we arrived at for the journey back to the hotel. It was even more chaotic than usual at the station and Connie and I struggled to stay together in the thronging crowds.
We both purchased our tickets and made our way to the turnstile barriers. Connie went through first and just as I followed a man stood in front of me and pointed at my trainers. I looked down then within a second he was gone back into the crowds. I was puzzled by this and from the other side of the barrier Connie had seen him block my path then disappear. She immediately shouted "check your pockets!". I put my hand into my right hand side pocket where my wallet was. Much to my horror, it was gone.
Connie bolted back over the barrier and we both ran through the vast mass of humanity, but it was hopeless and a lost cause. The thief had disappeared. We approached one underground worker after another to ask the whereabouts of the nearest police station and again made no headway due the language barrier. Eventually, we headed back outside onto the street and found a policeman. We just about made ourselves understood and tried to follow his directions given to us entirely in French. After an hour of fruitlessly searching we found a police station. We headed to the front desk and explained what had happened in English. The officer didn't understand us and, with sign language, pointed for us to go through a door and into another room.
We sat down in this room with around a dozen other people but didn't know exactly what we were waiting for. We asked if anyone in the room spoke English and no one replied. We now became frantic. My wallet had been stolen with the loss of some cash and all my bank cards, and our flight time was getting closer. Eventually we were called into another room and told to sit down in a booth with a policeman. He asked "parlez vous Francais?". I replied "non". He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. He asked one of his colleagues to take over. This second policeman seemed to know a few English words and a few basic phrases but his attempts to take a statement from us were proving virtually impossible. My frustration was now boiling over as I knew that, without a police report, an insurance claim would be extremely difficult.
Just as we were about to cut our losses and head back to the hotel, we had a huge slice of good luck. In the booth next to us was a woman also reporting a crime. She had been speaking in French and we hadn't really been paying any attention to her. Suddenly, she popped her head around the booth and said "Do you need some help here guys?". She spoke in what I thought was an American accent, however, it turned out she was a French speaking Canadian and was fluent in French and English. I could have kissed her (this wouldn't have looked good in front of Connie!) as she interpreted the whole story about our misfortune to the policeman who was able to take a full report of what had happened to me.
As we left and thanked the woman for, hopefully, saving us from the loss of a lot of money, she explained why she was there and what had happened to her. At almost exactly the same time as us and at the same station a man had pretended to accidentally drop a lit cigarette onto her leg. She had a closed rucksack on her back but as she was distracted by the first man, a second man had opened her rucksack and grabbed what he could before both vanished. She explained the pickpockets usually worked in pairs so earlier while I was distracted by the man pointing at my trainers, his accomplice was stealing my wallet behind me without me feeling a thing. It takes them literally a second to complete the theft. She further explained that if you're unfortunate to be targeted on the French underground, there is very little you can do to prevent the theft. There are hundreds of thefts every day on their underground system.
It put a downer on the end of the trip but we didn't allow it to spoil it completely. I eventually recovered some money through the insurance. Since this day I have become much more jumpy in crowds and have even reacted badly when someone has innocently knocked into me. One reason for this post is to raise awareness of how pickpockets work (in case you didn't already know) and demonstrate just how "professional" they are. It should go without saying, but in busy public areas keep your guard up!
We landed in Paris on Good Friday of that year on a cold, brilliantly sunny morning. We checked into our hotel and, despite no one claiming to have even a grasp of English at the hotel, we quickly set about seeing all Paris has to offer. Over the course of the first 3 days we travelled all around the city via the underground. It was chaotically busy but we took in all the world famous landmarks, enjoyed some wonderful meals and generally had a thoroughly splendid time.
On the final day we had an evening flight home so decided to have one last half day of sightseeing. We took the underground train to visit the Sacre Coeur de Monmartre which is a world famous Roman Catholic church. We spent a few hours there and were suitably impressed. We made our way back to the same underground station we arrived at for the journey back to the hotel. It was even more chaotic than usual at the station and Connie and I struggled to stay together in the thronging crowds.
We both purchased our tickets and made our way to the turnstile barriers. Connie went through first and just as I followed a man stood in front of me and pointed at my trainers. I looked down then within a second he was gone back into the crowds. I was puzzled by this and from the other side of the barrier Connie had seen him block my path then disappear. She immediately shouted "check your pockets!". I put my hand into my right hand side pocket where my wallet was. Much to my horror, it was gone.
Connie bolted back over the barrier and we both ran through the vast mass of humanity, but it was hopeless and a lost cause. The thief had disappeared. We approached one underground worker after another to ask the whereabouts of the nearest police station and again made no headway due the language barrier. Eventually, we headed back outside onto the street and found a policeman. We just about made ourselves understood and tried to follow his directions given to us entirely in French. After an hour of fruitlessly searching we found a police station. We headed to the front desk and explained what had happened in English. The officer didn't understand us and, with sign language, pointed for us to go through a door and into another room.
We sat down in this room with around a dozen other people but didn't know exactly what we were waiting for. We asked if anyone in the room spoke English and no one replied. We now became frantic. My wallet had been stolen with the loss of some cash and all my bank cards, and our flight time was getting closer. Eventually we were called into another room and told to sit down in a booth with a policeman. He asked "parlez vous Francais?". I replied "non". He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. He asked one of his colleagues to take over. This second policeman seemed to know a few English words and a few basic phrases but his attempts to take a statement from us were proving virtually impossible. My frustration was now boiling over as I knew that, without a police report, an insurance claim would be extremely difficult.
Just as we were about to cut our losses and head back to the hotel, we had a huge slice of good luck. In the booth next to us was a woman also reporting a crime. She had been speaking in French and we hadn't really been paying any attention to her. Suddenly, she popped her head around the booth and said "Do you need some help here guys?". She spoke in what I thought was an American accent, however, it turned out she was a French speaking Canadian and was fluent in French and English. I could have kissed her (this wouldn't have looked good in front of Connie!) as she interpreted the whole story about our misfortune to the policeman who was able to take a full report of what had happened to me.
As we left and thanked the woman for, hopefully, saving us from the loss of a lot of money, she explained why she was there and what had happened to her. At almost exactly the same time as us and at the same station a man had pretended to accidentally drop a lit cigarette onto her leg. She had a closed rucksack on her back but as she was distracted by the first man, a second man had opened her rucksack and grabbed what he could before both vanished. She explained the pickpockets usually worked in pairs so earlier while I was distracted by the man pointing at my trainers, his accomplice was stealing my wallet behind me without me feeling a thing. It takes them literally a second to complete the theft. She further explained that if you're unfortunate to be targeted on the French underground, there is very little you can do to prevent the theft. There are hundreds of thefts every day on their underground system.
It put a downer on the end of the trip but we didn't allow it to spoil it completely. I eventually recovered some money through the insurance. Since this day I have become much more jumpy in crowds and have even reacted badly when someone has innocently knocked into me. One reason for this post is to raise awareness of how pickpockets work (in case you didn't already know) and demonstrate just how "professional" they are. It should go without saying, but in busy public areas keep your guard up!
Tuesday 2 October 2012
Bowling Maidens Over
When I was a youngster I enjoyed playing cricket. This included semi organised games with mates in the park as well as informal thrashes on the driveway next to the family home. I was also fond of a game of "French" cricket, with my siblings, which involved one's legs acting as stumps. One had a bat but one had to keeps one's legs perfectly still. One was out when the bowler hit one's legs (is it just me or is everyone else sick of me saying "one" all the time?).
We used a tennis ball when playing French cricket for obvious reasons but when we used the outside electric meter for stumps we sometimes used a "corky" (genuine cricket ball). This resulted in next door's windows (a doctor's surgery) getting smashed on at least one occasion. These family games could be ferocious as there was a real competitive edge to our sibling rivalry as kids.
This gave me a grounding for the game as I developed an effective bowling action. Throughout my teenage years, football was still my first love, both playing and watching, but I also relished an opportunity to play cricket as well when the chance came. This usually manifested itself in playing for work's cricket teams which brings me to the main point of this post.
In late summer 1995 I played for my then work's cricket team against a business rival's team at a shoddy, run down cricket club in south Manchester. It was an evening limited overs game so I cadged a lift with a colleague to the ground on this warm, sunny, late August day. Upon arrival there was just one changing room open for both teams and the facilities were basic to say the least. The ground was also overlooked by some rather menacing looking council owned flats complete with the odd burned out car. This was definitely NOT Lords.
Our opponents won the toss and chose to bat first. I was playing mainly as a bowler as my batting skills were strictly tail end material. I was chosen to open the bowling so was thrown the ball to start the game. I looked at the ball in disbelief. It was in appalling condition as the seam was "raised" and dangerous. I spoke to our captain and expressed my concerns. He dismissed my complaints and said he had seen worse and "this isn't bloody Old Trafford you know".
My first ball was a wide, but after this I got into my rhythm and bowled a tidy over. Despite the condition of the ball, I was pleased with my second over then took my fielding position on the boundary as one of my colleagues bowled the fourth over of the innings (for those not au fait with cricket, another bowler bowls alternate overs at the opposite end of the pitch. Although if you are not au fait with cricket this will probably still mean nothing to you).
During this fourth over the opposing batsman hooked a top edge high into the air and vaguely in my direction. I wasn't wearing a cap so the sun was in my eyes. I made a vain attempt at a catch by throwing myself full length forward but the ball slipped through my fingers and went to ground. I immediately picked myself up and returned the ball to the stumps. Some of my fellow fielders heckled my dropped catch with shouts such as "what the hell was that?!" etc.
As I returned to the boundary I felt a sharp pain from my left hand and, at exactly the same time, one of the onlookers at the boundary edge shouted " Eh mate, your hand doesn't look too good!". As I looked down the little finger on my left hand was sticking out at a crazy angle and blood was pouring from the webbing between my little finger and ring finger. I knew straight away I was in trouble so sat down just beyond the boundary as a couple onlookers came to my assistance. The bloke, who had first shouted to me, ran on the pitch to tell them I had a nasty looking injury. Despite this they never even stopped the game!
As I started to feel faint, one of my helpers ran to the first aid room in the club house. It was locked and there was no one around who had a key. I was immediately bundled into a car and driven to Manchester Royal Infirmary. The next bit is rather hazy but I do remember the driver saying "please try not to bleed on my seats too much".
Upon arrival at A&E I was helped in, and because I was walking (all be it very unsteadily) wounded I wasn't treated as a priority. Within 5 minutes, however, I was given a temporary bandage as I was bleeding all over the floor. For the next hour, I sat in A&E in agony and alone as the driver who had kindly driven me there needed to get back to the ground. This was still pre-mobile phone days so I felt very helpless and indeed very unwell.
Eventually, I was stitched up (with local anesthetic) and told by the doctor there could be some tendon damage. I was sent home with painkillers and antibiotics and told to make an appointment with my GP as physio would most likely be needed once the wound had healed. Just prior to leaving, the captain of our work's team turned up at the hospital to tell me they had lost by 1 run and if I hadn't dropped that catch we would have won. As it turned out we had indeed lost by 1 run and, of course, he was only joking but my sense of humour had long since deserted me.
Over the following weeks, my pain turned to anger as the raised seam on the ball had caused my injury. My other complaint was that the first aid room was locked and, although my wound was relatively minor, a more serious injury could have been made much worse without some basic immediate first aid available. My concerns fell on deaf ears so this along with the injury to my hand, brought a premature end to my cricket playing days. I never bowled another ball again.
We used a tennis ball when playing French cricket for obvious reasons but when we used the outside electric meter for stumps we sometimes used a "corky" (genuine cricket ball). This resulted in next door's windows (a doctor's surgery) getting smashed on at least one occasion. These family games could be ferocious as there was a real competitive edge to our sibling rivalry as kids.
This gave me a grounding for the game as I developed an effective bowling action. Throughout my teenage years, football was still my first love, both playing and watching, but I also relished an opportunity to play cricket as well when the chance came. This usually manifested itself in playing for work's cricket teams which brings me to the main point of this post.
In late summer 1995 I played for my then work's cricket team against a business rival's team at a shoddy, run down cricket club in south Manchester. It was an evening limited overs game so I cadged a lift with a colleague to the ground on this warm, sunny, late August day. Upon arrival there was just one changing room open for both teams and the facilities were basic to say the least. The ground was also overlooked by some rather menacing looking council owned flats complete with the odd burned out car. This was definitely NOT Lords.
Our opponents won the toss and chose to bat first. I was playing mainly as a bowler as my batting skills were strictly tail end material. I was chosen to open the bowling so was thrown the ball to start the game. I looked at the ball in disbelief. It was in appalling condition as the seam was "raised" and dangerous. I spoke to our captain and expressed my concerns. He dismissed my complaints and said he had seen worse and "this isn't bloody Old Trafford you know".
My first ball was a wide, but after this I got into my rhythm and bowled a tidy over. Despite the condition of the ball, I was pleased with my second over then took my fielding position on the boundary as one of my colleagues bowled the fourth over of the innings (for those not au fait with cricket, another bowler bowls alternate overs at the opposite end of the pitch. Although if you are not au fait with cricket this will probably still mean nothing to you).
During this fourth over the opposing batsman hooked a top edge high into the air and vaguely in my direction. I wasn't wearing a cap so the sun was in my eyes. I made a vain attempt at a catch by throwing myself full length forward but the ball slipped through my fingers and went to ground. I immediately picked myself up and returned the ball to the stumps. Some of my fellow fielders heckled my dropped catch with shouts such as "what the hell was that?!" etc.
As I returned to the boundary I felt a sharp pain from my left hand and, at exactly the same time, one of the onlookers at the boundary edge shouted " Eh mate, your hand doesn't look too good!". As I looked down the little finger on my left hand was sticking out at a crazy angle and blood was pouring from the webbing between my little finger and ring finger. I knew straight away I was in trouble so sat down just beyond the boundary as a couple onlookers came to my assistance. The bloke, who had first shouted to me, ran on the pitch to tell them I had a nasty looking injury. Despite this they never even stopped the game!
As I started to feel faint, one of my helpers ran to the first aid room in the club house. It was locked and there was no one around who had a key. I was immediately bundled into a car and driven to Manchester Royal Infirmary. The next bit is rather hazy but I do remember the driver saying "please try not to bleed on my seats too much".
Upon arrival at A&E I was helped in, and because I was walking (all be it very unsteadily) wounded I wasn't treated as a priority. Within 5 minutes, however, I was given a temporary bandage as I was bleeding all over the floor. For the next hour, I sat in A&E in agony and alone as the driver who had kindly driven me there needed to get back to the ground. This was still pre-mobile phone days so I felt very helpless and indeed very unwell.
Eventually, I was stitched up (with local anesthetic) and told by the doctor there could be some tendon damage. I was sent home with painkillers and antibiotics and told to make an appointment with my GP as physio would most likely be needed once the wound had healed. Just prior to leaving, the captain of our work's team turned up at the hospital to tell me they had lost by 1 run and if I hadn't dropped that catch we would have won. As it turned out we had indeed lost by 1 run and, of course, he was only joking but my sense of humour had long since deserted me.
Over the following weeks, my pain turned to anger as the raised seam on the ball had caused my injury. My other complaint was that the first aid room was locked and, although my wound was relatively minor, a more serious injury could have been made much worse without some basic immediate first aid available. My concerns fell on deaf ears so this along with the injury to my hand, brought a premature end to my cricket playing days. I never bowled another ball again.
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