Lulu and Amy Winehouse
Out for my walk with Paddy this morning, it was that time of the morning when pupils are wending their unwilling way to school and, in front of me was a girl of about fourteen, thumbs busily occupied on the ever-present mobile. Presently another girl joined her and the two of them turned and walked up the lane past us. I was struck by a blast from the past. Each girl had backcombed hair and black eyeliner, a cross between Lulu and Amy Winehouse, and they reminded me of when I was twelve or thirteen.
At our school, the girls' toilet block comprised of two sections, one of which had been commandeered by a group of fourteen or fifteen year olds as their bolthole, where they spent hours carefully applying make-up so that it would not be noticed by teachers and backcombing their bleached hair to unbelievable heights. At that time, we were the first year to experience the joys of wearing a velour hat, instead of the beret worn by all the older girls and this group were expert at pinning the beret to the back of the head so that it was invisible from the front, hidden by all the backcombed hair.
Being cheeky second years (Year 8 in new money), we made it our mission in life to enter their territory and annoy them as much as possible, which we did and insults were duly traded, but over a period of time, we got to know these girls and struck up an odd sort of friendship, especially as this was in the days when older pupils definitely had nothing to do with younger one. These were girls who were probably on the borderline between Grammar and Secondary Modern candidates, so not particularly academic, but when we got to know them, they weren't at all as aggressive as they first appeared.
Probably my first lesson in the advisability of not judging people by appearances.
NHS Appointments
Keith had an appointment at the hospital today, Orthopaedics outpatients, to be exact to discuss what can now be done for his ankle that they made such a mess of first time round. (Having finally gained access to his records as part of an insurance claim a few months ago, he learned that his ankle had actually been broken in three places, two of which had not healed when they referred him for physiotherapy, so yes, I consider that making a mess of things.)
His appointment was for 9.55am and we duly arrived at 9.40 and waited. By 10.30 everyone who had come in after him had been called, so I went back to Reception to check that he was actually on the list. Returning to the waiting area, I was just in time to hear a nurse announcing that the clinic for that particular consultant was running an hour late. So we settled down to wait again....
By 12 o'clock, a lady was called who protested that the lady next to her had an earlier appointment than her but was told to go in anyway. Meanwhile, I asked a nurse (nurse, doctor, cleaner - who can tell these days?) who had appeared if Keith was on the list as his appointment was for 9.55. She looked at me (or maybe through me - perhaps I was wearing my invisibility cloak) and didn't answer. A few moments later, she reappeared and I repeated my question.
"I did say the clinic was running two hours late," was her reply.
"No you didn't," I thought but I didn't argue, merely asked her to check if Keith was on the list - again!
A minute later, another man, who had arrived well after us, collared another nurse and asked about his appointment as he had to be in Manchester at 2pm.
Eventually, Keith was told that he was now third in the list. Two people had already been called in (to wait another 20 minutes to actually see the consultant) so we naturally presumed he would be next.
Foolish assumption.
The man who wanted to go to Manchester was told he wasn't going to make it, someone else was called in and Keith was told he would be next.
It was now 12.10. Being called in to the 'inner sanctum,' as Keith knew from previous experience, meant another wait of at least 20 minutes and by now he'd had enough and so had I. He was already very late for a job he had to go to, so he cancelled his appointment and now has another one for November.
"Do you prefer an early one?" the receptionist enquired.
"Yes, as long as I am actually going to be seen," he replied.
His appointment was for 9.55am and we duly arrived at 9.40 and waited. By 10.30 everyone who had come in after him had been called, so I went back to Reception to check that he was actually on the list. Returning to the waiting area, I was just in time to hear a nurse announcing that the clinic for that particular consultant was running an hour late. So we settled down to wait again....
By 12 o'clock, a lady was called who protested that the lady next to her had an earlier appointment than her but was told to go in anyway. Meanwhile, I asked a nurse (nurse, doctor, cleaner - who can tell these days?) who had appeared if Keith was on the list as his appointment was for 9.55. She looked at me (or maybe through me - perhaps I was wearing my invisibility cloak) and didn't answer. A few moments later, she reappeared and I repeated my question.
"I did say the clinic was running two hours late," was her reply.
"No you didn't," I thought but I didn't argue, merely asked her to check if Keith was on the list - again!
A minute later, another man, who had arrived well after us, collared another nurse and asked about his appointment as he had to be in Manchester at 2pm.
Eventually, Keith was told that he was now third in the list. Two people had already been called in (to wait another 20 minutes to actually see the consultant) so we naturally presumed he would be next.
Foolish assumption.
The man who wanted to go to Manchester was told he wasn't going to make it, someone else was called in and Keith was told he would be next.
It was now 12.10. Being called in to the 'inner sanctum,' as Keith knew from previous experience, meant another wait of at least 20 minutes and by now he'd had enough and so had I. He was already very late for a job he had to go to, so he cancelled his appointment and now has another one for November.
"Do you prefer an early one?" the receptionist enquired.
"Yes, as long as I am actually going to be seen," he replied.
The mystery of the trees
At the bottom of our back garden is a fence and on the other side of the fence is a strip of land between us and the playing field beyond. At one time there was a railway track there, long since gone, and there is a useful dog-walking path stretching for part of the way but there are also trees, a lot of tall, mature trees which, whilst useful for shade on hot, sunny days and a perfect environment for birdlife and squirrels, are becoming a little too tall and prominent. Half our small garden is overhung by the branches and that, as well as the clay soil, probably explains why I can never get anything to grow here. Getting someone in to cut them back sufficiently to make a noticeable difference would probably cost an arm and a leg and anyway, they are not our trees so the task should be someone else's responsibility.
With this in mind, I embarked on a search for the owners - fruitlessly, as it turned out. After much time on the phone and the internet, I discovered that this land does not belong to the local council, Arriva trains or British Rail but eventually I discovered that in 1960, the owner of the land had been one Mr R. Price.
And there the trail ran cold. Price is a very common name, especially in Wales and I couldn't track down a likely address.
So, if Mr R. Price. sometime of our area, is reading this, could I invite him to come and cut his trees back,
please........!
And the weather this winter....?
There was a short clip about this weather forecasting site on the radio this morning. Apparently, this is a forecasting service which gets it right when all the others get it wrong, which is a bit of a disappointment really, because it seems that we are in for another hard winter, particularly in February, although at least by then we will be able to look forward to spring.
After last winter, I rather thought we might deserve a milder one this year, but I suppose it doesn't really work like that. Mind you, there is a degree of satisfaction in pitting oneself against the challenges of the snow and ice, but it is an occupation which soon palls, especially when the crisp white snow turns to grey sludge and, however much I try to view the winter months positively, I don't easily succeed. I was born in the summer and my favourite time of year is late spring, when there is warmth in the air and a promise of hot, sunny days. Well, that's the theory, anyway.
Still, when all is said and done, we have to deal with whatever comes but, this time, we could do without the snow.
Watch this space...
After last winter, I rather thought we might deserve a milder one this year, but I suppose it doesn't really work like that. Mind you, there is a degree of satisfaction in pitting oneself against the challenges of the snow and ice, but it is an occupation which soon palls, especially when the crisp white snow turns to grey sludge and, however much I try to view the winter months positively, I don't easily succeed. I was born in the summer and my favourite time of year is late spring, when there is warmth in the air and a promise of hot, sunny days. Well, that's the theory, anyway.
Still, when all is said and done, we have to deal with whatever comes but, this time, we could do without the snow.
Watch this space...
Seventies fashion for men?
Seventies fashions, if you can call them that, are making a comeback according to this article in the Independent.
My memories of female seventies fashion is of muddy, sludgy browns and greens and ill-fitting clothes made in cheap, tatty materials. To my mind, it beat the eighties shoulder pads hands down for bad taste and I can't actually think of anything I liked about it. So please tell me, male fashion gurus who are forecasting the return of seventies style for men, that it does not include flat-fronted viscose trousers, skin-tight fitted shirts with large, pointy collars and white, faux leather moccasins.
Mind you, I probably don't need to worry about Keith. I think this latest trend will almost certainly pass him by, but if he shows any signs of wanting to grow sideburns again, I shall certainly do my best to guide him in another direction.
My memories of female seventies fashion is of muddy, sludgy browns and greens and ill-fitting clothes made in cheap, tatty materials. To my mind, it beat the eighties shoulder pads hands down for bad taste and I can't actually think of anything I liked about it. So please tell me, male fashion gurus who are forecasting the return of seventies style for men, that it does not include flat-fronted viscose trousers, skin-tight fitted shirts with large, pointy collars and white, faux leather moccasins.
Mind you, I probably don't need to worry about Keith. I think this latest trend will almost certainly pass him by, but if he shows any signs of wanting to grow sideburns again, I shall certainly do my best to guide him in another direction.
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