Just plane solvent

There is a period of time between the child and teenage years that until recently never had a name. It was a bit of an anomaly that marketing departments chose to label the tweens. If I could capture that era of semi this and half that and give it a physical presence. If this could then be molded and cast in to plastic, broken down in to its constitute parts that had the ability to be reassembled at a later date. If we could then give them a set of assembly instructions and package the whole lot in a box with an incredible gloriously coloured and highly dramatised illustration on the front you would have the an Airfix model kit, the embodyment of my tweens.  

There was always a sense of excitement when going to the model shop almost as if the possibilities were endless, tanks, planes, cars, boats, they were all there. Models of vehicles you never knew existed and some that never did. The boundaries of reality no longer mattered, panzer tanks would comfortable sit next to a star wars battleship each and every one dramatised in technicolour with a picture of your model flying in to battle or sailing the high seas. If you had spent most of your pocket money you could still afford a spitfire or you could save up a little and get a formula one car. Some were easy and others took days to construct, requiring multiple construction areas and time allowed for drying. Everything would then combine in a few pages time and all make sense at the end. Models kits required responsibility they came with warnings of small parts and choking hazards, they were not suitable for small children. They required the use of solvents and oil based paint both of which had skull and cross bones triangles which laughed in the face of toys. These paints could not simply be washed down the sink like the water based ones in school, they required the use of yet more chemicals to clean the brush. To this day I have the words of my Dad at the back of my head every time I go near a tube of glue, warning me not to stick my fingers together. I learned quickly that this was an empty promise and not in the slightest bit possible with poly cement, which despite my best efforts not to I had on every finger in less than 2 minutes flat and which dried in to a harmless flake leaving a preserved copy of my finger prints. I had a tray on which I kept the various chemical solvents needed for construction. It was my mothers was of trying to preserve the carpets and it worked to an extent but an extent can only stretch so far after that a piece of furniture has to be put over the top to hide the blob. Sometimes the models lasted and other times they fell apart after a month or so. I am not quite sure what happened to all my models they just seemed to disappear over time. I am can only imaging a lot had unfortunate accidents in the garden or fell foul to the destructive tendencies that a young boy possess. I should think a good number are sitting in my parents attic in an unmarked box amongst the great mountain of other outgrown items. I am sure I will uncover them some day and admire the sloppily glued edges and the colours painted in shades just close enough, because I did not have the exact one listed in my collection. And I will remember the happy hours spend blissfully unaware that I was high as a kite off a mixture of Poly resin and solvent based paint fumes in my unventilated bedroom.

A shark in Brighton

It is odd how quickly one becomes accustom to walking around Brighton wearing all the necessary aids and equipment for a non swimmers day at the beach topped off with a man being eaten by a shark costume for good measure. Children stopped and pointed as we walked down the street, asking their mothers why and what those odd people were doing. Others laughed and there were more than a few compliments on the choice of bikini, and so began the long standing and sacred tradition among men involving the ritual humiliation of the stag.

I have to hold my hands up and say that it was a just a little late, but in agreement with all concerned we came to the conclusion that it probably fell under similar legislation to the stature of rights and that a years guarantee was applicable. The deadline for that voucher was fast approaching so I sketched out the frame of a plan and left the guys to get on with the stitch up. They did well and Saturday afternoon we headed off to Brighton dressed like idiots with me at the helm. There were challenges and drinking fines for all number of minor incursions, we talked the nonsense men do when oiled with beer and laughed at things of the past. There are pictures and probably video footage too captured in glorious HD which I am sure is being primed for upload to Facebook as I type. We hit a couple of pubs on the way to the venue and turned up to the comedy club all members still accounted for. Unlike the movies I did not wake up in the morning to find Mike Tyson's tiger in the bathroom and I think that in general other than drinking way too much I do not have that many skeletons waiting to break out of the closet. Right before the haziness of alcohol set in and the details became blurred I looked around at the faces before me filling in a few regretfully empty metaphorical chairs. It is humbling to know that people have turned up for you. At this point of our lives when our responsibilities out weigh the time we have for ourselves and there are never enough hours in any given day, time is by far our most precious asset. To travel from the other end of the country, spending hours on the road or train, giving up cherished time that could be lavished on a young family or partner over the weekend you hoped all week would get here one day sooner, to spend money hard earned on ensuring someone else has one of the best night out ever are just the tip of the iceberg that makes these guys so special. Some I have known for many many years and together we have watched one another grow through to the people we have become today. Others I have known for less time but I value just as much having more than earned the moniker friend in too many ways to mention.

Sitting there half eaten by my shark costume I concluded what I already knew, that friends do not come any better than these guys. For I count myself a lucky man to know these people and see no reason that should ever stop being the case. It is well said that if you can count your very good friends on one hand then you are a lucky man. In which case I have more than twice the luck of most.

Thank you guys for making it a very special night that I shall never forget.

Fools Gold

Long forgotten about at the back of a draw I finally found what I had been searching nearly an hour for. A small plastic box, square and black, inside cotton wool and laying on top of that a gold ring. I had bought the ring many years ago whilst on holiday in Greece with my family. I wore it for a while but then got bored, took it off placed it at the back of this draw for safe keeping and here it lay untouched till now. I now have a far more important ring on my finger so could see no point in keeping the other. It held no sentimental value, a little extra cash to spend on holiday would be nice and with the gold price currently at a 20 year high it seemed like an opportune time to liquidate.

The obvious place to start seemed to be the internet and true to form good old internet came up trumps again. With the help of my kitchen scales I weighed the ring, typed in the numbers and out came the figure. I figured that this was probably a best you can get figure and in reality would turn out to be some what smaller but it was a start and everyone needs a start. Hearing too many bad stories about people sending things through the post to shonky companies and not entrusting Royal mail to safely deliver anything other than a circular I decided the best thing was to head to Londons gold epicenter of Hatton Gardens and try my luck there. The big cheese and I had been a while ago to get our aforementioned rings, at the time I had not noticed but now the words sore and thumb sprang to mind. Even the guys without women had guys with them, maybe for moral support or maybe to bare witness to the price tag. Either way I had to walk the gauntlet of leaflet touts trying to show disinterest but at the same time ascertain which might give me the best price with the least amount of hassle. In the end it came down to nothing more scientific than judging books from their covers and having seen a window display that looked similar to the ring I had I went in only to be handed another leaflet.
"Are you looking to buy anything specific today" said the woman brandishing the leaflets
"I have an item that I might want to sell" I said trying to play it cool
"SAINF.........SAINF" the young woman shouted up a large stairwell.
A head popped over the railing
"Can you show this gentleman to the office please"
So Sanif came down and we set off up 10 flights of stairs to their fifth floor office. Apparently the lift was out of service. At this point I should have seen the omen and made my excuses but at that point the non descript door in front of us buzzed open and the moment of flight had gone.

Inside, the office was tiny and this was made all the more apparent by the plentiful supply of people employed there. The whole place had the aroma of a fish curry recently consumed at ones desk but trapped in a tiny space by the lack of circulating air the smell was completely numb to the curry's consumers. A fat man sitting fully reclined in a cheap swivel chair motioned me from the door over the one and half meter distance to his desk. He had a neck brace on and looked one cat short of a Bollywood bond super villain fallen on hard times. I produced the box and gave him the ring which he tossed from hand to hand for a while then held aloft his free hand open palmed and without a word being said a loupe was placed in it by one of the employees standing through lack of space less than a meter away. His face screwed up a bit and then someone else entered the room came over sat in a chair next to gold finger's less fortunate brother, at which point I became completely invisible. For a full 3-4 minutes I no longer existed in that room, no manner of attempted eye contact, shuffling in my chair or huffing could make me reappear. It was clear they had plans for world domination to formulate, probably involving the use of a satellite and big lazer as it became apparent all business had been suspended. I had to grab an assistant who was, due to the rooms dimensions, situated just over a meter from me to try and prize my item from gold fingers grasp. He did so and handed it to another employee stood behind a counter on the opposing wall. He weighed it three times and came up with three different weights and chose the lightest (naturally) on which to base his "best price." I protested weakly that the weights were different only to be told with no sense of irony it was because the scales were so accurate. At that point I just wanted out and they wanted to barter I named a ridiculous price he named another and we parted ways neither of us any the richer.

I pounded the streets a while longer visiting the shops I had scoped out earlier. All were looking to give me roughly the same price give or take ten pounds. Resigning myself to have found the true market value I went in the last shop and offered up my treasure. I was handed another leaflet on the way in and directed to a counter on the left and greeted by a cockney geezer straight from the set of a Guy Richie film. Much like being on holiday I got the gist of the conversation by listening out for key words and waiting for pauses in to which a response was expected. I was only able to respond in my native language but he seemed fine with that. I rationed I had said the right thing in the correct place because he pulled out a set of scales. He weighed it and went through the same procedure everyone else had, asking me how much I had been offered else where. I added £10 to the best price and asked what price he would pay. The next bit was difficult to decipher but the key words I gleamed were "All of the money", " Top end", "Treasure in the attic" and the price. It was £10 higher than anywhere else so I said yes at which point he pulled a stack of £50 notes large enough to knock out a man from under the counter before he realised he didn't need this stack and changed it for an equally large stack of £20's. He peeled a few from the top placed them in an envelope and in true cockney style we shook on a good deal done.

Now for that holiday. 

Everlasting Soap

The chore of cleaning the bathroom is just that, a chore. It is both in the physical and metaphorical sense a chore and something I in no way relish doing. I love a clean bathroom, who doesn't, so I see it as a necessary evil and on balance worth doing. I usually start with the shower and bath working my way round to the toilet and then the sink. If I was pushed to decide which of them I liked or maybe least hated doing most it would have to be the sink. I have not just plucked this out the air, the sink has one major advantage over the others, soap.

A bar of soap in our house seems to last forever, this is not because we are dirty it just does. I guess that shower gel has stolen much of the soaps thunder. The soap sits next to the taps waiting for dirty hands to pounce, to squeeze and rub and lather it up before placing it back on the dish. I like the way soap goes through a life cycle, and unlike shower gel whos level you can observe declining after every use it recedes at a rate almost too slow to observe. Like the life of a tree it only changes when no one is looking. Then one day you notice it is round instead of square, then its flatter than it used to be, the colour has lost the intensity it once had and it enters the winter of its existence. You would think that once it got to this stage that would be it, its days would be numbered you could even estimate how much longer you thought it had. But we have everlasting soap or so it seems, perhaps even made by Willie Wonker using technology based on his gobstopper machine (the only invention not to harm a child) for it seems to go on and on. Even when whittled down from small to tiny then to a mere nubin if it will not fit between the spaces in the plug hole it's not done. But like most things there are a couple of exceptions which sometimes offer a respite to the situation they are, The big cheese loosing all patience then discarding it in the bin and secondly having guests round and dazzling them with our bountiful soap supply, these are the only times it is permissible to prematurely replace the soap. 

It is said that it's the little things and starting a new bar of soap is one of mine. Firstly it has a new scent which is in pleasant contrast to the previous bar whos familiarity has numbed me to it. But best of all the feel of its sharp corners and 90 degree sides. It looks so nice placed in the center of the holder its geometry creating a zen like harmony against the porcelain. Everything else looks so sloppy against the uniformity of the perfect edges. This new bar has not yet conformed to the rigors of ergonomics and at the same time shuns form and function in favor of looks and style. This one small thing can be compensation enough for cleaning the whole bathroom as I know that I can be the first person to use it.

All I need to do now is find a way to use soap quicker or clean the bathroom less.

Pirate Bling

Back in the golden age of pirating, all you had to do was sail around a bit and you would practically fall over a merchant ship loaded with plunder, apart from the loss of the occasional limb, monsters from the deep and mermaid sirens life was good. Then people got a bit annoyed at having all their stuff nicked so set out to put a stop to it. War ships were deployed, task committees formed and rewards offered for capture dead or alive, life became a bit more of a chore. The pirate way of life became less enticing and with the advancements in technology many a foresighted pirate saw the nail was in the coffin for the maritime based lifestyle they had become accustom and started to explore alternative careers.

Documents released through whistle blowing website WikiLeaks show that with the help of a government based back to work scheme many pirates returned to dry land, retrained and under local council supervision were integrated back in to society with the hope they could lead productive lives and enrich communities through their diversity. It could be attributed to the many hours singing shanties or the less formal attire adopted by these particular sectors, but it seems that pirates have a penchant for the music and entertainment industries as today this is where we see many have ended up. As much of a success as the scheme was there were a few pirates who's life of crime was so ingrained that once deemed rehabilitated they turned back to the underworld. A certain sector started black markets in pirate DVDs, games and CDs selling them on dodgy market stalls, street corners and through the 'guy at work' network. A few looked for fame over the air waves and started what has been called pirate radio. Already adept at mast construction they found this allowed them the ability to broadcast from all manor of locations, a few even returning to the sea. This made detection by the authorities almost impossible at the time and as it was only considered an infringement on the law very few were ever caught or prosecuted. Others chose to follow a more legitimate thespian career path and to this day can be seen treading stages across the world performing in everything from seasonal pantomime, opera and the dizzy heights of Hollywood to great acclaim.

Arguably the most successful group went in to music and became rap and hip hop stars. This genera was through necessity rather  than choice, many preferring more pop styled tunes but with their indecipherable pronunciation, less than tone perfect vocal abilities and hard luck life stories rueing the days they were shot numerous times and the bad neighbourhoods they grew up in, they were limited. Never the less they took the music scene by storm, their hard lyrics hitting a poignant note amongst despondent youth. They were able to incorporate the pirate cultural identity through the use of bandanas, gold teeth, and earrings , popularising the 'bling' movement we know today. Drink was a well publicised issue for pirates and the revenue from platinum album sales did nothing to quell this problem of binge drinking instead moving away from large barrels and on to premium brand bottled spirits. Being creatures of habit they stuck with brandy, rum and cognac drinks, and have in their rap star incarnations become much aligned with such brands as Hennesey, Jack Daniels and Courvoisier. Few could have seen the far reaching impact pirates would have, their influences stretching in to the mainstream vocabulary with words such as Yo, a greeting and also a shortening of the possessive prenominal adjective your, Ho, a woman of questionable moral standing and Booty, a catch all term meaning both treasure and women two highly prized assets in the pirate community. As well as the pirate limp, a way of walking where one leg is kept straight while walking in order to simulate a wooden prosthetic. All have now become commonplace on streets up and down the country particularly evident around such hubs as fried chicken shops and McDonald's outlets, sported by adoring fans eager to emulate their musical idols.

The debate as to whether these are positive role models remains to be seen. It has been shown you can take the pirate out of the sea but can he sing?

Egg and Soliders

It must have been more than 15 years ago. It would have been at my grandparent's house and probably on a Wednesday. That was last time I had a soft boiled egg with soldiers.

There is no reason it has been left this long. I had no bad experience I can only imagine that the seductive lure of scrambled, the hangover curing properties of fried or the gastro difficulty of hollandaise smothered poached variety just distracted me. It would have been in the seemingly endless summer holidays where I can only remember the days being sunny and children's cartoons playing on the television all hours of the day, that my sister and I would have visited my gran in what we considered to be deep in the Sussex countryside. Things at my grans house were always at a more sedate pace. Everything was hand made in the comforting way of recipes handed down and refined through a lifetime, using bowls and utensils that have served their function for a generation already but show no sign of giving up any time soon. Where cereal, usually in front of the television was normally the order of the day in our house at my grans things could not have been more different. Soft boiled egg and soldiers was on the menu the eggs from the market, many with feathers still stuck to the shells, most no more than a couple of days since they left the chicken and hit the ground. The bread was white and from an uncut loaf and required cutting on the slicing machine the width set to your desired preference. A couple of minutes under the grill and a thick coating of butter and the soldiers were dressed, shortly followed by the egg in a cup all served at the table. This was egg and soldiers as I remember it.  

I figured it was time to amend this glitch and go back to the future. On Sunday morning I fired up the grill and put an anemic slice of white bread under to crisp and tan. Moments later the pan of boiling water was bubbling away ready to receive its offering. I figured I was somewhat larger than I used to be so reasoned two eggs rather than the one from memory were probably needed so in they went for exactly 3 minutes before being scooped out by the slotted spoon and placed in a bowl of cold water. The bread got a butter covering and the eggs a cup long forgotten about from the back of the cupboard. We were ready to go just one questioned remained do you smash or slice the top.

For posterity I should have smashed but for convenience I sliced, inside was the gold, runny and ready for dipping. Always my favorite bit I waded in with a soldier of toast touching the bottom of the egg for maximum yolk coverage. The white was always second best. When I could I would pass it off to my sister or exchange it for her yolk in the days when saturated fats meant little to a kid. In all honesty I only ate the albumen out of loyalty to the yellow, figuring I would be doing the egg as a whole a disservice by shunning it, that and being a prisoner to the table until it was all finished and I was allowed to get down.
 
So was it like it used to be? In the end I had a pile of toast crumbs on the plate and table, two empty egg shells and yolk drips down my t shirt, yes.

Barely lamented

I had the immense pleasure of catching the bus to work the other morning. Whilst squashed between the window and the wide spread newspaper of the commuter next to me, a young gentlemen situated one row back on his way to school, decided to include me and the the middle third of the bus in his phone conservation by speaking in a tone only a few decibels short of a public address system. Although flattered that I should be included in said conversation I, with the help of my own copy of the Metro adopted the standard issue London block-it-out stare and got on with the journey. That was until I heard the youth say "yeah blood I had bare skills brov." Now this is completely out of context but I wondered in which context you could use such a phrase.

So does this boy have certain skills that he can only use once bare, invisibility for instance. A very useful skill but not one you hear people shout about too often. From recollection the documented (fictional) characters were all unfortunate victims of failed drug trials, chemical spills or some gifted scientist's plan gone wrong. Unless this kid is in the habit of hanging around with such scientists it seems unlikely to be the solution. Could it be those (wink of an eye) kind of bare skills. The kind that cause women to fall to their knees and become putty in your hand. If so where can I get some of those because at a far grander age it is this holy grail I am still searching for myself, let alone rewinding 15 years previous to the awkward fumblings of youth. Could it be bear skills. Bears have skills but there is a desperate lack of caves for hibernation in the local boroughs mostly as a direct result of government cut backs. Salmon migrating up the Thames are also few and far between so the skills a bear possesses are actually of little use in the urban environment and probably not the kind of thing you mention over the phone.

As folly as this is Bare turns out to be a catch all term and loosely means a lot of or excessively. It would seem things have changed since back in the day and calls in to question my decision to turn my back on the word of the street and adopt the commonly understood sentence structure and dictionary definitions to my vocab. Age catches up on you eventually and every so often old father time gives your heels a bit of a nip, here is one of those nips. I just lament those heady days when pocket money flowed freely, my day was 9 till 3 with a couple of play times in between and the world of slang sense.

Bad meant good and it was good to be bad except when it meant bad then it was bad.