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caldrail

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  1. caldrail
    Those of you who know England will also know that somtimes, just sometimes, the rain goes away to ome back another day, leaving us with a few days of glorious weather. Like today, a warm balmy day, and with all my chores done it was time to seek a quiet corner of the local park and relax in quiet solitude, away from the noisy daytime activity of my home town.
     
    It isn't all that quiet if I were honest. An ocaisional gravelly rasp of a light aeroplane overhead, the distant subdued roar of a transatlantic airliner, the insistent clangs of the town hall bell, on the hour, every hour, and the incredible range of bird noises from the trees and lake.
     
    The squirrels weren't so keen to be idle. I saw a few bouncing around the earthy woodland trail. As I sat, one headed toward me, almost oblivious to my presence. It knew I was there, and stopped for a moment when I shifted my position, but otherwise I was just another human lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. It's unusual for a squirrel to be so tolerant of people. Most are quite nervous. For this squirrel, it was another day, another nut to carry away.
     
    Damp Squibs
    Those of you who know England will also know that sunny days soon change to weeks of dull rainy weather. A week ago it was exactly that. The worst wet weather coincided exactly with a job interview. This was an unusual interview for me, the first time I'd attended a three hour assessment session with al sorts of things going on. I even gave a fifteen minute presentation on Roman history. The assembled junior management were either bored by the lack of graphs showing a year on year increase in imperial profit, or perhaps stunned by my Roman revelations. Maybe a prior presentation had already melted their brain? Perhaps managers have no comprehension of presentations? Who knows?
     
    On the way home I came across a length of road with a lot of standing water. I had to stand back and wait as motorists ploughed past with big sprays that threatened to drench me. At last there was a gap in the traffic, and I thought I might have enough time to clear the danger area before that lorry arrived, the one just turning the corner a way back down the road. Sometimes you just know that the driver is going to do something. It isn't an inner voice, or any visual recognition of body language, just that strange spidey sense I really ought to have taken notice of.
     
    Of course I didn't. You might be experiencing a similar sensation right now, reading this. As I tramped along the wet pavement I heard the sloshing sound coming up behind me. Fearing the worst I glanced behind... Splash!... A tall wave of water caught me from head to foot. Right in the face too. Of course the lorry drove on, either oblivious to his transgression of the Highway Code, or perhaps gloating over his handiwork. Sir. I salute you. One finger only.
     
    Sunset of the Week
    As the sun descended behind the the cinema building now occupying my view of the landscape from my back window, the high altitude cloud was lit bright. I suddenly noticed a stunning resemblance of a map of Britain composed of whispy clouds. Where Ireland ought to have been was a broad rainbow, formed by the sunlight refracting in ice crystals tens of thousands of feet above the Earth. The conicidential map of Britain soon distorted and was lost in the gentle migration of the clouds, but for a moment, it was really stunning to see.
  2. caldrail
    Another day, another job interview, and another bag full of documentation and proof of who I am, what I was, and why I think I could be. For a moment my trusty old CAA pilots license passed through my hand. I hadn't seen it for some time as no-one had ever asked to view it, and as for flying, I haven't been at the controls of an aeroplane since 2002, which at my age means to exercise the full privileges of licensing means another round of costly dual instruction and expensive medicals. Not really a practical lifestyle choice at the moment, not with my career wading through the mud.
     
    I happen to be one of the last Britons on the old UK CAA lifetime PPL's. These days a pilot can either get a UK recreational license, restricted to British airspace, or the full European JAA five year license. I wonder what will happen now that Britain has voted for Brexit?
     
    Those were the days. I would come out of work early on a Friday afternoon, glance up at the sly as I walk across the car park, and decide whether to pop down to the airfield. Looks like a lovely day. Let's go!
     
    After an hours blast across southern England in my trusty old Toyota sports car I arrive at the field. There's no fuss or nonsense getting in, and I park up to visit the flying club office, where I ask about availability (always a formality, they had enough aeroplanes to go around) and sign out my choice of aircraft. Then it's up to the tower to look through the NOTAMS (Notices To Airmen) to make sure I don't do something stupid, ignorant, or just plain illegal.. Check the weather report. All looks good.
     
    Today I'll be flying one of the Piper Tomahawks parked out on the grass. The PA38 is not exactly exotic, just a simple two seat American trainer, and good enough for an hours flying to keep my hours up. The metal airframe is hot to the touch under the summer sunshine, even with white paint, and the moment I open the cabin door I feel the heat inside - it's like a cooker in there. So, leaving the cockpit to ventilate and hopefully cool down a tad, I leave the door open, stow my bag, and wander around on my preflight check. You really need to do these habitually. You cannot assume an airframe is ready and safe to fly.
     
    After testing this and pushing that, I conclude this aeroplane is okay to fly. The cockpit is still uncomfortably hot, but I expected that, and put up with it. A few more checks, then the business of starting up can begin. These aircraft are not sophisticated. Their design, both airframe and engine, dates from 1930's technology and that means I have to do some jiggery-pokery with the plumbing to persuade that lumpy four cylinder engine to turn. Not like a car at all. Even with an electrical starter like this installation, there still needs to be a number of controls set just right. I push the primer pump a couple of times, set the mixture, set the throttle, shout "Clear prop!" to prevent anyone lurking under my Tomahawk from being minced by the propeller, and try the starter.
     
    The engine doesn't like being woken up. It turns over with a click and whirr, the innards doing everything except firing. Woah! There it goes, bursting into noisy life. Immediately I reset the throttle, check the readings on the instruments, and prepare for movement. Call the tower and tell what I intend to do today. They reply with the usual terse permissions and advice, so now it's just me, releasing the brakes and letting the Tomahawk trundle forward. On the grass it waddles and rocks about, so go careful, because if that propeller hits the ground my flight is over before it begins.
     
    Now I arrive at the end of the runway. A last minute check that the controls are working as expected, that the engine temperatures and pressures are within safe limits, and run the power up briefly so I know the engine is working properly. I have to know that - take off is the most dangerous part of the flight, the moment when the engine is under the greatest strain and the aeroplane at the slowest speed. One last call to the tower and they confirm the runway is mine.
     
    Lining up on the runway is quite an experience, no matter how many times I do it. The width of the tarmac, the knowledge of what the strip is for, and the anticipation of a sudden burst of speed and power to get this aeroplane into the air. With everything ready to go there's no more delay. The throttle lever is pushed steadily forward, the engine bellows loudly, and the little Piper starts to accelerate. Unlike a Cessna which almost flies itself, the Tomahawk is a reluctant flyer and needs persuasion to lift off. A pull on the yoke at around 50 knots and with a slight unsteadiness, I start to leave the world behind me.
     
    For a short while I'm in a tiny little world of my own, a metal can suspended half a mile in the air, growling loudly around the sky. Occaisionally a voice over the radio interrupts, sometimes quick orderly exchanges with air traffic control, or simply someone else talking on the same frequency that doesn't involve me at all.
     
    As usual, the air is a little hazy, and although I steer clear of the white cumulus tufts as the law and commonsense dictates, I can't really see that far, just a dozen miles or so, and the various thermals and gusts of wind make the aeroplane wobble and jolt. I see another light aircraft flying a little way off. A military helicopter blasts past below at an impressive speed. A couple of gliders in the distance wheel about looking for the same thermals I'm trying to avoid. Maybe you might spot a car on a road down there. For the most part, my little world is a solitary place, the world outside strangely empty and silent.
     
    Sooner or later I either run short of fuel or money, so the flight has to end, thus I head back to the airfield and call them to announce my imminent arrival. They reply with instructions on which approach to use, and it's up to me to guide my aeroplane correctly. The runway looks ridiculously small from there. Getting down accurately is a skill that requires practice, one I enjoy completing successfully, and it is a necessary part of flying. What goes up must come down.
     
    I adjust the power to control my rate of descent. I adjust the aeroplanes attitude to control my speed. A little counter-intuitive perhaps, but that's how flying works, and I've done it often enough not to have to think about it. With a few more adjustments the aeroplane settles into an approach I'm happy with. The runway gets larger, and closes on me ever quicker. Start to ease off the speed and descent, trying to judge it so the aeroplane is hardly descending when... There's a hesitant whine from the stall warner. A quick screech and bump as the tires touch the tarmac. All power is off and I'm down, keen to get off the runway and open the cockpit before it starts cooking me.
     
    Finally I arrive at the parking place. On with the brake, shut off the fuel and electrics, letting the engine stop itself, and finally, a chance to get that door open and breathe fresh air. My ears are buzzing in the odd silence that follows a flight. There's a stiffness in the legs after having to push rudder pedals for the last hour. All I do now is finish off putting everything back where it belongs and close the door behind me, then back to the office to sign off the airframe. That was a good flight. I enjoyed that.
  3. caldrail

    New Years Resolutions

    By caldrail,

    The tv weather warning was very clear. Rainclouds moving into cold air right over Rushey Platt. Snow! Now since England is the one country in the world totally unable to cope with this phenomenon I decided to take precautions against inclement weather. Pointless. As usual, the snow avoided Rushey Platt like the plague. This always seems to happen. Some years ago the whole country was inundated with snowdrifts up to 6' deep - but not Rushey Platt, blissfully clear of anything remotely resembling a snowflake. It never snows in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire!
     
    Yesterday was Back To Work Day. Its that one day of the year that no-one ever discusses. Even better, it was Visit From The Auditor Day too. The young gentleman turned up in a suit that was probably fashionable two hundred years ago, looking very conspicuous in a warehouse enviroment. Needless to say, our rapid enforced move from The Hangar was the root cause of considerable embarrasement...
     
    On the way home today I got a toot from UT, driving past in his faithful flatbed van. Nice to see you're still out there UT, but where's Lord H? Surely he's not still ferreting?
     
    Also, walking along a footpath behind a car factory, I spot the working of our local scrap dealer. A long line of american style railroad gondolas waiting to be picked up with their loads of scrap metal, plus a passing Vauxhall Cresta (one of those 50's/60's cars designed to emulate american styling) conjured up an image of US railroading. The engine driver ambling along the tracks had a lumberjack coat too, and the image was perfect. Shame it was grotty old england really...
    Damp Squib Of The Year
    Oh all right I admit it. This years festive season was a washout. I think that we must learn from our mistakes and move on. Put it all behind us. So lets get back down the pub, drown our sorrows with quality booze, and... Oh good grief don't tell me our beloved Prime Minister is banning that too? He's already banned car accidents, smoking, and eating in an effort to reduce hospital waiting lists. Or are we now going to be refused hospital treatment for broken ribs caused by laughter?
     
    New Years Resolutions
    I hereby pledge not to waste any time making stupid resolutions about behaviour I've no intention of changing even if my nether regions were threatened with small furry mammals under duress. However, I can be bribed, and for a pint of cider, a bag of wine gums, I might be tempted to make an exception.
     
    For one silver Ferrari 360 Modena, low mileage, one careful owner, I'm anybody's. Now that is a resolution!
  4. caldrail

    Monday Cars

    By caldrail,

    I like cars. Especially the fast ones. No, thats not right...
     
    I like fast cars. Especially the very fast ones. Yep, thats right.
     
    But not all of them. For various reasons, either the aesthetics, personal experience, or the revealing reviews of driving journalists, there are bound to be those I don't regard as worthy. Take the Lamborghini Gallardo for instance. Now italian supercars fire my blood yet last year one trundled past me in town. A white convertible owned by a local man and it looked simply awful. Certainly you noticed it - you couldn't fail to do that - but it looked cheap and boxy, there was none of the lamborghini WWOWWWWWWWW!!!! factor. I decided I didn't like it. As for driving one, erm, that might not happen tomorrow anyway....
     
    A couple of days ago I wandered through a car park on my way to the local supermarket. And there it was. A slate grey (or perhaps unwashed black) Lamborghini Gallardo convertible and it looked sensational. WWOWWWWWWWW!!! Ok, for a moment I was twelve years old again. But isn't that what these cars are supposed to be about? And isn't it strange what a difference the colour made. White is currently a fashionable colour for sports cars (my rusting Eunos is, by strange coincidence), yet it just wasn't the colour for that Lambo. In dark paint, it looked menacing and evil and covered in saliva... oops, sorry about that, hope no-one noticed.... Such italianate pornography is what fires my blood. For me, driving a Ford Mondeo has got to be such a mind numbing experience. Even the name bores me, I mean, its the Ford Monday. Car names are daft aren't they? Vauxhall use names ending in 'ra'. Vectra.. Tigra... Makes them sound eciting doesn't it? At least Ford are more honest about their model names. Well, since ordinary cars are just too ordinary to bare, I shall wait until Ford produce the Frideo and hopefully that'll be worth driving.
     
    Rear wheel drive please Mr Ford. Don't like those silly hatchback things.
     
    This Weeks Red tape
    Another letter in the post... More proofs required... Oh good grief I've submitted this stuff twice already. Off to the bank, persuade them to copy the information - again - and represent it at the benefits office.
     
    "Ahhh... Mr Caldrail... We do need the previous months as well.."
     
    WHAT?!!
     
    Back to the bank then... I wonder if you can get free footwear from the government if you're unemployed. Or headache pills...
  5. caldrail
    Many years ago I wrote a piece on the internet about my departure from a company's employment in scathing terms. Back then I wrote how the place would close and the site redeveloped. It has been announced that such will come to pass, my prophecy having been proven correct.
     
    Working there in the good ol days was a different experience than you normally get in warehouses today. There were no agencies involved in finding jobs there, a family atmosphere, and good rates of pay. The rot set in when the influx of young lads and the retirement of older women made the atmosphere much more like a school playground. The change from old fashioned hierarchy to modern style office class system reduced peoples motivations to work toward a career and a future in the company, making careers a lottery rather than the result of hard work and merit. Finally, the older hands were gotten rid of by hook or by crook, seen as obstructive and stuck in their ways. Truth is, they knew their jobs whereas the new generation of workers, managers or labourers, did not.
     
    New ideas haven't helped. Placing the management of warehouse production in the hands of a sub-contractor has done no good. The idea was to let a specialist handle it instead of the hamfisted efforts of what amounted to amateur managemnt, but profit proved hard to achieve. So the company has finally decided that it's time to give up, uproot, amd start again elsewhere. Good luck.
     
    Welcome Back
    It was great to see W back at work. I wasn't on the premises when it happened but he'd been crushed by a forklift truck whose driver (the very same driver who nearly knocked me flying once before) hadn't been too observant. Luckily his injuries weren't too serious and now he's fit to resume duties again. Is it just me or has W grown up a little? His experience seems to have done him a favour.
     
    Not So Welcome
    A politician claims that older people voting for Brexit have 'shafted the young generation wholesale'. What a load of nonsense. Far too many young people are lazy, indifferent, and assume that the world owes them a living. That's the sort of world that being a member of the EU has encouraged. If forcing the younger population to work toward an independent Britain they can be proud of is shafting them, then shaft away.
     
    Some might see this as hypocrisy given I spent the better part of the last decade as unemployed. I would point out that I was not given the choice, and ultimately, I was thrown to the wolves by the Job Centre who see stopping peoples money as a positive move. That was despite making nearly ten times the quantifiable effort to find emloyment than I was officially expected to achieve. So I got shafted. And as the spokeman for the Job Centre proclaimed in a television interview, I too found paid work within six months. Not the success story that the Job Centre wanted to advertise me as, but one of those who got off their bottoms and went to work when the opportunity presented itself. Why should ex-EU Britain be any different?
     
    Not Welcome At All
    The EU were clear that Britain would not be punished for choosing to leave the Union. They are keen to avoid giving Britain favourable terms to prevent encouraging other members to opt out, and indeed, there are sentiments of that sort evident in France, Greece, Holland, Italy, Spain, and probably other countries. Nonetheless the EU are demanding a high price for leaving, a 'divorce bill' they're insisting on. Since Britain used to be one of the major contributing nations within the EU, the proposed bill can hardly be seen as simply a necessary legal payment but rather an attempt to squeeze whatever they can at the last moment, a feature of EU administration that has been clear for a very long time and one of the reasons people have become dissatisfied with EU membership.
     
    The other reasons are the covert suppression of national identity and the influx of migrants assisted by the open border policies of the EU. Why are we so suprised that this is happening? The Roman Empire went through a similar process, becoming larger, bureaucratic, corrupt, facing ever increasing immigration and political uncertainty, not to mention rebellions and at least one break-away empire (that included the British Isles curiously enough). If ever there was a reason to see the value of history, current events are proving it like nothing else, especially since the EU exists to recreate the Roman Empire in a parallel sense. Gildas, a sixth century monk, described Britain as an island 'Rich in usurpers'. He wasn't wrong.
     
    Unwelcome Weather Of The Week
    Saturday overtime. Mandatory. Grumble as I might I had no choice but to turn up to work. The weather was supposed to be about sunshine and showers but toward the end of the shift all hell broke loose. I have never seen hail like that in England before. Neither had the Goans, who raced to the door to experience the sort of weather that probably doesn't happen in India. It doesn't normally happen in England but we didn't let on. Although the hail was not as fierce as some countries in the world expect, for England, it was pretty impressive.
  6. caldrail
    Money is a funny thing. Some people are almost supernaturally capable of accruing it, others simply take what others earn without permission, and most of us get by with what we can get. How we spend our cash is another matter. Younger people tend to be hedonistic - there's a young lad at work who has spent his entire monthly pay cheque in two days each and every time. To be fair, he doesn't moan about the hassles of having no money like some do, but all the same time, he desperately needs some financial advice and discipline. On the other end of the scale is one guy I often talk to who wanted to propose to his girlfriend. So he went out and bought an engagement ring. Nine pounds? Don't be silly. Ninety points? Not good enough. Nine hundred pounds? Doesn't make that big statement. No, he squandered his savings, nine thousand pounds, on the ring. Happily she said yes. Given how depressed he gets by the end of a working shift maybe that's just as well.
    I must confess I do sometimes spend on impulse. The other day I wandered past the local pawnbroker and thought that since I had some time on my hands, why not have a browse? It's sometimes interesting what people will sell. I went over to the line of guitars hanging on the wall. One stood out immediately, a gothic metal style electric guitar with a huge price tag. I looked closer. Floyd Rose tremolo, Seymour Duncan pickups, 24 frets with gothic inlays, full locking, and a feel of quality. Oh yes. It will be mine. Right now, hey, Mr Manager, I want this.....
    So I have ownership of an upmarket electric guitar retailing at nearly a thousand pounds, though I got it considerably cheaper as secondhand.. At first it was horrendous to play because the action (the height of strings above the fretboard) was ridiculous. Too high and the fingers have to make clumsy, slow, and overlong movements. Too low and you get fret buzz and a nasty truncated sound. But adjust it correctly and.... Please excuse me while an adult male goes glassy eyed and rather excited by a smooth and heavyweight distorted guitar sound. Money can be so useful sometimes.
    Oh No, Not Scotland Again...
    That detestable Sturgeon woman just won't shut up. She and other Scottish Nationalists are spouting their demands for another referendum on independence. This time we had Alex Salmond, the politician who failed last time to persuade the Scots to leave the United Kingdom, claiming that the British government cannot ignore democracy. Excuse me? I seem to remember the Scots have had a referendum on independence and chose to remain within the United Kingdom. Sorry Mr Salmond, but you cannot ignore democracy. Worse still the Nationalists seem to believe that if you don't like the result of a referendum then vote again until you do. What's democratic about that?
    But where is Scotland going to get the money from? North Sea oil and gas revenues having vanished, the only option is to stay in the EU. Which they cannot do as part of the UK since Brexit is now enabled by parliamentary law and signed off by the Queen. As an independent country? What they don't seem to realise is that as a new country, even if they get independence before Brexit is finalised, they still have to apply for EU membership, require full consent of current members, and won't have the financial perks hard won by British politicians over the years.
    A colleague at work suggested the English should have a referendum to decide whether we want the Scots with us or not. I'm starting to agree with him. Get rid of those moaning minnies up north and forget them. Close the border and deport all those terrible Scottish people in our midst. I'm not the only one who has noticed that the Scots up north are the nicest people in the world whilst those living in England are just the rear end of human society, a comedian said exactly that on television. I don't really want to wish the Scottish any hardship but I confess I would take great pleasure in watching Scotland stumble.
     
  7. caldrail

    Almost There

    By caldrail,

    In the last few weeks I've rediscovered a television series from the sixties. The Saint were the adventures of gentleman adventurer Simon Templar, played by Roger Moore, a sort of poor man's James Bond without the gadgets and evil villains taking over the world. Moore plays the part with his usual bond-esque humour but it is hard to imagine a real life counterpart so genteel and light hearted. In his world, just like Bond, he's infamous and known to everyone yet can wander around incognito until the he gets betrayed by a twist in the plot.
     
    The thing is, like most sixties television in Britain, production values were very low scale. You can see that corridor is a painted backdrop. That car chase across Germany looks more like Essex. The train carriage is a simple sound stage set. Paris no more than a backdrop of Notre Dame. But you don't mind that, because again, like most sixties television, these programs tell stories. The adventures might be contrived, predictable, sometimes even completely implausible, but unlike modern series the episodes don't rely on emotional wrangling or deep significance. It's actually fun to watch, a guaranteed gritty fistfight in every episode, and the sixties cut scenes and cars add period flavour.
     
    Of course, when Ian Ogilvy took over in the seventies, changing the charismatic Volvo P1800 sports car for a lumbering Jaguar XJS, the mood had changed. Gentleman adventurers were a thing of the past, aside from James Bond. American imports introduced us to the Ford Torino of Starsky & Hutch, Kojak and his lollipops, and in Britain, series like The Professionals had opted for a more down to earth and working class feel. The Seventies - when Britain joined Europe and the Old World finally withered away.
     
    Hmmm... We've just decided to leave Europe. I wonder....
     
    Pole To Port Stanley
    The Douglas DC6 is a pleasing shape in the air, a fifties four engine propliner descending from that old warhorse, the Dakota. In the night sky a few miles south of the Falklands, the Pratt & Whitney Double Wasp engines, each capable of 2400 horsepower, droned on. Below us, hazy patches of sea mist lit by the moon. A few whisps of cumulus drifted by. Above, the stars, strangely static despite our two hundred mile an hour cruise. Most of the passengers would be dozing off by now, too tired by the white knuckle ride on takeofff and the subsequent journey across the South Atlantic to stay awake, too distracted by the vibrating rumble and the stale interior to sleep well. Finally, the radio messages became more frequent, and the command comes through to descend and head for the approach to Port Stanley.
     
    In real life my hand would have spread across four chunky levers, but with a couple of keypresses, the angry noise reduces to a quiet grumble, and the plane starts to lose altitude. But of course this isn't real. Finally with some time to relax and forget the busy schedule of the past year, it was time to break out the flight simulator.
     
    I'd been watching Pole To Pole, a travel documentary by Michael Palin, and fancied a go at flying down there. My first attempt was hopelessly inept. I ought to have known better, given my real life pilot training, but I took off without planning and quickly found the cold air causing engine failure after take off, made worse by the prospect of ending up in the icy waters of the polar seas. Not good.
     
    Okay. Lets think about this. The gravel runway in the simulator at the end of a rocky archipelago was too short for the heavily laden DC6 so I prepared every trick I could think of, and took a lot longer to warm the engines, running them up to power much more gently. Without that two hundred foot cliff off the end of the runway all would have been another disaster, and the random weather I took off in was appalling. All that had been coped with. There was the runway lights at Port Stanley.
     
    Realism? Well, Microsoft might claim its as good as it gets, but I certainly wasn't. Might have to practice a bit more before I get that phone call from a desperate airline.
     
    Crisis Ot The Week
    This star prize has to go to Brexit. it must have been obvious there was a chance the British public would choose to go, and everyone quickly forgot that until we kick off Article 50, nothing changes, and even then, there's still a two year negotiation period. Come on Simon Templar. Shoot the bad guys, kiss the girl, and put Britain back on course. At the moment you're a lot more real than some of our overpaid politicians.
  8. caldrail

    My Foggy Day

    By caldrail,

    Weather... Funny thing weather... We seem to have more of it than any other nation in the world and yet we seem uttely incapable of coping with it. All part of being British I supose.
     
    Over the last few days we've had fog to contend with. You would think that might cause a few problems with getting around.and you know what? You're right. It has.
     
    As for me I had a job interview to go to. The agency that put me onto it was so worried that the fog might put me off that they called me on the phone while I was on my way there. Am I going? Yes. Do I know where to go? Yes. That sorted her out.
     
    I arrived at the site and luckily for me the interview was being held in a premises I'd worked in once before. That way I knew where it was without resorting to GPS, anxious telephone calls, or simply sending up a rescue flare if all else fails. Thing is thoug, the lady on the reception desk looked perplexed when I announced myself.
     
    "You are not on list" She replied in deep Polish lilt. Really? My mobile phone says different. Obviously fog is not so thick in Poland. Anyway, I stood my ground, she lost patience with me, and went to fetch a manger.
     
    The manager didn't know what I was talking about either. So he phoned his manager, and he didn't know either. This fog really is stern stuff. It reduces memory, intelligence, amd many higher brain functions. I should know. The ability test I had to sit through comprised of fiendish maths and english questions designed to fool the illegal immigrant, thwart the dimwitted, or basically accelerate the degeneration of brain tissue that still clings on for dear life inside my aging skull. But I passed. Fog or no fog.
     
    And the sun has come out! What a nice day. Start work on Monday fella. No excuses. Not even fog.
  9. caldrail

    Back To The Old Game

    By caldrail,

    You find me in a very reflective mood. It's time to blog again. Not sure why, I guess it's one of those strange inponderables of life. So.... Where to begin?....
     
    The Simpsons has an intro sketch featuring a gag with Bart daubing his lines on a school blackboard before escaping on skateboard, followed by the family gathering to watch tv in novel and amusing variety. Family Guy has the Broadway musical intro. South Park has South Parkesque imagery to tempt the senses and attract those with short attention spans. The Rushey Platt Villa (This blog) has... Well.... this paragraph of text to welcome you to the all new 2014 summer season. Feel cheated?
     
    My cliff hanger ending in the previous post was that I had to go back to work. It's true, I did. My claims advsor believed that going on another 'crappy course' (her words, not mine) wasn't going to do any good, so maybe having to earn my benefits might. So she sent me to a local charity to work as a volunteer on a Mandatory Work Placement. Whether I liked it or not.
     
    Weather Or Not
    What is going on? This is supposed to be August. Here in Britain this is the time for country walks along leafy lanes, sitting in deckchairs waiting to scramble some Spitfires, watching a group of men undergo a strange pagan ritual called Cricket, and arguing with the neighbours about loud parties.
     
    July pretty much met those criteria for a British summer. The days were long and hot, I got sunburnt in the line of duty as an enlisted charity volunteer, and there were a couple of tiffs with neighbours concerning their desire to get into the mood for a night out clubbing. It seems they bought one of those new fangled soundbar devices that improve bass response that make music and television not just bearable, but an experience to be shared with the whole street.
     
    We've had a flaming July, now meet the Arctic August. Temperatures fell to as little as one degree Centigrade last night. One degree? A smidgin above freezing? Somebody got their calculations wrong about Global Warning I think. Bring back the Industrial Revolution - it was the only thing keeping Britain warm in summer and me in gainful employment
     
    Gone But Not Forgotten
    Of course it hasn't all been fun and sun. My mother departed her mortal coil a few weeks ago. To be fair, she was pretty certain to go sooner or later, what with age, infirmity, and that sense that her anchor to the mundane world was slipping. At least she went with some dignity.
     
    I must of course spare some thought for the execution of an american journalist. I never saw the video on YouTube (not my kind of fun saturday night viewing if I were honest) but the circumstances don't suprise me. Islamic State have little or nothing to do with Islam - it's all about rule by violence and fear, which if I'm not mistaken isn't what the Quran suggests its readers should do. They are the natural evolution of the radical behaviour that extremists have been nurturing for a long time. As we suffered the outbreak of international terrorism sponsored by political nihilsim two or three decades ago, now we face the outbreak of international violence sponsored by religious nihilism.
     
    It is sadly part of the human experience. Every so often a group emerges under a leader determined to build power by becomiing the Junkyard Dog, the King of the Hill. Not so much Islamic State, more like Islamic Nazis.
     
    Reminisence Of The Week
    Okay, I admit it, just occaisionally during July we had the odd shower or two, sometimes a bit thunderous. By good fortune and the foresight to believe the weather girls on telelvision I avoided the downpours. In fact, the onnly serious rain that caught me was on the day of my mothers funeral. She had the last laugh after all
     
    Yet despite the doom and gloom of enviromental disasters, wars, inadvertant shooting down of passenger jets, the loss of family, and the occaisional drenching, there is always something about life to bring back the smile. A few nights ago the BBC reached into the archives and pulled out Kate Bush, the waif like singer with flowing dances and high pitched vocals responsible for Wuthering Heights.
     
    I'd forgotten what an impact that woman had made on popular music. Listening to the old favourites once again brought back many happy memories of my younger days. I am of course envious of her talent, her ability to express herself musically. For me musical expression is so much more difficult, so many ideas I'm just not able to breathe life into. It all came so naturally to her.
     
    An interview with comedian Steve Coogan told how she came to see his show which lampooned her work, and was polite enough to remark that it was good to hear all those old songs again. She's right. It was.
  10. caldrail
    I got drafted. There's no other word for it. David Cameron's Big Society means that I have social responsibility and thus I must accept that occupational contribution, voluntary work, workfare, or whatever you want to call it, is now feature of being unemployed. So I reported to the charity organisation as ordered, only unlike National Serice of previous generations, I didn't bring a sitcase and toothbrush.
     
    Not everyone who volunteers gets through basic training. A few listless youngsters faded away over the first few days. The professional malingerer Mr J was there, immedioately claiming that he suffered from this ailment or that, what cruel world world it was, that voluntary work was too lowly for him, or whatever excuse he could think of. And once again, he stomped out in moral outrage, going back to his laid back llifestyle while I and others roisk life and limb in the secondhand furniture trade.
     
    The charity I was ordered to volunteer for was a sort of furniture warehouse combined with a cafe. The sort of place whee you can drp in, enjoy a coffee, exchange a bit of banter, and buy some secondhand furniture. The furniture gets donated by all sorts of people, rich or poor, so that people without money can purchase stuff other people don't want.
     
    My first day was in the workshop, sanding down neglected garden table and chairs, and then to varnish them. Not with any old creosote mind you, thinned down yacht varnish. Only the best for the financially challenged. Of course it was pointless arguing. The workshop leader was an old craftsman who didn't talk to anyone else and got disgruntled by everyone elses lack of craftmanship. Like mine, as it transpires.
     
    So I spent the day mindlessly daubing the table and chairs with none-too-cheap varnish and getting suburnt. Aside from the lack of olive green clothes and some african american sergeant in a slouch hat yelling ayt me to do yet more press ups, the oppressive heat of our flaming July, I might as well as gotten off a bus at Biloxi in the deep south of the USA. All for Queen and country. I'm in the Charity now.
     
    Opinion Of The Week
    I happened to be watching the news channel Al Jazeerah the other day and along came a report about a film festival somewhere out there in the world. There's a strong theme of war films apparently, with no punches barred, covering some controversial subjects. It inspired an interview with someone who spouted this little nugget of ridiculous wisdom...
     
    The purpose of art is to force us to face our most painful truths
     
    What? That most of us are either talentless or gifted con merchants? Art exists as a form of expression. We can express anything. Romanticism, entertainment, drama, political beliefs, religious sentiment, or simply a statement of ego. If you want to comunicate pain, so be it. Personally I like my landscapes, or those pictures that invoke moods and dreams. I already know the truth of it - that I prefer the escapism, the suggestion that I'm glimpsing a time and place I canot otherwise experience..
     
    But getting back to the point, what do we want to see in a war film? I note that the nastiness of war is becoming the prevalent theme. Camaraderie, heroism - these aren't forbidden subjects but it seems as if they're deeply unfashionable. Why is the world film industry suddenly getting so moral and determined to express political controversy? Is it because there are important messages to be said, or is it because people are bored with commercial stereotype movies, or is the constant barrage of media broadcasts politicising our view of human conflict and the injustices it generates? News reports don't change the world into a better place, so I seriously doubt art is going to. However seriously some artists want to be taken.
  11. caldrail

    Going Wild

    By caldrail,

    Right now the wildlife in my home town is on full throttle. Most of the older foxes I got to know and name have disappeared, replaced by lots of young striplings who are busy learning the art of surviving in Swindon now that mum has kicked them out of the nest. Along one street in particular, you often see rubbish in those blue polythene bags the Council supply left out for collection but in a few instances, ripped open and the contents spilled across the pavement. I suppose for the most part residents blame the very same foxes I see every night, as well as the ones you hear shrieking in the distance. But they might be wrong.
     
    In fact I know they are. I often see a badger on this one street in the early hours of the morning, waddling around at a brisk pace. Normally he sees me coming and scarpers. Once I surprised him in one of those tiny front yards you see in Edwardian brick terraces. Again, it made a quick escape. The other night I was heading the same way. There he was, snuffling at a bag of rubbish, a silhouette in the lamplight but unmistakeable.
     
    It didn't matter to me. I had other places to go, and so continued along the pavement, wondering when the badger would notice. he didn't. Tucking into someone's discarded takeaway, he was lapping up every morsel and enjoying his free meal to the max. So engrossed he was that I walked right up to him, stunned he could be so careless. There he was, right at my feet, a wild badger doing badger things. The moment had to pass because I needed to carry onward, so I tapped the ground and quietly said hello. Immediately the badger realised something was not quite right. He tensed. Then, with a careful sideways glance, he realised the danger, and immediately fled under a nearby car. I went my way, he went his. Life goes on.
     
    Oh No You Don't
    I live in what must be described a noisy part of town. Drunkards and partygoers often stroll past the house. In the quiet hours of the morning, they sometimes pay rather too much attention to my home than I would like. Last night I kept hearing noises that made me suspicious, as far as you can be when you're half asleep. Upon investigation I saw nothing untoward. However, later that same night, I heard the sound of a few miscreants being herded into a police van and driven off. Whatever they were getting up to, it ain't happening now.
     
    Scramble of the Week
    At the local park it's usual to see a swan or two on the lake. On one particular morning there were five, lazily drifting around the surface of the water aimlessly as they do. Now once in the past I witnessed an angry swan cross that lake semi-airborne, heading right for me. It was a fairly intimidating sight. But for some reason these five swans decided it was time for a squadron scramble. All of them hurtled across the lake, their wings audibly beating, stretching forward and really going for it together. Erm....
     
    At the last minute they realised the Luftwaffe were not bombing Swindon and gave up their race across the lake, settling down into the water again with a noisy bow wave. Oh good. But that was definitely an experience.
  12. caldrail

    Almost Nothing

    By caldrail,

    Good grief. It's nearly half way through February and my poor deprived readers have had no news and whinges from me since the festive season. Fear not, brave public, you are not forgotten. At no cost to the country's economy and tattered finances, without the need for UN convoys and airlifts, without the need for drone and bombing attacks to clear obstructions, I bring the latest, and I mean late, news from the Rushey Platt Villa.
     
    [bSnowfall [/b]
    There I was, knee deep in cardboard boxes, stuffing them into a crushing machine while fending off colleagues who saw my job as an easier option than theirs, when I spotted it. Snow? Was that snow falling outside? Of course I couldn't miss the opportunity to head over to the door of the warehouse and have a looksee. It was. Nothing special or disastrous, just a few flurries of wintery weather to please the British heart after our lacklustre Christmas.
     
    "What is that stuff coming out of the sky?" Asked a forklifter. He really didn't know. That was the first time he had ever witnessed snow in his life, and in his far off homeland in sub-tropical Goa, snow just does not happen. Another Goan was nervous, not really understanding what snow was, and worried about possible side effects. One the other hand, one Polish girl prayed the snow would get heavier so she could build a snowman like she did back home. Well, despite the repeated warnings on weather reports, the snow flurries across England were fairly feeble and here in rainy old Swindon we got almost nothing.
     
    Fighting Hunger
    There are times we think our employer gives us almost nothing. Oh sure we get paid, but there's an insidious lack of morale as the targets we have to meet only get higher with fewer resources to achieve them. Maybe I'm whinging a little. After all, the company did pay for a Christmas dinner and a week or two ago we got a free fish and chips. Yummy. I notice the bottles of tomato ketchup and mayonnaise left on the tables afterward quickly started evaporating.
     
    President Of The Week
    Who else but Donald Trump? Clearly expecting to rule by decree and change the face of the Earth with clicks of his fingers and swipes of his expensive pens, he has run straight into a lesson on co-operation mounted by the judiciary branch of American government, one we never normally hear anything about in Britain. The funny things was that I debated with a colleague at work about whether Trump would get a lesson, but I confess I thought it was going to be from the security services, not the judges. So his executive order to ban travel from suspicious states achieves almost nothing. Thus he threatens to make another.
     
    How the Russians must be laughing. All that effort to rig the electoral system, all those spies wandering around taking photographs and exchanging envelopes of secret information, all those bugs and whistleblowers and Wikileaks.... All the Russians have to do is follow Trump on Twitter.
  13. caldrail
    "It's Starwars Day" proclaimed one of my colleagues at work. Huh? What's that all about? Well, it turns out that "May The Fourth Be With You" has become an annual urban festival amongst those who cannot tell fantasy from real life. My boss noted my disapproving expression and chuckled.
     
    So in order to restore the balance of the Universe and allow the Dark Side its right of public expression, I suggest "May the Sixth Be With You", which for those who have lived in backwoods cabin for the last three decades is a play on words between the date, sixth, and the alien dark side faction, the Sith (Who featured in Starwars Episode One, The Phantom menace.
     
    Okay. You can go back to sleep now.
     
    Wake Up Call
    Trumpy has done it. He's got the Republican US presidential nomination. A triumph for celebrity tycoonship. In Britain we're a bit more canny, preventing Alan Sugar from world domination by making him a noble. However international politics will change as a result if he wins the final vote. Expect hard bargaining and a gruelling thirteen week 'last man standing' battle as America seeks its Apprentice. Talk about the Dark Side....
     
    Cute Moment of the Week
    The other day I discovered Herbie the Hedgehog has a friend. There they were, both snuffling in the grass together. Awww..... Funny thing is normally hedgehogs end up as a somewhat flat pile of squishy goo, and given that Herbie snuffles next to a main road, you have to admire his survival instincts. Or perhaps he stretches out with his feelings? Letting the Force guide him in his do or die struggles with Dark Side motorists?
  14. caldrail

    Cold, Gold, And Bold

    By caldrail,

    The weather is getting colder. The words of wisdom issued by weather girls on television isn't necessary for me to know that, With doors open to the elements the ambient warmth is quickly defeated by draughts or breezes that penetrate. One young lady from Poland is suffering from the decline in British weather. It's laughable, it really is, because in her country the winters can be way more severe, yet she stands shivering in the same ambient warmth that we Britons take for granted in the workplace. And that's after the company issued everyone with bulky winter jackets. Forklifters are wandering around in garments that would protect them from the Atlantic swell, one increasingly resembling a WW1 air ace, and layers of clothing like hoodies are much in evidence. Yet although the outside gets very cold at night now, the inside temperature is much the same as it has been for the past month. One colleague who works on waste is now spending much more time indoors. I asked him about that. He said it was because the next shift was coming in and making his job difficult. Yeah. Right.
     
    My Phone Company
    Two weeks ago I discovered my mobile phone was blocked. Apparently I needed a PUK code to get it working again. As you might expect, security issues mean that you can only get PUK's from your mobile provider, as I quickly discovered. I tried to use their website but my account number wasn't accepted. Oh great. So I looked through my statement and found the hel mail address. Which they don't recognise any more. You have to use the website. Which I cannot use because they gave me an account number lost in the files marked 'Miscellaneous'.
     
    Does this company want my business? Do they want any business at all? yes, Virgin Mobile, I'm talking about you, and your lack of customer service. Your loss I guess.
     
    Driver of the Week
    This much admired accolade goes to the moslem lady I saw the other day. Right now one major road junction in town is being upgraded with work expected to last until January and big delays advised by electric signs. Motorists for the most part are taking it all in their stride, queuing up responsibly and patiently, but this lady? Apparently she'd taken the wrong exit, but instead of finding a more suitable turning place she decided that continuing was not a good thing and proceeded to cut across the unsurfaced road marked off by road cones. her car wobbled over the rough terrain, confused motorists unsure of what she was up to, and with complete determination she turned onto the opposite lane and squeezed into traffic. And not a single horn was blasted in her direction. Keeping Allah a bit busy there, I suspect.
  15. caldrail
    In the shed next door to ours is a load of disused racking. UT, otherwise known as the 'Gypsy', has always insisted that the site manager, NF, had told him he could take it away anytime. NF on the other hand argues the opposite, and insists on payment. Well finally The Gypsy had his way and turned up to dismantle the racking and cart it away fror scrap. He borrowed a screwdriver from us for the purpose.
     
    UT and Small H have their own way of dismantling. Instead of top down as any sane person would, they insist of doing it from the bottom up, and manoevered their van to support the structure and prevent it knocking the sheds over.
     
    As usual UT stopped by to eat lunch and have tea, and apart from having to chase after his van to pull the handbrake on, life carried on at a leisurely pace.
     
    "Have you got that screwdriver? " I asked.
     
    UT told Small H to fetch it. Small H said he didn't know where it was. There then followed a series of farcical searches and accusations. This continued until AD threatened to withdraw teabreak privileges. The screwdriver was quickly found in UT's toolbox.
     
    "Don't know how it got there..." They said....
     
    Revelation of the Week
    According to Small H, millionaires have the habit of going to London and busking as One Man Bands. He knows because he's seen it, and Small H admitted to performing as a One Man Band in his younger days. He had to give it up because he didn't want to be famous. Now you know...
  16. caldrail
    I have a strange feeling it might be nearly Christmas again. My suspicions were raised when my local supermarket began playing the very same Christmas hits - you know the ones, I won't traumatise you with their memory. The next clue was the presence of a brass band playing .. well... Christmassy tunes. One of them was out of tune. I know this because I happen to be a musician. The final clue in this insidious seasonal plot was the strange pleasantness exhibited by the managers at work. It's a strange experience to have the top boss of the site demanding to know whether I wanted parsnips for my Christmas lunch.
     
    The bad side of things is that I sustained an injury at work. One of those stupid ones too. Normally I do pay attention to health and safety in the workplace, especially since I went on a course and got a neat if somewhat useless certificate to prove it, but on this occaision, working under pressure and getting a little complacent, I reached inside the baling machine to remove some pesky excess cardboard and forgot to support my weight. So my foot slipped on the ledge I was using and my ribs connected rather sharply with the edge of the hatch. The machine won.
     
    Nothing broken - I think - but I've been on pain killers and lying in bed is excruciatingly uncomfortable. But never fear, Captain Compactor is still here, fighting for tidiness, cleanliness, and the chance to survive a Christmas lunch.
     
    Addiction, Blindness, & Other Issues
    Every break from work we assemble in the canteen or outside in the designated smoking area. In the canteen, discussion soon ebbs away as mobile devices begin to dominate peoples attention. This happened the other day while I was sat at the table, both my colleagues fixated by small electronic boxes and not responding to my attempts to converse. Jeez... I had no idea Roman history was that dull... Anyway I began to advise one colleague who was busy playing a game, furiously tapping his thumbs on various virtual buttons and staring at the screen wide eyed.
     
    You know, I said, computer gaming isn't good for you. It can cause difficulties with social interaction, repetitive strain injuries, eyesight degradation, and psychological addiction.
     
    "Huh?" He said after a pause lasting several minutes. He had won. He showed me the 'victory' screen, and stared at me with a happy gaze of someone who has battled demons, robots, falling shapes, strange bouncy balls, and survived. Happiness at work? I hope the boss doesn't see that.
     
    "Just like you and your flight simulators then?" Said another colleague. Yes I suppose so. Oh, there goes the buzzer. Back to work fellas....
     
    Christmas Lunch Of The Year
    The confirmation of my fears that Christmas was back again came with the company seasonal lunch. It was an odd affair, with a senior Japanese delegate expecting all sorts of party atmosphere and getting a load of people staring at mobile devices in a desperate bid to escape reality. One colleague refused to pull his Christmas cracker on the grounds that it was silly. So I pulled it for him, gave him the enclosed joke, and handed him the plastic moustache that came as the gift. Oh how we laughed.
     
    Of course it wasn't all bad. Parsnips aside, the lunch was reasonable quality and given the normal diet of stale baguettes, curries, sandwiches, and crisps, it made a welcome relief especially because we didn't have to pay for it. But the best thing was seeing one of the admin ladies in tight jeans and high boots. Good grief. I had no idea the workplace was so exciting.
     
    Caldrail's Inevitable Xmas Message
    Have fun. No really. Stop shooting each other, arguing with your partner, swimming the cold Mediterranean, debating the oncoming disaster of Donald Trump, and just have fun, so the BBC News doesn't have to be so endlessly morbid. Or if smiling is too hard, buy each other mobile devices so you're too busy saving civilisation to argue. Have a great Christmas and New Year.
  17. caldrail

    Frustrated And Furious

    By caldrail,

    I am officially at war. Never wanted it to come to this but my Claims Advisor has gone too far. After inspiring me to apoplexy the week before, she made sure there were no independent witnesses in the office and attempted to provoke an incident, one which presumably would have me escorted off the premises and quite probably to a waiting police car outside. Sorry, I'm not falling for that one.
     
    As I look for work, I record each step I make, and I mean fairly exhaustively. That list has satisfied claims advisors since I started it in 2010. For some time now I've been copying that information onto a government website to record my jobsearching activity for all to see. Last week I mentioned this to my Claims Advisor, telling her that the records were available. She dismissed it. No use to her at all. Okay. I won't bother posting it then. Less work for me, although I still keep the list up to date.
     
    The next week she asked why the government website hadn't been updated. I reminded her we'd discussed that point previously., but she insisted she needed the information to know what I had been up to. Okay. Would she like a printed copy of the latest information? No, she tells me, it might just be typed up, an argument I found odd because I was only going to copy and paste the same information anyway. So she was demanded information she had already dismissed and then dismissed it again.
     
    And so on.
     
    Finally I gave up after a barrage of demands to account for some discrepancy in her investigation of my activity. I told her I'd had enough of this circus, threw my signing book on the desk, and told her to close my Jobseekers Benefit claim. Which she obviously hasn't, in order to portray me as reneging on my Jobseekers Agreement, which I haven't.
     
    So a little advice to all those unfortunate souls who have by chance found themselves in the dustbin of the employment marketplace. It makes no difference how diligent you are. It makes no difference how honest you are. It makes no difference how much jobsearching you do. When a Claims Advisor wants her bonus for christmas, she is going to find a reason to justify it, at your expense of course. Kiss your reputation goodbye, because as of now you're a dole cheat. Gulty until proven innocent.
     
    Of course if you're sitting on your backside because you don't want to work, that's your problem. I really don't care what happens to you.
     
    Pouring Cold Water On It
    The weather lately has been fairly wet. Hey, this is Britain you know. Yesterday I had to walk across town to attend a course at the local college (intended to improve my marketability in employment). With all the rain, there was a lot of standing water by the roadside. So I got splashed by a passing car. Then a line of three or four cars splashed me one after the other.
     
    Needless to say I vented my frustration loudly. Wasn't much else I could do. But you know, it has changed my mind. All those police video programs you see on television are blatant propaganda, however well intentioned. When do you actually come across a police officer so gentlemanly and fair minded? I'm no longer botjhered by this. Car dribers - or drivers of any other vehicle on the road - if you get caught, it's your own fault. I couldn't care less what hapens to you.
     
    Pilot Of The Week
    There I was this morning, diligently searching for work and making job applications at the Support Centre, when I heard one of their administrators mention to his boss "Hey, you've got a pilot on your case load".
     
    You've got one in the room too, I added. I mean me, if anyone hasn't come across my flying escapades on this blog. Not that it actually mattered as such, but I got to chat up a pretty young lady as a result. Oh yes. Those magnificent men...
  18. caldrail

    Crime Time

    By caldrail,

    I was watching one of those Police 'fly on the wall' programs recently. Not sure which, there's quite a few of them. Police Patience On Patrol? Motorway Mental Cases? Worlds Wildest Policewoman? Don't know. Anyway, this particular program featured Police action from my own home town. It was a little wierd watching them chase a joyrider outside my home. Given the date and time of night, I was undoubtedly at home, playing Grand Theft Auto into the wee small hours, tutting about yet another police siren whizzing up and down the street. Such is life.
     
    Nonetheless crime does go on around us. Just last night I was woken by something, suddenly aware that the diesel generator powering the array of amber and turquoise lights in the Old College site had gone silent. A distant command "Stop!" was clearly audible. Sadly life isn't quite the same as television or film, so there was no "You'll never take me alive copper!" and whatever drama took place, it was done largely silently. You never know, I might see the drama replayed with exciting commentary on television next year.
     
    It does appear however that for someone life did get a bit more dramatic. This morning I left the library having completed my job searching for the day, and saw two police cars parked in the square. You do see policemen at the library sometimes, and once I watched a troublemaker manhandled out of the building. No-one seemed to know what trouble he had actually caused, but since he was definitely a bit irate, shouting at the policemen to let him go with references to their parentage, then by the rules of television documentaries he was guilty as charged. But today there was no action. Just those police vehicles, but I couldn't help thinking that something more sinister than a tantrum had occurred.
     
    Then I saw the constable on guard duty outside a bookies. So something had gone down. A van labelled as belonging to the forensic team turned up to show what a serious incident had taken place. Journalists milled around outside with oversized cameras and busy phone calls. People like me stood around waiting for something to happen. Of course, it already had.
     
    The Case Of The Missing Eunos Cabriolet
    Nope. Still no leads on the fate of my stolen car. Not even after watching a documentary about police action in my area. But at least I know the first names of several police officers and their favourite make of car. You never know, could be valuable information in my enquiry.
     
    Issue of the Week
    This has to be the huge concerns of subsidence in my area given the huge chunk of the hillside recently removed by building contractors. My home is, and I quote, "right on the firing line". Rather worringly I have noticed a few new cracks in the wall though not so serious as the 1885 Baptist Chapel at the other end of the alleyway, which is no longer fit for use and has a huge great steel support bolted on the side to stop it falling over. Currently disused? I'm suprised no-one round here has thought of nicking it.
  19. caldrail

    Bang!

    By caldrail,

    Saturday night in my area is never entirely quiet. My street hapens to be a major path between Old Town on the hill and New Swindon at the bottom of it, with clusters of clubs and pubs at either end. So as you might imagine, the Swindon branch of the Inebriated Debating Society often pass by.
     
    If that wasn't bad enough, my neighbours are keen on playing music before they go out for the night on the basis it puts them in the mood. For what? Annoying people? It seems to work, because at half-past one they returned with a crowd of like-minded friends in tow, holding an emergency session of the Inebriated Shouting Society. I gather the Police stopped by to quiet them down.
     
    Then, an hour later, when their society meeting had run its course and they'd dispersed to spread mayhem around the borough of Swindon, my neighbours decided to play music, because they were in the mood. This time I had to bang on their door. Is that your music?
     
    "Erm... Yes it is..." Said the startled young lady at the door, "You want me to turn it down?"
     
    Might be a good idea at this point.
     
    Finally, in the wee small hours, long after all the fast food and indian restaurants are closed, somebodies girlfriend outside my home side "I'm hungry.... Fooooood!". Of course she could have been a wandering werewolf or perhaps a zombie searching for brains, or maybe an immigrant from the jungles of New Guinea, I don't know. What I do know is she will very likely go hungry until she gets home. Somebody point her in the right direction please...
     
    Indian Restaurant
    Having mentioned indian restaurants, I shoukld mention that I tried a new last night, during the somewhat quieter period when my neighbours were summoning their allies to the relentless thud of a nightclub metronome. The food was very good quality, I have to say, albeit something of an expensive extravagance for my income, but a little of what you like does you good (until today, when the race for the toilet becomes an excruciating exercise for your lower cheek muscles). However, whilst I waited for the meal to be cooked and handed over, I became aware that all the customers were Asians. Every last one of them. I don't begrudge them residency in Britain or the availability of dining out, it's just a very strange feeling to be the only Briton in a restaurant in Britain.
     
    Question Of The Week
    Who is Barry Scott anyway? I ask this because we often see him on television advertising a certain cleaning product, looking glassy eyed after experiencing some purple painted form of high speed transport. I susect those of you spared British television won't even have heard of him. But it occurred to me he's perfect for the US firearms industry.
     
    "Wow, that was a fast reload.. When you need home defence... Bang, and the dirt is gone."
  20. caldrail

    The Popular Choice

    By caldrail,

    Another local newsletter fell through my letter box the other day. It seems our fair town of Swindon wants to change, wants to progress, wants to become a cultural vanguard. Yeah? Really? The civic leaders and planners trumpeted that line thirty years ago, which shows how little vanguarding they managed to achieve.
     
    One of their former pet projects, the 'circus tent' market hall, is to be demolished which has alarmed local traders who can't afford the high street premises. The planners haven't said so, but clearly that building wasn't the success they dreamed of. Worse is yet to come. Finally approving a plan to restore the old Victorian era Locarno building, currently a burned out shell, what do I see? Restaurants. Lots of restaurants. Swindon was once known for having the greatest concentration of drinking dens in one square mile, now it wants to be known as the place where you stuff yourself silly. As if it has escaped the attention of planners that many of our local restaurant premises are vacant or closed for business. But it seems you can't have culture without places to consume expensive gourmet food.
     
    Hmmm... But most of those premises aren't open commercially....
     
    A Bird In The Rafters
    At work I left the rest area and headed back toward the warehouse floor, a daily ritual that one must complete with strict adherence to the timetable or suffer the wrath of management. On this particular day I met a guy by the forklift garage, holding an extensible plastic rod that was wobbling right up the top of our modern tin shack. A bird was trying to nest in the steel beam rafters. Not the usual pigeon - those birds seem to nest anywhere and don't much care who walks underneath - but a large heron, a bird more accustomed to natural waterside surroundings. I watched as it got fed up of being prodded and effortlessly winged its way to another perch, where it would await another prodding. Lovely bird, but it can't stay in the warehouse.
     
    I wonder why it came inside? To find a safe nesting spot? Seeking a warmer nesting spot? Or perhaps it was looking for a restaurant?
     
    Working With Machines
    One job I regularly undertake is compacting cardboard and plastic rubbish in hydraulic baling machines. They're powerful beasties, crushing the waste with 3,000lbs/sq in (Hey, imperial measurements buddy - we're talking Brexit here). The amount of packaging used by car parts suppliers is enormous and you would expect it to be, since each article has to arrive at the production line absolutely spotless and perfect. The only problem is of course that I have to let the other two shifts use 'my' machines when I'm not there, and what a mess they make. Wires not properly installed making it difficult to extract the finished bale, or more usually, simply over-filling the machine until it isn't possible to bale it at all. Oh no. They've done it again. So I have to open the doors and let the rubbish cascade out onto the floor and repack it properly. And stop well meaning colleagues from trying to stop the rubbish coming out. Life is full of action and adventure in waste management.
     
    The managers of course know the problem exists. They would do - I've told them - but nothing seems to improve. Oh well. At least there's been no weekend working for me to put right. One of the welding robots stopped working and its replacement caught fire. Technology is great isn't it?
     
    Election Ploy Of The Week
    Okay, against all odds, Donald Trump won enough Electoral College votes and that makes him President-Elect. But what do I hear? One party in America has decided the voting system has been hacked, and wants a recount. If enough states do that, and it only needs one or two, Hilary Clinton is technically the winner. Imagine that? Of course if Donald gets trumped at the last call - can they do that in America? - Clinton would likely be the least popular president ever. Now there's an achievement.
  21. caldrail

    Live At The Library

    By caldrail,

    Right now - this moment - it just started pouring with rain. Sunshine and showers the report had said and lo and behold as soon as I risk a journey to the local library, fate punishes me for my presumption with a cascade of water down the windows. So now I'm trapped in the same building as the rest of library going public.
     
    Oh ye gods, the rain it doth rain harder. It has just become a veritable deluge out there. Stand by for more updates as we go Live At The Library.
     
    Changes at the Industrial Estate
    Every day as I plod back and forth from work I pass through an industrial estate, and in particular, the back of one factory. Over the years a growth of silos, ducts, electrical transformers, cabling, piping, and extractor fans has spread out of the back wall like some industrial fungus. The racket it used to make was extraordinary. I swear one of the reasons I got into trouble not so long with benefit payments was because I answered my mobile in that locality and the person on the other end thought I was stood next to a jet airliner at an airport.
     
    Now it's all gone. Swept away by the cutting torch. All the myriad holes in the wall covered over with plywood and wire mesh. And in it's place the inevitable result of a blank canvas. The graffiti mice are busy decorating the wall with the usual urban hieroglyphics.
     
    More Foxy Stuff
    I saw three foxes hunting together a week ago. Three. If that's a mating trio, something strange is going on in Fox-Enders. Having spotted a number of foxes I don't recognise, clearly the wee beasties are doing well. Bertie the Badger still noses around peoples houses late at night, and Herbie the Hedgehog still snuffles in the grass beside a main road. Oh... Hang on....
     
    Weather Latest
    The rain has stopped. yes, ladies and gentlemen, in a surprise move Nature has decided that Swindon will be spared any further downpour, or at least until I venture out of the library. And now, back to the normal program....
     
    Yet More Foxiness
    I was told something interesting by a work colleague. He keeps a young cat and because he lives close to a main road, he only lets it out late at night. One night he'd gone back out to the call the cat in. It didn't answer. Naturally he began to worry. Again and again he called but no cat. Fearing the worst, he was about to give up when his precious pet wandered back through the undergrowth happy as larry, with his latest friend, a young fox, walking beside him. Awww.... Cute.
     
    Secure Shopping
    Now that the new shopping mall is available and just around the corner from where I live, I have begun availing myself of its products and produce. This frequent visiting has resulted in the security guards watching me closely, and to be fair, some of the comments made by the fresh meat staff haven't been exactly complimentary. The other day I'd had enough of the close scrutiny, so as the security guard passed me, I followed in a non-provocative manner watching him. He got the message. Now they watch me from thirty yards further away.
     
    And Finally
    The sun is out so it's bye for now. This is rainy old Swindon you know. Use that sunshine while it lasts.
  22. caldrail
    Where shall I go today? The library, so I can do more internetting? Or the Support Centre so I can do more job searching? It doesn't really matter because I'll end up doing both today as I do every day.
     
    Today I will go to the library first I think. Nothing ike variety in the working day. The road crossing outside the library also happens to be where the main entrance to the Old College building site is. The tarmac is crumbling under stress and has become a building site all of its own as repairs to the road take place.
     
    With lorries coming and going from the Old College site regularly, combined with the wet weather we've been having , the road is a shade of sandy brown with little ridges of half dry mud. The lads on the gate are often seen sweeping the mud away and occaisionally a lorry is parked nearby with a tank of water and cleaning apparatus.
     
    I've gotten used used to it I suppose. But I had to laugh earlier - I was following a pair of east european lads when one of them stopped short of the muddy entrance and refused to go any further. It's just a thin patina of mud, my friend, not quicksand. Honestly, they leave friends and family behind and travel hundreds of miles to discover that despite our wonderful benefits payments, they're just as at risk of getting their clothes dirty.
     
    Our Wonderful Benefits Payments
    It's a wonder I still qualify now that our glorious leader has declared war on claimants. Just the other day I received a huge form to fill in. it must be returned by the due date or payments may stop - the information must be correct or payments may stop - it must be retuirned in the correct envelope or payments may stop - Okay, okay, I get the message. I'll run around everywhere like a headless chicken collating all the information demanded. Phone the doctors surgery to get an exact date. No point phoning the Council - their phone system is designed to induce apoplexy in those attempting to pierce its defenses. I swear there are skeletons with boney fingers around a handset with a tinny voice repeating periodically "Please wait - we're trying to connect you to an advisor".
     
    Apparently I missed an interview at the Job Cente about my future as a jobseeker, which is why the form arrived through the post in the first place. It might help if I received it before the day afterward. But hey, that's how things are done in rainy old Swindon.
     
    Annoyance Of The Week
    Yes, it's our old friend, BFG. This morning I had the misfortune to be at the computer when she decided to sit in the next computer. If anyone else made the same running commentary of her woes concerning the library computers she'd throw a tantrum. Just ignore her. When she realises we're not paying her any attention, she'll eventually shut up.... Except she discovered the young lady on the helpdesk is a very helpful person and basically demanded that she ran errands while BFG struggled with her argumentative computer.
     
    Ding ding... Round three...
  23. caldrail
    Doris has been across England. It just isn't English to have storms and gale force gusts blasted the country, and someone really ought to do something about this freak weather. I mean, really.... But it happened. So I trudged four miles to work in a sort of unsteady zig-zag pattern depending on which way the wind was blowing. Luckily the rain held off. It was damp, a sort of fine spray, but no deluge made my life even more miserable than having to brave the elements each working day and endure the long hours of labour.
     
    Feed Me
    Our new big waster crusher is installed. It cost a vast sum of money - modesty and company privacy prevents me from mentioning the enormous wad of cash the installation has demanded.
     
    Over the last few months I've been getting familiar with each small baler and it's foibles. Reliable Olive, bad tempered Barney, lazy old Bob, neglected Nessie, and all the others. The engineer in charge of the new baler inadvertently called it 'Doris', and that is the name by which it shall be called. Doris it is. Now Doris is not a small machine. It's a veritable T Rex of a baler, permanently open mouthed and a 'feed me' expression it's sheet steel face. But times move on, I'm being put back on general duties, and Doris will have new keepers to tend to it's voracious appetite. Good.
     
    Boys Will Be Boys
    The high winds caused other problems for us, not least blowing rubbish down storage racking aisles that imposed obstacles for our long suffering forklift trucks. The answer that the managers conjured was to move an industrial 40ft skip inside the warehouse instead of leaving it out in the yard, so filling it could be done with doors closed. That would be fine, but one young colleague of mine, a former retail manager with a penchant for treating the workplace like an adventure playground, found organising the push as a great chance to climb, point, shout, and generally play at being important.
     
    The thing is I watched horrified as he rode the huge skip on top of a ladder whilst the forklift lifted, bumped, and edged the container forwards. That was visibly risky, and as soon as he was separate from everyone else, I headed over to remind him of Health & Safety in the Workplace. You see, in Britain this much hated concern has a very real relevance. If I see someone doing something dangerous and don't report or take action upon it, then any accident is just as much my own fault. That's enshrined in law.
     
    LP was not interested in my advice. "Yeah well you keep your opinions to yourself. You're not a manager." He told me firmly over his shoulder. Perhaps, but in view of his disrespect and blatent disregard for his own well-being, I had a word with a team leader who had a word with him.
     
    Of course that has now soured the relationship. We used to converse and joke together but frankly someone who once worked as a manger and keeps going on about becoming one again really ought to know better. He doesn't. His understanding of industrial practises are woeful, his attitude increasingly self important as managers come to rely on his organisational flair. Nonetheless, just as he reminded me, he isn't a manger either. And lately he's been given some very hard lessons on activity within the workplace, responsibility, and the prerogatives of status. Silly boy. But life is a learning process and hopefully for him, a safer one.
     
    Holiday Procedure of the Week
    This most coveted award must go to the agency I work for. I discovered a few days ago that if I don't book all my outstanding holiday by March 31st, I lose them, and the pay that goes with it. Oh great. Three Bank Holidays and a Spring Shutdown with no holiday allowance left afterward? Worst still, they gave me conflicting instructions on how to book a holiday. So as in most cases of these kinds, my internal emotional thermometer went straight to boiling point and angry phone calls were followed by visits of the agency rep to put me straight. A peace treaty concluded, I was told that my outstanding entitlement - which has to be calculated at Head Office - will be passed on to me by the end of the week. No, the end of the next week. No, the Wednesday after that. What a farce. Holiday request pending.
  24. caldrail

    An Open Answer

    By caldrail,

    There I was, sat at a computer in my local library happily webbing and internetting, when some bloke stolled past, leaned over, and whispered to me as he passed by. "Turn to christianity and all your problems will go away" He said.
     
    Well, problems are just part of life, which means his offer has an unintended fatal aspect. The thing is though, what he just offered can be considered at best unsavoury opportunism, or at worst, a form of blackmail. If he can stop my problems, then his morality in not stopping them until he benefits from it - and lets be straight about this - he intends to profit from me - is typical of the greedy Romanesque attitudes that christianity harbours to this day. I had actually decided not to post this issue on my blog after al - my temper having subsided - but since I've been threatened by some anonymous person to take back what I said or else, I've decided 'or else'. I'm not a servant.
     
    Not that long ago, a woman I used to know from my school days engaged me in conversation. Or more accurately, a sales pitch. She told me how one of her colleagues astounded doctors with a medical miracle as his ailing heart was mysteriously replaced by a healthy strong one following prayers when his mortal fate seemed imminent. I too could be part of her movement and enjoy the patronage of her favourite supreme being. To be honest, I suspect modern medicine and some obvious dishonesty by her colleagues has more to do with the man's recovery, if indeed he was ever ill.
     
    This is an issue that's been part of my life since I was a child. My mother made my conversion more important than any other aspect of my upbringing, and even to the end of her days, tried to get me to adopt her religion. Her methodology was to create situations so that I would learn about life and God. All she succeeded in was rendering me utterly baffled as to why things happened the way they did. And most importantly, she had made this very same offer. That I could be everything I wanted to be - if I signed up. She was however a somewhat misguided woman, however well intended, and don't they say that the Path to Hell is paved with god intentions?
     
    The structure of christian belief hides a form of virtual enslavement that I cannot agree to. I am, after all, somewhat Roman in my desire to preserve my free will and self determination despite the best efforts of those who want to pull my strings. Indeed, why would I turn to something I do not believe in? God will not rescue me from my problems because firstly I'm almost certainly too insignificant as an individual compared to the scale of the cosmos, and secondly because he doesn't exist. He's fiction. Invented by a society thousands of years ago to perform a social purpose that I refuse utterly to comply with.
     
    The truth is that divine intervention has a rather more mundane and mortal origin. Fate is the sum of all decisions and natural forxes. So my answer to you, Sir, whoever you were, is mind your own business. I'm not interested in your stupid cult, your false god, or your dishonest offer.
  25. caldrail

    Who Knows Better?

    By caldrail,

    You're the worst kind of propagandist who thinks he knows better than everyone else
    Guest private messge (some-1-better-than-u)
     
    Wow! Praise indeed. But Im not entirely sure what I'm propagandising.
     
    However, lets for the moment ask a serious question - Do I think I know better than everyone else? Of course I do - just like everyone else does, including my crtitic quoted above - it's a fundamental part of human self worth to believe your opinion is as good as anyone elses. Even when it isn't.
     
    As it happens I do know who some-1-better-than-u is - he made the mistake of calling me the same thing once before on a forum thread. However, despite his blatant immaturity, I remain calm, cool, and unconcerned that he stuck his virtual finger in my digital face. Mate, seriously, I was in the music business for twelve years, I know what criticisn feels like.
     
    But thanks for the compliment anyhow.
     
    More Facts And Figures For Non-Propagandists
    I also know other stuff too. My head is buzzing full of all sorts of stuff. Now before anyone thinks I'm on strange medication or suspicious substances, I can't help all those E numbers they put into food.
     
    So, did you know that my co-habitee at home is a rat called "You little monster"? You see, if you read my blog you'd know these things.
     
    Did you know how long rats live for? Three to five years in the wild, or until poisoned or caught by the human cohabitee who's getting a mite fed up of little puddles of piss on the kitchen floor.
     
    Did you know rats are intelligent creatures? Clearly in this battle of wills I'm outclassed by a small furry mammal, who so far has managed to elude every trap and stratagem I've concocted. Now unless this rat is Julius Caesar reincarnated (like most people are), it represents absolute and demonstratable proof that I don't know how to catch rats.
     
    No Hot Debate
    I had to laugh. There's some idiot on the internet news headlines who's declared that he's going to try and do without domestic utilities for a year to see if it's possible to live cheaply without them. Clearly he hasn't read my blog. It's already tried and tested mate. It's called unemployment.
     
    Propaganda Message Of The Week
    I know better than you. I know this because I have been told so. Now you know too. Knowledge is power! Send
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