Originally posted by Serial_Apologist
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On the way to St Sprees to get some furniture polish, among other things, one of those skip transporter lorries passed me by. On the side was inscribed "Hinton Skip Hire", followed by a telephone number and email address.
The design on the furniture polish aerosol can has been changed in the past couple of years since I last bought any. "My antique table's never going to look as posh, now that they've change the look of the can", I said to the woman. In front of me in the check out queue was a short, swarthy-looking man, very suntanned, fiftyish I'd say, wearing a brown leather stetson-style hat, khaki safari jacket, and trendy-looking knee-length shorts in a grey-white mottled pattern with leather bootlaced bows on each side of the bottoms. All that was missing was corks dangling from the hat. Once he was out of earshot, Luba the sales assistant leant forward across the counter beckoning me conspiratorily: "Do you seenk he goes to shootink buffalo in the park?" she asked.
Two small black children came over, the older clutching a ball, and watched me unloading my bag containing the purchases from my back. They are in the daytime care of the sweet young woman who lives in the flat above mine and does this for a living. "Come and see my fire engine!" the little girl said. The two of them had managed to un-rig and differently re-rig the garden hose around its wonky metal spool, this to all intents constituting the "fire engine". "Is it all right to talk to me?" I gently asked. "Yes", the little one replied; "'cos Leonie says you're OK to talk to".
It's sobering to think one might as a "strange man" be seen as trustworthy; be this as it may one is sadly loath to approach children even if it is just to say "Hi" when you catch them viewing the bike with intrigued expressions - being warned there are predatory men with beguiling charms around every corner ready to snatch them, how are they going to distinguish me from them? More importantly still, what happens to that trust which seems hardwired into their innocent heads to guide them into secure relationships in later life? It's a conundrum. Some years ago, I placed my bike temporarily outside on the landing so as to make way for some hoovering. Fifteen minutes later I went outside, to find that the bike was gone. I thought, oh well, there we go - stupid me thinking it would be safe not to lock it to the railings; hard lesson learned. A couple of hours further on there's a ring at the door. There by the door are two small girls, aged about 12 or 13 at the most, one blonde, the other mixed race. "This your bike?" the second one asked, indicating what, yes, was indeed my bike. "Oh yes, it is!" I said, "where did you find it?" "Our brother told us he found it and we said no he'd stolen it, which he's done before, and we said that was a wrong thing to do and he had to return it. So he told us where, and we've brought it back because that's what Mum would have told us to do". I was overjoyed, moved with gratitude, "Oh thank you, thank you!" I said, hugging each of them in turn. "That's all right mister". Next day I related this incident to my next-door neighbour, mentioning my amazement that such honesty was still to be found "in this day and age". "Ooh you shouldn't have hugged them, you know!" she said in a "be afraid, be very afraid" tone of voice; "You don't do that kind of thing these days and hope to get away with it! Their father will be around here before you know it, accusing you of sexually molesting his children and being a paedophile! I know because I've taught in schools around here".
Nothing further transpired, fortunately.
'Nuff said.
The design on the furniture polish aerosol can has been changed in the past couple of years since I last bought any. "My antique table's never going to look as posh, now that they've change the look of the can", I said to the woman. In front of me in the check out queue was a short, swarthy-looking man, very suntanned, fiftyish I'd say, wearing a brown leather stetson-style hat, khaki safari jacket, and trendy-looking knee-length shorts in a grey-white mottled pattern with leather bootlaced bows on each side of the bottoms. All that was missing was corks dangling from the hat. Once he was out of earshot, Luba the sales assistant leant forward across the counter beckoning me conspiratorily: "Do you seenk he goes to shootink buffalo in the park?" she asked.
Two small black children came over, the older clutching a ball, and watched me unloading my bag containing the purchases from my back. They are in the daytime care of the sweet young woman who lives in the flat above mine and does this for a living. "Come and see my fire engine!" the little girl said. The two of them had managed to un-rig and differently re-rig the garden hose around its wonky metal spool, this to all intents constituting the "fire engine". "Is it all right to talk to me?" I gently asked. "Yes", the little one replied; "'cos Leonie says you're OK to talk to".
It's sobering to think one might as a "strange man" be seen as trustworthy; be this as it may one is sadly loath to approach children even if it is just to say "Hi" when you catch them viewing the bike with intrigued expressions - being warned there are predatory men with beguiling charms around every corner ready to snatch them, how are they going to distinguish me from them? More importantly still, what happens to that trust which seems hardwired into their innocent heads to guide them into secure relationships in later life? It's a conundrum. Some years ago, I placed my bike temporarily outside on the landing so as to make way for some hoovering. Fifteen minutes later I went outside, to find that the bike was gone. I thought, oh well, there we go - stupid me thinking it would be safe not to lock it to the railings; hard lesson learned. A couple of hours further on there's a ring at the door. There by the door are two small girls, aged about 12 or 13 at the most, one blonde, the other mixed race. "This your bike?" the second one asked, indicating what, yes, was indeed my bike. "Oh yes, it is!" I said, "where did you find it?" "Our brother told us he found it and we said no he'd stolen it, which he's done before, and we said that was a wrong thing to do and he had to return it. So he told us where, and we've brought it back because that's what Mum would have told us to do". I was overjoyed, moved with gratitude, "Oh thank you, thank you!" I said, hugging each of them in turn. "That's all right mister". Next day I related this incident to my next-door neighbour, mentioning my amazement that such honesty was still to be found "in this day and age". "Ooh you shouldn't have hugged them, you know!" she said in a "be afraid, be very afraid" tone of voice; "You don't do that kind of thing these days and hope to get away with it! Their father will be around here before you know it, accusing you of sexually molesting his children and being a paedophile! I know because I've taught in schools around here".
Nothing further transpired, fortunately.
'Nuff said.
Lousy times. I have thought several times about deleting my last lengthy post and haven't felt inclined to write since or even speak much. On balance, I'm keeping it in not because it is wholly indicative but it is what it is or was when it was written and may lead to thought. A few sporadic thoughts which have been triggered by what you have written. First, that attire. I knew a real life Crocodile Dundee for a short while. The man from Perth at Geneva, scientifically bright, was never conventionally dressed. In attitude very Australian, his idea of relaxing wasn't watching television but scuba diving off islands others never visited and putting into catalogues lists of endangered species. His sidekick from the north, suited, could only claim to have the occasional kangaroo in his garden. Lord knows why they both latched onto me. Apparently it was some sort of additional research. On the Sunday evening, I'd arrive. There would be a smash on my door and there they would be with a bottle of whiskey and a message that I wouldn't be allowed to have a quiet night in like my managers. They got me into a car one weekend where we travelled most of Central Europe at ludicrous speed for 48 hours. On the stopover in some mountainous region, I was intending to take a quiet shower but the door flew open for their observations. They wanted to know if British men "had one". Now that they knew that they did they were satisfied. Good times. Much amusement all round.
Back in 1979, I was 16 and signed up to do school voluntary service at a local school. Late infants or early juniors. The most deprived in the borough. No one else chose that option. I was nervous as hell but as always the words almost convinced otherwise. This proved easier than I anticipated. In the main, the litlle girls took to me and were somewhat huggy. The boys were very questioning with the readiness to be critical on my indifference to team sport. But they were won over by a sense of humour, an easy going way on discipline - I have only ever become very irritated with middle class adults on low standards of behaviour - and the fact that I neither exhibited violence as was experienced in their homes or been so absent as to have walked out. A part of the requirements on me was that I should attend a parents' evening. "You won't like the parents" I was told. And mainly I didn't. The attitudes were I thought cold, rebellious and aggressive. Even in those days, there was a suspicion about a teenage male being kindly towards what in the moment only was a possessiveness on their part with their own children. Fast forward to the early 2000s. A mate of mine at work - married and with offspring himself - had become the leader of a local cub group. Some kid on one of their camps was causing mayhem with a knife. He took him home and when his mother in her underwear opened the door she said "you' have to take him back - I've got my boyfriend around". As for the very good university mate who has three - one most recently at Oxford - his wife works at a local school. "The stories she tells". "The children?" "No....not the children. It's the parents. Would put the hairs up on the back of your neck." "Yes, Richard, I have an understanding and it doesn't wholly mean it is a symptom of these times".
At one point in the same decade, I had fallen out so badly with what was then my GP surgery. They knew a lot about me including my increasing opposition. "Would it be ok to touch you here?" The latter day sensitivity came about with the threat of court action on a lack of concern. However, it really didn't matter however much time I ever went into explanation for they were bound to get it wrong. The world and his wife can touch me anywhere. I'm really not bothered and an occasional reassuring arm round the shoulder is more than fine. Just don't expect me to offer you any more than a hearty handshake which in itself I had to teach myself. It isn't indifference or disgust but rather I find that physicality is the shallow person's form of communication. The higher Daily Mail reader does communication best by talking and listening while those who really aspire feel that they closely communicate while the people stuff is very low down in the mix. That is to say we do it via music or nature as mature children of the world and that is love or if it is not it is a far bigger emotional connection based in shared interests. I cannot tell you how isolating a walk can be around others' work and relationships. I'm so sick of being asked about my status by the thin.
Towards the end of the 2000s, I turned up alone at Camp Bestival. Wasn't sure about the event seeing that there would be a lot of families and all of the baggage that can go with it. But, hey, it was Lulworth Castle which I like, it was the Flaming Lips who are older than me and dress up in animal suits or roll around in a ball - spot the lack of emphasis here on either family or big business - and Chuck Berry, my favourite granddad at that time. What could possibly go wrong? Well, it got off to the most awful start. On my arrival at the check in desk, some twenty-something bloke, a child himself although probably also a parent, looked at me accusingly and said "what - on ya own?". It really upset me for two days as if I was there for some dodgy sort of reason. And I have to say that it was only alleviated when I was about to go home and packing up my tent. Two children raced over and said "Mummy thought that you might like a bag in which to sort out your things". I looked back and the evidently single mother was smiling. I just think she may have spotted in the previous days the man who was a little unusual for having a big grin on his face because of the wonderful entertainment while being strangely alone and more benign that anyone is likely to find in a partner.
She nodded when I mentioned having heard on the radio yesterday that the injection is more likely to "work" if when taken in a cheerful disposition, adding "Which I always am, whenever I come here. I haven't had flu for the past three years when I've come here to have it done, which would seem to support the latest findings!" On exiting the shop, I noticed a pack of six small bottles of some fuit juice or other abandoned on the pavement. A woman passer-by picked it up, examining it with curiosity, and turned to me saying "Is this yours?" "No", I said; "You'd think whoever dropped it would have noticed, it being quite heavy". "I don't feel right keeping it", the woman said, "You'd better have it"!
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