Popular Posts

Saturday, October 06, 2007

OPINION: Time to put my money where my mouth is.

My bedside cabinet has enough pills and medicines on it to stock a chemist. My head is aching, my chest is sore, and I have blocked, aching ears. My patience, which isn't great at the best of times is non-existent. Not perhaps the best time to write a letter of complaint [not the first] to our local paper about the closure of a neighbourhood store. But I did and it was published this weekend.

There was a protest meeting this morning which I didn't attend because I couldn't stop coughing, but I have been given the opportunity to join NAG which is a neighbourhood action group.
So my friends it's time to put my money where my mouth is.
The local councillors hate me. The landscaping department heads hate me. And our doctor who owns the piece of derelict land would probably hate me if he knew who I was! It's going to be a rocky ride.

Here is the letter I wrote:

Although shocked at the news Waitrose in Birch Hill is closing down in November because it doesn't offer the kind of shopping environment [sic corporate image]that customers expect from Waitrose, I have to say I'm not surprised. And I don't blame them.

There would be no need for councillors to have their photographs taken while supporting the petition, if they'd been doing the job they are paid and elected to do.

A few months ago I wrote to our three local councillors to complain about the appalling standard of landscaping we have to put up with compared to other areas in the borough, and also the disgusting bus shelter nearest to Waitrose.
Not one of them bothered to acknowledge my complaint, but then I wasn't surprised, it's what I've come to expect.

A few weeks later, a few pathetic posters were stuck in the glass and a quick sweep of the shelter took place, but it's still a disgrace.
The grass received one decent cut and from then on we were back to our normal, substandard mow.
There is a plot of derelict land right by the bus shelter on the main road which is a blot on the landscape as you approach the store, and on top of that Waitrose has had to deal with the nuisance of gangs of kids.

I'm surprised they haven't gone sooner.

Friday, October 05, 2007

Short Story. Wendy Didn't Like.

Under the harsh light of his desk lamp, he could almost feel waves of heat rising from the glossy, double page spread. The contrast of white sand against a turquoise sea hurt his eyes and a hammock slung between two palm trees on the edge of the picture, beckoned. Breathing heavily William turned to the next page, where two long haired females with flimsy thongs hiding in the cracks of deliciously rounded behinds, cavorted in the surf. Try as he might he couldn’t see any bikini top straps or sun tan lines on their gently curving backs and thought once again that a man could really relax on a holiday like that,

He sighed and slapped the well thumbed pages of the travel magazine shut. It was pointless beating himself over the head. Wendy didn't like the heat, Wendy didn't like flying. Wendy didn't like foreign food, Wendy didn't like … there was a lot his wife didn't like.
What she did like year after year was taking their old Volkswagen Caravenette, plus a small tent for housing the chemical toilet on the ferry to Harwich, and travelling around Europe wherever the fancy took her
During the day she enthused over old churches and ruined castles and in the evenings, parked in a lay-by or a convenient thicket, served up instant mash and tinned stewing steak, or corned beef. Bought in bulk from their local Tesco before setting out, she even packed a dozen loaves of sliced bread, although it meant towards the end of their holiday, William was picking clumps of interesting blue mould off the crusts, before dribbling rancid butter onto his breakfast toast.
For two miserable weeks there was a complete absence of fruit and fresh vegetables in their diet, because Wendy said you never knew where it had been, you couldn’t trust foreigners to be as clean as Tesco.
It was odd how she thrived, whereas William inevitably arrived home with such severe heartburn and constipation it took several days of eating nothing but prunes and Rennies, before he began to feel more like himself.

Churches and tinned food would be more bearable if they stayed overnight at interesting little French pensions or cuckoo clock style lodges, but if he slowed down as they neared a particularly appealing bed and breakfast, she'd tap him sharply on the back of the head and direct him to the nearest clump of trees.

And that was why, a few days later, his mouth dropped to his chin when Wendy said,
‘I’ve booked us on an eight day coach tour of Europe. Mrs Sampson from the WI went last year and thoroughly recommends it. She said you get ever such nice people on the coach and everything’s taken care of for you. Of course we’re old hands at France and Germany and Holland’s pretty boring, but Italy and Switzerland will be an adventure and I can’t wait to see Austria…’
William counted off countries on the fingers of one hand and the days of the tour on the other as she prattled on.
‘That’ll be rather a lot of travelling won’t it?’ he appealed. ‘Not much time for sightseeing.’
‘We’ll see far more this way. Don’t be difficult William. It’s settled.’

William shut up although Wendy had forgotten about food. They’d never pack enough tins to last the two of them seven days, let alone a primus stove.
Then he cheered up. There was nothing to stop him eating the hotel’s food and it was only for eight days; he could get away with one change of clothes. That way they could easily pack enough food like ham and cheese that didn’t need hotting up for Wendy. It wouldn’t be blue skies and white sand, but as far as his digestion was concerned it was infinitely better than two weeks eating out of tins.

William groaned and clutched his stomach as Wendy licked melting chocolate from a Jaffa cake.
‘Are you sure you don’t want one? Oh lovely! Here’s the Swiss border.’
But she was talking to thin air as, for the fourth time that morning William lurched desperately towards the toilet at the back of the coach.

‘I bet it was the sauerkraut you ate in Germany,’ Wendy said. ‘I didn’t like the look of it, but you wouldn’t be told. Goodness William, you do smell; people are beginning to notice. You’ll have to wash your things out again at the hotel tonight. They’ll throw you off the bus if you’re not careful, but I warn you now, if they do I shan’t be coming with you. I refuse to let you spoil my holiday.’
‘But they don’t dry out in time and sitting in this coach for fifteen hours a day in damp clothes is giving me a dreadful rash.’
‘Don’t whine. You should have thought of that before you packed. That ham was nice. I’ll have some cheddar now. Oh look! We’re in Italy: isn’t this fun!’

William’s mouth briefly watered at the thought of Jaffa cakes. It didn’t last long though, because after he’d had a nice bath and smothered his itchy bits in talcum powder, he planned to stroll down to the harbour and sitting by the water, sample genuine Italian cooking washed down perhaps with a bottle of Sicilian red
Standing sideways he studied himself in the hotel room’s full length mirror. It was a good job that, when he went to buy some clothes, once he’d waved his credit card in the assistant’s shocked face they’d measured him. Not being able to eat for four days had certainly made a difference to his waistline.
William chuckled as a sharp twinge cut across his stomach, a reminder of last nights hotel where, as a concession to English tourists they offered baked beans on toast on the menu.
Of course three large helpings were a bit much on a totally empty stomach, but he’d been so hungry he hadn’t thought about the consequences --- honestly!