a blog by bladud fleas esq.
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Advent 2018
A little look back on my online past… it’s an open door.
Advent Calendar
I have not touched base with my artistic blogging buddy, Johnnynorms, for some time. His WP blog seemed to have ceased in 2014. It’s a shame not least because around this time, he would post a selection of worthy advent calendars.
While there are a number of ways to make your own online advent calendar, and I’ve been tempted to try it, all at once the month is upon us and I fail to make the deadline. Ironically, in a similar way to being adverse to keeping a diary until blogging, I’ve always held the physical calendar, with its cardboardiness and little fiddly numbered doors, in contempt, I really like the concept of online ones.
So, what to do?
I could delve back into my historical presence online and offer a daily morsel from the past. Turn over the soil, so to speak. Or old light through new windows, to paraphrase someone who didn’t quite say that.
Here’s a door.
One hello and two goodbyes
I have written before how I could become in time one of the last sons of Middlesex. I mention this because recently I have seen photographs of this once agrarian county of England being consumed by the creeping tide of a London expansion. Suburbia was to be its new crop, perennial and unyielding, though eventually showing signs of going to seed. Looking over these photos of precise grids of similar houses, of clean, barren streets between orderly rows of little shops, I feel sadness even though I never knew its countryside. I imagine the farms and the people working the fields, and the villagers, self-contained and neighbourly, and their children playing in the streams and brooks, under a broad, open sky.
Samuel Johnson once said, “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life“. But I bet he never lived or worked in its suburbs.
They say that the entire human population can be housed in average sized family homes, with a small garden, in a suburb not much larger than Texas. I think this would be a good idea. And we could all go to work in Oklahoma, leaving the rest of the planet to be “rewilded”. Or at least managed in a sustainable, close to natural way.
I, myself, had a desire to leave as early as ten years old but had to endure it a further fifteen years. Yet, after a further quarter of a century in my adopted home, I can see the invasiveness of urban culture around me. Expansion seems inevitable, grace, peacefulness and beauty is discounted and up for grabs. Our government has promised 300,000 new build homes each year to solve a “crisis”; it’s not clear for how many years.
Idealist, or fantasists, I’m not quite sure, talk of going to Mars. It may come to that and I feel as sad for that generation to come as I do for the generation I imagined in the old photos, losing their lifestyle, their future and their culture. For progress.
Written for Reena’s Exploration Challenge #65.
Middlesex was an English county, known as a “Home County” for being close to London, the capital and traditional seat and home of the monarchy. In 1965, it was divided between Greater London and neighbouring counties; it ceased to be although addresses containing Middlesex were valid until the introduction of national alpha-numerical “post codes” made this inclusion unnecessary.
The name derives historically from the domain of the Middle-Saxons, the collective immigrant/ invaders/raiders (along with the Angles and other Germanic peoples) who came to rule some time after the Romans, around the 5th Century and up until the Norman conquest in the 11th Century.
The radical north-west suburban expansion into what was coined “Metroland” on account of the above ground extensions of the London Underground rail networks, began in the early twentieth century. Further sprawl was partly contained by the “Green Belt”, a narrow ring of permanent countryside, though this is continually under threat.
In Samuel Johnson’s day, London more or less finished at about Hyde Park.
He regresado
As you guessed, I have been away on a short break. They do have internet in Spain but I choose not to indulge in normal habits on a break. Ironically, even my daily Spanish lessons (Duolingo) were put on hold.
In the Province of Granada in southern Spain, it appears that complimentary tapas is obligatory in bars when you order a drink. It’s certainly the case you don’t have to ask; you simply order a cerveza or a vino tinto or any round of drinks, and a few minutes after they arrive, the patron presents you with a snack. This varies between a humble baked potato with garlicky mayonnaise to finger-licking sticky kebabs or grilled, spicy chorizo and morcilla, a melt-in-the-mouth black pudding.
I used to think you couldn’t beat a traditional English pub but now I’d settle for a Province of Granada bar. It’s a lovely touch and for two beers, you won’t want for lunch.
Though tapas is available elsewhere in Spain, I don’t think it’s complimentary. In Seville last year, we had to order it separately and there wasn’t the element of treat or surprise. I tried to image it happening in English pubs but all I thought of was a bowl of peanuts and pork scratchings.
Notes from an airport lounge (or why I hate flying)
Sitting in departures, I am reminded of the time when my mother suggested I look at working for an airline. I would be about ten so there was no immediate pressure. The only people I knew who had flown extensively were my aunt and uncle and two cousins, but he was in the Royal Air Force. I know Mum was romanticising about the “Jet Set”, the sun-bronzed traveller, the dashing flight captains and the glamorous stewardesses.
In those days there was probably an element of truth about this vision. Now, glancing around, nothing could be further from the truth. It’s the province of naff; weary-looking travellers dressed as if they’re about to mop the floors or clean out the bins. The lounge has all the aesthetic charm of a tyre shop and by the state of the floors, no one has passed a mop across it in months. A group of uniformed and uniformly made-up cabin crew pass by almost unnoticed. They seem to have been relegated in our esteem to that of bus conductors, their effort in glamour wasted and irrelevant.
She hasn’t mentioned careers much after that conversation but I think she’s happy I went into engineering.
Catching a quick breakfast at Jamie’s, we ordered coffees and croissants. The coffees were presented in those disposable and non-recyclable cups even though we were breakfasting on the premises. The croissants were presented cold, a few degrees less than the service staff’s demeanour. It wasn’t a good deal but seem to fit in with airport expectations.
It’s saddening. I have a soft spot for Jamie: He’s a good cook and I believe he has an altruistic streak which he does try to foster, but his commercial empire seems out of his control. Greed or poor business management? He’s worth a few bob now, perhaps he ought to rein it in and concentrate on manageable quality.
How ridiculous is airport security procedure? If you were in any doubt about the awfulness of flying, airport security will set your mind right. Fortunately for them flying is relatively dirt cheap or else we wouldn’t put up with it. Putting all your toiletries in little plastic bags; removing your shoes and belt; toeing the line before it’s your go to put all your possessions in a dirty plastic tray; being frisked randomly by a bored looking guy in a black uniform. I wanted to ask him how many he’s caught this week. None? Never mind, keep trying. It’s like the lottery, you have to be in it to win it. And no one knows anyone who has won.
Radio Days
I’ve been watching a BBC iPlayer programme about Reggae and David Rodigan. Rodigan is the white, Oxfordshire born guy who “looks like a dentist” and has dedicated his long career to promoting Reggae music in the UK and, it appears, all over the world. He is much respected in Jamaica too.
I remember Rodigan on the radio during the 80s. He would be on the car radio, broadcasting out of Capital FM, a new commercial station for London. It brings back good memories of driving through the city in my first car, streets tinged with the orange glow of low pressure sodium lights, and maybe some reflecting drizzle, and the radio, with Rodigan, emitting this swell of warm, exotic, heavy rhythms and beats interspersed with reverberating, and sometimes intriguingly incomprehensible, soundbites and jingles. And Dub and “Version-Excursion”.
I had heard Jamaican music before this. My uncle’s fabulous collection of records included The Wailers’ Catch A Fire at about its time of release. There was, very occasionally, ska and reggae records in the pop charts earlier too. One memory I have is from Junior School, sitting near the front of a coach for an educational trip and being kept waiting for some reason. The coach driver turned on the radio and the first song we heard was Desmond Dekker and The Aces, Israelites, and my friend and I tried to sing along. Yes, it was a bit get up in the morning wantin’ my breakfast; me ears are alight; and you’re too beefhead, but I remember it well.
But Rodigan made me want to buy the records: Johnny Osbourne, Pablo Gadd, Barrington Levy, Burning Spear, and Black Uhuru are a few names who come to mind and, of course, Gregory Isaacs and Dennis Brown.
It pains me sometimes that I don’t listen to enough music now. In my youth, I’d immerse myself in music and into my 40s, I’d still be listening almost daily, and my very first blog venture was musically themed. Reggae is just one of the genres I loved to hear. I’m going to try listening to more music again. New year’s resolutions!
Never let it be said that the English won’t speak of their weather.
Staggered to be working on my dishwasher repairs in the garage, unheated. The up-and-over door up and over, there was noticeable warmth coming in from that pale yellow orb not venturing so high from the horizon now.
It could be that November can be nice, also.
When the dishwasher breaks down – & other first world problems
It’s a poor day which doesn’t teach you anything.
In the course of a week in which we relearnt washing dishes, old-style, I learnt how our white goods try to communicate with the outside world with what little apparatus they possess. You know those little coloured lights on the door front which are there to tell us how far through its cycle it’s reached and when to put in more salt? The machine also uses these to cry for help! Or maybe to say it’s not feeling too well, and why.
And so, with the second of three little green lights on and a flashing red one, our poorly machine was telling anyone who could understand it that its water heater had quit working. I learnt this not from the instruction manual – a book of very small intellect – but by watching Youtube, the fount of all knowledge – and quite a bit of baloney too. Following the convincing expert advice and practically stripping the machine down to a skeleton, I hefted it onto its side to remove the plinth, as instructed. Only then I saw what looked like a trap door underneath. Curiosity being stronger than inclination to follow advice, sound or otherwise, I popped it open and there was the kaput heater alongside a couple of accessible pumps. The lesson; never follow advice blindly, however expert it may seem.
Now, I’m not one who’s averse to the odd mindless chore. Actually, I think you can make an art out of most of them with a little spirit and dedication. As a kid, the jobs of washing up and drying up fell to Dad and me. We’d be pretty democratic about who got to do what, arguing who it was who did the washing up last time and whoever put up the best argument got to dry. There was no other alternative to the tasks other than buying new pots and pans each mealtime. I can’t even say we dreamt about dishwashers then – despite having a machine that washed clothes, somehow one for dishes never crossed our minds. We simply got on with it, after every meal. Sunday roast dinner was the worst!
Yet this past week’s washing dishes by hand has told me the manual method isn’t up to the task. For starters, hands can’t handle hot enough water, the bowl cools down way too quickly, and it’s completely unsatisfactory on anything made of glass, like glasses. Best of all, a dishwasher makes a convenient cupboard for storing all those unsightly dirty dishes, making your kitchen look more like those featured in Homes & Gardens.
No, easily best of all is enjoying your meals and then just sitting on your bottom afterwards, enjoying the thought of that meal, ideally with the remains of a bottle of wine.
So, with fingers crossed and a quick offering of prayer to the patron saint of dishwashers, St. Bonaventure, I put back together our machine with a new part in place. It seems to like it: it’s showing only one green light now which I know means, “Thanks, pal!” and I say, “Please, don’t mention it, mate!” You have a friend in a dishwasher.
Blogs (not death) and taxes
Oh no! It seems I have been absent from Blogworld for five days. This is all because we have decided to sell our house and buy another, and though it’s been a long while in planning, it still comes as a shock.
It is said that moving home is one of the most stressful things first world people can experience in life. Fortunately for us, there’s an element of excitement and optimism which goes to counter the bad stuff like legal issues, due taxes, and acquiring all the necessary home buying expertise. Not least, the total chunk of cash which needs to be paid to various parties is eye watering and the lion’s share of all this goes to Her Majesty’s treasury in so-called stamp duty – a tax on the audacity of wanting to own your own home – it’s a wonder her subjects move at all.
Anyway, it probably means I might not be up to reading any of your blogs, or even writing in mine, until that particular fat lady sings. The idiomatic fat one I mean, not the Queen, god bless her.
