Tuesday 30 April 2013

Funny What's in a Name!

“What do you think of the name ‘Roger’?” one woman asks her friend as we wait for our morning train.
Okay, where’s this going? I think.
“A bit of an old man’s name now. But thirty, forty years ago it was popular.”
They appeared to be ladies in their early fifties and so, respectfully, should know.
“But what does it say to you? I mean, about a man called Roger?”
Ah, here we go, might be amusing!
“I don’t know,” says friend, “someone steady, not that exciting. Why?”
“I wouldn’t call my son ‘Roger’ now. Too old-fashioned, and” (this next bit is in a lower voice) “the name is a bit naughty!”
“What do you mean?” asks a now intrigued, wide-eyed friend.
“You know” answers the first woman. She looks around as if her next words are top secret, then proceeds to move her right arm and fist in a suggestive forward and back motion adding,
“’Rogering’!”
Her astonished friend is momentarily speechless, I think caused as much by the arm movement as the words.
“I beg your pardon?” she says finally with an uncertain laugh.
“You know” eyes moving fleetingly, “‘Rog-‘!”
“Er, yes, I get it!”
I smirk.
“No”, continues friend, “I wouldn’t call my son Roger now either, but not because of your…reason.” She looks again at her friend’s arm. “I just don’t like it. It reminds me of other dull names, like ‘Ian’, ‘Glen’, or ‘Darren’!”
“Why don’t you like Darren?” queries first woman.
“Eeeeaaagh!” A being sick sound. “Plain, no personality and not to be trusted!” Was that said with a hint of spite?
Maybe, but this is dull now!
“Do you know anyone called Darren?”
Boring!
“Yes, I do actually!”
“Who?”
Friend surveys again for ear-wiggers.
“My ex-lover!”
Bloody hell! What?
“What?” says first woman too loudly for comfort.
Friend says nothing, just stares at her companion with a look that says ‘Keep it down!’
First woman lowers her voice.
Sue*!...” She half says the word “How” but it doesn’t fully come out.
“When? Is he a work thi…who is he? Oh my god! I don’t believe it!” She is genuinely stunned. She looks out over the tracks into the distance, then down at the tracks, then back to Sue.
“You’re kidding! I mean, why, how long, who is he? Oh my god you must be kidding! You’re kidding, right?”
Sue straightens her back and looks directly into her friend's eyes. Her face changes to neutral. Friend stares back, searching, waiting.
“Cath”* a long pause, then slowly, “Yes, I, am!”
Sue can’t hold it in and bursts out laughing. It’s a roar, then a belly laugh bordering on tears. “Your face!” Sue can’t stop laughing. “Oh, my eyes.” She has tissue in her hand wiping their undersides. “That was so funny!” Rubbing it in now. Cath slaps her half playfully on the arm. Sue rubs the point of impact as the not so playful half has stung but she continues laughing. Cath cracks an uneasy smile but is clearly still processing what’s happened as the train approaches the platform.

The incident has truly brightened my morning. I feel myself smiling, inside and out. As the train stops, Sue and Cath walk down the platform to the next carriage. Sue is looking straight ahead. Cath is looking at Sue, smiling but still processing, waiting. They will no doubt carry on with a discussion about what’s just occurred. I get on the train the better for what I’ve just seen and very pleased that my name isn’t Roger, or Ian, Glen and especially Darren.


*Names changed for anonymity

Wednesday 24 April 2013

A Moral for mobile users on a train

“Hello” shouts Loud Woman (LW) into her mobile with an upward inflection. After a short pause, “I’m on the train”, this even louder. Another pause then, “Yeah, can’t talk, carriage full o’ people. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

LW is now listening intently but interjects randomly, and still unnecessarily loudly, with “Can’t be!”, short laughter burst then, “She wouldn’t!”, inward gasp of breath, “Huh” and then “Nooo!” and so it continues.

I see the faces and body language of fellow passengers betraying their thoughts about her. Some adjectives visually audible include: Ignorant, thoughtless, arrogant, ill-mannered, ill-bred, boorish.

Finally, LW states in decibels allied to a megaphone,
“Have you told her to stop?” This is immediately countered with impeccable timing by the words
“I wish you’d bloody stop!” There is instant laughter; from short “Ha’s” to one woman’s belly laugh and accompanying tears; a few people clapping; several people stunned into a heightened silence; and others shuffling in their seats whispering.

The man who spoke – a carriage hero to many, is seated two rows behind LW. She looks around the carriage, appearing unsure why the atmosphere has changed and mirth is in the air. Her face then contorts and shoulders rise towards her tensing neck as she realises the comment is directed at her; the stares, laughter, claps, all for her. She tries to look behind but cannot turn. She is hemmed in by her ample frame, limited in flexibility and the equally large man seated next to her. He looks at her smiling. She is deciding whether he is trying to be polite, or enjoying the joke in her face.

LW’s expression now speaks louder than she does. Shall I continue talking? What do I say? Should I be angry? Who with? The audience viewing this free, live, impromptu play is hooked. They are all wondering: What will she do next?
“I’ll call you back!” says LW finally and in a lower tone. There is an inaudible but perceptible collective sigh.

Oh but that this would be the end of the matter for LW. Instead, her mobile rings and it’s even louder than her voice. The ring tone is ‘The Birdy Song'.
“Oh dear God!” shouts Carriage Hero. The captive audience love it and roar with laughter. LW fumbles with her mobile in both hands, as if it’s a hot potato and quickly cancels the call. She then fumbles with it some more, I suspect to turn off the power.

At the next stop LW alights. To her credit she does this with a certain coolness and dignity (I could not see from where I was seated whether she scanned faces for her nemesis). This cool exterior, however, is soon identified as false, for once the doors close and the train pulls away, a fellow passenger is overheard by some and then whispers around the carriage follow, confirming
“That’s not her stop. She’s got another two to go.”

There are, arguably, several morals to this tale for regular commuters. Surely, though, the most crucial is: The ‘Birdy Song’ must never, ever, be used as a ringtone!!

SMELLY

Aaah! The relief of the train doors opening! The unfettered joy of cold, fresh air washing over me!

As he entered the carriage my senses immediately raised the alarm. This was unfair; he had done nothing wrong. But when he sat next to me my senses were right to be scared. My eyes rolled and watered; my nostril fibres baulked in anguish; and my body convulsed. I was under a full-frontal attack of stench.

His garlic breathe was overwhelming. I felt like my nasal lining was alight and scar tissue was being cut into the back of my throat. My mind swam; I was heading for the dark side. Fear then consumed me; that the odour was impregnating the fabric of my clothes.

We pulled into the next stop where my very being craved emergency assistance; anything to neutralize the sensory molestation. A cool breeze again swept over me, filling my gasping lungs with air, like an oxygen-depleted scuba-diver breaking the water’s surface and feeling re-born. But alas, as the doors closed, a crushing wave of hum washed over my head, once more taking me under.

The next stop was ten minutes away. I feared I could not survive that long in this straightjacket of rancidness. I closed my eyes and tried to enter a hitherto unexplored spiritual world where only minimal respitory function was required. I sadly failed and had to take deep breathes to recuperate equilibrium, thereby digesting more putrid, garlic-infested air.

Relief, though, was surely at hand. The next stop was a major drop-off point before the train’s final destination where I was heading. Surely, he would get off here and afford me an early parole? But no! Moreover, the opposite doors opened this time and no relieving breeze came to my rescue.

The journey to the final stop only takes four minutes. It felt like forty. The life-blood had drained from me. The debilitating odour had crushed my will to breathe. When the train stopped and everyone began to alight, including Stinky, I sat there, taking a moment to myself. I felt simultaneously dirty but strangely, free.

I told people at work what had happened. Most laughed, some sympathised but a few offered workable solutions:

Wear a smog mask. This will at least provide nasal and throat protection and a clear visual message to the rank offender

Dab perfume or cologne under your nose and around your face to battle with the pong for supremacy, and again provide a layer of sense protection

Carry fabric freshener along with personal hygiene products to compliment the brave work of the perfume or cologne on the pungent front line

Offer to the rancid one, strong mints. This latter option should be accompanied by advising Stinky that their breathe is a civil tragedy and that some consideration of others wouldn’t go amiss. This, of course, is not a cure. But it will make you feel a whole lot better!

'Hoody' and 'Shady'

An unusual sight on a busy 7am commuter train - two lads looking suspiciously like drug dealers! 'Hoody' and 'Shady', complete with penis extension Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a means of communication comprising 'I'm a hard man' mumbling, requiring no movement whatsoever of the bottom jaw.

Thus, the street greeting "Alright?" became "Ite" - no 't' or upward inflection in the enquiry. The response "Yes" (it wouldn't be 'ard to say "Yes thank you") became a phonetic child-like "E".

It is, of course, unreasonable to call them drug dealers without tangible evidence. That and the fact that proper drug dealers would surely not choose to look as ludicrous on an early commuter train among the suits as Hoody, Shady and Cilla the Staff (or was it Killer? I may have misheard). The train was very warm, heating (unnecessarily) turned up and most seats taken. Yet Hoody had his hood up under a body warmer and chin tucked on his chest looking pasty and cold. It was also overcast outside. Yet Shady wore mirror pilot shades along with a yellow beany, clearly trying to draw no attention to himself whatsoever! Cilla/Killer lay on the floor beneath Hoody’s legs panting as if it had just run a marathon.

I say no evidence, a brown coloured package was passed underhandedly by Shady to Hoody. I was at the wrong angle to determine the exact nature of the handover and was more peaking than staring. To be fair, it could have just been a bag of Winalot for Cilla/Killer.

The scene, however, sadly, got me thinking about the three amigos and why they were travelling on this train. Why dress that way; have Cilla/Killer in tow and talk like illiterates? Was this all by design, or had their city suits met with a horrible dry-cleaning accident while they simultaneously fell victim to a debilitating speech impediment?

Let’s assume for a moment that they weren't travelling into their respective city offices - my workplace for one offers no kennel facilities for Cilla/Killer or other animals while executives crunch the numbers. What could their business be, in a predominantly business office area?

Perhaps after the dry cleaning and linguistic trauma, they just fancied a day off and an early day out! Start pre- 7am on a commuter train; take Cilla/Killer for a nice walk ... in the business district; maybe enjoy a relaxing coffee and croissant; later some brunch and lunchtime cocktails at a lounge bar. Or, more cynically, they were travelling in to supply recreational products or services to their city based clientele. But would they really be so blatant and look so ridiculous if serious suppliers?

The problem with choosing to look and sound this way is that the average person may, unfairly, think you were, in fact, drug-dealers masquerading as plonkers.

I once went to a business seminar which included a presentation about ‘Perception’. The speaker, a Sales Director of a big international company, pointing to every aspect of his dress code, confirmed:

I don’t like wearing a suit and tie! And cuff-links: What are they all about nowadays? But, I am a Sales Director of an internationally respected company. Consequently, I wear a tailored suit, good quality shirt requiring these (pointing to the cuff-links), and tie, two-inches of cuff showing beyond the jacket sleeve, daily-shined Brogues, a gold brand-name watch (visible) and a matching hanky showing in my jacket pocket. This is my uniform. I wear it because if I look like an international company Sales Director; walk, act and speak like a Sales Director, then those that see me will perceive that this is what I am!

Transpose that to Hoody and Shady and it is clear: If you dress, walk, talk and act like drug-dealer plonkers, you are to all intense and purposes, drug dealer plonkers.

Sunday 21 April 2013

Interlude - Lazy Ibiza

A masted boat is sailing past. I watch it as I sit back on my hotel room balcony drinking a chilled white local wine. Okay the wine (Can Maymo 2011) is crap but it doesn't spoil the moment. The white hull glistens as it bobs effortlessly on the blue Med under an early evening sun setting behind me. It's easiness mirrors my mood as I slip further back into my chair. Donna and I are on a short break in Ibiza, a last minute thing. We have very quickly forgotten horrid weather, unnecessary funeral processions and sycophantic Tories after a day by the pool.

It wasn't all day by the pool. Between our hotel, the Tropic Garden, Santa Eulalia and the calm blue sea stretching out to a light blue horizon lay a discovery. (I know this is a daft thing to do, but sitting typing this I've just looked up and spied the distance between the start of the sea and the horizon with one eye between my thumb and forefinger. It's only 5cm away! Isn't that odd!)

Anyway, a walk out early afternoon soon leads us down a wide stone-laid, palm tree-lined promenade between our hotel and neighbouring apartments, called Passatge Rigoberto Soler Perez. It appears to lead to a dead end of lush, green trees. As we approach, however, what looks like red sandstone earth paths appear, offering routes into the woods in either direction. We take the left, the better option we later decide! At first it's just a narrow path through a low canopy of trees but it quickly opens out. The scene that greets us is worth the walk alone. The sailing boat is moored in a small bay of mini red sandstone cliffs set against a backdrop of distant blue up to clear cloudless sky. As an easy, occasional breeze blows, trees edging the bay sway and sing. Clear, clean water laps jagged rocks under the red on blue walls, home to pools of gently swaying seaweed and shoals of tiny fish.

We walk first with the sun to our backs. No glare hinders our view. The trees are more spaced but offer intermittent shade. One area looks really interesting to Donna. A chance to, relatively easily, climb down a gap in the wall to rocks by the sea, then further down to a clear pool adjacent to a ready-made rock seat allowing her to wet her feet. Funny how wet feet in a cool lagoon looking out to sea makes your shoulders fall away from your ears and your tense back relax!

The walk back and beyond our initial left turn doesn't stop me keep looking out across the bay and the bobbing and swaying boat, except in a couple of places. Here, the red path narrows to no more than a metre between tree line and 4 metre drops to an unforgiving fall. Eyes forward and down here. It's sad that, shortly, these sections of the path will erode away. I can only hope that, when this happens, the locals will create new routes.

Pleased with our discovery, we head back to the hotel. As we return, I feel uplifted, like we've uncovered some hitherto unseen haven cove. Sad I know! But it was this feeling that made sitting back on the balcony, dodgy local wine in hand, watching the sail boat go by such a lazy Ibizan joy.