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caldrail

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Blog Entries posted by caldrail

  1. caldrail

    Warm And Cold

    By caldrail,

    Shopping? Done. Interview at the job agency? Done. Gas account cancellation? Done. On my daily checklist I had only the obligatory online job search to do, so off to the library for another struggle with Microsoft's worst.
     
    Balloons? What's going on here? It's usually excessively warm in our local library but there seemed to be a much livelier atmosphere, and evidence of small scale partying. Worse still, as I ascended the stairs a jazz band started up, creating a very genteel background noise, like the sort of music you get in resteraunts.
     
    Years ago our band was driving through London along the embankment on our way home from a gig in early hours of the morning. We passed that odd resteraunt that stands on the riverside by itself between the trees, and our singer, Dave, commanded that the van be brought to a halt. Enough was enough. We'd all noticed the place every timne we went this way and finally his curiosity could bear no more. He had to find out what it was like in there. So I parked up for a while as a slightly inebriated folk-rock singer tried to gain access.
     
    The bouncers actually let him in to have a look. Apparently it was a very strange mystical experience with a rock band doing the impossible by playing at low volume as the clientelle ignored them in favour of expensive morsels and famous brand wines, and finally Dave re-emerged with the advice to bring a tie next time if he wanted to come in and eat. Sadly we were all struggling musicians without a penny between us, so that never happened,
     
    Okay, reminicense over, back to the library. I was expecting to be distracted by the music, but strangely, the easy listening tunes suited the mood and I got on - I strongly suspect I was typing in unison with the beat, but don't tell anyone.
     
    A guest singer was introduced who completely tortured 'Summertime' to death. Clearly not a finalist in X Factor then. Whether she was supposed to sing one song or not, that was it, and the band called everyone together before they found something interesting to do. A chorus of 'Happy Birthday' explained the change of pace. Oddly enough, when the band finished, the library started to empty. Maybe the guest singer was planning to sing again?
     
    Cold Facts
    I must be honest, now that my flat has no heating I am starting to notice the cold. Not for the first time, I have to say, just that now I can't do much about it except report my shivering on this blog.
     
    I notice that an MP has warned the gas companies not to use their customers as cash cows. Too late for me, I've already escaped the meadow, and worringly I quickly noticed newspaper headlines at the supermarket. A sharp freeze expected. Four inches of snow expected. Oh great.
     
    Well at least I live in Swindon. Thankfully our much maligned town doesn't seem to be greatly affected by weather - we never suffer the extremes you see on the evening news. One winter, the whole country was inundated with snow, drifts up to six feet deep, but Swindon? Not a flake. With luck the snow will pass us by this year too.
  2. caldrail

    Voices Raised In Anger

    By caldrail,

    Employment agencies are the bane of the jobseeker. Love them or loathe them, anyone on Jobseekers Allowance sooner or later must do business with them during their search for work.The problem is that these agencies aren't interested in finding you work - you're just not that important - but instead need to shove you into the first convenient role to fulfill their contractual obligations and profit margins.
     
    Unlike employers, agencies always do things at the last minute. There's always a sense that if you don't immediately agree to be enslaved then someone else will, the point being that they get paid for signing away their freedom and human rights whereas you get left with having to explain your failure to a claims advisor. Just today I struggled through the gale force winds to attend a work registration run by an agency, only to discover my on-going opportunity was merely two weeks casual labour. "It was in the email" He assured me. No, pal, it wasn't.
     
    This sort of thing happened to me a few days ago. I was at the ocal shopping mall, my mission to buy some frozen chips, when my mobile phone activated itself for the first time this year. Hello? The call was from a desperate recruitment agent. Can I start work early tomorrow morning? Errm....
     
    You see, my world has pretty much ground to a halt. My day was planned to the last detail. Go to the mall. Buy frozen chips. Go home. Cook chips for dinner. Sorted. Then this frantic guy on the other end of the phone wants to meet me at the local library to sign me up for a job on the outskirts of the known world and suddenly my brain starts remembering all the things I ought to have done by now and hadn't planned for. Seriously, you get so used to very simple lifestyle decisions as an unemployed person that conversations involving decisions on whether to do the right thing and return to the workplace before sunrise tomorrow actually become stressful.
     
    Eventually I agreed. There was nothing in his sales patter that meant the job was not for me, so I accepted that my fate was sealed. That meant I would have to notify the support centre, the dole office, Swindon Council, or anyone else with a vested interest in knowing whether I work for a living. A busy afternoon then. Here goes...
     
    Then he suggested we meet for a registration interview at the local library. Huh? Why the library? Apparently his office was way out of the town centre. It was just easier for all concerned. Okay. So I ended the call, bought my frozen chips, went home, had some chips for dinner, and then waited at the library as agreed.
     
    He never showed up. All I got afterward was a text message telling me he couldn't make it and that he'd speak to me later. He didn't. Is it just me, or did I just get used in some way?
     
    Threat of the Week
    There was a time when you could walk the streets in Swindon without hassle. Now little children hurl dog poo for a laugh, and youths trty to enforce territorial rights on passers-by like petty gangsters. Just today some acne-ridden wretch busy trying to make his secondhand hatchback look 'hot' said "Don't come this way again" in a hideously immature tone.
     
    Look mate, if by some quirk of fate you learned how to read and happen to be reading this instead of Facebook, then I have to tell you I was walking along a public thoroughfare. Since I was only going about my lawful business, you mind yours, and by the way, where did you get the money for that car?
  3. caldrail

    Idle Passions

    By caldrail,

    Bah! Humbug! it's that time of year when supermarkets try to get us to buy more stuff by playing Christmas Hits Of The Last Fifty Years over the tannoy. I asked a member of staff if the sound could be turned down - she walked away! I'm sorry, do you like Christmas?
     
    My Struggle With Earthy Girls
    Can't be bothered with all this Christmas rubbish. A young lady once told me that Christmas and New Year were the time of year when people are most likely to end it all. I didn't go out with her. But then, trying to go out with a woman is one of those things that very few of us are any good at but try anway out of some primeval urge to spawn more hapless generations that can't get off with a woman either.
     
    Here's a funny thing. People often sneer at sports car drivers and their apparent need to flaunt it because they've got it - I should know, I heard all the same comments back when I indulged in the cheaper end of the fast car market. Yet I found that women were attracted by the sight of my bright blue curvaceous and low slung speed machine. Not because of any extension of my physique (that's an unfortunate part of the male psyche), but because it suggested I was wealthy and successful (that's the unfortunate side of the female psyche - as much as hormones, pesonality, and physical attractiveness can spark our emotions, women do instinctively prefer a caveman to fill her larder, spawn her young, protect her from harm, and emable her deep rooted instinct to spend, spend, spend. Face it girls, you know I'm right)
     
    But flying aeroplanes? The kiss of death where girlfriends are concerned. Unless she happens to be one of the minority that actually like flying, most girls regard being in an aeroplane as a means either to be thrilled by adventure or to arrive somewhere interesting. Sitting in a grotty old Cessna for an hour, squeezed into a narrow cabin with a guy she hardly knows, subjected to the loud monotonous rasp and roar of a small aero-engine, feeling uninvolved in the entire process of getting from one place to another by air - she is quickly bored and can't escape. So unless you have access to a business jet and the money to reach a warm Mediterranean coast, the experience of flying won't make her think you're good in bed. Also, she will quickly realise that going out with you means she'll be sharing her bed with aviation magazines.
     
    What a great day to be flying. Isn't this fun?
     
    "Umm, Caldrail, we need to talk"
     
    Yes you're right. Hang on a moment Babe... "Eastwich, this is Romeo Juliet, overhead , routing south of London for Little Wimpton, over....
     
    "Caldrail, I've been doing some thinking"
     
    Yeah?
     
    "I don't think you and I are going anywhere."
     
    No no, really, it looks slow because we're so high. Look, we're doing 90 knots. That's over a hundred miles an hour.
     
    "So is anything going to happen?"
     
    Nah, you're okay, flying is the safest form of travel..... What?
     
    Drunkard Of The Week
    It was all quiet in the early hours last night Drunkards don't like quietness, it disturbs them, and normally at some point there's a singing contest, football chants, threats of physical violence, appeals to lost girlfriends, or sometimes incoherent yelling. However, this time we got a treat. A drunk singing that old English favourite...
     
    I'm forever blowing bubbles
    Pretty bubbles in the air
    They fly so high
    Nearly reach the sky
     
    .... At which point he either fell over, bumped into a lampost, got squished by a passing car, found a friendly policeman, or considering how much alcohol was in him, did something extremely dangerous like try to light a cigarette.
     
    The residents sighed, pulled their blankets and duvets over themselves, and went back to sleep.
  4. caldrail
    2014. At last. All those god awful christmas songs have been put back on the shelf for another eleven months and life returns to normal. Apart from floods in Britain and blizzards in the US, or the usual woes of war and famine elsewhere.
     
    There's also been a distinct lack of a Rapture - that's when Jesus returns and magically transports his believers into paradise leaving behind their worldly goods, which lets face it, would be a charter for looters here in Blighty. You have to admire End Timers for sheer stubborness in the face of reality. Ever since the Great Disappointment of 1844 they've been waiting for Jesus to get his act together - Still hasn't happened. Oh but it will, they tell us, and those of us not whisked away will suffer drunkeness, looting, and party political broadcasts.
     
    What kind of year has it been for me? Well, I've been Lord Caldrail for four years now and suprisingly it seems to be gaining some acceptance in the hallowed halls of the local Job Centre. Who would have thought the last bastion of working class socialism in Britain would find it in their hearts to recognise that dole claimants aren't all the same? So I look forward to another year of progress and who knows? Perhaps there really is gold at the end of a rainbow, a car that really is what the adverts describe, a lost city of Atlantis waiting to be discovered, or a government that will get it right.
     
    A Dog Is For Christmas
    Pets seem to be perrennial gifts and sadly, as we know, many get discarded one way or another. A mate of mine has had a different experience. His erstwhile girlfriend decided the dog was too cute to be left behind and departed with the animal. From what he tells me it was turning into a strange sort of 'tug-of-love' contest, but not only is the confused animal now back with its original owner, my friend has inherited a another puppy to keep it company. Of course putting two dogs together causes a slight problem in that they had to negotiate social status, rights, and pecking order, resulting in growls, chases, bitten fingers, much shouting and the usual chaos of animal interaction. However, all is well, as the next day he came downstair in the morning to discover that a treaty had been signed and both dogs were curled up asleep together. Awwww... Cute.... Well it was Christmas after all.
     
    Job Interview Of The Week
    A few days previously I'd applied for a job over the internet. The recruitment agency tried to get in touch, I tried to get in touch with them, but between the vagaries of my mobile phone and the hussle and bussle of recruitment, somehow contact was as easy as contacting space aliens on Planet Zarg.
     
    However, in the evening I received a phone call from a lady who wasn't my contact at the agency, but who was following up the application nonetheless. At least something's happening. She asked what I normally applied for then enquired why did I want this job?
     
    Well, it has something to do with being unemployed, needing to pay my bills, and satisfying a government hell bent on forcing me into the gutter. It isn't difficult to understand.
     
    Actually, it turned out she didn't understand. Not only was she unable to grasp why I applied for the job, she went into a minor tantrum and tried to give me the benefit of her opinions. Hmmm... Think I'll hang up and leave her to it. Clearly a woman without a dog this year.
  5. caldrail
    Work at the Old College site proceeds apace. I know this because firstly there's a huge jungle of steel girders blocking the view from my back window, and secondly, because they've starting demolition of the brickwork in one corner of the site in order to create the entrance to a new car park. Every time the digger brings down the bucket to smash the bricks the whole terrace of houses in which I live vibrates. Really, the house has been shaking intermittently for the last few days. I'm actually bouncing on my seat.
     
    Little Monkeys
    Monkeys can be entertaining to watch. Like other people I've marvelled at the graceful slow motion of Orangu-tangs, the lightning quick bursts of gymnastics from gibbons, or laughed at the parodies of human activity from chimpanzees. Actually, come to think of it, the closeness of human and primate behaviour can be a bit embarrassing sometimes. Like that male chimpanzee sat on top of a climbing frame in Auckland Zoo. As soon as he saw me watching him, he gave a big monkey grin, stood up, and enjpyed a very full on wee. Yes yes yes, I see you. They share 99% of our DNA you see.
     
    What do monkeys eat? I suspect the obvious answer for most of us is bananas. Finally, after millennia of keeping animals in captivity, one zoo has realised that monkeys are happier eating green vegetables. They behave better, and I suspect, enjoy fewer visits from the veterinarian and his pesky blowdarts.
     
    Here's the thing. Primates that eat bananas have too much sugar in their diet and it drives them... well... bananas. Which I suspect is largely the cause of Attention Deficit Disorder in young human beings. Not because of bananas I have to say, but because there's so much sugar in our diet overall. So give your kids less Sunny Delight, Cocopops, Halibo sweeties and maybe the local policeman with his pesky blowdarts won't be dragging the kids home every evening with acres of unreadable grafitti left in their wake. After all, why wouldn't the same thing work for our little monkeys, assuming you can ween them off stuff that tastes nice? There you go. Helpful dietary advice from Dr Caldrail.
     
    You know what? I fancy some chocolate right now... Ahh yeah... Yeah.. Oh that's good... Wow. Ah'm feelin' bad...
     
    Pretty Woman of the Week
    You have to be a bit wary of tabloid news stories, especially those connected with celebrities, but I couldn't help noticing recently that Cameron Diaz has been quoted as saying that we shouldn't refer to women as pretty because it forces the female of the species to strive toward a visiual ideal they may not be able to attain, and to suffer the mental torment of failing to achieve it.
     
    Cameron my love, you are such a silly girl. Quite apart from the fact that the female of the species causes the male no end of grief regarding their appearance, behaviour, commitment, and domestic capability, is your career based entirely based on your talent as an actress? Face it, if you were a frump, where would you be?
     
    You're a very pretty woman Cameron. So please stick to the script. It is, after all, your lifestyle choice.
  6. caldrail
    Cold, wet, miserable. That's pretty much how Swindon is right now, and that's probably not far different from how the rest of the country feels, give or take a flood here and there. Even my local Subway aren't smiling when I arrive to spend a few more hard earned dole payments on something to eat. Hey - It's not my fault this that or the other is on special offer this week.
     
    All is not lost however. The old Thompson Insurance place on the High Street - It's been empty for years - is being refitted as a suntan emporium. In Swindon? We don't know the meaning of sunshine. I've seen the machine itself, looking like something out of Star Trek. Well, I suppose it's appropriate. What with all the saturday night klingons we've got wandering around the town.
     
    Road Manners
    The work on the Old College site has spilled out onto the road junction beyond the fence. The pedestrian crossings are replaced by temporary versions next them, plastic fences erected everywhere, railings uprooted, traffic islands dug up. Motorists are a bit confused by all these changes - the other day a workman shouted at one old guy "Look mate! GIVE WAY!", which of course is exactly what most druivers aren't doing, turning the junction into a motorised russian roulette. Mind you, the presence of a police car certainly made some motorists a bit more obedient.
     
    There's a dark blue Ford Mustang that I sometimes see burbling around the town. Not one of the classic versions, it's the new model, looking oddly exotic in rainy old Swindon. For my tastes it stands too tall on the road - practical but not really sporty. The thing is the driver, for reasons known only to himself, likes to rev the engine when he passes me. Sorry mate, Im not gay, no matter what that fat idiot on the gate of the Old College site says.
     
    Anyway, I was walking along the local high street and there he was again. Vrooom! Actually, the V8 sounds great,and for that matter I can't condemn him for exuberance. Heaven knows I've done my share of exuberant driving in the past. But unfortunately I wasn't the only one who heard that blip on the accelerator. The driver didn't see the police car waiting to pull out behind a parked vehicle. Ooops.
     
    Car Advert Of The Week
    There's a glossy television advert doing the rounds right now for the Nissan Qashqai. I suppose they have to advertise it - cars of that sort don't sell themselves - but I had to laugh. The advert features a man taling hold of a metal bar suspended on a pulley and cable, wafting down the city boulevard at night, with the voiceover claiming that all cars should drive like that. What? Hanging on for dear life, unable to stop, and unable to steer? Not my idea of driving a car, I have to say.
  7. caldrail

    Not Impressed

    By caldrail,

    The Old College site still looms large in our local concerns. Even now, they're still trucking huge lumps of hillside away to some infill site somewhere. The sandy soil has now gone so they're digging up dark grey clay, thick lumpy soil that forms steep sided piles. The rain hasn't helped of course. looking down onto the site it got quite messy down there for a while - they've had to lay down a level of rubble to make the surface usable.
     
    The other day I was passing the site with my shopping, noticing that the roadway they'd dug up had flooded. Quite an impressive puddle it was too, although I don't think the civil engineer I spoke to was too impressed with my sense of humour. Worse still, subsidence has reared its ugly head. There's a meeting at our local civic offices for citizens none too imopressed with cracks in the walls of their homes.
     
    Meanwhile, Back At The Job Centre
    My claims advisor is not impressed. This time however it isn;t me. It seems the usual protocol of queuing until spoken to has not been taught to a younger generation, who clearly have more important things to do with their time than attend the Job Centre when required.
     
    Energy Bill Of The Week
    Back in October I had a bit of an argument with my gas supplier. They wanted to add a standing charge to my tariff which would more than double the cost of gas over winter. It's okay though, because David Cameron says there's no cost of living crisis.
     
    So, in an event to prove our glorious leader is infallible, I basically told the gas company to close my contract. Don't want your stupid gas any more. You wouldn't believe the excuses they came out with to avoid doing that. Apparently cancelling a gas supply is illegal or something like that. Don't care. Cancel it. So they wrote to me telliing me that gas supply is the basis of all civilisation. So I wrote to them cancelling my contract officially. Good riddance.
     
    Imagine then my alarm this week, three months after I had forgotten the existence of natural gas, when I received a gas bill for using no gas whatsoever. Are they serious? Do they really believe that I'm going to pay? Guys - The contract is cancelled! It's been cancelled for three months! Deal with it!
  8. caldrail

    It's Good To Talk

    By caldrail,

    Was it something I said? Apparently, yes, it was. You might want to sit comfortably at this point because I want to begin this sorry tale of miscommunication.
     
    Too late, I've started.
     
    It was a dark and stormy night when I fired up the computer to search for employment. No, I'm lying, the weather's been quite reasonable lately and it was mid morning at the local library, so the only risk was a librarian moaning about my military surplus trousers and an ugly stare from the security guard who for some strange reason gives me ugly stares.
     
    Clothes do strange things to people in Swindon. My Gap hoody has made me the mortal enemy of a youth gang, off duty servicemen mock my baseball cap, and people in the bus queue down the road complain that I never change my clothes. Oh good grief. I change my socks every six months or when they fall apart, whichever happens first. Hey, I'm a single guy. What do you expect?
     
    Anyway, I'm obliged by my Job Seekers Contract to use the government's Universal Jobmatch website. So I pulled up the site and searched for gainful employment. As it happens I found a vacancy. Woo hoo! Somebody wants a Warehouse Operative. You would expect at this time that I would read the job description and see if the job was right for me. Nope, I'm also obliged to apply for the jobs I find. So the company, location, hours, pay and conditions are actually largely irrelevant.
     
    Oh... Hang on... Where's the 'Apply' button? There isn't one. Now that's suspicious. Just a phone number to a job agency. So I pulled up the agency website and searched for the vacancy. Not found. Even suspiciouser...
     
    No alternative but to phone the number provided then. The one good thing of using an ordinary telephone is that the recipient can't see my clothes. Heaven knows what reaction that would have caused. It dawned on me after the woman answered that I'd phoned her once before concerning another Warehuse Operative job. I seem to remember that for some inexplicable reason she threw a hissy fit. I might have hung up on her. I'm thoughtful like that. Wouldn't want her trantrum to cause her any embarrasement.
     
    This time we discussed my sporadic career history and for some inexplicable reason she gave me a lecture on the ramifactions of health & safety legislation in the workplace. Can she see my clothes somehow? Eventually I managed to get a word in and she moaned that she was only trying to help. From this point it sort of got worse. I think she was trying to control the conversation and couldn't handle a jobseeker trying to get her to impart information slow enough to write down. Woah! Slower! You spell your last name how?
     
    "I don't like the way you're speaking to me" She said. Here we go again. She said that the other time too. I might have hung up on her again.
     
    Primate Alert
    "I know you can hear me" Someone said outside my home. The weather's been a bit humid of late so the open window was too much of a temptation for him. He simply had to make some kind of taunt, threat, insult, or a reminder that he wants me to believe he's the most dangerous dude on the block. You know how it is when you're young, trying to make a name for yourself in the 'hood. Well, youngster, you're right. I can hear you. The real problem you have however is that I'm still not listening.
     
    Migration Of The Week
    There's an advert on television that comes around quite often. It reminds us that Yellowstone Park is an active volcano and shows a bear relaxing in the grass with all the time in the world. "He has no idea" Says the voiceover. Apparently some of the animals do, because they've been spotted leaving the park by the nearest convenient tarmac road. No-one told the bear obviously. Right now he's probably wondering why he has a national park to himself.
     
    So while the grizzly bear is headed for extinction the local bison have evolved to the point where their brains now comprehend the purpose of tarmac roads. They haven't quite managed to invent the internal combustion yet but I guess hooves are something of an obstacle to drawing blueprints. On the other hand maybe they simply decided that grizzly bears are not good neighbours.
  9. caldrail

    What A Lovely Day

    By caldrail,

    For the last week the weather has been glorious. All the hassles, disappointments, and frustrations of dealing with recruitment agents seem somehow pointless compared to getting out and enjoying the sunshine. Just the other weekend I took a walk along a cycle path in that strange unfinished part of Wichelstowe, roads and streets spread across empty farmland and the onset of green leaves. Not only was my journey shared by the usual crowd of cyclist, dog walkers, and chain gangs of rubbish collectors on community service, but all of a sudden aviation seemed to realise that flying weather was with us again. Piper Cherokees flew by with their warbling rasp. Piper Cubs ambled overhead with their soft rattle. Paragliders hung under their graceful arch of silk, wheeling gently around the sky. For a moment I remembered how it was when I used to fly.
     
    Sunshine at an airfield is pretty merciless. There's no shade out there in the open, and only a gentle breeze makes it bearable. You can always smell grass as you stride across the field toward the line of waiting aeroplanes. Most are typical club aircraft but you sometimes see one or two unusual or exotic airframes parked beside the others. That's the one I hired, over there. A Piper Tomahawk, not the most exciting aeroplane to fly but fly it does, and it was within my meagre budget.
     
    You get a strong reminder of how powerful the sun can be when you succeed in unlatching the cockpit door. You know how hot it gets inside a car left in the sun? There's more perspex on an aeroplane than a car and at first it feels like an oven in there.
     
    Bags deposited, it's time to go through the ritual of pre-flight checks. If something isn't right about your aeroplane, you want to know before you're half a mile up in the air. Haviing done this so many times I no longer refer to a checklist, walking around the aeroplane in a relaxed manner, following the steps required to convince myself this aeroplane is safe to fly. The metal wings feel smooth to the touch, ever so slightly uneven, and in an odd way primitive. All those lines of rivets evoke images of victorian engineering, sturdy engines made by sturdy engineers in stove pipe hats. Well, these are 1970's vintage airframes, built with 1930's technology. That sense of somthing not quite fully modern is pervasive, even with a panel full of modern instruments and radio equipment.
     
    So I've checked the airframe, the controls surfaces, the electric systems, the tires and brakes, the propellor, the oil and contents of the engine bay, so no more need to delay and I climb into the pilots seat. I daren't shut the door yet. Under that sun I'll fry. The seat belts are more or less the same as a car, since this is not an aerobatic aeroplane, and I don my headset. Plugged in. Throttle set. Brakes on. Ignition live. You know there's no-one out here, but for safety's sake you yell "Clear prop!" to alert the world that a piece of metal is about to start revolving very dangerously. Magneto's on and turn the key to 'Start'.
     
    Aircraft engines are like starting an old car. It takes a bit of care and patience to persuade them them to kick into life. The propellor turns over with a sort of reluctant undulating whine before the engine fires up. The propellor accelerates suddenly and the noise erupts from ahead of you. A few final adjustments, a check of temperatures and pressures, and I call the tower by radio to tell them what I'm up to. They give me some useful information like which runway to use, permission to taxi, and some air pressures so I can adjust my instrument settings.
     
    A friend of mne came along for the ride once and stared at me in amazement when he heard this interchange for the first time. "How do you understand it?" He asked. There's no great secret. All those abbreviations and numbers are something you get used to. You already know what sort of thing is going to be said.
     
    The Tomahawk wobbles about on the grass taxiway as I wind my merry way toward the runway threshold, holding open the door with one hand, operating the throttle with the other, and using the pedals to steer and brake. With the propellor slipstream the cockpit is confortably cooler. Eventually I reach the end of the runway, conduct my last few checks, close the cockpit door, and ask for permission to depart. The temperature inside the cockpit is starting to climb, the air hot and heavy, and you can't help wondering why the controller is taking so long to answer.
     
    Time to fly. I look around for other aircraft that might interfere with my plans, then let the aeroplane mount the asphalt. Line up on the centreline. Smoothly open the throttle. The noise goes from a loud growl into a cacophonic roar. The Tomahawk is accelerating smartly, the wind noise increasing, and I'm now focused entirely on the take off. With some gentle persuasion the aeroplane begins to lighten. A little unsteady at first, the ground falls away and I'm airborne.
     
    Before I know it I'm half a mile up in the air, controlling my noisy little contraption with a gentle touch. On the one hand I feel as free as a bird, yet also concious that airspace has rules and regulations. I feel liberated from worldly concerns, yet still concious that I must regularly check my engine and fuel. I feel entirely alone in the world, yet concious of the radio and its demands for replies and obedience. I share the sky with plenty of unseen colleagues doing exactly the same as me.
     
    All too soon I'm running out of fuel, money and time slot. The runway looks tiny from the air, and once again I become utterly focused, guiding my aeroplane toward the start of the asphalt strip which I must touch down on in the right attitude, the right speed, the right rate of descent. Barely above the ground a hesitant whistle alerts me I'm slowing down to the point the aircraf can't fly any more, but at the right time, thats precisely what you want. A slight bump, a squeal of rubber, and we're down. The cockpit is insufferably hot again as I taxi back to the apron.
     
    Finally I park up and shut down. The engine, starved of fuel, clatters to a halt. The world feels incredibly quiet. Freed from the assault on my senses by internal combustion the tiny whirr of the insrument gyros sounds oddly loud. Even after only an hour, I clamber out stiffly and a bit damp from sweat. What a lovely day.
  10. caldrail

    Clearly Oblivious

    By caldrail,

    In the good old days I used to turn up at workplaces for interviews safe in the knowledge that I would be greeted by a receptionist who would tell me to sign a book and sit over there until called for interview. More and more that doesn't happen. Instead I arrive at the employers premises to find a foyer devoid of human presence, barely decorated, looking uninviting and unfriendly. A computerised touchscreen blinks a message that I should register my presence.
     
    You would think that a computerised system would be a breeze. Nope. It was a visual version of the same old nightmare we get from telephone reception systems. Welcome to Acme Inc. Press 1 if you're an employee, press 2 if you're a contractee, press 3 if you're a visitor. From that point it got harder. The screen was impossible to use accurately, refused to let you correct a mistake, and eventually printed out a temporary security pass with a name that made me sound like an immigrant from Albania.
     
    Eventually somebody happened to wander through the foyer and asked who I was, clearly oblivious that I was already registered on their electronic visitor book for a job interview.
     
    Keeping The Road Clean
    As you might imagine, the constant coming and going of heavy goods vehicls from the Old College site does tend to eave a lot of mud on the roads nearby. Understandably the civil engineers have hired a road cleaning vehicle. I often see it parked nearby, waiting for instructions to wash the roads, a bored driver watching the world go by.
     
    The other day I spotted the cleaning truck parked in a taxi bay beside a modern office block. Despite the busy traffic, it's a somewhat quiet corner. So quiet that the driver thought no-one would notice him taking a quick wee into the waste pipes of his truck, oblivious to the fact he must have been visible by plenty of office workers.
     
    Keeping The Walls Decorated
    Every so often we get yet more graffiti in our area. Mostly it's a 'tag', the human equivalent of a dog weeing on the lampost, and done by schoolkids with nothing to do between leaving school and their parents arriving home from work to cook their meal.
     
    A few nights ago I was looking out the back of my home at night. The view has changed a lot lately now the Old College site is starting to resemble a shopping complex. In the early hours of the morning the various amber and turquoise lights cat an odd radiance on the nearby yard. Without them, I would not have seen the graffiti artist.
     
    He was silhouetted by the light, the alleyway itself closed off due to construction work and in the pitch dark behind a concrete parapet overlooking a thirty or forty foot drop recently hewn from the hillside. The alleyway itself is also pockmarked by surface subsidence and not a safe place to be.
     
    At first all I saw was movement. It wasn't clear what he was up to. A strange place to be given the circumstance so I kept an eye on him. Very soon I realised he was at work painting the side of a cement block garage in tall lettering, clearly oblivious that he was not only visible to me, but also visible from the main road.
     
    Jobsearching Initiative Of The Week
    The gossip was doing the rounds at the Support Centre. The law has been changed. From tomorrow morning unemployed people can be told to do a job to earn their benefits. Actually that's been happening for years. Whilst the politicans are merely ensuring their votes by acting on the concerns of hard working citizens, they'e oblivious to the fact that the workshy have also had years to perfect their excuses for not working.
  11. caldrail
    David Cameron has said Britain needs to be more evangelical. No. It doesn't. Christianity is two thousand years out of date, causes nothing but misery, and is no better than it ever was at curing the worlds ills. No suprise then that our revered leader is patronising Britains official religion, which is getting a bit ridiculous given that even the Archbishop of Canterbury has admitted that Britain is no longer a Christian country.
     
    This is course now that the Pope has made saints of two of his predecessors. A click of the fingers and two dead men become immortal spirits we must worship as examples of what humanity aspires to be. How ridiculoius is that? Truth is that becoming a saint is really a second class title. The Romans used to make people gods when they thought it was worthwhile making a fuss in public, but they can't do that now because God made a ruling that only He was to be worshipped. Someone forgot to tell the Pope obviously.
     
    As for being more evangelical, I get enough reminders about Jesus in the street. Not impressed. After all the more evangelical people get the more reasons they find to empty your wallet. If evangelism needs to be a success, then maybe a few more moneychangers tables in the temple need to be turned over. You listening Cameron? No, I thought not.
     
    Bumps In The Night
    Talkimg about listening, my neighbours are still confused as to why my stereo occaisionally makes itself heard. Not because I want to impose my musical tastes on anyone else - I normally listen via headphones - but I seriously don't want to listen to anyone elses either. The girl downstairs for instance. She sings along to her partners guitar a quarter tone flat with no natural verve. Sorry, but either it's my stereo or I'm facing a large dentisits bill.
     
    At least I've managed to persuade them that music late at night is out of order. So late at night when the time comes to submit to my incresing lethargy and get some sleep, at least I can be assured that thuds and rumbles won't be preventing me from getting that healthy eight hours rest. Ahhhh.... Yes.... Busy day tomorrow, a nice warm bed, and....
     
    Huh.... Huh.... Huh... Huh.... Huh.... Huh.... Huh.... Huh....
     
    Ah yes. The evocative sound of the Lesser Spotteed Neighbour in their nightly mating ritual. I don't want to be cruel, but maybe she needs more than singing lessons? If you're going to make those noises at night, at least make some effort with your love life. Please. This is worse than counting sheep.
     
    Moan Of The Week
    Some people reading my blog are going to moan that all I do is moan. Well, that's how we are isn't it? I passed a lady the othe day, moaning about the world and its frustrations into her mobile phone.
     
    "I've had no lunch break, I've had no fag break..." She complained, outside a commercial premises, leaning against the door frame with a lit cigarette in her hand.
  12. caldrail
    There's an election in the wind. My first clue was that piece of card posted through the dor telling me I can vote. The second clue was a couple of coaches parked near the library with signs telling me that our local minister of parliament was in town talking to citizens, promising them the Earth, and asking for their vote to make it possible. Makes a change from the Jesus brigade I suppose, even if the preaching isn't much different.
     
    I don't know about you, but I find the Promised Land is something I've heard about all too often. We never seem to get there do we? Maybe that's because if we did we wouldn't need ministers of parliament any more and they'd be out of a job. So get those votes in now and join in the nail biting television coverage of the vote counting to see who will lead us into the next round of Prime Ministers Questions and all those arguments about whose policies are whose.
     
    As to who this MP was I have no idea. Apparently he's already representing Swindon North. Guess that explains everytthing. Thing is though there was a gentleman talking to a couple of burly security people who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Ed Millband, the Labour Party fuhrer. Couldn't have been of course. Ed Milliband is a charismatic leader of men, a giant of politics, a fearless reformer and visionary, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and crush men's skulls with his little toe. Ed Millipede then.
     
    To be honest I couldn't care less who he was or why he was there. I did notice however he took great delight in poking fun at my expense in public. Twice. Well, it's only fair then that I poke fun back. In front of the entire Inter-World-Wide-Web-Net in glorious broadband. Oh how social media haunts us all....
     
    Nice cardie Mr Millipede. Looks like genuine unwashed Hebridean yak wool. Birthday present maybe? Or is that the uniform a party leader wears in covert missions into enemy held rural towns? I only mention the cardie because it genuinely happens to be the most impressive thing about you. Not very tall are you?
     
    The second item on my lambasting itinerary is confirmation that my anatomy is indeed fully functional. Laugh all you want, but I got a friendly smile from a rather attracive female receptionist that day and I'll be seeing her again shortly. You had to make do with two burly policemen. Takes all sorts I guess...
     
    Online Dating Of The Week
    Some people think I'm childish. Playing trains, at my age? The men wonder why I'm not out there every night shagging women. Women complain I'm not breeding enough babies for them to go gooey over. Admittedly I do behave a little bit less than calm and businesslike sometimes, but then, why would I want to be a stereotypical cardboard cut-out living in miserable mediocrity? Ye gods what a dull world you people live in. No wonder you all want to get blind steaming drunk.
     
    Let me tell you something World. As James May showed scientifically on television (he does things properly you see) model trains are without doubt the one thing that adults will forget football for, although he did neglect to factor in the influence of copious amunts of lager.
     
    As for shagging women, I really don't mind putting aside the model trains for the odd bonk or two. As it happens, I discovered the other night that there's a rule of thumb for finding the perfect age of your prospective partner. Apparentl;y the ideal woman's age is half the man's plus seven. That means I really can still shag a woman of child bearing age safe in the knowledge she's perfect for me and that my anatomy is still expected to function as expected. It comes fully tested after al, as Mr Millpede kindly confirmed for us all. So ladies, if you're 33 years old, single, want to breed little Caldrails, and have a benign attitude toward model trains, Roman history, supercars, and military surplus trousers, why not get in touch? I only bite if asked to.
  13. caldrail
    The good news for all you people out there earning a living is that finally you're getting your own way. I'm shortly to be placed on a 'More Intensive Regime' concerning my endless quest for gainful employment. Basically that means I have to turn up every day at the Job Centre and explain why I'm not out there looking for work, which of course I would be if I wasn't too busy explaining my presence to my claims advisor.
     
    The thing is, I'm also supposed to be attending a Support Centre every day. Unfortunately they've changed premises and forgot to tell anyone who knew who to set up their internet access. For the last two weeks I've been turning up to an empty office full of inactive computers. The Support Centre staff have even resorted to telling claimants not to bother coming in. Yesterday I did, and asked if I could use a computer
     
    "What for?" The Office guy asked, looking perplexed that anyone was trying to use the Support Centre for the purpose intended.
     
    Oh you know.. Switch it on.. Do stuff... Please bear in mind that all you hard working people out there are paying for this. This morning they locked the door and didn't let anyone in. Don't worry - I'll explain it to my claims advisor.
     
    Blonde Moment
    By chance I happened to catch a televised session by Blondie at the Maida Vale recording studio. They say you should never revisit your past. Time, it must be said, hasn't been entirely kind to Deborah Harry. I don't want to be cruel, these days she looks like a pub landlady. And sings like one too. Sorry Debs, I love the stuff you did back in the day, but I don't think I'll be rushing out to buy a ticket any time soon.
     
    Mind you, looking in the mirror, Jeez, what happened to me?
     
    Foxhunt Of The Week
    It's been a while since I spotted the local wildlife nosing around outside at night. The Old College site had been quite a game reserve but a network of steel girders in battleship grey and rust has gradually filled in the big empty space gouged into the side of the hill. Other girders lay in neat rows waiting to be bolted into place among the cranes and telescopic forklifts parked up until the start of the next mornings shift. Not much room left for urban foxes to mooch around then.
     
    Just when I thought they'd all been gassed or something, the other night I spotted a young fox nosing around the parapet overlooking the site. There's a steep drop on one side of thirty feet or so which clearly didn't bother the fox. He was only there a few minutes before he vanished, quite wisely, as a late night dog-walker meandered over to where the fox had been, beer can in hand. Foxes are animals naturally selected to survive chases from packs of hounds and horsemen. Somehow I doubt the fox was in any danger. Eventually I heard the beer can being crushed and responsibly deposited at random, and the sozzled dog-walker ambled back across the car park, where he no doubt spent most of the night trying to remember which house he got the dog from.
  14. caldrail

    Say It Loud

    By caldrail,

    What's happened at the Job Centre? Usually I stride through the door and waft past the security guards holding up my identitu documents in that sort of "Get out of my way minion" sort of manner. Not any more. Now the guards stop me and ask where I'm going. What? Again?
     
    Fine. Well, I'm walking over there toward the door the other side of the lift, into the hallway where I use the door on the right to enter the staiwell, where I climb the steps all the way to the second floor, where I turn right and go through the door at the end, follow the passage and go through the last door on the right, where I turn right and sit patiently until my claims advisor thanks me for turining up and doing some jobsearch, whereupon I retrace my steps until I exit the building.
     
    "Thank you Sir. That's all I need to know".
     
    Oh good.
     
    Homo Swindonus
    Question - How do you recognise a bloke from Swindon?
     
    Answer - He's the one who thinks he's a man because he thinks you're not. Yep. That's how stupid Swindon Man is. They're also paranoid about objects being inserted into their backsides, which of course never happens, but they don't know that because it hasn't actually happened to anyone yet so they think it's possible, even though it's very illegal and subject to certain physical risks like outraged Swindon blokes. I mean, what sort of hard as nail tough as old boots junkyard dog is worried about the sanctity of his arse?
     
    For example, there's a guy I often see at the library. Nothing unusual, just another typical Swindon bloke, except perhaps this one talks to himself a lot, which is why I notice his presence among the throng of dull eyed Facebook addicts and thus why he thinks I'm gay. Unfortunately he forgot that talking to himself is audible to those around and so I could plainly hear his opinions concerning my sexuality and manliness. As if he knew what he was talking about. He's a Swindon bloke. All mouth and no brain cell. Funny how the loudest butchest blokes always seem to deserve having something rammed up... No. Let's not go there.
     
    He Who Shouts Loudest Knows Least.
     
    Shouting Loudly
    Talking about shouting, I've received a phone call from the Department of Work and Pensions asking for more information concerning my leter, a demand for Mandatory Reconsideration concerning the bill they sent me for overpaid benefits. Actually it was me me who shouted, not him. I was a little irate you see. However, please note that I did not accuse him of being gay despite the loss of his testicles.
     
    Men At War
    The move toward 'realistic' war films has certainly made some interesting strides in recent years. Veterans tell us that if we want to know what the landings at Omaha Beach were like in 1944, we need do no more than watch Saving Private Ryan. Due credit to the film makers then. In the same vein I happened to catch Steel Tempest. It tells the story of the Ardennes Offensive from a German perspective, with a constant theme of propaganda versus reality. I liked the way period war footage was woven in. I also approved of the slavish attention to period detail, the use of equipment that really did look like Wehrmacht vehicles and weaponry. It had a sort of Band of Brothers feel, with some of the same actors, albeit with somewhat less convincing acting. It was disappointing to see the lacklustre movement of troops, who even to me failed to convince as veteran SS troops fighting with meagre resources against the allies. Ideally you need to sympathise with the war weary SS officer, the tragic letters from home, and the occaisional moments of comradeship from soldiers. Ideally you should feel disgusted at the nasty and predatory behaviour of soldiers at war, or the deceit of senior command to enable the Fuhrers plans to succeed. Ideally you ought to sense the frustration of men ordered to blitzkrieg the enemy with barely enough to shoot back and no support from anyone. The problem is, you don't.
  15. 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.
  16. caldrail
    At the Charity life went on in a sort of organised chaos. You turned up, sat through a prayer meeting, then got told what your duties were for the day. I suppose I was lucky as I often got scheduled to work as a drivers mate on the company van, collecting and delivering secondhand furniture. A relaxing sort of job. Mostly. Okay, the driver was a bit highly stressed, often losing his temper, and of course the drawback to collecting and delivering furniture is that bulky objects are often heavy and don't always coveniently fit through the gaps provided.
     
    I had an advantage of course. Unlike many of the unemployed layabouts drafted to work at the Charity, I've long experience of getting musical equipment in and out of gigs, of long days and nights spent in a van, and even some casual multi-drop delivery work. I also had long experience of helping my father move furniture around the house. Not sure why it was ever necessary, but it gave him something to organise and so I got on with it.
     
    So it turned out to be something of a busman's holiday. The weather was glorious, we all had a good laugh in the van (except when the driver got annoyed at somebody), and trundled around the local area visiting houses we never knew existed, meeting all sorts of strange new life and new civilisations, going where vans have never been before.
     
    Sometimes you stopped by a huge expensive house to pick up donated odds and ends. All smiles and hearty farewells. Sometimes you delivered to the less salubrious hovels in town, places that haven't been cleaned since 1972, that stink of curry powder, urine, or other strange substances. Sometimes you had to take the door off to get the goods inside. Sometimes you had to disassemble the goods to get them through the door. Failure was never an option. It meant going back to base to face a manager who'd received an angry phone cal about wasted money.
     
    It's a funny thing. Life. I trained as an engineer, learned to be a musician, studied various categores of academic knowledge, became a private pilot in two countries, and yet despite all of that I still end up moving furniture around.
     
    Struggle Of The Week
    My fight for sanity in the jobsearching business goes on. Firstly there's Mrs Claims Advisor, who has been programmed by some secret organisation to repeat the same conversation over and over.
     
    "I don't why you're not getting anywhere. You're jobsearching is a high enough standard..."
     
    Think we might have covered this last week. And the week before that.
     
    "Why do you think you're not getting anywhere?"
     
    And this week too. So I patiently trot out the same reasons why finding gainful employment has so far eluded me. I'm not being dishonest or looking for excuses, but the reason she wants me to admit to is... Ummmh.... Errrr..... Actually I do know what she wants me to say but she's wrong. Completely. All she wants is for me to be exactly the same as every other claimant who comes before her. Variety, or indeed any form of individuality, is a difficult concept for a claims advisor.
     
    The other aspect of my fight for truth, justice, and the employable way us the Job Agency. I might have mentioned them earlier. Never in any sphere of human endeavour has a bureaucracy accumulated siuch a mammoth collection of self serving small minded pedantic pen pushers.
     
    Take this example. I look for work on an internet website. Usually you just select the vacancy that interests you, click on a few choices, add a little bit of supportive text, or perhaps answer a stuid question or two, then click on 'Apply'. You sit back and wait for the rejection in anything between two minutes and two months. Easy.
     
    However some agencies think applicants should be given more opoortunity to waste time and effort in applying for work, so they disable this easy option and get you to make a phone call instead, in which they tell you that they have a vacncy exactly the same as they advertised and could you please come and see them in their office? So why not just suggest that on the website and save me the bother of paying for a phone call?
     
    It gets worse. I asked for the name of the person the advert specified as the contact, which in this case turned out not be a person, but the agency itself. Eventually this confusion was ironed out. Who says I don't have communication skills? Then the lady said "All we have is this furniture warehouse vacancy. It will involve some heavy lifting...Is that what you want to do?"
     
    You know what? It was my childhood dream to lift heavy objects. I studied heavy weights at school, and got myself an O Level in Applied Lifting followed by a Degree in Industrial Physics. Ten years appprenticeship as a Manual Load Handler, followed by a fifteen year career of shoving and pushing. I also lift weights for a hobby.
     
    No. I'm joking. My CV doesn't say that, and neither did I. In fact I could barely resist laughing as I told her that lifting heavy objects wasn't exactly a career of choice but if it pays the bills....
     
    You could hear her disappointment over the phone. Is she serious?
  17. caldrail

    Teenie Weenie Issues

    By caldrail,

    The cull against badgers and foxes has started. Poor things, but Bovine Tuberculosis causes too much expensive bother and our rural mammals have to find out the hard way, mostly because they have inherent communication difficulties in dealing with human beings. A bit like teenagers then.
     
    The work undertaken at the Old College site has sprawled out onto the pavement for some time now, meaning that the pavement is temporarily closed. That results in big plastic barriers and metal warning signs, which because I happen to live next to a pedestrian crossing means the signs are left outside my home. Until, that is, Saturday night, when inebriated teenagers collide with signs designed to be visible. Crash bang wallop, and the following morning the signs are laid out across the pavement until the end of the week..
     
    Some idiot teenager decided that my reason for walking through a local park was to find homosexual partners, telling his companion (a male his age, I would point out) that I was better off looking in a certain part of Swindon. Actually I'm better off not looking at all seeing I don't do blokes, but then, I wasn't aware that homosexuals prowled Swindon's green spaces searching for quickie sex or maybe more. Thanks for the warning. Somewhat curious how you came to know that.
     
    "Need a bit o' help, mate?" shouted another idiot from a passing van as I approached a pedestrian crossing laden with a weeks shopping Not from a Drivers Mate. Heading for a certain part of Swindon? Have a nice day.
     
    And then there's that little pest who mutters threats every night, proclaiming my home is his, and that all my property is his too. No, they aren't. So shut up and go away you silly little boy. Get yourself a hobby, like stamp collecting or acne clearance. Alternatively, for something more adult, I'm reliably informed that exciting activity can be found in a certain part of Swindon.
     
    As much as farmers suffer the aggravation of badgers and foxes, we townies have to suffer the aggravations of teenage idiots. As far as I'm concerned the government are better off culling them.
     
    Confromtation of the Week
    "Don't look at me like I am an idiot!" The young man snapped at me. I'd taken too long to reply to his indignation that I'd been insisting on his turning down the volume of his music in the quiet zone of the local library. Although he was using headphones, the sheer volume meant that anyone within a five hundred yard radius could hear those tinny hisses and clicks. When I'm working against the clock in the frantic browse for gainful employment, the high pitched club anthem is distracting to the same degree as a naked blonde librarian telling me to come upstairs and get it big boy. Only more irritating.
     
    In fact he'd already called me an idiot in front of a librarian on duty fully clothed, and whilst he pretended to comply with the requests made by the librarian and also by a security guard at my behest, he'd pushed the volume back up again as soon as they'd gone.
     
    Mate... Calm down...
     
    "I am calm" He replied angrily, quickly switching to a menacing tone "I am always calm. You would not like me when I'm angry."
     
    I didn't much like him at all. I have no sympathy for defiant teenagers. However I was struggling not to burst into hysterics with his comic book machismo. I've heard more convincing dialogue in a Steven Seagal film.
  18. caldrail

    Scotland & Skulduggery

    By caldrail,

    Mrs Claims Advisor is getting a bit fed up of me. Now that unemployment has shrunk to its lowest level since 2008, I'm starting to become a cause celebre. She's already done her best to have my title removed and begin her attempt to turn me into an indentikit working class grunt. Do I not think that I should remove "Lord" from my CV? Not really. Boring old Mr Caldrail got maybe two or three views with each iteration. My last CV, as similar to the others as it is possible to get (apart from being labelled "Lord Rail") saw twenty five views last month alone. So I got paid for this fortnight. Money in my pocket? Woo hoo.
     
    Once more unto the shops, dear friends, once more... Those who did not shop this day will hold their wallets cheap... You have to admit, Shakespeare had a misquote for every purpose. How about one from The Scottish Play, dangerously close to becoming foreign literature...Who be that Unemployed Man?
     
    That question was asked by a policeman who was getting out of his patrol car parked on the other side of the street as I squeezed past an illegally parked car. From his perspective it probably looked like I was trying the doors to an expensive looking Mercedes. "Yeah, get out of here..." He called after me.
     
    It's unbelievable. My car gets vandalised regularly, finally stolen, and the Police tell me to investigate it myself. Then this constable starts looking at me like I steal cars from other people! Justice has a very sour taste in my area. I don't know what that crowd of policemen were doing outside the old hotel across the road earlier yesterday morning (I diagnose a possible crime scene), but I hope the long arm of the law reaches in the right direction this time. If they get enough practice, they might realise I'm not guilty of anything else than wearing socially unacceptable military surplus trousers.
     
    More From The Scottish Play
    With the referendum on Scottish Independence happening today, the news is all "Scotland Decides". Maybe the reason Mrs Claims Advisor is hustling me along is because she risks being arrested as an illegal immigrant in a weeks time? One can only hope.
     
    But what's this? Gordon Brown coming out of retirement to make a speech arguing about the need for Scotland to stay within the United Kingdom? Not only that, he sounded very passionate and shock horror he actually impressed me. That's a first.
     
    A part of me hopes Scotland will fall flat on its face if they vote for independence. Not because I want to see any hardship foisted on the Scottish, but because I don't think I could stand Alex Salmonds smugness if he wins.
     
    Not Playing Fair
    Having avoided arrest I wandered into the park to enjoy some peace and quiet. A pointless exercise after lunch however. The park is almost deserted in the morning but with a balmy afternoon every person unemployed since 2008 find some reason to be there, shouting loudly for no other reason than peace and quiet would leave them no distractions and so they would be forced to endure their own thoughts. Nonetheless the park is large enough to find somewhere to sit down quietly.
     
    So I found my quiet corner and sat down. There he is again! Not the policeman, I mean Sid the Squirrel. Every time I sit down on that particular park bench he appears, trotting along the path ungainly, sniffing and scratching at anything that interested him. Squirrels at top speed in the branches are wonderfully graceful. Walking slowly along the ground they somehow resemble an inebriated scotsman. Sid wandered by, minding his own business. Well, unlike some of our local residents, at least he's not stealing cars.
     
    There he is again. As I left the park to go about my business the very same policeman pulled out of the side street and coasted past in his patrol car as I waited to cross the road. Well, unlike some of our local residents, at least he's not stealing cars.
     
    Sale Of The Century
    At the Charity they do a roaring trade in bric-a-brac. Where does all this stuff come from? Who on Earth is buying it? I found myself a few times sat outside in the sunshine becoming quite adept at my marketplace banterm pulling in unsuspecting punters and persuading them that they need a little bric-a-brac in their lives. My sales record was beginning to rival the local expert.
     
    Some stuff doesn't get sold however. Either it's not in saleable condition, or it was merely rubbish to begin with. One item on the point of being binned was a plastic skull, looking for all the world like an albino martian (Mars Attacks!). It was so cute I couldn't resist saving it from the great recycling centre in the sky. Unfortunately I was called upon to head out on the furniture van to boldly lift where no lifting has been done before, so I had to leave Sid the Skull behind. I asked the lady on the bric-a-brac desk to look after him. So she sold Sid for 60p while I was away. Gasp! Poor old Sid. Sold into slavery when he could have a home where he would have been looked after and exercised regularly in a socially acceptable manner. There's no justice.
     
    or Maybe...
    Or maybe there is. This morning I received a letter from the Department of Work & Pensions admitting the error in my dole payments was theirs and I don't have to pay the money back. Neither am I being hit with a Civic Penalty Charge. Ahh yes... It's these little things that make my life worthwhile.
  19. caldrail

    As If By Magic

    By caldrail,

    The run of good weather seems to have come to an end. I know this because it's raining outside, and that's always a reliable clue. The almost complete car park of the Old Cllege site is awash with puddles and dampened blokes in high vis gear, who never seem to be doing anything when you look at them. Funny thing is, walk away for a few minutes and the site gets an mysterious upgrade when you're loking the other way as if by magic.
     
    Sex Godesses Of Atlantis
    Don't worry, this is merely a ploy to achieve better ratings. I'd have to be a magician to find Atlantis. Come to think of it, I'd have to be a magician to find a sex-godess. Or avoid the attention of policemen in the process. Or for that matter, embarrasing questions as to why I'm staring dull eyed at the PC when I should be looking for work.
     
    Back To the Search
    My quest for gainful employment continues. As it happens I'm getting a tad disgruntled with lifes little failures (or even the somewhat more important larger ones), so my replies to Mrs Claims Advisors questions are increasingly peppered with blunt or gruff observances, which in fairness reduce her to laughter.
     
    Also I now have organisations competing to send me on courses for over-fifties claimants. The usual sort of thing, help with CV's, help with jobsearching on the internet, help with career planning, and so forth. All the stuff I've been regularly trained up on over the last decade in fact. It seems then that the Department of Work & Pensions thinks I have the memory span of a goldfish college dropout. Oh it's not worth getting angry about. Let's forget it.
     
    Oh.
     
    Back To The Interview
    Not impressed with the latest round of interviews in the endless quest for gainful employment. One place was nothing more than franchise for door to door van driving salespersons. I would have to drive to another town to stick up, drive back to find customers from scratch, and in a few months, would have around thirty drivers in the same area all competing for thier custom. Quite how I'd make a living at that I don't know. Nor did the other applicants who were similarly hoodwinked to attend. One phoned their head office to check the small print and ended up telling them to stuff it.
     
    The other interview was for a small industry in a quiet corner of my home town. The front door had a secuirty system on it so all I could do was ring the bell and wait for a tinny disembodied voce to answer. The cleaner had to show me where the button was - that's how secure this place was.
     
    "Hello?"
     
    Oh, hi, I'm Caldrail, here for interview.
     
    "Interview? What, here?"
     
    Urmm... Yes.... I have an interview in ten minutes.
     
    "Ohhh... Right... "
     
    And it sort of never got any better than that. They've chosen someone else to do the job since then so obviously I failed the security buzzer test. Mental note - bring a sledgehammer next time.
     
    Magic Of The Week
    Pick a card. Any card. Don't let me see it. Remeber that card.
     
    Put the card back into the pack and shuffle the pack.
     
    Pick the cards back off the floor. It's okay, the magic will still work.
     
    Right then. So this was your card, right? Heh heh heh.... Magic is so easy when you know how.
  20. caldrail
    It's open! It's all open! The supermarket at the Old College site is open for business! Drop everything and rush down there at once before everything goes in the Swindon store's grand opening. Or not. Depending on whether you actually care. It's still a building site of course but at least the public and wander in awe along the aisles admiring the low low prices and bargains galore.
     
    The supermarket isn't the only new store opening here recently. There's the toy shop at the old shopping cente too. As it happens that wasn't particularly of any interest to me but imagine my suprise turning a corner when I spotted an imperial storm trooper looking for androids in a Swinbon street. No really, fully dressed in up and carrying one of those short barrelled blasters they couldn't hit a barn door with. It's a wonder he wasn't arrested for carrying an offensive weapon.
     
    [My Jedi Training Begins
    This morning I dragged myself out of bed for that most unusual of job searching activities, the early morning start. For today I'm off to 'Boot Camp', Basic Training for Jobseekers 101, at the local college (the new one, not the mass of bricks, scaffolds, hi-vis vests, and bewildered shoppers at the Old College site). After a decade of intermittent quests for employment the Job Centre have decided I'm a useless klutz who must be re-educated and indoctrinated into the ways of the Force, findings jobs with the blast shield down, stretching out with my feelings, sensing terrible disturbances, although at my age leaping several hundred feet in one go and getting into intense laser sword fights isn't quite so easy. No wonder Ben Kenobi lost his final confrontation with Darth Vader, but then he was long term unemployed too as I seem to remember from the films. Mind you, living in a cave out in the desert wastes of Tatooine, he didn't have a brand new supermarket to find food in.
     
    The Job Centre couldn't wait to send me on this two week course, the joke being that it turns out only the first meeting was mandatory. But hey, let's be positive, at least at the end of this I'll be able to prove to employers that I, Old Ben Caldrail, am fully presentable and employable with my new certificate. What? Another one? Oh yes. In two weeks I shall be a Jobseeking Jedi, learned in the ways of employment. The Job Centre will expect nothing less.
     
    Jedi Prowess Of The Week
    There are roadworks along the pavements of the street outside my home. I know this because the local population collide with the plastic barricades in a drunken attempt to stagger from one pub to another each evening. You see, a little bit of Jedi training, and they would sense the presence of obstructions and dark holes in the ground.
  21. caldrail

    Schools Out!

    By caldrail,

    That's it for this week as my college course closes because of half term. This is the first time in thrity years that I've been to College. I have to go back next week to finish off my course and again shortly after to finish it off even more.
     
    What course am I studying? Well, it isn't Roman History. It isn't a degree in Dynamic Temporal Physics either., sadly, so I still can't argue with Professor Brian Cox without being put in my place. No, it's Employability Level One, so I'm finally being trained to do all the stuff I've been doing for the last decade. Again. I got that certificate three years ago and no-one noticed so please excuse me if I seem a little underwhelmed by my own scholastic achievement.
     
    Great bunch of people to study with too, some I knew before, some I've gotten to know ion the course. All great fun. Especially now it's practically finished, although the fun bit about breathing life into life size plastic dummies has yet to be held. Ladies, I'm sorrow, but playing dead will no longer work.
     
    Out On The Streets
    Swindon's main shopping street is as busy as might be expected this time before the turbo nutter "Oh my God I forgot Aunty Hilda" shopping session as Christmas arrives. However, I have to be honest. part of my Employability course was a team exercise, clearly ripped off from The Apprentice on BBC in an outrageous example of educational plagiarism, to go shopping for interview wear and investigate the best bargains available to us, though thankfully we weren't required to actually purchase anything or the ladies in the team would be still out there, tutting and fussing over small fashion details whilst us blokes lose the will to live. I've got a few more white hairsbut I survived the experience without being fired by Lord Alan Sugar.
     
    Meanwhile the Phantom Pavement Scribbler was at work. Don't know who he is, other than he happens to be unemployed like me but not yet sent on an Employability course, who's been writing poetic dissertations on the reality of Life, The Universe, and the Dole Queue on the pavement in coloured chalk. Well it keeps him off the street, doesn't it?
     
    Apprentices Of The Week
    Now that our favourite BBC soap opera is back in its tenth anniversary series with extra contestants for yet more tantrums, petty disasters, and dramatic dismissals, I have to say this is without doubt the worst and least impressive collection of ego's and talentless wannabee's yet collected. So far, on the third week of twelve, each exercise has been won by accident by the least capable team and so the news headlines are now focusing on something more interesting like which Apprentice is bonking another. More tantrums and petty disasters then.
     
    Told you it was a soap opera.
  22. caldrail

    Open For Business

    By caldrail,

    It's the bad old days all over again. Back when I was a youngster the world was biting its nails as Russia and America stared nose to nose with a nuclear arsenal to smack each other with the moment one or the other said something about their mother. Back then it was common practice for the Russians to send reconnaisance aircraft into our airspce here in Britain to see if we were still paying attention, which of course we did, sending jets to intercept the intruders and wave them off while they gave us cheery waves back.
     
    It looks as if the same sort of thing is starting again. Putin wants his military back from the brink, reversing the decay caused by the decline of communism and the new economic market. So far they've been flying in international airspace which is allowed, and I see one report that a nuclear warefare exercise has 'probably' taken place in the Atlantic. Oh good.
     
    More From The Old College Site
    Recently I popped into my local chinese takeaway. The lady there is a nonsense 'can't stop talking' type, which would be irritating if it wasn't for her hilarious accent. Worth the visit just to have a conversation, but trust me on this, you'd better be quick with replies.
     
    Oh hi
     
    "You wan food?"
     
    Umm... Let's see...
     
    "You wan food? Look at menu."
     
    Oh right. Well...
     
    "You wan meal for two?"
     
    Erm, yeah...
     
    "Rice or noodles?"
     
    Noodles.
     
    "Wait I answer phone... You wan food?... You wan food? Look at menu.... You wan meal for two?.... What you wan with noodles?.... Thirty minutes.... Bye. Okay, now what you wan with noodles?"
     
    And so on, until you've finished ordering, she's finished bossing customers about over the telephone, and the cook has retreated back into the kitchen again bruised and beaten. Then she gets quite chatty.
     
    "You wan conversation?"
     
    Erm...
     
    As it happens we did have an interesting chat because that was the same day the supermarket opened at the Old College site. Neither of us had ever shopped in a Morrisons before so we were both curious. It was one of those conversdations where you agree completely with the other non-stop for fifteen minutes.
     
    "Here is meal. You go home now."
     
    Erm...
     
    So what is our new supermarket like? Funnily enough, it felt and looked exactly like every other supermarket in town. There was a strange sense of deja vu as I wandered past the fresh fruit shelves near the entrance, watching all the future cancer patients busy choosing which government warning pack to buy at the cigarette stall, and spied the rows of neatly ordered shelves stuffed full of low low prices and guarantees of money back if you can get it cheaper anywhere else.
     
    Actually the prices aren't bad. I've found stuff I can buy cheaper than the usual haunts I'm used to, so I'm happy, only now I have to visit four supermarkets an week instead of three. A bit like complying with my Jobseekers Agreement, only you spend money instead of begging for it.
     
    Jobsearch of the Week
    For some reason the Job Centre have put me on the Families Support Programme. Why, I cannot say, seeing as I don't have a family, but at least the Support Centre is full of attractive young lady assistants so my jobsearching efforts have mysteriously gotten more enthusiastic. Must dash. I have a review session with my advisor and don't want to be late.
     
    I am so shallow.
  23. caldrail

    Chilly Times Ahead

    By caldrail,

    If I'm not mistaken, the weather is turning seasonal and things generally get a bit chilly. Yep, the trees are turning brown, and that's not because they've spotted the tree surgeons butchering the local vegetation on the annual crusade to defoliate Swindon. I was amused the other week when I encountered a couple of guys sweeping leaves out of the main corridor of the College. How very autumnal. Unfortunately, there's little for me to be amused about now and yes, things are definitely getting chilly.
     
    Showdown At The Job Centre
    Boy oh boy was I naive. I walked right into this confrontation without any idea what was coming. I'd been told I was seeing a different advisor this week. As you might expect, I just assumed that my usual advisor was taking a holiday or some other reason to to save her sanity by avoiding my weekly progress report.
     
    Oh no. Nothing so innocent. This lady was from Compliance. They're the equivalent of the Gestapo. I have to say she was a fine actress. her rendition of "I'm in a really really bad mood and what on Earth is this rubbish you're presenting me with?" was fabulous. I know she was faking it - I spotted her amused expression from the corner of my eye when she sent me on a pointless errand to get evidence of my jobsearch. I provide that every week as part of my normal activity, but after she had more or less accused me of being a liar, I no longer provide it. She is after all merely looking for an excuse to stop my payments. Anything will do.
     
    So I could not answer her questions without fingers pointed at me, accusations of bad behaviour, accusations of unrealistic expectations or activity, accusations of this, that or the other....
     
    it's inexcusable. I lost my temper. Somehow I don't think that was part of her game plan. But what a ridiculous situation. I've just spent a week at Swindon College going through an Employability course, taking a Health & Safety examination, and all of a sudden I'm unemployable. The woman is an idiot.
     
    Health Diet Of The Week
    You can't go far these days without an expert telling you that whatever you've been eating is going to kill you unless you change to this new diet, available from all good bookstores at low low prices. It was refreshing then to have been present at the Support Centre when one of the young ladies was accused of not eating properly or healthily. Healthy or not, there is nothing more scornful than a woman denied chocolate.
     
    Now there's an idea....
  24. caldrail

    Documenting My Week

    By caldrail,

    "I'm cold" mentioned a young lady to her friends outside the library this morning. She's right. It is. That usually happens around the start of December so quite why she's dressed in the bare minimum of clothing I don't know. Dogs don't have this problem because they come with fur coats attached. I spotted a little keeshond puppy last night and couldn't resist the temptation to approach the owner and find some excuse to pet the little bundle of furry fun. We used to have a keeshond many years ago. Wonderful dogs, full of character, full of spirit, and this little one was no exception. They break your heart but every tear is worth it. Not sure about the half naked girl outside the library though.
     
    Who's Kidding Who?
    Our chancellor, some guy called George Osbourne who seems to have popped out of thin air, has just released his Autumn Statement, the last chance the government have to impress us with their economic policies and results before Cameron starts his campaign to justify another five years of the media catwalk.
     
    So has George Osbourne impressed us? I have no idea. I changed channels. I did notice that they claimed unemployment was down. Yes, George, I know. You shameless fakers pushed me off benefits along with everyone else to claim that. With a bit of luck they'll catch a few of you on illegal earnings. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?
     
    Dealing With Dole Documents
    Talking about benefits, my self imposed exile is up and my new claim is under way. The bad news is that I'm back with Eva Braun as my claims advisor. She doesn't like me. Or my jobsearching. Or my evidence. Or my military surplus trousers. She's northern. They don't have fashion in the north of England.
     
    In order to claim nil earnings payments from the Council to compensate for my self imposed exile I must complete my submission of documentary evidence before the deadline because I voluntarily exiled myself from benefits and if I don't meet the deadline I get no cash. With me so far? Okay, keep up. I have submitted all the documentary evidence I have so far and now I'm only awaiting the letter that tells me I'm back on benefits at the specified rate. You may now breathe once to maintain conciousness. That would have arrived within the specified deadline except that the Department of Work and Pensions have decided that I must submit my bank statements that I failed to submit to the claims handler who took photocopies of them at the Job Centre. Still here? I'm impressed. So now that I'm unable to submit that final letter confirming my new benefits payments because submitting my bank statements again will delay confirming my new claim, and so in order to inform the Council of my inability to meet their deadline for nil earnings submissions, I had to submit my letter from the Job Centre telling me to submit my bank statements that I already submitted. Not only that, I had to explain all this to a lady from the Council who probably woke up this morning expecting a dull boring afternoon.
     
    Just another day on the dole queue - as soon as the letter confirming it arrives.
     
    Sorry
    Apologies to Ghost for trumping his b-fortnightly blog entry yet again. It isn't deliberate - I'm just losing track of which year it is. I noticed this morning a letter from the Job Centre telling me a payment had been made for "going into full time work". What the...? So I made a phone call and the DWP contact centre didn't know what I was talking about. Then I made a visit to the Council to register the evidence when the kind lady behind the desk pointed out the letter was two years old. DOH !!!!
     
    Salute of the Week
    It seems my neighbours are beginning to get the hint about late night noise. Just this week one of them warned me he was having a birthday celebration. That he was expecting guests wouldn't bother me, I was only concerned at what would happen after they came back from the clubs. No problem he assurred me.
     
    So I'd like to thank Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, the Who, Deep Purple, and any other pioneer of very loud music for providing me with the tools to achieve peace and quiet in the wee small hours.
  25. caldrail
    The colour of light through my bedroom curtains this morning was unmistakeable. Definitely snow. Not a great deal of it, but the yard and car park beyond had been given a white sheen. As I wearily glanced outside, the snow was still falling - it's tailed off right now and the sun is breaking through.
     
    Winter has a bit of a problem right now. It doesn't seem to know what sort of weather to throw at us. Wind, rain, snow, bitter cold sunshine, it changes on the hour every hour. Yesterday it started to hail. British hail is somewaht weedy compared to the icy cannon projectiles you get in some parts of the world, but that makes it a mere inconvenience to us Brits. Especially when a hailstone drops straight down the back of your neck, which is what happened to me. There I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm squirning uncontrollably in the street and making strange moans of discomfort. People notice this sort of thing, usually when they don't know what caused it.
     
    Crawling Into Work
    Another cold morning. TIme then to answer the call of the alarm clock at some ungodly hour of the morning, ignore the protests shouted through the walls of my home, and head down to the bus stop, hopefully fully dressed, for that all important bus to work. I feel so ordinary these days.
     
    The town has an empty clammy feel. A long high street is almost deserted and tinged in an amber glow, aside from some guy who I know will be taking the the same bus as me. He stops at a cash machine to pay for his ticket. He's already paid for his cigarettes which he'll chainsmoke as he waits behind me at the bus station. That's his business of course, it's just that he has the annoying habit exhaling as noisily as possible.
     
    Swindon's bus station is doomed. They're going to build a new one sooner or later but for now the dull brick edifice hiding under the shadow of a disused multi-story car park will do. A few hardy souls hang around here and there, aside from my chainsmoking fellow passenger who queues up behind me every day so I can derive such pleasure fro listening to his cigarette habit.
     
    A van turns up to drop off piles of newspapers. The Devizes bus turns in off the main road. That'll be full of several passengers shortly and probably on its way. Second comes our bus showing 'No Service' as it turns into the bay. The driver gets out and heads into the admin offices for a few minutes. Eventually he'll be back, fussing with the controls of the ungainly double decker, and then allowing us to present travel passes, coins, or desperate pleas for assistance.
     
    Some bus drivers are quick, others aren't. Some struggle with issuing ticketrs, some are incredibly efficient. I see the same people boarding or disembarking at the same stops. No-one says hello. We're all too miserable at having to get out of bed to go to work.
     
    My Day At Work
    One of the team leaders goes through the register. After four weeks of persuasion I finally managed to get them to put my name on it.
     
    "Caldrail?"
     
    Yup.
     
    "Pallets today please"
     
    That means I'll be wandering around the racks finding empty pallets so the guys unoading containers can put more boxes on them. Well that's the next eight hours sorted then.
     
    End Of The Shift
    Finally it's time to go home. Suddenly the warehouse comes alive and it's a life or death sruggle to find your bag, wrap up for the cold weather outside, and clock out out as the next shift rushes in desperately trying to arrive on time.
     
    Hard Hat, my chilled out colleague at work, never rushes at any time. He's never frantic, breathless, urgent, or even remotely rushed for any reason whatsoever. At lunchbreaks he sometimes takes a quick nap. When we wait at the bus stop after work, he's guaranteed to amble up the road long after we've settled who's going to be first to board the bus. A couple of times I've mentioned that my life would be complete if I ever saw Hard Hat running for the bus.
     
    My life is complete.
     
    And The Winner Is...
    As a fourteen year old I went with the school on a skiing trip to Austria. All a big adventure at that age, made embarrasing by parents giving us last minute advice and emotional send off's. No matter. We negotiated the unfamiliar hazards of a Dan Air flight to Munich and a long coach journey across the border, finally arriving at the resort. One kid got caught smoking and would have been sent home had that not meant a teacher would have cut short their holiday. On the other hand, the much hated geography teacher got hit by a snowball.
     
    By the end of the week, it was time to settle the most important question of all. Who was the best skier? Naturally the dominant lads, the ones good at football, pretty much figured it was one of them, with one character a clear favourite in the stakes. So we gathered on the slopes that last morning for a timed slalom run, not just the school, but every tourist at the site.
     
    I was number five in the running order. With mounting trepidation I watched the others head off. Gate 1.. Gate 2... Gate 3... Then Gate 4, a nasty tight left turn on the brow of a steep drop. Every skier in front of me fell over at that point. Okay. I'll make a note of that. Ready!... Three... Two... One... GO!
     
    I was off. My mind was absolutely focused on the task. I didn't harbour any fantasies of doing well, but I sure as heck was going to try. Then I arrived at Gate 4. Snowplough braking... turn as I reach the edge and lean in.. Oh yes. That's how it's done. I carried on and headed for the finish line quite satisified with my efforts. The austrians at the finish line were yelling at me, urging me on enthusiatically, and somewhat bemused I gave myself a few pushes with the sticks. They were all thumbs up and germanic appraisals, which I failed utterly to understand.
     
    Here's the thing. I was the only skier that day who did not fall over at Gate 4. The only one. I watched amused as each and every contestant did a sort of helpless swan dive off the dip. Not only that, I sat there in disbelief that night when the instructors handed out the certificates. My name wasn't appearing. Until the end. Not only had I beaten my classmates, I'd beaten everyone at the resort, adults as well. Defintely one of my finest moments.
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