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caldrail

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Blog Entries posted by caldrail

  1. caldrail
    As predicted, the temptation to set off fireworks was too much for the local inhabitants. As damp and dreary an evening as it was, they set to work creating as much mayhem as possible.
     
    The early shift started around seven o'clock. I looked out the back window of my home, which has a narrow view across the west of Swindon. Usually on bonfire night one area sets off, finishes, then another begins elsewhere. Not this year. Stretching into the distance was a display of pyrotechnic fountains in all sorts of bright colours, little showers of twinkling light as far as I could see.
     
    Given the weather, the effect was extraordinary, and I've never seen that before. Also, some peoples rockets were penetrating the cloud base, and whilst the burst was hidden from view, the cloud lit up with a dull colour briefly, giving a sort of surreal stormy effect.
     
    With the window open, I could smell the smoke. In one of the gardens backing onto the alleyway, a family were having their own firework party and the wind was sending the smoke in my direction. Again, it was a surreal thing, watching a bright glow appearing behind the fences and garages like something out of a fifties sci-fi B movie.
     
    They're Coming!
    Talking of things from Outer Space, I see there's an alien invasion planned to conquer our local library shortly. Naturally I will be there to defend mankind and fend off their fiendish schemes.
     
    Luckily I doubt the invasion will require any nuclear response, but given that such weaponry has proven to be futile against alien armour, I shall have to resort to coughs and sneezes. Hey, it worked once before pretty well, didn't it?
  2. caldrail
    There are certainties in life. Day turns t night. Summer turns to winter. Bills arrive through the postbox. Nothing to watch on television. Luckily life isn't always that dull. Like yesterday. What a strange kind of evening.
     
    To begin with the weather was fabulous. Another very warm day requiring liberal use of electric fans and cold drinks from the refridgerator. Despite this, the weathermen urged caution, because as the wise man knows, your typical briton has a memory span of three days and can't remember what the weather was before that. I glanced out the front window and beheld a bank of ugly dark clouds hanging almost motionless above Swindon.
     
    From the back of the house a different vista appeared. The hazy sky was almost clear of any cloud whatsoever. Bright sunlight warmed the scene, and also sparkled off the rain that fell from the edge of the raincloud. Rainfall is usually a horrible experience. This was positively pleasant. You know what? Stuff the budget. I'm off for a takeaway.
     
    I decided to head up the hill for chicken and chips. I was in the mood for that. What I didn't expect among the pile of discarded domestic refuse that often litters the alleyway beside my home was a television, a big flat screen television leant against the soft furnishings and bedclothes. The local beggars seem to be doing okay. Shame they've got nothing to watch. I imagine the disappointment of discovering the lack of visual inspiration on the box inspired the owner to throw it away to begin with.
     
    Oh how I chuckled. Will I never learn? Because the worst was yet to come...
     
    Chicken And Chips Please
    After a stroll up the hill I arrived breathless at the takeaway. Ever since that old couple went off to retirement in Hong Kong you never see the same faces in there. It's almost as if the shop has become a training ground for chinese vendors of fish and chips.
     
    "Yes please?" The lady asked. They always smile. I suspect it has nothing to do with politeness, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. Chicken and chips please.
     
    "You want chicken chow mein?"
     
    No. Not really. Chicken and chips. Good. That's sorted that. I sat down to wait which I have to admit can happen in any chinese takeaway if you're unlucky.
     
    "Thank you Sir." She called. Oh goodeee... My food's ready, except... What on earth is she serving me? A flat container in a plastic bag? Since when did chicken and chips get served like that? Has she sat on it? I looked gingerly inside and realised my piping hot chicken chow mein awaited my pleasure. No, no, no, I wanted chicken and chips.
     
    "Chow mein?"
     
    Chiiiiiikennnn... Annnnnd.... Chiiiiips.... Remember to shout louder. Their english isn't so good. She pointed at a menu to a set meal. Oh good grief no, what is going on here? Chicken and chips is simple. Just a normal bag of chips. Add a quarter of roast chicken. Every other fish and chip shop in the country can cope with an order like that. No, not the set meal version. How difficult does this have to be? One of her colleagues nodded and correctly confirmed what it was I wanted. Do I mind waiting? Why? Has she got a customer service lecture booked? No, I guess not...
     
    "Thank you Sir" She called again with another smile. What on earth is she offering me this time? Whatever it was, it didn't look like remotely like a mouth watering chip shop fest. It wasn't. It was set meal No.93. Chicken, chips (half portion), and peas.
     
    As I left I heard her colleague say "He won't be coming back."
     
    You know what? That option is definitely being considered. It would help if they understood what their customers wanted. What a rubbish takeaway that place has become. Oh dear. I seem to have told the whole world about it too.
  3. caldrail
    I woke up this morning in a sort of tired downbeat mood. Sort of like that monday feeling but delayed by two days for extra suffering. Wednesdays in Swindon are always greyer than normal. Don't know why, they just are. It's traditional.
     
    You see, the thirteen weeks of my placement are coming to an end. I hate to admit it but I've actually enjoyed being there. Well, maybe not quite all the time, just enough of it to bring a tear to my cheek as I look back and remember my time as J's disciple. So inspired were we by his leadership, his sense of humour, his complete lack of respect to authority, and his general "What am I doing here?" attitude, that we left a big message scrawled on carboard and taped across his favourite baler. "WE LOVE YOU J" it said.
     
    Now before you start thinking that working in a clothes shop has radically altered our sexuality and self image, I would like to point out that KS today made strong hints that his love life isn't over. And that from a guy who reckoned he was temporarily celibate. So to celebrate our last day under J's tutelage we headed down to the sandwich bar at lunch and got all nostalgic. To be honest, what I really wanted to do was get drunk, but...
     
    Stupid Tax of the Week
    The Chancellor of the Exchequer had announced in his latest budget that cider is going up in price. Oh brilliant. Does the government really think I'm going to apologise for my criticism of their cack-handed financial skulduggery? Not only have they made life more expensive for me, but now they want me to foot the bill for it too. Except... The second item of good news today is that the government might not be able to raise the price of duty on cider after all, because they're all so busy fighting for their political lives now the election date is set for May 6th. Woo-Hooo!!!!!!!
     
    Stupid Repair of the Week
    Today they fixed the air conditioning. So now the winter is over the heating has been turned on. "We want it at least twenty degrees all over the store" Proclaimed the management. More like twenty five to thirty. It was sweltering hot under that renovated fan. So hot in fact that I felt it important to my well-being to strip off and enjoy the summer-like heat.
     
    Mrs T even popped her head around the corner in disbelief I'd done that. How she giggled. She was in such a good mood she even let KS play with his mobile phone. And she came past for another look. J saw me too and crept past in embarrasement. The Rampant Rabbit saw me but claimed he hadn't looked. And my boss enquired later that afternoon as to why I had my shirt on. Miss L had already gone home and was spared the psychological trauma of seeing me in the flesh.
     
    Song of the Week
    That old classic by The Eagles
     
    On a dark Swindon highstreet
    Cool wind in my hair
    Warm smell of burgers
    Rising up through the air
    Up ahead in the distance
    The place to earn my pay
    My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
    But I'd found the shop okay
     
    There I stood in the doorway
    I rang the outside bell
    And I was thinking to myself
    "This could be heaven or this could be hell"
    Then a manager opened the side door
    And he showed me the way
    There were voices down the corridor
    I thought I heard them say
     
    Welcome to the lonely high street stockroom
    Such a lovely place
    Keep up the pace
    Plenty of room in the racks of the lonely stockroom
    Any time of year
    You can find it here
     
    The manageress is twisted
    She got the Mercedes-Benz
    She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys
    That she calls friends
    How they dance in the shopfloor
    In amongst the clothes
    Some dance to remember
    Some dance to forget
     
    So I called the supervisor
    "Please bring me my pay"
    He said, "We haven't had any money here
    Since 1968"
    And still those voices are calling from far away
    Wake you up in the middle of the day
    Just to hear them say
     
    Welcome to the lonely high street stockroom
    Such a lovely place
    Where we work in haste
    They're living it upstairs in the darkened stockroom
    What a nice surprise
    Bring your alibis
     
    They've just fixed the heating
    At some outrageous price
    And she said, "We are all just prisoners here
    Of our own device"
    And in the managers chambers
    They gathered for the feast
    They stab it with their steely knives
    But they just can't kill the beast
     
    Last thing I remember, I was
    Running for the door
    I had to find the passage back
    To the place I was before
    "Relax," said the night man
    "We are programmed to unpack
    You can check out any time you like
    But you'll only get the sack!"
  4. caldrail

    A Very Human Failing

    By caldrail,

    The news last night had a breaking story of a mid air collision between a light aeroplane and a helicopter over the Hudson River, resulting in the tragic deaths of nine people. How? With the entire sky to fly through, how is it that two aircraft can collide like that? The truth is that it's all too easy.
     
    In the earliest days of commercial flying, just after the First World War, a new regulation to pass on the right was brought in to prevent head on collisions when following linear features like railway lines. Even today, with extensive navigation aids and radar services available even to the common private pilot should he request it, people still bump into each other and the skies are not a forgiving enviroment.
     
    One way to look at this problem is to see the need for human beings to travel in certain directions when going from place to place in an aeroplane, machines that can't realistically take off and land anywhere thus always move from airport to airport, plus the human need to follow landmarks to find their way around. There is some truth to that. However, the answer is much simpler and much more basic....
     
    You're on a Collision Course!
    I was flying east on my way home to Thruxton airfield. The approach, as was my usual practice, was to fly at fifteen hundred feet both for convenience and to comply with airspace restrictions. Cloud cover was total and it obscured the blue sky above me at something like three thousand feet - a fairly ordinary occurence for British skies.
     
    I'd already contacted the airfield so they knew I was inbound. Then they made an urgent call to me... "Charlie Uniform, Boscombe Radar tell us there's an aeroplane ahead of you and on a converging course. Do you have visual?"
     
    No, I didn't. Aircraft are tiny little specks at a distance and looking over the instrument panel I could see nothing out there. I acknowledged the warning, and turned five degrees to the right as a precaution. A few moments there he was, a small single seater about a quarter of a mile away down on my left. It must have looked very different to the radar operator at Boscombe.
     
    Have You Seen This?
    Back in the days when I was learning to fly I was heading north after a visit to Shoreham on the south coast. My flying instructor, who was a veteran of World War Two (He'd flown with Bomber Command throughout the war), calmly asked me if I'd seen this?
     
    Hmm? What? With a rush of engine and propellor noise a civilian owned Bulldog trainer pulled up sharply to my right. No, I hadn't seen it. I suspect my instructor hadn't either, but it was me at the controls. Lesson learned.
     
    Where Did He Come From?
    Part of the pleasure I derived from flying aeroplanes was taking friends and workmates along for the ride. Most had never flown in light aircraft before. Time and again they were suprised by the experience, and most genuinely enjoyed it. On one particular flight I decided to demonstrate a few things along the way. It made things interesting for them but also for me too, allowing me to practise skills that would otherwise wither.
     
    Okay, I said, now I'm going to stall the aeroplane.
     
    "What?" Asked my passenger with some concern, "You're going to stop the engine?"
     
    No not the engine... I'm going to stop the aeroplane from flying. He stared at me in disbelief. After a reassuring chuckle I looked around for any aircraft in the area and satisfied the sky was empty, I throttled back, lifted the nose a little, and waited for the aeroplane to slow down.
     
    The controls were getting lighter... The noise of flying had all but vanished.... There's the stall warner, warbling in a hesitant shrill tone..... And there we go! The aeroplanes nose fell forward (assisted by me it must be said - safety first) and the little Cessna began to start flying again.
     
    Then I saw the Piper Arrow travelling away to my right. Ye gods that was close! Where did he come from? Strictly speaking I'd had the right of way, so to pass that close to me was poor airmanship, but then it occured to me that for whatever reason, he hadn't seen me any more than I'd noticed him.
     
  5. caldrail
    KS plays football three nights a week. He sports a 'hard boy' shaven head. He spends ten miniutes every morning covering every inch and fold with 'man-spray'. He's dated almost every young lady employed at this department store. Whilst he hasn't advertised the fact, he also took a short video of himself in the Dungeon sparring with a cardboard box. Quite the young man isn't he?
     
    I had to laugh. Today he was given to Mrs T as her personal assistant. She's a mature lady who clearly wasn't going to let him catch his breath once during the day. You could hear the whip cracking at every opportunity, and like every youth working with an older woman, he was utterly obedient.
     
    At the close of our shift today I did tease him about being under the thumb. "I'm a broken man" He answered. Poor lad. He's exhausted.
     
    Spacial Ignorance
    Earlier today a manageress brought up a display table to be stored away in the Dungeon. It's quite a sizeable multi-shelved affair and how she got it into the goods lift to begin with is very impressive. The problem is that the sheer bulk of the display makes it impossible to manhandle along the aisles between haphazard ranks of cardboard and disused trolleys. To make it clear how difficult this objective was, I would describe it as Officially Impossible.
     
    But since when did that stop a manageress from demanding we lesser males do her bidding? So we all had to rearrange the entire stockroom to squeeze it past. Surely she must have realised it was too large? I know many woman struggle with spatial awareness (check out how many suitcases they pack for holiday or their inability to understand a map) but a part of me is suspicious that she didn't care. It was of course far more important that we lesser males stayed busy, sweating our poor little hearts out, and totally subservient to her every whim.
     
    Hmmm... Not sure... But I think I might have stumbled on a male weakness...
     
    Mistymouth Update
    Our investigative reporters here at Rushey Platt Daily can report that Mistymouth was escorted off the premises thanks to his odd behaviour, groundless accusations, and lack of popularity among female members of staff.
     
    Hello, Who's This?
    Woah... A classy brunette has just climbed the stairs here in the library. Sorry, just thought I'd mention it in cse o spllin miitztak s oh no she smiled at me. Help. I'm melting....
  6. caldrail

    Absolutely Buzzing

    By caldrail,

    The noise level has gone up considerably. Roadworks have started at the bottom of the hill and crossing the road is now something like traversing No Mans Land in 1917.
     
    Libraries are supposed to be quiet aren't they? Not Swindon. Our library is buzzing with lively action. At first, the library was silent as you'd expect, then a conversation broke out behind me. One of those "Allo mate, where ya been? Seen the footie? Hows the missus?" type of exchanges at the top of their voices. So loud in fact the gentleman opposite me strode over and enquired whether they knew they were loud or not. He then went back and had a conversation with his mate next to him.
     
    Luke Floorwalker is busy practising his moves. Jedi Knights start young these days I guess, and he's certainly taking on the universe. His mum tells him to stop. Thank you. So instead he tries to see how rapidly he can revolve on his seat.
     
    Once those two had gone another mother and child turned up. She doesn't know anything at all about computers and of course dragged her son along because he knows everything. I should know, I heard his lecture on Computers For Dummies.
     
    The other side of a pillar a father and daughter turn up. This time the situation is reversed. He's an IT expert (or at least makes a pretence at being one) and she sat there while father guided every single move of her mouse. Poor girl was bored out of her mind. She'll grow up with a phobia about logging on.
     
    AM is busy with his emails on the next PC. Now he's normall the worst offender of all, but even he's starting to lose his patience as two woman discuss some subject or other of huge domestic importance. Of course, while all this noise takes place, the level of conversation builds and before long, the library sounds like an early evening in a busy pub. Except they don't serve alcohol. Shame.
     
    Insect Infestation of the Week
    One peculiarity of my home is that I get flies out the front. Open the window for four seconds and you see a miniature dogfight as squadrons of flies circle each other over the carpets of England. Eventually these dumb creatures realise they're not in Kansas any more and migrate toward the kitchen so I have urge them to continue on into the bathroom, where I can open the rear window and persuade them to complete the last stage of their migration.
     
    Except... This one. This fly is determined to annoy me. It refuses to follow the squadron and persists in exploring the flat. Right, I've had enough. I reach for the bug-spray and go into armageddon mode. I thought this stuff was supposed to kill flies? It seems unpeturbed by the noxious chemical that's surely doing me no good at all.
     
    Eventually my superior brain size prevails and I trap the insect in the bathroom. He's in there... Plotting his victorious conquest of my home.... Good grief, he's head butting the door! Has this fly got something against me? Sorry, Mr Bluebottle, but an Englishmans home is his castle and I shake the bug-spray can for another offensive. He won't be buzzing for much longer...
  7. caldrail
    Walking along an old railway cutting near where I live, I noticed the rocks had fallen away. Now I know the rocks of that particular place were once the sandy floor of a shallow sub-tropical sea during the Jurassic Age, so out of curiosity I clambered up to where the rock face has come away and examined those rocks for any sign of fossils. As much as I'd like to find something special, it wasn't likely. This area was an archipelago back then, a coral reef to the northwest, and right here a seaside paradise like the ones we spend loads of money to get drunk beside every year.
     
    As I look underneath the broken surface, my eyes open wide. The impression of an ammonite shell is clearly visible. These 'squids in spiral shells' are extinct, and if you look carefully, fairly common in the fossil record, though the vast majority are no more than an inch or two across. Not this one. At least twelve inches across - a very impressive specimen. And very missing. I looked around the rubble but no sign of it. Gone. Sold at a carboot sale and propped up beside someones fireplace in all likeliehood. No-one else will see it.
     
    It makes me wonder how many historical artifacts, so vital to our understanding of times past, have been hidden away for the pleasure of the selfish collector. The modern trade in Egyptian antiquities is well known, although I suspect the great majority are fakes sold to the gullible.
     
    About three years ago I ventured into the pub up the hill. That pub has a reputation for violence, not entirely undeserved, but on this particular night I got talking to some old chap. He mentioned he knew a secret, and I casually enquired further.
     
    "I know where to find the tomb... of the..." He had to think about this bit.. "Ancestress."
     
    Now this was way cool. Sensing this chap was out of his depth, I pressed him for information. Where is this tomb?
     
    "I can't tell you, its too dangerous."
     
    So you're an adventurer then? You're one of those blokes who smuggles stuff from Egypt?
     
    "Yes, Egypt." He agreed, unable to think of something more original, "I rescue stuff from Egypt, I'm the Del Boy of the Desert, crossing the sand dunes."
     
    In your Reliant Robin?
     
    "Yes."
     
    But you've got no suntan?
     
    "I go at night."
     
    You do meet interesting people in pubs...
     
    My Week at Work
    My boss has finally given up trying to sell his BMW to me. Why he thought it would give me managerial credibility I don't know, I'd look more like a drug dealer. So now he's trading it in for a Jagwah. I know because he tells me. On the hour, every hour. Worse still, we've dscovered that a major contract has been lost and that means our client-specific stock has to be relabelled. Literally thousands of labels to be applied. Plenty of opportunity then for AD to discuss the merits of Jagwahs.
     
    I'm in Hell....
     
  8. caldrail

    Advice & Direction

    By caldrail,

    Now that was a pleasant lunchtime. Lounging on a bench in Town Gardens, the shrill cacophony from the nearby junior school, the bird calls, even the plaintive requests from dog owners to their stubborn pets to stop sniffing at every excuse, did nothing to stop me dropping off to sleep.
     
    I woke with a start. Whether I'd startled the grey squirrel or whether it had startled me, I'm not sure, but away it went, tame or not. Behind me some guy and his companion strolled lazily down the steps and as they passed one said to the other "He's not going to find a job laying there, is he?"
     
    For crying out loud! Am I forbidden from enjoying a lunchbreak? Apparently that might be the case, as a workman started his litter blower and made sure I wouldn't be able to get any peace and quiet. Do these people imagine jobs appear out of thin air? Or that employers grin and shake hands with me simply because I get up from a park bench? I don't suppose any of my critics might actually be willing to assist my job search? Seems to me some people need to something better to occupy their time.
     
    Writing On The Wall
    On the way home I passed a church in Old Town. It's a modest place of worship dating back to the days when Old Town was all Swindon was. But times change, and even Christianity has to change with them. These days it places some incredible advertisments on the wall outside.
     
    God gives better direction than sat-nav. Well that's optimism for you. The temptation to pop in and ask for directions to Droitwich was enormous. The thought that a deep basso voice might issue from a bright golden glow in the clouds telling me to turn left at the lights strikes me as a little ridiculous. Yes, I know some people claim to hear messages from the almighty, but aren't they the people we point fingers and laugh at? In any case, I saw a program the other night that demonstrated a part of the brain that supplies us with religious experiences. If I want to go to Droitwich, I might be better served purchasing a sat-nav.
     
    Come to think of, isn't this advert a little dodgy? I seem to remember something about telling lies not being a good thing.
     
    Thou Shalt Not Bag Apples Falsely
    I've always been an apple a day man. Not because I was obliged to as a youngster, but simply out of choice. As it happens I do genuinely believe an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Being somewhat fussy about the apples I eat, I prefer Braeburns. At my local supermarket, only Pink Lady's are more expensive (and even better tasting unfortunately).
     
    Yesterday I took a bite of my apple and immediately knew it was not Braeburn material. Cheap, slightly tasteless, and leaving a persistent sourness in the mouth. Nope, not good at all. So what's going on? Either some wierdo crept into my flat and exchanged my beloved braeburns for cheap rubbish, or they were never properly packaged in the first place.
     
    The supermarket exchanged them without fuss or bother, and I can only praise their willingness to please. I hope the apple supplier is equally contientous.
  9. caldrail

    Afflictions

    By caldrail,

    As weekends go, this was not a good one. For once monday morning has come as something of a relief (How often do you hear that?). The source of my agony isn't anything to do with the usual gripes. There was no hassle with benefits, noisy neighbours, or things that go bump in the night. It was instead my own fault.
     
    Always cook your food properly. How often have I heard that? Normally I do of course, but the exotic flavoured chicken dish I spotted in the supermarket was too good to miss and perhaps I wasn't all that careful. I mean, we all cut corners don't we? Go on, admit it, you do. Anyway I did and suffered a spot of what might well have been salmonella poisoning. There was quite a nasty fever which has thankfully subsided by now, although I'm still suffering mild diarrhea.
     
    Not only is the experience incredibly uncomfortable, it also renders you exhausted every time you lift a finger. So naturally when my microwave decided not to play anymore I had no choice but to pop down the road to the local domestic hardware store and - gulp - purchase another. It was then I discovered how weakened i was. Microwave ovens aren't hugely heavy as such provided you don't have to carry them seven hundred yards. I made it uphill with three rest stops and under the circumstances consider that an achievement. Now please, just leave me alone - I want to drop into a chair and rest...
     
    A Different Affliction
    I read this morning of a tragic case where an online-game obsessed teenager killed a young girl to obtain cash to feed his habit. Immediately there are calls to ban the game and statements that games are bad for you. No, they aren't, it's addiction that's bad for you.
     
    There's a chap I used to work with who's addicted to bingo. Although on a good wage, he never has any money to spend, because he fritters it away on crossing numbers off on a card, hoping that he at last will be the one to shout "House!" and walk away with a few quid.
     
    I honestly confess I'm an avid games player, within certain boundaries. Why not? It passes the time when I'm not busy. Then again, part of my motives for using this software is to add to it. These days it's common to find a cottage industry of talented people creating 3D models and textures to extend the gameplay. I find that an interesting and creative hobby albeit a little frustrating at times.
     
    Despite growing up with Tom & Jerry cartoons, years of destroying countless alien and demonic invasions on a computer, and maybe the odd game of Dungeons & Dragons (Be honest - you haven't lived if you haven't), I have not felt compelled to end someones life for another few minutes of pleasure. Most of us don't. Sadly though you will always find people who become too attached to gaming because it allows them to escape the reality of their own mundane or worthless existence.
     
    No-one can use these games as an excuse. Nor is some infernal power to blame. We make our own evil.
     
    Please Excuse Me
    I'd love to stop and type more, but my bowels are sending warnings that should never be ignored under any circumstances. Must... clench... buttocks...
  10. caldrail

    After the Night Before

    By caldrail,

    Sunday morning is a time when we survey the damage left by late night revellers. A womans shoe is on the pavement, a sure sign that Cinderella went to the ball and decided that Prince Charming wasn't charming enough. Not really suprising since he and his mates were drunk, engaging in a singing competition in which random lyrics are put to random melodies and may the loudest voice win. Every week this goes on. Where's Simon Cowell when you need him?
     
    At any rate, Cinderella was probably on a girls night out and was too drunk to care, whooping and screaming every time she blindly bumped into something. But that was last night. Her taxi is now a pumpkin again, and the man who headbutts taxi's has gone home to sleep off his bruises.
     
    A key left on my front wall? Not mine, and I must admit I do feel a little smug that other people can lock themselves out of their homes too. Not that I ever do that of course. The fact that I'm on first name terms with my local locksmith is entirely co-incidental. He's an ex-RAF chap, a man for whom manning a machinegun in a helicopter window was not the career he had originally envisaged, and to be honest, you get the impression he thinks that idiots who lock themselves out of their own homes deserve to be gunned down by passing RAF helicopters. What saves me from certain doom of course is that I pay him to get in. And also that as a civilian the RAF are none too keen to let him man machineguns anymore. Phew.
     
    Talking of RAF helicopters, a couple of years ago I was hiking along the Thames Pathway one sunday. The weather wasn't particularly good, the fishermen along the banks were miserable and unwilling to let me by, and the path itself bore an uncanny resemblance to no mans land. There I was, in the middle of a grassy field, when an RAF helicopter burst into view at tree top height, obviously following the river. I reached for my camera, hoping for a close up all action photo, and immediately, the 'copter banked hard right and performed an extraordinary evasive manoever. Very impressed lads. It seems I now own the only Ground to Air Camera that registers on RAF threat displays.
     
    Near the top of the hill I turn off the main road and pass by the Rushey Platt Blind Association building, whose car park entrance is being repaired. One does wonder, eh?
     
    Visit of the Week
    AD decides to let me see the warehouse where I'll be working. Security is busy sleeping in the gatehouse, jerking upright as we toot our horn driving by. I think he needs a another pet rat to keep him company. Turns out our new home is a nice place. Clean, tidy, not like the grubby Shed or the cavernous dark underworld of the Hangar. Very busy place too, with stuff lying everywhere. So... we ask in all innocence, where exactly is the floor space allocated to our use? Huh? For a moment he blinked, his jaw hanging open. What we have here is a failure to communicate...
  11. caldrail

    After The Rain

    By caldrail,

    I know the foreigners reading this will find it hard to believe, but by midday yesterday the rain stopped. No, really, it did. Taking advantage of the sudden spell of damp conditions, I decided to wander down to Mouldon Hill and see if the cew from the Swindon & Cricklade Railway had laid tracks as far as the park yet.
     
    You might have realised by now that I don't get out much at nights. Fear not, I'm just setting the scene. There will be no further mention of matters relating to trains, railways, number plates, axle configurations, or cigar-smoking engineers in top hats.
     
    Anyhow, since by now the ground had been promoted from muddy mess to impassable quagmire, and since my experience of british weather has taught me to be a little circumspect on days like this, I donned my action-man hiking gear and set forth.
     
    You might have realised at this point that I don't get many invites to parties. Fear not, I'm just describing my typical attention to detail concerning survival in the wilderness. Swindon can be such a wild place.
     
    Now the route goes over a small river bridge, the water being about ten feet across and about deep enough for a mouse to drown in. But not yesterday. With the heavy rains filling every babbling brook in the area, the water was almost level with the bridge and had flooded the fields on one side. That was a clue to what was coming later.
     
    Behind the Mannington Trading Estate I decided to take a photo of the flooded woodland next to the path. It looked a little like this...
     
    Pic of the Day

     
    Having successfully avoided getting wet, I climbed back out of the bushes where a few curious shoppers had spotted me creeping through the undergrowth and were curious as to what I was doing. I nodded a greeting as I strode away, the bemused onlookers pointing into the trees as if they knew what it was I had taken a picture of. Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees.
     
    Flood of the Week
    In all seriousness, some places were treachorous, not to mention downright dangerous, with rivers concealed under inundated fields. Finally I got to Mouldon Hill Park. Despite it's name, its a large pond with a path around it. A quiet and secluded place where people walk dogs and feed ducks. Except the pond had been replaced by a lake that had hidden the path. So I joined a crowd of bemused dog walkers and duck feeders. We all agreed that we hadn't expected this. There you go. Proof that communities can act co-operatively after all. Apart from Lucy the dog, who decided that chasing ducks was more fun than obeying her master and.. well.. yes, I got wet after all.
     
  12. caldrail
    The stifling warm spell seems to run its course. Last night was a blessed relief from lying there gasping for breath, a definite cooler feel to the air, and this morning was actually quite chilly. At last... A chance to get some real sleep....
     
    But no. For some reason every alarm in the neighbourhood was going off. The abanonded office across the road made its usuall insistent bleeping. Car alarms went off one after the other in the streets behind my home. A burglar alarm sounded into the small hours. What is going on? A mass invasion of teenage thieves? I just want to sleeeeepppp......
     
    A Question of Time
    Here's something for the scientifically minded to ponder....
     
    Our view of space time is effectively einsteinian. That is, we have three dimensions plus time, which Einstein recognised is linked to our mundane cosmos. Most people wouldn't go any further than that - it isn't a big real world issue. Now, most people would simply regard our three dimensions as all there is and that it's a simple rectilinear description of the volume of space we observe. There are theories that other dimensions exist, seperated from the ones we can perceive, and curled up so small they'd be invisible anyway. But our familiar three dimensions might not be so rectilinear. Einstien himself recognised that space-time is curved. A theory now describes the universe as 'crinkled'. In other words, although we see everything as sort of flat, it isn't, because light and other electromagnetic energies we use to observe the universe around us are simply following the curves, thus we don't see them.
     
    Now we consider dark matter. A strange, mysterious substance that cannot be detected yet accounts for a bulk of the theoretical mass of the universes contents. It should be there, but we can't find it. A theory describes dark matter not as some exotic form of 'stuff', but as the gravitic footprint of ordinary matter like stars and planets that to us appear very, very far away, but that because of the folds in space -time are actually quite close.
     
    Now consider time. Traditionally this is seen as a dimension of its own, like a river, or in some peoples imaginations, a container for all possibilities. Scientists are now coming around to the idea that time does not exist. There is only Now, this moment, flicking from one quantum state to the next at the rate of ten to the thirty four times a second. This means there is no past and no future, no co-existence of things happening in other time periods. So this means that time travel really is impossible.
     
    But wait a minute. We know space-time is curved, We know time runs at different rates according to velocity of the observer and the gravity well of whatever mass is close by. We think electromagnetism follows the curvature of the universe, and that gravity doesn't. What if then, if it were possible to do the same as gravity - to cut across folds in space? Certainly that would make science fiction come true in that you could travel huge distances instantly, but because of the relative variations in time rate, you would also be travelling back and forth in time, because everything is relative to the observer.
     
    Think about that the next time you see a blue 1960's police telephone box. Or not. Depending on how much time you have, how busy your social life is, or whether you give a monkeys
  13. caldrail

    Aliens And Stuff

    By caldrail,

    There was a general lack of managers at work today. Under normal circumstances that would be a recipe for noise and mucking-about, but with my dole payments in doubt I had other things on my mind. I even had to go to the Job Centre this afternoon to force them to arrange my 'Back To Dole Seeking' interview. Talk about DIY.
     
    Meanwhile, back at the stockroom, the quiet atmosphere was making it possible for others to attempt a spot of entertainment. Somewhat carelessly an asian lady started singing to herself whilst she searched the shelves for required stock in something of a 'whistle while you work' mood. Asian singing is complex and very odd to western ears, but she was tuneful, so when she mysteriously and abruptly ceased, I yelled across the stockroom for her not to stop. It's very cultural, I said. She burst into an insane fit of giggles. It was like the Wicked Witch of the West in a good mood. What a racket. At least she was amused. I always find these asians something of an alien culture.
     
    There's a guy who occaisionally comes up from the shop floor. We recognise him by his odd hairstyle which involves bundles of hair sticking out each side. KS thought he looked like Doctor Who which amused me somewhat, proving that all the Flash Bang Wallop of the new series rather distracts viewers from the essential realisation of just how little story there is. Anyway, I asked him whether he was the Doctor and he said no. I think he was telling the truth - He looked a little bemused by my questioning.
     
    Actually it is interesting that I mention Doctor Who, because his TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimensions In Space - I am such a geek sometimes) - the time machine that looks like a police box from the 1960's, is larger on the inside than it is outside. Sort of what happens in our stockroom. We have a different spatial configuration than the rest of the store and today the shop assistants put that to the test by constantly bringing stock up the lift to be stored. Unfortunately our relative dimensions are much smaller on the inside so the stockroom is now a mass of tangled socks and wobbly cardboard towers. Trust me - No Dalek could possibly reach us. Today I repaired various collapses of shelves and made new ones from spare bits scavenged from various black holes which are quite common in our cardboard continuum. For a brief while I even became an organic component of the stockroom architecture. Just part of the furniture.
     
    You could even stage a complete Doctor Who adventure in our stockroom. Where do all these work placementees go? Why does the telephone always stop ringing just as you finally clamber over jumbles of discarded boxes in a mad frantic rush to communicate with the outside world? How does J access the universe outside the stockroom, and what does he do with this mysterious power?
     
    More From Miss L2
    Although KS failed to 'bash and dash' with Miss L2, she is never far from our thoughts. Apparently she's uploaded more jpegs of herself on a Facebook page and KS has seen them already. Now young Miss L2 says that she's a honeytrap, drawing men in. If that's the case, she certainly doesn't know what to do with them when she snares them in her machiavellian schemes. J made a somewhat gleeful observation that he would be like a bee, buzzing in to fertilise the flower. Thought you needed birds for that? Oh... I see what you mean. Well... I added that bees always fly back to the nest and communicate the directions to their great new find by way of a strange dance. Maybe J's bee-ness isn't so strong after all.
     
    Evidence For UFO's
    A few days ago I watched a television program about UFO's. The Secret Evidence or some such title. Out of curiosity I sat down with beer in hand and yes, the aviation expert hosting the program dredged up every single possible cliche to do with strange lights in the sky. I now know that UFO's are Nazi secret weapons used by the CIA to study little grey men in Arizona and scare off hippies from attending the Glastobury Festival. No, really it was on tv. So it must be true. Why would my television screen lie to me? The camera never lies...
  14. caldrail

    All A Bit Dodgy

    By caldrail,

    You might think from reading this blog that things aren't quite going my way. Correct. However, it isn't all that bad, and sometimes I end up with a few quid left my pocket to indulge my passion for takeways. This week didn't quite leave me enough for my favourite curry. So it's a bag of chips then?
     
    Do I really want to go up the hill at the back of my house and barter for the wrong meal in that chinese fish and chip shop? As far as I can tell, they have no comprehension of customer service or the english language. No, not this time, today I will stroll a little further to one of the other fish and chip shops in the area.
     
    The one I chose turned out to be a frantically busy fast food outlet. Those young ladies behind the counter work non-stop in very warm conditions. I'm not one of their regular customers, just an occaisional visitor, and I noted a look of wariness on the woman who took my order. What? Do I look like Jack The Ripper or something?
     
    Maybe I was sweating too much? It was very warm inside that takeaway with the pile of food gradually mounting on the hot plates as the little chinese gentleman cooked more at breakneck speed. It's no good, I had to stand outside.
     
    Although this was a back street area the road junction next to the shop remained busy. Possibly because people were coming home from work at that time of day, or possibly because the locals had found this route to be a useful shortcut. Either way my attention was finally drawn to a menacing black BMW. Not because menacing black BMW's usually attract my attention, but because the menacing gang of youths inside the vehicle were looking at me a little bit menacingly as the car slowed to a halt in the road.
     
    Uh oh. This looks dodgy. I gave them a stare back, a sort of disapproving 'What Do You Want?' kind of glare. All of a sudden they accelerated away. What? Do I look like a mafia hitman or something?
     
    Now here's something even stranger. The girls behind the counter looked far more comfortable as the handed me my chosen meal - exactly as I ordered it - and even the little chinaman bade me a cheery farewell from behind the stacks of food he was preparing in advance. What? Do I look like a knight in shining armour or something?
     
    Cars That Don't Stop
    The bus stop along Rejents Circus in Swindon is sometimes used as an unofficial overtaking lane. Trafic on the three lane road next to it have to go over speed bumps you see, whereas busses aren't impreded by such obstacles. It's all a bit dodgy really and the biggest suprise is that a police car hasn't set off in hot pursuit every time this happens.
     
    As I was walking beside the library the other day I heard the sound of a hot hatch preparing for a mad dash. Yep, there he goes, accelerating hard down the bus stop to undertake the cars negotiating the obstacle course designed to slow them down. Not so unusual you might think. I often see youngsters doing that.
     
    At the end of the stop, which opens to a dual carriageway leading out of Regents Circus, he swerved right across two lanes of traffic to carry on round. Dodgy... Very dodgy... Obviously doesn't want his chips to get cold.
     
    What's He Up To?
    Every day I pass the front of the Old College site. It's fenced off now of course, withsprouting trees and blackberry bushes between the low brick wall and the tall white plywood fencing behind it. I've even seen people doing a spot of blackberry picking earlier this year, and that's something you don't usually see in urban areas. More something you do during idyllic walks in the countryside on sunny days. But hey, that's Swindon for you.
     
    Naturally I'm curious as to what extent nature has reclaimed the site since it was abandoned. I know about the bats but entering the premises isn't recommended. Still, I resolved to climb onto the brick wall, look over the wooden fence, and grab a few photographs. There we go... It's a bit windy mind you... The curved stone top of the wall doesn't make your footing too secure either... Heck, I'm getting too old for this sort of thing...
     
    I wasn't disappointed. A miniature forest is growing on what was once a grass bank, with even more trees growing out of the brickwork A passing car blew his horn at me as I leaned forward. Relax, look, here's my camera. What? Do I look like a down and out?
     
    Makeover of the Week
    Clearly my appearance is suspiciously close to 'Dregs Of Society' standard. It isn't the first time I've been accused of illegal activity. A long time ago a shopkeeper was determined to prove I was a shoplifter. To this day another points at me and calls me a thief. Oh just go away you nobhead.
     
    I once had the police tempt me with a bogus old lady and her easily grabbed shopping. Spotted that one. Old ladies don't have the faces of a twenty year old no matter how much they shuffle. Where's the police? Oh, over there, lurking in a doorway in plain clothes.
     
    Enough is enough. I get the message. So I spent this morning wandering around a shopping mall checking out the latest fashions and finding cheap clothes I can actually afford. Sweatshirts are hard to find these days. I popped into one store and approached a young woman, asking her if she had any in stock. She stared at me me with that sort of 'Help - I'm out of my depth' look on her face. Just goes to show what effect new clothes have on a woman. Even if they're still in the shopping bag.
  15. caldrail

    All About Opening Doors

    By caldrail,

    With my experience in filling in job applications you would expect a certain level of competence. Funny thing is, the encroachment of modern technology such as personal computers has meant that these days I fill in two or three a year (Please don't tell the government - they won't understand what I mean).
     
    This last Sunday night however I was forced by a private education college to fill in one of their application forms manually. Okay, let's see if I can remember how to do this. Oh hang on, I need something to write with... Have I got any pens left? Do they still make those? Ahh... Here we go...
     
    Filling these things in silence is dull. No, really, it's excessively dull. It's no good, I'm going to have to put the radio on. As chance would have it the radio station was having problems finding hit singles and instead played a load of classic rock. My chance discovery is that filling in application forms while listening to Led Zeppelin not only enables you survive the experience, but also complete the multitude of boxes without making a complete doctors signature of it. My conclusion then is thinking about filling in forms is definitely not recommended.
     
    I think that made sense.
     
    Filling in Forms
    Now that I'm ready to go I discover just how anal application forms can be. First question is... Surname. Oh that's an easy one. Rail.
     
    The second box asks me if I know my... Forenames. Actually, it so happens I do. Cal D.
     
    Next question is... Name I would like to be called by. The temptation is enormous. Sir? Boss? Duke? Emperor of the Known Universe? Sigh. Oh all right I'll be sensible. Why is it employers have no sense of humour?
     
    Now we come to the crunch. There's a big page of boxes demanding to know what my previous employment was and explain any gaps in it. Ah. Now there it's a problem because my unemployment doesn't look very good. Salary and Benefits? Yes, several times now.
     
    Wow... That's going to impress them...
     
    Sliding Doors
    During the last week I was sat in my favourite seat in the second floor lounge in our local library. It overlooks a major road junction and all the drama and passion of everyday life is played out below me whenever I discover the book I'm reading is even more boring than that.
     
    The irony is that the book was interesting. Not only is the book a very well considered analysis of King Arthur and his historical credibility, it also manages to list his family. Cousins, uncles, aunts, they're all in there. At this rate I'll find his phone number in chapter seventeen. I wonder if King Arthur has any vacancies? Most of the Round Table should died of old age by now surely?
     
    Just when I got to the really really interesting bits there was a clatter outside, I dropped the book in suprise, and completely lost my place. The side door of a van passing the library opened by accident. Trays of fresh tomato's fell onto the road. The driver knew it had happened. He pulled over, shut the door securely, as he should have in the first place (important safety notice) and drove off, leaving two tons of red groceries lying in the road.
     
    Luckily some members of the public were public spirited enough to help council workmen clear up the mess, and if I were honest, one or two simply helped themselves. Now I know what happens to roadkill.
     
    The thing is though that side doors on vans are ludicrously dodgy. I know this from personal experience. I used to do a van driving job, delivering and collecting from customers in Maidenhead area. In Windsor there used to be a clothes shop run by the most ferocious French woman alive. She had obviously come to the conclusion that van drivers were a lower form of life and treated them as such, which, if I'm honest, I had something to do with, because I once delivered her parcels (Must deliver before 8:30am or die horribly) at 16:30 that afternoon. I may have got that one wrong.
     
    Anyway, the point was that on another occaision when I succeeded in getting there on time and still got mauled within an inch of my life (good grief does this woman have any friends?), I collected some boxes of hers for delivery to some customer who clearly hadn't the guts to enter her shop. On the motorway I overtook a car and it beeped its horn insistently at me. At the time I couldn't see anything wrong and just assumed the other driver was related to a woman in Windsor. No. It turns out my side door was opening, and with only two miles to go before I reached the depot, her parcels fell out of the van and into the ditch. That did not go well.
     
    But that isn't the only example m'lud. I now produce exhibit C, the Red Jasper Tour Van. The old Iveco van was our faithful transport between gigs in my glory years as the drummer for Red Jasper. We had a compartment put in next to the side door for the lads and any roadies who fancied helping us tote that box and lift that speaker cab. On one such trip with a willing volunteer, he made the observation that there was a draft coming through the door. I told him not to touch the door or the draught might get worse. The door sometimes fell off entirely. The effect was like telling someone on the verge of a parachute jump that we forgot to pack it.
     
    So you see. Sliding side doors on vans are dangerous and must not be used without a government warning, lots of glossy advertisements, several bright yellow warning signs, and a man with a red flag walking sixty yards ahead of the vehicle. Trust me, they know how to make rules like that.
     
    Invitation to the Royal Navy
    Time again to wander down the hill and sample the delights of Turkish cuisine, which if you're into English culture, has nothing to do with confectionary. It's more to do with spicy ammunition for people who like throwing up in the small hours.
     
    Thing is, the cheery bloke who cooks those kebabs for me has received a printed card inviting him to a presentation by the Royal Navy. Questions to be asked have been thoughtfully printed on the back of the invite, so if anyone forgot to think of a question, the Navy has thought of it for you. Okay, we had a bit of a laugh over it, but then I noticed the small print at the bottom said photo ID required.
     
    It just proves how sophisticated and civilised we've become over the last four centuries. Now you get politely invited by a press gang.
     
    RSVP
     
    Copenhagen Global Warming
    Oh no. They're at it again. Demanding money to save the worlds climate. And true to form, Giveaway Gordon has led the field with a whopping
  16. caldrail
    Last night the tv news news waited to show Barack Obama live as he gave a speech about his stimulus package to revive the flagging economy. The audience, which seemed to composed mostly of photographers whose trigger fingers couldn't resist taking photo's of the empty podium, needed to be entertained whilst they waited for the presidents appearance. So a recording of a brass band played over the speakers. It happened to be the theme tune to Monty Python. I had this image of the US Department of Ridiculous Ambulation arriving in suits and shades, twisting their legs in impossible sequences as the assumed they position on the stage.
     
    "And now for something completely different..." Says another as the President takes the stage. The CIA guards go into a song and dance routine...
     
    We're on guard with the C.I.A.
    We sleep all night. We work all day.
     
    Security Heavies : He's on guard with the C.I.A.
    He sleeps all night and he works all day.
     
    I shoot my gun. I wear my shades.
    I go to the lavatory.
    On Wednesdays I go shoppin'
    To save my great country.
     
    Mounties: He shoots his gun. He wears his shades.
    He goes to the lavatory.
    On Wednesdays he goes shopping
    To save our great country.
     
    I look so cool. Can't help myself.
    I like to taunt the press.
    I put on women's clothing
    And hang out in a dress.
    Security Heavies : He looks so cool. Can't help himself.
    He likes to taunt the press.
    He puts on women's clothing
    And hangs out in a dress?!
     
    I stand on guard. I wear high heels,
    Suspendies, and a bra.
    I wish I'd been a girlie,
    Just like my dear Mama
    Security Heavies : He stands on guard. He wears high heels,
    Suspendies, and a bra?!
     
    "Right" Says Obama, "Thats enough of that! I wish to register a complaint." (The owner does not respond.)
     
    Mr. Obama: 'Ello, Miss?
     
    Owner: What do you mean "miss"?
     
    Mr Obama: I'm sorry, I have a cold. I wish to make a complaint!
     
    Owner: We're closin' for lunch.
     
    Mr. Obama: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this President what I purchased not half an hour ago from this very audience hall.
     
    Owner: Oh yes, the, uh, the Texas Blue...What's, uh...What's wrong with it?
     
    Mr. Obama: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'E's dead, that's what's wrong with it!
     
    Owner: No, no, 'e's uh,...he's resting.
     
    Mr Obama Look, matey, I know a dead President when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
     
    Owner: No no he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Remarkable guy, the Texas Blue, idn'it, ay? Beautiful plumage!
     
    Mr Obama The plumage don't enter into it. It's stone dead.
     
    Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting!
     
    Mr Obama All right then, if he's restin', I'll wake him up! (shouting at the cage) 'Ello, Mister Bush! I've got a lovely fresh cow for you if you
    show...
     
    (owner hits the cage)
     
    Owner: There, he moved!
     
    Mr Obama No, he didn't, that was you hitting the cage!
     
    Owner: I never!!
     
    Mr Obama Yes, you did!
     
    Owner: I never, never did anything...
     
    Mr Obama (yelling and hitting the cage repeatedly) 'ELLO GEORGE!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o'clock alarm call!
     
    (Takes President out of the cage and thumps its head on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
     
    Mr. Obama: Now that's what I call a dead President.
     
    Owner: No, no.....No, 'e's stunned!
     
    Mr Obama STUNNED?!?
     
    Owner: Yeah! You stunned him, just as he was wakin' up! Texas Blues stun easily, major.
     
    Mr Obama Um...now look...now look, mate, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That President is definitely deceased, and when I purchased it not 'alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein' tired and shagged out following a prolonged cattle drive.
     
    Owner: Well, he's...he's, ah...probably pining for the desert.
     
    Mr Obama PININ' for the DESERT?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that?, look, why did he fall flat on his back the moment I got 'im home?
     
    Owner: The Texas Blue prefers keepin' on it's back! Remarkable guy, id'nit, squire? Lovely plumage!
     
    Mr Obama Look, I took the liberty of examining that President when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been NAILED there.
     
    (pause)
     
    Owner: Well, o'course it was nailed there! If I hadn't nailed that bird down, it would have nuzzled up to those bars, bent 'em apart with its beak, and
    VOOM! Feeweeweewee!
     
    Mr Obama "VOOM"?!? Mate, this bird wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'E's bleedin' demised!
     
    Owner: No no! 'E's pining!
     
    Mr Obama 'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This President is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!! THIS IS AN EX-President!!
     
    (pause)
     
    Owner: Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he takes a quick peek behind the counter) Sorry squire, I've had a look 'round the back of the shop, and uh,
    we're right out of Presidents.
     
    Mr Obama I see. I see, I get the picture.
     
    Owner: I got a slug.
     
    (pause)
     
    Mr Obama Pray, does it talk?
     
    Owner: Nnnnot really.
     
    Mr Obama WELL IT'S HARDLY A BLOODY REPLACEMENT, IS IT?!!???!!?
     
    Owner: N-no, I guess not. (gets ashamed, looks at his feet)
     
    Mr Obama Well.
     
    (pause)
     
    Owner: (quietly) D'you.... d'you want to come back to my place?
     
    Mr Obama (looks around) Yeah, all right, sure.
    Book of the Week
    Today, as I climbed the stairs toward the upper floors of the library, I spotted a book on the quick-read shelves. Yoganetics it was called. Is it just me, or can you too imagine rows of robots contorting their metallic bodies whilst a harsh monotone voice says "Hommmmmmmmm".
  17. caldrail
    Earlier this morning I opened the back window and looked out across the Old College site. It's looking very shabby now. The lead lining on the cafetria and hall roof has been stripped off, and without the verdigrised grey cladding, it now looks oddly naked in flesh coloured wood panels. the tower block at the end clearly shows sign of temporary visits by vandals and homeless people. Smashed glass and boarded up windows.
     
    A couple of days ago I spotted a hydraulic lift up the side of the tower block. At first I wondered what was going on, but I could see a firemans helmet from that distance though there was no sign of any smoke or flame. A practice? Possibly, though I noticed they were recovering material from inside the fifth or sixth floor. After a few witty comments from their loudhailer, the firemen disappeared from view as the lift retracted. I wonder what that was all about?
     
    The thing is, this abandonment has a bright side. The vegetation has sprouted in luxurious green over the last few weeks, turning a dismal yard into a fine display of tree growth. Along the white fence that surrounds the site, the trees have now grown higher and overhang the barrier, and it genuinely looks nice. When the site gets demolished in the near future all that will go, and if I were honest, I'll miss the old place.
     
    As It Was
    Before I logged on this morning I was leafing through a book of old photographs from Swindon, my home town. Most of it is unrecognisable. The gothic victorian shops and houses have largely disappeared along with all the major town landmarks, not least the railway works, of which only a couple of office blocks and workshops survive. There was a time when I was young that I walked along the Midland & South West Junction Railway that went past the west end of British Rail Swindon Works that I could see the end of that massive A shop, once the biggest industrial complex under one roof in Europe, with row upon row of forlorn rusting diesels waiting for the cutting torch.
     
    Drove Road as country lane. The old market building, now long gone, and I recall that strong vegetable smell and and constant haranguing from traders urgently seeking our cash. A police station at the top of Eastcott Hill, once next door to the tram depot, replaced by anonymous housing apartments. This isn't the first time I've had a fit of nostalgia for the Olde Worlde Swindon, a sooty brick town proud of its railway heritage, but with so many sweeping changes on the way in grandiose developments, I wonder how long these flagship constructions will last?
  18. caldrail
    What is it with economy cars? Why do the people responsible for these automotive blasphemies believe that we, the buying public, want some god-awful buggy that resembles a childs toy? I write this because Riversimple are unveiling a hydrogen powered car in Britain. Like the all-electirc Gee-Whiz, it's an exremely compact two seater rather like a distorted Smart Car. Back in America, or California at least, they have hydrogen powered cars on sale already. Theirs are similar to everyday petrol cars and although not quite a vehicle to raise the pulse rate, it does at least avoid embarrasing its owner.
     
    But no. Britain must have tiny town cars designed for the responsible urban commuter that are disastrously ugly and impracticle. You know, I used to drive a five door Nissan Cherry. No, don't laugh, I bought it secondhand at a considerable discount. For all its faults, the little car was reliable, practical, and actually a sharper car to drive than the dull smoothed out contemporary vehicles we're expected to believe are fun cars to drive. And, I should point out, faster than the modern alternative. I notice that the man behind Riversimples new vehicle is a former racing driver. Times have certainly changed.
     
    I've always thought it's a bit ironic that planners have moaned that increasing car ownership was reducing the average speed of travel to walking pace, because we now have cars designed to do exactly that anyway.
     
    The Tragedy Of Competition
    I was watching a documentary recently about the disastrous accident during the 1955 Le Man 24 hour race. For those who can bear to see it, here's a link to footage of the event....
    http://www.britishpathe.com/record.php?id=39422
     
    The race had turned into grudge match between Jaguar and Mercedes teams. Mike hawthorn, a Jaguar driver, is deliberately baiting the superior Mercedes cars and both teams are racing right on ragged edge. Approaching the slight curve before the audience enclosures, Hawthorn decides to 'pit' his car. In these days the circuit had no seperate pit lane. Cars were serviced by the side of the track, and there were no run-off's.
     
    Lance Macklin, who was just overtaken by Hawthorn, cuts the inside of the corner to avoid a collison, bringing up dirt. His car is unsettled at high speed, and to avoid crashing into the side of the track or indeed into Hawthorns Jaguar which was braking ahead of him, swerves left back across the tarmac. Levegh, a fifty year old driver of a Mercedes, is traveling much faster and coming past the Austin Healey on the outside. As Macklin swerves across, Levegh clips the back of his car. The Mercedes flips into the air, crashes against the side of the road, explodes, and sends wreckage hurtling into the crowd, including the engine block. Between 80 to 120 were killed, another 100 spectators injured.
     
    The program fixed the blame on Macklin for swerving, and pointed out that Levegh was older than the average driver and must have had slower reflexes. I've thought about this. When Macklin avoids a collision with Mike hawthorns Jaguar, his attention is fixed on keeping his car under control and avoiding a crash. At a hundred miles an hour or more, in a 1950's car without aerodynamic aids, or even seatbelts, I can imagine he was fully occupied. Why then, would he take the time to glance at his mirror? He wouldn't have had the time. This wasn't a sunday drive to the local supermarket. Macklin was trying to keep a car on the ragged edge from becoming an accident.
     
    Then again, Levegh was travelling much faster on the outside of the curve. At a hundred and fifty miles an hour, any avoiding action would have sent him wider, and thus an accident would have occurred anyway. Without doubt, his reaction time was slower than the situation demanded. I think though that given how quickly the situation developed, a tragedy was bound to happen. The speed they were all going at precluded any heroic avoidance.
     
    Human beings have an innate desire to attach blame. We want someone to be responsible, to accept the punishment for their transgressions. The documentary was entirely devoted to who was to blame for the tragedy. Was it Hawthorn, braking hard in front of a car he'd just overtaken? Was it Macklin, trying to avoid a collision with Hawthorn and retain control of speeding Austin Healey? Or was it Levegh himself, driving beyond his ability in what was for its time an extremely fast car?
     
    By now I suspect most you have already decided. In our modern view, speed was responsible. Perhaps, in the final analysis, the uncomfortable truth was that the accident was due to single minded determination to win by all concerned. Success involves risk, either by pushing the laws of physics in a race, or by commercial ventures such as the Riversimple hydrogen car. That's the price you pay for competition, or indeed conflict. After all, isn't sport ritualised confrontation?
  19. caldrail
    Hey - guess what? - all of a sudden the government are listening. The Prime Minister is 'aware of the impact rising prices are having on families'. The Chancellor is willing to discuss budgetary concerns. Plans to raise road tax are being reviewed.
     
    I see. Now that lorry drivers are protesting over fuel tax, now they're losing elections and facing a possible ignomious end to New Labour, they're paying attention. Which means they weren't paying attention before. I always said they weren't, but at last we have a partial admission. But ministers still want a 60% pay rise to
  20. caldrail
    Its all quiet on the western front. There's nothing moving in no-mans land, and here in my trench, eating ration packs and latrine duty are the norm.
     
    The weather is typically british. Its sunny one moment, raining the next. The skill of dodging rainshowers and going about your daily business without getting soaked is something picked up from years of practice, and right now its proving very useful in keeping dry.
     
    The noisy young lads don't seem to going to the library anymore, or perhaps they've decided to avoid me and go later - who knows? Anyway its better without the rows of baseball caps noddding up and down and yelling 'check this out'. Come to mention it, there's none of the usual crowd of children wailing, screaming, or turning the aisles into combat zones or race tracks either. Its a much more library-like atmosphere now
     
    I don't like it. Its too quiet. They're up to something, I can smell it....
     
    Noisy Moment of the Week
    The garage across the yard has ceased playing its radio as soon they open. It was like an alarm clock, going off at 8:00am precisely. I didn't complain, but it wouldn't suprise me if my neighbours had. So now the garage has decided to fit a telephone annunciator so every time someone phones them, the loud trilling noise can be heard within a mile radius. They'll be getting a phone call from me if that carries on.
  21. caldrail
    It was one of those job interviews you just know is going to be a disaster before you start. The office where it took place is literally down the road from I live, an upstairs premises with only a single door on the street to mark its presence and a source of confusion as you wander back and forth expected something more impressive.
     
    Having found the door (I always have trouble with doors - Douglas Adams fans please note) I noticed the gloomy staircase with a carpet left unwashed since the middle ages. There was no reception desk on the first floor. Instead, a dingy set of rooms off an undecorated hallway, toilets in view, and coffee-making equipment left with copious signs of use.
     
    Sigh. Well I'm here, so lets get on with it. The man sat behind the first desk in the only room showing signs of human habitation blinked as I entered. I hope thats because he was impressed.
     
    "Here," He said, handing me a great pile of paper and a pen, "Fill these in, you can sit over there."
     
    Right you are then. I hate forms. You never have the information you need to complete them and they always ask for information in a random order with boxes ridiculously small for the task. No matter how careful you are you never fill them in 'correctly'. I don't the intention is that they actually read or use this stuff, rather its some strange intelligence test. Perhaps the point is to throw the paper back at the guy and say "Sir - these forms are a travesty of incompetence and poor layout, compounded by aesthetically challenged conception, made even worse by the hideous quality of paper upon which they are printed"
     
    Ok, maybe not. Then I notice the waiver for the European 48 hours-a-week working limit. I'm not signing that! Plus the man was most insistent on seeing my passport, and he kindly told me I can come back at a later time with it. Why do I get the feeling I'm going to get into an old pick-up truck filled with silent mexicans every morning as I head out to the melon farm?
     
    Pic of the Day

     
    Not a great pic but it captures the coldness we're suffering right now.
     
    Cold Snap of the Week
    It appears Britain isn't the only country suffering cold temperatures. Fifty five people in India have died as temperatures plummetted. Apparently this is the worst cold snap in thirteen years. What next? Predictions of Global Freezing? Well, for the next few days anyway.
  22. caldrail
    Today our jobseekers rehabilitation programme covered bullying. We discussed aggression, perception, and expression. Or at least, some of us did. In truth most of us are so bored of this programme by now we've all lost the will to live. Our ever cheerful resident sex change person tells us she(?) listened to the radio this morning. Surely life cannot get better than that?
     
    In fairness to our advisors they decided to give us a treat today. We were going on an outing, a field trip, a visit to a job fair. For those who don't know what a job fair is, it's a gathering of employers representatives to meet and discuss career opportunities with members of the public. Which includes us jobseekers, funnily enough.
     
    So we were herded toward a succession of taxis and our merry comvoy wound it's way across Swindon to our local swanky hotel, where the small-scale exercise in optimism was taking place in one of their subterranean function rooms. As we all pretty much expected, the number and variety of employer was less than encouraging. What's the point of applying to be a carer when you just don't care any more?
     
    We'd visited all the stalls in the first ten minutes (and I gathered a really nice collection of business cards - My advisor, Miss R, was clearly impressed) and with the prospect of spending another two hours there, we all wandered off to do our own thing. KS and the lads went across to the local bowling alley and managed to find a pool table that was broken and delivered the balls for free (what a happy coincidence) whilst I stayed with a couple of the others accepting cups of tea on charity from the very kind hotel employees, one of whom very kindly made us feel more at home by turning on the lights. We had weighty discussions... Government policy, economy, local history, and Global Warming, followed by the traditional gnashing and grinding of the teeth and to wrap things up in time honoured fashion, a much needed heated argument.
     
    Miss R organised everything. She instructed the taxis where to send these incoherent idle maniacs, and instructed the incoherent idle maniacs which taxis to enter. After our two hours were up, she even managed to round us all up again and we were delivered back to the programme centre where we spent another hour organising a mass escape amongst ourselves.
     
    Ahhh... What a fun day we had.
     
    She's A Babe
    KS is not finding it quite so easy to lure Miss L2 into his web of seduction. I've met her, a pleasant and cheery girl who always has a flower in her hair, always smiling, and apparently calls me Mafiaman for some strange reason. Despite that apparent innocence I discovered another side to her when KS showed me some pictures of her on Facebook. To my genuine suprise it turns out that L2 is a teenage model. That's L2? Really? Heck. Has KS bitten off more than he could chew?
     
    Song Of The Week
    If you go off to the fair today
    You're sure of a big surprise.
    If you visit the town job fair
    You'd better go in disguise.
     
    For every job that ever there was
    Will gather there for certain, because
    Today's the day employers have their picnic.
     
    Hmmmm... Fanks for the chocolate.... Yummy.... What? Application form? Sorry, busy... Too many complimentary sweeties...
  23. caldrail
    Job searching doesn't get any easier. Now that Honda have cut back on production, they've started seconding their employees to local firms which means potential jobs won't get offered to the public. Jobs for the boys in other words. Now if full-time jobs are filled before I find them, I'm left with only the possibility of part-time work.
     
    The other problem I face is that agencies aren't keen on putting me forward. If I apply for part time jobs I get asked why. Because a lot of shirkers have been applying for part-time jobs in order to escape retribution for dossing around, I now need a good excuse in order to work less than full time hours. The trouble here of course is that the government also want mothers back in the workplace and naturally they get precedence for short hours. The inescapable conclusion is that I need to get pregnant.
     
    How Not To Get Pregnant
    Just in case anyone didn't get the previous joke, I wasn't serious. Good grief people didn't they teach you about the birds and the bees at school? Apparently someone hasn't taught the two breeding males I passed in the park the other day either. Sorry guys, I'm just not into your lifestyle at all.
     
    Job Fair of the Week
    My first invite to a Job Fair at the local hotel. Hey, things are looking up. If this carries on I'm in danger of a social life. There's the entrance. Party on!
     
    Yeah I know. But it amused the ladies on the door.
     
  24. caldrail

    All Very Taxing

    By caldrail,

    Today was my first day back in the workplace for twenty months more or less. Twenty months!
     
    So how was it? Compatred to the heavily male orientated and sometimes belligerent and nasty warehouse enviroment, it was suprisingly light hearted. It's local, I only have to walk down the road to get there, and there's a quite a co-operative atmosphere.
     
    You would think that was perfect. Well... No, because it's exhausting work. It isn't just that I've been out of the workplace for so long, it's also because I'm always lifting above the shoulder, so you spend the day performing physical exercise that an army sergeant-major could only dream of.
     
    In fact, I'm soooo tired... soooo tired.... zzzzz... zzzzzz.... Owww.... Okay, I'm awake again.
     
    Horseless Carriage
    My Work Experience Programme Advisor (one of the two ladies who hand out all those endless forms) tells us that she although trained as a riding instructor she's no longer able to ride a horse. What? Got caught speeding in a 'trotting only' section of bridleway? Don't laugh. The only reason the government haven't made that a criminal offence is that because they haven't thought of bolting license plates to animals and taxing them.
     
    She did however ask us about whether the roads were going to viable this week since she's driving in from outside Swindon.
     
    Eh? Why would the roads be a problem? The winters over, dear, the snow's gone away, we're.... What?... Wednesday? Oh poo. Apparently Swindon is targeted by Siberian snowstorms again tomorrow. I have been warned. Especially since I have a job interview as well. You just know it's all going to go horribly wrong...
  25. caldrail

    All Very Unfinished

    By caldrail,

    Yesterday I found myself with an afternoon to spare. The good weather was literally too good to ignore, so I wandered into the depths of Croft Wood to find a tanquil spot and enjoy the sunshine. Even with cool temperatures and a light breeze, the day was warm. I know this all sounds a bit naff, but I do find it relaxing to sit listening to wind in the trees, birdsong, and the exasperated orders of dog owners.
     
    On the way there I strolled through the park. It was the usual scene, a handful of idle unemployed getting drunk and teaching each other how to avoid drug busts, single mothers and their infants curious about what these strange fleshy limbs are good for, and the varied collection of avian scroungers on the lake, waiting to bounce on anyone wishing to be generous with breadcrumbs.
     
    One sharp witted seabird spotted an opportunity. It swung in low and stole the lump of bread almost out of the mouth of the hapless duck. No doubt pleased with itself, it began to make a serene escape across the lake. Not to be outdone, his rivals decided to steal the bread from him. A race erupted as three seabirds chased the thief here and there in daredevil aerobatics at low altitude. All very dramatic.
     
    All Very Ugly
    What is it with Swindon? Ever since the Second World War Swindon has tried to persuade the outside world that it too can be a city if you squint and look askance at its hodgepodge of victorian pidgeon nests, concrete carbuncles, and modern flat pack apartments. Why can't Swindon simply accept that it was, is, and always will be a small market town that got lucky in the days of emerging railways?
     
    Near Croft Wood is a new housing development. Like most architecture of that sort, it tries to be visually striking, to impress the observer with unusual angles and dramatic flair. What it actually looks like is a multi-storey barrack block with a silly roof. There's something stark and unappealing about modern architecture. The search for simple and elegant appearance usually results in a whitewashed render or orange brick slab, punctured by plain windows with no visual merit whatsoever. Swindon likes this sort of thing. It positively encourages such blasphemies, anything to remove the old world of the Victorian steam engine. You now what? I think that's a huge mistake.
     
    All Very Coppiced
    This isn't the first time I've moaned about the way green spaces in Swindon are managed. They're all being coppiced now, so that the unspoilt and natural patina of woodland is replaced by something that looks unfinished, unnatural, and fails to hide the ugly architecture that surrounds it. Bright sunlit groves? Awful. Simply awful. Okay, I know woodland can get overgrown but sometimes it's a good thing. There's a seclusion and comfort about untended woodland that even the best gardners can't emulate.
     
    It was a nice day. A shame then the places to enjoy it are being commercialised and made politically correct.
     
    All Very Botched
    A while ago my street was closed to trafic while contractors ripped up the tarmac trying to fix water leaks and so forth. yesterday they were back to do it again. I overheard one workman telling another that the manhole was in the wrong place.
     
    Once again frustrated motorists are staring confused at the barriers across the road, trying to figure out a new route in their heads. With everyone using GPS no-one can plot a course of their own it seems. A huge articulated truck squealed to a halt by the barricade, the two man crew urgently debating how to extricate themselves from this disaster of logistics. Turning into a side street wasn't going to be easy with tightly parked cars everywhere, and the alternative was a long reverse uphill around an 'S' bend.
     
    This morning a great pile of ashpalt road pieces lay heaped behind the wire fencing. Like a sort of abandoned jigsaw. You know, that kind of makes me think of what Swindon is. An unfinished jigsaw that planners get bored with.
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