A tale of two cities.

You can imagine the exam question:-

'Compare and contrast two cities that have both served as their country's capital within the last millennium.'

For my analysis of this topic, I have chosen St. Petersburg and Moscow, both within what is now the Russian Federation and both serving or having served as the capital city for Russia and the former Soviet Union. Blah blah blah...

I don't intend telling you about what you can see,  or I have seen, in these cities, so much as to give you a flavour of them, as places, as seen through my eyes. Imagine spending a few days in one of England's historic cities, such as York, Bath, Edinburgh (note to self: check old geography text books before pissing Scottish friends!) and then travel to the big smoke, London, for a couple of more days. This will give you a feel for the differences that I experienced.

I probably need to clarify, I'm not really a great 'city' fan and so my view may and will be different from that of someone who thrives on the cut and thrust of the metropolis. St. Petersburg is a comparatively small and compact city. It does have a certain amount of urban spawl, but most of the interesting bit of the city centre around the 'historic heart' to the south of the Neva and Bolshaya Neva. It is here that you will find the Winter Palace, The Hermitage, St. Issac's cathedral and the Mariinsky Theatre. Many of the buildings are painted in pastel shades of blue, green and pink. The people smile a lot and are incredibly welcoming and conversational. The city has a very 'safe' feel to it - in fairness, the guide books do say that Russia, in general, is very safe for tourists - so walking around the streets is interesting and enjoyable. 

At the Winter Palace I was approached by a man who said he was a tour guide and had left over tickets for the opera that night. At first, I was sceptical as I would be of a tout. However, he was only asking the face value as he just didn't want them wasted. I decided to take a chance. £20 isn't too much to lose, if I've read him wrong. So it was off to Carmen that evening. It was only when I was waiting to go in that I had the panic that the ticket could be fake and I was going to have to explain this to Russian police. As it was, all was fine and I had a lovely evening, my faith and trust in the fundamental honesty of the majority upheld (I was reminded of me selling on Vicky's ticket, to the Applecart festival, in much the same way).

Moscow had a totally different feel to it. I didn't feel unsafe, but it was far less welcoming. To be fair, it is a massive city with a population of nearly 12 million - about 3 times that of St. Petersburg. Other than the confined area around the Kremlin, which includes the famous St Basil's church with its multicoloured minarets, my view of Moscow was of a grey and utilitarian place. Everyone was very engrossed in there own world and, with a couple of exceptions, we far less communicative than the Petrovites. As a tourist in post-soviet Russia it is generally ok to take photos, except of any infrastructure, military or civil government facility, or anyone carrying a gun (which, of course, includes the criminal fraternity). The general advice is to snap away at recognised tourist sites but avoid photographing anything that looks like an office. So when my guide took me to see the outside of the fabled Lubyanka and I asked if it was possible to see inside, he said 'Yerz. Orf coors! Juz take a photo! You hwill be taken inside in no time, da!'. All that said, Moscow is worth a visit, if just to see the metro stations. They are full of soviet art-deco, if such a thing exists.

I am told that Peter the Great and Vladimir Putin have at least one thing in common. They both dislike(d) Moscow and favour St. Petersburg. Peter the Great founded the city just over 300 years ago. When he order the city to be built on what was then marshland, the world thought he was joking. When he then made it the Capital, they thought he'd gone mad. However, it prospered and grew to be a jewel in the crown of Russian cities. Putin was born there and so his ties are perhaps a little more domestic.

I said earlier, I'm no big fan of cities. Both of these places have their plus's, but for me St. Petersburg wins the 'Golden Moon'. I do put the caveat that I have only spent limited time in each city and at a time of the year that made extensive exploring difficult. I'm sure there are others that might extoll virtues unseen by me. If you get the chance, be your own judge!

Some scouse history, in the making?

I found an old note book under the bed in my room. On the from was the inscription 'JWL - 1968'. I opened it up and read the following text:

'The BOAC flight from Miami Beach was definitely a long haul. It was an overnight flight and i can never sleep sitting up, so, no bed for me the. Awful turbulence all of the way and I spent most of the flight with the sick bag on my lap, expecting to see breakfast again! What a dreadful experience.

'However, after a few year break, here I am in the USSR again. I'm such a lucky chap.

'Its been a long time since i was last here and, boy hasn't it changed. Even so, its good to be back in the place I belong. Too much to do, to many people to see. So I've decided to leave unpacking until tomorrow. The hotel receptionist, Honiy Vllemich, asked if I'd like a wake up call. After the flight I'd just had, I thought I could do with a lie-in and so suggested that Honiy simply disconnect the phone, frankly.

'I still can't believe that I'm actually back. Lucky, lucky, lucky bastard!

'Anyway, I met three very attractive young Soviet women at the airport. One was from Kiev, in the Ukraine. Unfortunately, as I was doing up my shoelace, she turned around rather too quickly and caught the side of my head with her enormous handbag. When I came too, she was very apologetic and helped me get up. How sweet. Then I had a cup of tea with a girl from Moscow. She insisted on taking me to a karaoke bar where we yelled out some Chuck Berry songs. As for the the woman from Georgia...I think I might have a bit of a fixation on her. But whenever she speaks to me, I start to stutter!

'We have been getting on well though. Her father owns a smallholding in the south, so I've asked is she could take me there sometime. I'd love to see those mountains topped with snow, that I've heard so much about.  She is very talented and plays the balalaika. She saw that I was obviously getting a bit cold, what with the bang on the head and everything. So she put another bar of the electric fire on. How thoughtful.

'Anyway. I must go. I promised he guys I'd write a song while I'm here, but I just can't seem to find and inspiration!!

Why I wear my wife's cloths!

There are many reasons why a man might wear women's clothing, not all suspect. Sometimes there are highly practical reasons to engage in cross dressing! Fortunately for me, Vicky's taste in clothes was far more masculine than feminine. As such, I have inherited a reasonable selection of polo and t-shirts. However, there are two items from Vicky's wardrobe that have accompanied me on this trip, both of which comfortably fit into the description of 'women's' apparel. But more on that later!

My flight to St. Petersburg arrived slightly early, at about 3:30pm (local time). Even so, by the time I found my way to the bus and began the journey into the city, a raven haired dusk was approaching. Although the temperature was already down to -21c the combined body heat on the crowded k13 bus belied the cold outside. A 20 minute ride got me to Moskovskaya metro station, to the south of the city centre, and a 50 metre walk had me descending into the warm, stuffiness of the metro station.

The St. Petersburg metro system is efficient, if a little antiquated. The city isn't massive, although sprawling. Buying a token, I quickly found my way to the appropriate platform. Platform is a bit of a misnomer.  Unlike any other underground system I've experienced, I found myself in a tiled corridor with a series of steel sliding doors running down each side. I felt more like waiting for a lift than a train. A distant rumble of wheels on tracks suggested that the train had arrived on the other side of the portal and, indeed, when the doors parted, there it was. The trains are old, and reminded me of the District line, as was, on the London Underground of the 1980's. with my rucksack on my back, joined the commuters on the carriage. With only one change of train, it wasn't long before I reached Vasilyeostrovskaya station, from where, I had been told, the hotel was just a few minutes walk. 

Arriving at Vasilyeostrovskaya, I had my only worrying moment. I couldn't help being reminded of the Moorgate disaster as I and about 2000 Petrovites shuffled through a 2 person wide tunnel to the foot of the single escalator to the surface. At one point, I swear, had I lifted both feet off of the floor, I and my rucksack would have easily been carried along by the throng! Eventually, I safely gained street level. Though I had a warm jacket on, I was still wearing the clothes I'd been traveling in and within a couple of minutes, the freezing cold penetrated my clothes and I started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. My exposed ears quickly lost their sense of being and I was eager to get into a warmer place.

I found my hotel without too much trouble - one missed turning, but I'm not averse to asking directions - and checked in. Taking some time to gather myself and take in my situation, I decided that I now needed to eat and probably could do with a drink and so prepared to venture back out into the night. Still wearing similar clothing, it didn't take long before I, again, began to feel the cold bite of the St. Petersburg air. Fortunately it was only a short walk before I saw a sign for an Irish pub! I opted for this as I didn't have the constitution to continue wandering the snowy streets. 

Entering the building, the similarity to an old pub was striking. Lots of things adoring the walls and ceilings - mainly with a football theme - smokey corners with people playing cards and a bar with several British and Irish beers on offer. Home from home, I opted for London Pride and a beef Stroganov!

The following morning, with the temperature no warmer, I instigated plan B. I unpacked the two items of Vicky's clothing that I'd brought from home. The first was less controversial. A set of salopets to go with Vicky's ski jacket that I was already using. Ok, not too bad, except that the fly zips on the wrong side! I know it's a simple thing, but why is it so counter intuitive! The second is a pair of 15 denier, 'nude' (I understand that this is descriptive of colour!) tights. A tip I remembered learning from a biker friend of mine years ago, was to wear tights under your trousers. And, guys, I can now honestly say, if you have every wondered how girls in England can go out at night, in the depths of winter, wearing little more than a pelmet, embrace the wonders of nylon.

I have now spent two days wandering the streets of St. Petersburg with a snug, contented smile and toasty warm legs!

I'll tell you a bit more about the city when I've done some exploring. Until then...da svidanya.

The journey begins

Knowing that I might be roughing it for the next few weeks and months and having air miles to spend, I took the plunge and booked my flight to St. Petersburg BA Club class.  London to St. Petersburg is a relatively short haul - about 3 Hours - but even so, I thought I'd treat myself to the experience.

Following passport and security checks I made my way to the privileged sanctuary of the club class lounge, stopping briefly to buy a bottle Jameson's to keep me company and, hopefully, help make some friends on the Trans Siberian train journey to come. The lounge was surprisingly full, however it did give me the opportunity to sort myself out and quickly pen my last blog. Had I wanted, there was an array of food and drink available for the taking, but I contented myself with a cup of Twinnings Earl Grey (another $10 plea...oh no, let's not go there again!)

The flight was called and, again, I was able to make use of my hallowed status and was the first to board the aircraft.  Settling into seat 1F, I was about as near the front of the plane I could get without a pilot's licence. And now the fun starts...I have space and loads of it, so I sit back and enjoy the ride.

BA828 takes off about on time. As we climb east north east, over Twickenham and then Chiswick, is is a fine, clear December morning. I easily pick out Alexandra Palace as we pass over north London and then locate my in-laws house in Epping. Nodding a hello, we then fly over the roof of my own childhood home in Harlow. I can't actually see it as it would be under the airplane, but I know that it is there as I pick out many other familiar landmarks, including the Kitchen household in Berecroft.

Our route is to take us in an almost straight line along the Dutch and northern German coastlines, across Denmark and the Baltic to what, for many years was know as Leningrad. However, as we reach the Essex coast, we climb into cloud and the surface of the planet recedes from my view.

With no land to look at, I unpack my ipad and start typing my blog.

'Hot towel, Mr Mooney?'

          'Yes. Thank you.'

'Would you care for something from the bar, Mr Mooney?'

          But it's only 10am? Ah! But on Russian time...it's mid-day

          'Yes please. A whiskey would be nice. Thank you.'

'And what would sir like for lunch?'...and so it continued. I think I could get used to this jet setting lifestyle. Although, I'm not sure my liver would cope!

Before anyone gets the wrong impression, I've just realised I've already made two references to whiskey and I've hardly left British airspace. It isn't my intention to drink my way to south east Asia! 

One of my biggest failings in planning my trip has been my phenomenal lack of planning..and, indeed, research. So I will end here for the moment and look at my St. Petersburg guide book to a) work out where my hotel is and how the hell I get there from the airport - bearing in mind it will be dark, minus 19c, and Russian when I get there, and b) see how much I can cram into my short visit before moving on to Moscow.

For the time being though, I am going to relax and take my time. After all, I'm not Russian! (Posthumous thanks the Patricia Woodfall for that last joke!)

Trailer for sale or rent...

Russian Visa - check

Mongolian visa - check

Chinese visa check - check

Siberian beard...check

And so it begins. After months 

of planning, dreaming, speculating and procrastinating, I'm now sat in the BA lounge in Terminal 5 at London's Heathrow airport.  I'm waiting for the gate to open to allow me to board BA 878 to St. Petersburg and, from there, China and beyond.

I have just read the note book given to me as I left - with strict instructions not to read until I got into the departure lounge - and am left amazed and stunned by the wonderful messages and comments written by such wonderful friends.  My phone has been buzzing incessantly with bon voyage messages from family and friends. I'm sorry that I've not been able to reply to them all.

Yes! I nearly turned around and came straight home from the airport, but I then took a deep breath, walked through security and...well here I am on the verge of an epic journey, some of which I have no idea where it will lead.

This is a short blog just to get things going.  Hopefully my next will be from Russia...with love!

Time for a blog rant! 

Please don't read further if you are expecting a fun and frolicking blog from me today!

Ok, 2012! I've had enough now. Stop it! You have taken my partner, my job and now my dog.

Almost a year to the day that Vicky was told that there was something seriously wrong with her, I have received news that Inca also has cancerous tumours in his chest and lung. Yes, he's just a dog and yes, he is nearly 12 years old - about average for a Labrador. But, FFS, who have I pissed off so much?

Inca started to be ill in early november, when he developed a quite distressing cough. Thinking it might be kennel cough, his vet gave antibiotics.  However, these didn't seem to be hitting the spot.

Other than the cough, Inca was relatively happy.  His tail wagged high when out for walks and he had a good appetite. When, a couple of days ago, he only ate half of his breakfast, I began to get worried.  Inca never leaves food - especially his own. His vet referred him to a specialist in Ringwood and I took Inca there on Thursday (29th Nov).

The specialist checked Inca over and then gave me a list of probable causes - starting with a seed, or other foreign body stuck in his throat; maybe an infection or laryngal paralysis; and ending with the possibility of a tumour or other more 'sinister' cause. However, he reassured me that the latter was 'way, way down' his list of likely diagnoses.

Later that day he called to tell me that the x-ray had revealed the presence of a mass in his chest and that there was fluid in his lungs. His list had just been turned upside down.  He drained nearly 2 litres of fluid from Inca's lungs and a subsequent x-ray confirmed mass in one of his lung nodes.  A biopsy will help determine whether the tumours are benign or malignant, but the prognosis is pretty grave in either case.

If they are benign, surgery may be an option. However, given his age and the likelihood that they may return along with the fluid on his lungs, there would be quality of life issues.


Jump forward three days

On Saturday morning, the specialist called to confirm that the biopsy results indicated soft tissue sarcoma (STS).  The fact that the sample was taken from a site away from the primary cancer in his lung suggested that metastasis had occurred - in other words, the cancer had spread. The only way to confirm this with precision was to operate to remove the primary cancer and take a full tissue biopsy. However, that the spread had happened was an almost certainty, therefore the operation would be futile, beyond analytical purpose.

Enough is enough. Having seen the ravaging effects of cancer already this year, I couldn't let Inca go through what would be to come, not when there was a peaceful and dignified end to his life that could be chosen.

Over the following 48 hours I felt that this decision was wholly vindicated.  I had the chance to spend some time with my little man. I let him sleep in my bed - a treat usually only accorded following copious amounts of alcohol - and we went for a couple of pleasant, if short, walks. We also had a couple of visits to the King Charles pub where, for the past 11 years, he has generally been more welcome than Vicky and I! He feasted on Mackerel - courtesy of Lynn, his dog walker - and Tuna. However, from Friday, he wasn't really interested in food and it was obvious that eating was a reflex action rather than the hobby that he had previously enjoyed. This was exemplified when we visited a friends house and he immediately headed for the unattended bowl of food belonging to Jerry - the incumbent springer spaniel - only to look up at me as if to say 'Do'ya know what? I can't be arsed!'

By monday morning, his lethargy and lack of appetite were, without doubt, both at a new low.  He didn't want to walk or eat and his body was quivering. I made the fateful call to the vet just after lunch.  In an odd way, I was shocked when he said that I could bring him over that evening - it all seemed too quick.  However, once I had taken stock and spoken to friends, I resolved that the time was right and that to linger would only be for my benefit and that Inca's state was deteriorating at a rate that would result in his suffering, distress and pain.

At 6pm, accompanied by friends, Barbara and Freya, we went to the surgery. The process was quick, painless and clinical.  Inca's vet has never been known for his bedside manner and doesn't really do 'touchy, feel'y'. Us three friends were in tears as he, with great care and compassion, slid a needle under the skin and into a vein on Inca's foreleg. Within seconds, Inca's body became limp and he slowly sank down onto the table.  A minute later...'That's it. He's gone now'. The vet knew that this was the correct thing to do and tried to reassure me that the decision and the time was right. He would not have allowed otherwise.

All of a sudden, I felt that I was in the final chapter of 'Marley and Me'. It was so hard to walk away from my puppy lying on the table, but the time had come and so I did. Outside, in the dark of a Kings Worthy evening, we three cried and hugged and then drove back down the hill to home.

So now, for the moment, it is just me. Except that it isn't. I have many wonderful friends and a terrific family. I have a ticket for St. Petersburg in my pocket and a train ride through Siberia to Beijing ahead of me. When I get there - somewhere around the 4th January 2013 - it is very much a case of 'flip a coin' to see where I go next.  It will be roughly south toward South-East Asia and then to North-East Australian and New Zealand. I expect to be home in mid-June, just in time to go and work the bars at Glastonbury festival.

Thank you for reading this far. I intend continuing my blog as I travel over the next six months and I promise - and hope - that future posting will be more positive and uplifting. To all my family, friends and readers I say 'Bollocks' to 2012, roll on 2013 and I wish you all a happy, health and prosperous Christmas and new year.

Postscript

Negatives: No more hairy cuddles; quiet and empty house when I get home; no licks and attention when I'm sad; lack of unconditional companionship; less motivation to go for long 'health giving' walks (HGW's according to Jolly vernacular)

Positives: I get to lie in; I don't have the embarrassment of having to replace numerous picnics trough'd by my dog who would always run and reach the source of tasty canapes ten minutes before my fat carcase could ever catch him to intervene - what always surprised me is that, when I did arrive at the the scene, parents were inevitably clutching crying children to their bossom. Why? it was the bloody food that needed protecting, not the child!!

It's been a while since my last blog. Sorry!

There has been quite a bit going on and I thought it was time for a catch up.

First - the return of Rosie

After two month waiting, Rosie finally has a new heart! Thanks to the hard work of Mick Adams and The V W Engine Company, Deptford. It took and bit of doing, not because of anything untoward by her surgeons and reconstructive consultants, but more so due to the Olympic Games and the transport company that was supposed to collect the engine and take it to south east London! (I won't name them for legal reason)

Instruction to collection agent - "please collect from Mick Adams workshop before 5pm"

Following a call to the agent to find out why it hasn't been collected - "our driver arrived at 5:30pm and there was no one there"

Response - "that is because they go home at 5pm which is why you were asked to be there before 5pm"

A week later, when asked why it still hadn't been collected -  "our driver arrived at 5:30pm and there was no one there"

Response - "that is because they go home at 5pm which is why you were asked to be there before 5pm"

A week later, when asked why it still hadn't been collected -  "our driver arrived at 5:10pm and there was no one there"

Response - "exactly which part of '"please collect from Mick Adams workshop before 5pm' didn't you understand.

Nett result, I drove Rosie's engine to deptford in the back of my landrover! Having collected it before 5pm! How clever am I?

Anyway! Result the clever chaps at The V W Engine Company did a Stirling job putting Rosie's heart back together and Mick and his team did equally well to put all the bits back in the right place. 

Rosie is now a running VW Camper once more.

Just to prove, she and I took a weekend drive all the way to Steeple Bumpstead (yes! It is a real place.   Look it up on google maps!) via Harlow, and back again.

I'm not sure where we go from here, but I'm sure that after a winter's rest, we will have some more adventures with her next summer. If we can get our act together, she might even get a spruce up in he meantime.

For me, however, bigger journeys now call. I'm writing this blog from the Olive Garden in Kabak, Turkey, where I am for a cookery week. So maybe more on that later.

...and I now have the first leg of my 'big' trip planned, so look out for some more adventures starting from St Petersburg in December!

P.s. Pallet Line are shit!

Brain Salad Surgery - courtesy of the DWP

"Benny was a bouncer at the Palais de Dance"

Now that I have officially joined the ranks of the unemployed, I thought I'd better make it truly official and sign on at my local job centre. When we were told that redundancy was on the cards, my employers arranged for a member of the local Job Centre team to come in and talk to us about the process. 

It was an interesting presentation, to say the least. The speaker spoke eloquently from the PowerPointless presentation, occasionally telling us things that we couldn't read for ourselves.  Her care and attention, given the sensitive and, for some, traumatic situation that many of the audience faced, was startlingly exhibited when, a few minutes into the presentation, her phone rang.  Hardly missing a beat she  apologised, she thought her phone was on silent, and then, proving that she could multi-task, proceeded to fiddle with her phone controls whist still delivering her well rehearsed lines. We felt so important!

So, when the time came last week, I made the trip into Winchester to begin the process of 'signing on'.  I was considerate of creating the right image and so chose to take the bus into the city, rather than drive a shiny Land Rover. I even thought about taking Inca with me on a piece of string with a bandana around his neck, but thought better of conforming to stereotype. 

On arriving at the Job Centre, I was greeted by a bouncer, 'Benny', in a G4S uniform - that's why they couldn't find enough staff for the Olympics! They are too busy guarding DWP buildings against the great unwashed. He was about 60 years old, six foot square and built like the proverbial brick house for the purpose of defecation. As I approached, he stood in front of me in a well trained, non-verbal signal of passive offensive. Looking me up and down, I expected him to say 'ugg', but instead was met with 'can I 'elp you?', in his best attempt at Wintonian.

I looked at the empty reception desk and quickly realised that this was going to be my first challenge. 

"He'd slash your granny's face up given half a chance"

'Yes. Well, I don't have a job and would like to register for Job Seekers Allowance.' I said, in my smartest Essex.

'You will 'ave to go on the inter web and fill in a form. Or you can phone, using your telephone, and speak to...someone.'

'Can't I speak with...someone now?'

'No! I will give you this 'ere bit of paper that 'as the netweb had-dress and telephone number. You has to do it that way ferse.'

I thought about taking issue, but, as my neck was already aching from looking up, I thought better of it and left Benny to his guard post.

"He'd sell you back the pieces, all for les than half a quid"

At home, I duly logged on and completed the application form. In fairness, it was quick and simple enough. A few days later I received a text inviting me to attend an interview at the aforementioned Job Centre. 

On the assigned day, clean shaven and in smart(ish) clothes, I arrived back at the Job Centre. Benny is again guarding the foyer. Even though there is now a very smiley looking woman sitting at reception, Benny intercepts me before I am able to start any dialogue with her. 

'Can we 'elps you, sir?' at least I get a 'sir' this time.

'Yes, thank you, I have an appointment.'

'Name?'

'I'm sorry I wasn't given a name, just a time.'

'No, your name!' Opps! I tell him my name.

He runs a rather large finger down the list on his clipboard.

'You're not on the list'

'I am quite early'

Again he scans the list, lips moving to the rhythm of each new line!

'Ah! Yes 'ere you are. I'll go tell 'im you're 'ere.'

Benny heads off in search of ''im' - sparks emanating from his knuckles as they drag along the nylon carpet.

Seconds later he returns and invites me to take a seat.

 "He thought he was the meanest - until he met with Savage Sid"

While I'm waiting, Benny's twin brother, Sid, turns up. They have symmetrical broken noses and so, standing next to each other, look like they are avoiding the odour of anyone standing in front of them. After about 15 minutes, a voice behind me calls

'Mister...Moon?'

 "Now Sidney was a greaser with some nasty roots"

'Yes! That's me'

'Please take a seat'. I sit in front of the young man's desk.

'My name is Derek. I'm not conducting your interview. I'm just going to check your identity.' 

I freeze, I've just realised, I left my passport at home. I have no positive ID.

'I'm really sorry, but I've brought all sorts of paperwork with me, but I left my passport at home'

'Do you have anything with your name and address?

'I have a print out of my Job Seekers Allowance application form.'

'That'll do.' First hurdle leapt like an Olympian!

 "He poured a pint of guinness over Benny's boots"

'I'll now take you to the staircase as you will have to go upstairs to have your interview.'

'Thank you.'

Derek then shows me to the staircase that is conveniently signed 'Stairs' with a further notice saying 'application interviews - first floor.' Thank god for Derek, I don't know how I would have managed on my own.

At the bottom of the staircase, Derek points to the door at the top and tells me 'you need to go up the stairs and through that door and ask for Alice' 

I am soooo tempted to ask the obvious question!

 "Benny looked at Sidney - Sidney stared right back in his eye."

On the other side of the door, I meet Benny again. I smile, thinking he will have recognised me. 

'Can I 'elp you?'

'Thank you. I have an appointment with Alice.'

'Alice? Who the...' no he didn't, but I was wishing he would.

'Take a seat and I'll tell 'er you're 'ere.' 

I sit.

When I eventually get to meet Alice, she is great! She asks me what I did, how much I earned, what I wanted to do and how much I would like to earn! She was straight forward, honest and helpful. At last! She obviously had to go through certain set procedures, but I was treated as an intelligent, professional person. The only let down, and not Alice's fault I'm sure, was when she handed me a form to sign and, after reading it, I instinctively found myself proofing it, circling three typos and changing an 'i.e.' to an 'e.g.' before scribbling my name at the bottom. Old habits die hard - dyslexic I may be, but I can still spot someone else's bad writing! (just not my own).

"Sidney chose a switchblade and Benny got a cold meat pie."

So, job (or jobless) done! The bizarre thing is, I probably won't be eligible for Job Seeker's allowance anyway! But, it gave me something to write about.

Special thanks to Emerson, Lake and Palmer for the inspirational lyrics - "Benny the Bouncer"! and apologies to the DWP for a slightly apocryphal blog!!

The things one does with spare time!

I've just spent an interesting couple of hours chiseling chewing gum from the underside of redundant school science bench worktops! You might ask 'why' was I doing this? But don't, that bit isn't in the least interesting.  Suffice it to say that it needed doing!


The 'interesting' bit was what I learnt, or re-learnt, by doing the activity!


Lesson One - Science


The adhesive properties of chewing gum are astounding. After only a few days being stacked, some of the worktops needed to be prised apart using a crowbar. The net result of this was that I rapped my knuckles on the brick wall behind the desks and simultaneously brused my ribs as the wooden worktop was thrust, under my own weight, into my chest - thus proving (I think) Newton's second law of physics!


These desks have been out of circulation for about a year and, I'm guessing, some of the gum was deposited many years before.  Although the gum appeared to have gone quite solid, it would seem that, with only a small amount of pressure, its chemical balance shifts so that it softens just enough to form a new bond with whatever is lent against it.


In an equally fascinating discovery, I found that solid gum, once removed from its adherent surface and allowed to fall onto a dry floor, regains its elastic state so that it can re-attach itself to, for example, a passing shoe with the same verve.  In fact, I began to suspect that this gum had at least semi-biological properties as it appeared to move itself into places that had been clear of stickiness when I had last looked.


Lesson Two - History


I understand that these worktops have probably been in the same school for maybe 40 years or more. Even a cursory glance at the engravings, writings and drawings, acid burns, scorch marks and pitted surfaces, begins to unveil a picture of the generations of children who have sat or stood by these desks over the decades. Each succession of pupils learning important lessons such as 'How high will an up-turned petri dish fly if you fill it with gas from the bunsen burner and then set light to it?' and 'Will a single drop of sulphuric acid burn its way through both my pencil case and Kevin's new digital calculator?'


One person seemed to be using the time to revise for their history test about King Cnut.


Lesson Three - English


There were several reminders of the english alphabet to be seen in working language.  One example contained all of the letters in the correct sequence, all 25 (?) - who ever uses 'Q' anyway! One subscriber had presumably spent much of a lesson refining his skill in spelling the 'C' word - only getting it right six times out of seven (unless he was referring the same history test - see above). Possibly this was the person called Tom, who had to practice writing his own name four times!


However, the most impressive was the conjugation of the verb 'F**k' in the past perfect! Who ever said a comprehensive education was a waste of time!!


There is also one nod to English Literature.  In a clear reference to William Golding's 'Lord of the Flies', someone has etched 'Save Piggy!'


Lesson Four - Geography


Obviously Peruvian Studies must have been a part of curriculum at some point.  This is evidenced by the Nazca like scoring across many of the work tops.  No doubt etched with head firmly placed in the crook of an elbow, laid on the table top, so as to gain an authentic 'ground level' view as would have been the case for the Nazca people.


Lesson Five - Social & Gender Studies and Communication


There were the usual and ubiquitous declarations of love, friendship and distain, as well as random messages and references.  The gender of the writer could often be guessed by the style of entry:
Kirsty [heart] Sebastian
Melissa [arrow through heart] Cam
Georgina [two arrows through red heart] Oliver Sebastian (poor Oly, luck Seb!)
Smiffys [sic] a twat
Louis like willys [sic]
You smell! Ha ha!
Science is ........ ( I can't work out if the number of dots relates to a specific word)


Lesson Six - Art


Ah yes! What is it about teenagers that they need to depict male genitalia at any and all opportunity? By far the most prevalent artistic image is the caricatured interpretation of a penis. Graphically obvious though somewhat anatomically incorrect, these drawings are frequently cunningly disguised as a wide-eyes smiley face!

There are some quite well draw cartoon images as well. Along with a couple of outlined hands, one depicting painted nails and sporting a ruby on the ring finger - Georgina perhaps? 


                ------------------------------------------------------------


So that was my morning! A snapshot of life in a Winchester comprehensive and a reminder of my own youth, to a degree, if I'm honest. 


In the interest of safety and security and to protect the innocent (Ha, yeah!) I won't mention which school these desks came from. But, thank you to Michael, they have made me laugh. Once sold, the proceeds will be making their way back into the state education system to support the next generation of little darling's learning experience.


Don't forget, one of them could end up as your Prime Minister!!  

Fifty Shades of Rose

Barbara and I sat drinking tea in her town house kitchen in the city's fashionable southern quarter.  Barbara is my best friend who I tell every thing to. We drink out of mugs.  You know the sort of ones that have straight sides and handles so that you can drink your Twinnings ($10 dollars please) breakfast tea without burning your hands on the sides.

But how can I tell her! How can I tell her about this new stage of my life that is starting to take over my every living, breathing moment. She would just flip if she even had an inkling of what was going on. Since I met Campervandunken Rose, my life has been turned inside out. I'd never even had an RUV before, so being introduced to the deeper world of VW was a shock to my senses that my inner god was still struggling to come to terms with.

My senses leap as I feel my Blackberry ($10 dollars please) vibrate in the front left pocket of my Levi ($10 dollars please) jeans. Has she dained to reply to my earlier e-mail. The one that I've spent the past 12 hours worrying over, thinking that I'd really blown it. Thinking that she would never want to see me again!

From: Campervandunken Rose

Subject: You are in my power!

Date: July 17 2012 11:55 BST

To: Ian Moon

Dear Mr Moon,

Still drinking Twinnings ($10 dollars please) tea, I see. I do hope that you have eaten today and that you are going to be ready to drive me to distraction when we meet!

Mrs Rose

Crap. Okay. Jeez. What's eating her? How can she possibly know that I am sitting drinking Twinnings ($10 dollars please) english breakfast tea.  Has she got a trace on our kettle.  She is so much of a control freak that she has to know exactly what I'm doing at any hour of the day.  I think about this and start to assemble together the jigsaw that she is handing me piece by piece.

From: Ian Moon

Subject: So you think so...four wheels!

Date: July 17 2012 11:58 BST

To: Campervandunken Rose

Dear Mrs Rose,

I thought that the idea was that you wanted to drive! So now, all of a sudden, I'm in control? I haven't signed the HP agreement yet and need to discuss some of the 'hard' rules. Even so, my wallet is already open to you when ever you ask!

Mr Moon

______________________________________________________________________________

From: Campervandunken Rose

Subject: Will you ever do as I tell you!

Date: July 17 2012 11:55 BST

To: Ian Moon

Dear Mr Moon

You must know that you drive me to places that I never thought I would go! I need you holding my wheel, with your hand on my gear stick! You are the only person that I have ever been happy to have treading on my pedals! What are you doing to me!!

Anyway, look out of the window!

Mrs Rose

Crap. Okay. Jeez. I walk across the small but nicely laid out dining room of Barbara's town house kitchen in the city's fashionable southern quarter and, drawing back the John Lewis ($10 Dollars please) curtains, look down and across, with my eyes, into the parking lot! Crap. Okay. Jeez. My heart is in my mouth.  Not literally as that would mean that I would probably be dead or something. There she is, looking up at me. Beckoning me to come down to her and satisfy her needs in a way that I still find hard to comprehend. She won't let me stroke her sensuous red and cream bodywork, but she demands that I submit my bank account to her seemingly insatiable desires.

Making a lame, but plausible, excuse to my best friend, Barbara, who I tell everything to, I walk down the stairs - there is no elevator - putting one foot in front of the other as if I were walking! As I step off the last stair, I look up and see Taylor, holding the door open for me. How did he get there, but, I should have guessed, he is in every chapter!

          "Hello Taylor."

          "Mr Moon." His greeting is as formal as it was in the last chapter. Although, as always there is that hint of a knowing smile as if he knows exactly what is coming next!

As I step into the parking lot, Rosie is there watching me with those watching eyes, watching me.  She never lets me call her 'Rosie' even though, by saying that one word, I feel like the biggest surfer dude in the whole world.

          "Why can't I call you 'Rosie'", I whisper. I look up into her glistening windscreen, longing for her to sweep me up and whisk me to so far away place where we can just be together.

          "I wish I could tell you. But, I'm a campervan and can't really speak." 

I run my hands tenderly across her bodywork.  Gently starting at her fenders and working back towards her soft and yealding quarter-lights. I feel that now familiar electric charge pulsing through my hand and can't hold back any longer. With one quick flick of the wrist, I wrench open her sliding door and all of a sudden, I'm inside! I sink into the oblivion of the driving seat and, as the pure unbridled passion of the moment releases, slip my key into the haven that is Rosie's ignition. Fighting the temptation to run and run and never come back, I give the key a sharp turn in that ever familiar clockwise direction and then, then...

Oh! F**k I forgot that we'd blown up the engine!!!

Well! What were you expecting??


P.S. Thanks for the idea Dawn!!

Rosie Rides Out (pt 2)

It is 12:00 noon and we are packed up and ready to leave Burnbake. We take a look around and see that most of our neighbours have fair'd better that us, but, even so the scene is one reminiscent of a cat that has fallen in a bath. Everything and everyone is wet, to some degree. One tent appears to have gained a moat, it is completely surrounded by water. At closer inspection, it is actually sitting in about 3" of the wet stuff!


Having taken down the sad remnants of our awning and, rather unceremoniously, stuffed them under the rear seats in Rosie - we will take them out and dry it all off when we get home! - we slowly drive through the campsite and out on to the main road. With hindsight - oh what a wonderful human affliction that is - Rosie didn't seem quite right.  As we drove along the main road that runs from Corfe to Studland and the chainferry to Sandbanks, I remember thinking that she had acquired a bit of a smokers growl.  


Leaving the campsite and joining the B3351, we head east on the road that by-passes the wonderful seaside town of Swanage to the north. I know Swanage well, having first visited when I was about 5 years old.  My parents introduced me to the wonders of camping at a young age and, until I was 12, this was our means of achieving a two week summer holiday. At 10, I came here on a school holiday for a week. Six years later, I returned to the same hotel for a Geology field trip - the Isle of Purbeck is renown for its abundance of fossils and is a living, breathing text book of geological features.  Known as the Jurassic Coast, the strand from Weymouth to Swanage is rich with Ammonites, Belemnites and other fossilised creatures. There have also been found amazing examples of dinosaur tracks, some measuring over a metre in width and the clay also lays claim to the largest Pliosaur skull - probably the biggest scariest sea creature ever to have lived on our plant...but I digress (all this is, perhaps, for another blog).

Vicky overlooking Lulworth - 1983

Vicky and I came here on our first holiday together in 1983, camping at a site on top of the cliff above Durdle Door, near Lulworth Cove, and have since visited the area on numerous occasions. After we moved to King's Worthy, we realised that the Isle was easily within day tripping distance and would often take a day out to visit and walk in the area, or simply sit and relax on the Studland beaches. We both fell in love with Corfe Castle, which sits in majestic ruin above the pass into Wessex from Swanage town.


Swanage itself is a testament to bygone days of holiday making and day tripping. With its Fish and Chip shops, amusement arcades and pier, it a stereotypical English seaside retreat. Swanage is quintessential of its type. I never tire of it and always love to visit because it reminds me of a world that exists less and less in our ever over marketed world. It is what it is - no more no less - and for all of that, it is an honest place.

I've scuba dived off Swanage pier a couple of times as well as in Kimmeridge Bay - where I had my first and only encounter with sea horses - and did my Advanced PADI not too far west of there, in Portland Harbour.  Only last year, we took Vicky's mum and dad on a boat trip from Poole harbour to Swanage and back as a birthday treat for Bim. The place holds so many happy memories.

But enough...we are passing Swanage to the north, across the saddle of Purbeck, towards Studland. As we pass the golf course, with an icecream van parked in the carpark, I jovially announce that, "I would buy you all an icecream, but, having just got enough momentum to get us up this hill, I'm b***red if I'm stopping now".  Rosie climbed the long incline across the back of the ridge that, to our right, climbs to the top of the cliffs above 'Old Harry Rocks' - a series of chalk stacks that step out into the English Channel and mark the eastern end of the Isle.  Bearing north, the road sweeps us onto the northern promontory, known as 'Little Isle', that encloses the south eastern side of Poole Harbour. To our right, divided by a half mile wide band of gorse and trees, are the gloriously sandy Studland beaches. Rosie trundles along the road until we reach the toll booths for the chain ferry that will carry us across the 300 yard breach, made by the sea, between Shell bay and Sandbanks, on the mainland.


This place has always fascinated me.  The chain ferry is an open steel platform that pulls itself from bank to bank by means of unrealistically thick, heavy chains attached to either shore. It does this, non-stop, day in, day out, all year round. The trip takes about 10 minutes, plus another ten minutes at either terminus to disgorge its contents and swallow a return journey's worth of travellers. However, this is also the only entrance to, what is claimed to be, at least, the second largest natural harbour in the world. Therefore, each time the chain ferry crosses the void between the two points, it is like someone playing one of those old computer tennis games - except that you don't really want anyone to make a hit - as there is a constant stream of small boats, yachts, ribs, etc. negotiating the  lateral passage into and out of the harbour.  Added to this, twice a day, one of the massive Condor Cats, will enter or leave the harbour, gliding effortlessly through the seemingly too narrow gap. If you have ever seen the opening credits of the first ever Star Wars film, you will understand what I mean when I say that, however impressive the boats are that you see whizzing in and out of the harbour, when the Condor Cat passes through you have that 'Holy F**k' moment as when the battle cruiser appears over your head in the cinema and just keeps on coming.


As is often the case, we have to wait for the ferry to take the earlier arrivals across to Sandbanks and then come back for us. Passing through the toll gate, the attendant points out that our front off-side tyre looks a bit low! The delay waiting for the turn-around affords us some time to consider this. The tyre is, indeed, rather deflated - indicative of our night at Burnbake perhaps.  Barbara and I look at this with concern! Realistically, how far will we get before the tyre is too low to drive on? How far from the other side of the ferry is the next garage? What happens if the tyre does not stay inflated until we get to a garage?  

Barbara and I do not need to discuss the implications! Another victim of the forget list...we forgot to buy a spare wheel!! Rosie only has four and they are already propping her up from the tarmac. Even if we did have a spare wheel, we don't have a jack. Do you know what...even as I type this I'm thinking 'you mindless prat!' How on earth can you drive off in a 40 year old vehicle without basic things like...a spare tyre...a jack...!! But!! being the gadget guru that I am, I triumphantly produce my box of magic tricks. My little grey box that is a phone charger, a fluorescent lamp, a 'jump start' and also...Da DAaaa...an air compressor. We have time on our hands, waiting for the ferry, and so I attach my trusty machine to the offending tyre and flick the switch. It leaps into action and, by the time we are due to embark, has pumped enough air into the tyre to alleviate our fears. Job done, the ferry awaits and the homeward journey should be one of routine.


Gaining the farther shore, we climb up and over Sandbanks and onto Banks road.  Leaving the wind and kite surfers in the bay, we turn right and head, parallel to the beach, to Branksome and then on to Bournemouth. The weather is, by now, in our favour and we are all in good humour. We make the Wessex Way, the main road out of Bournemouth, in good time and Rosie is fair eating the tarmac.  On the dual carriage way, we even manage to overtake a car or two and revel in our, or Rosie's, achievement.  All is going well and we are talking about the lunch that we might enjoy when we get back to Winchester. In no time at all, we are on the A31 heading east - this effectively means just two big roads 'till home, the M27 and the M3. Just as we pass by the New Forest town of Ringwood...Floomph..flooph, floph, floph! 


I quickly pulled in to a convenient turning and bring Rosie to a halt.  This sounds like the exhaust has blown. It's probably 20 years since I have done any serious car mechanics. But, in my favour, that was on old Mini's and my MG Midget.  Rosie's finer parts are probably of a similar make up, so I thought I ought to be able to, at least attempt a, repair. The last and most catastrophic element of the 'forget list' hit me square between my Rosie-tinted glass covered eyes! The tool box! The only 'tool' in the van was the one who had been driving it! I had broken just about every rule in the 'you're going out in a ridiculously old vehicle that no one else on this planet would drive unless they are half wit on a bad day' rule book! 


Could we limp on?  If it was just a blown exhaust, we should be able to make it home, albeit that nothing between here and Winchester will sleep for an hour. So I start to drive, steering us back onto the main road. It becomes obvious within a few yards that this just isn't going to work. Poor Rosie has no power, she is working her pistons to the bone but is barely able to get us up the first incline we come to. This just isn't going to happen.  I pull over again. I feel the eyes of my passengers looking to me for an answer - all six pairs, Barbara, Freya, Megan, Bizzi, Pepper and Inca. No one is saying anything.  Eventually though, Barbara and I agree that going on is no longer an option. We have stopped next to a garden center with the rather ungarden center name of 'In-Excess Gardens'. It takes 15 minutes to slowly reverse down the, now busy, dual carriage way enough that we can drive into the carpark.


Trying to pretend as though this is what we had meant to do all along, Barbara and the girls went into the garden centre for some retail therapy while I called and waited for the emergency services. In all credit to the RAC, they arrived within 40 minutes which, on a sunday afternoon in June, I though was pretty decent. A swift analysis from the expert confirmed that there was no way Rosie was going to get back home in assisted.

The choices, wait another 2 hours for a low loader, or be towed back to King's Worthy. I chose the latter. However, it then transpired that Rosie lacked the appropriate physical accoutrements to be able to use a tow bar, therefore, we would have to use a tow rope. Not I big deal, I thought, I've done this a few time before. Once hitched up, I then spent the next hour following the RAC van, on the M27 and M3, at about 50 miles per hour, suspended from piece of ribbon six feet long.


Rules of being towed: 

1/ use your brake to keep the rope taught. Never let the tow rope go slack - when it snaps tight again, it will probably break; 

2/ don't keep your foot on the brake - you will only be pulling the towing vehicle backwards and damaging its clutch, and you will burn out your own brake pads; 

3/ When approaching a stop - such as a junction - use your brake to slow the towing vehicle so that the rope remains taught;

4/ when pulling off from a stop, let the towing vehicle take up any slack and DON'T touch the frigging brake because the frigging rope will frigging snap!

5/ Don't blink - you will go into the back of the towing vehicle.

6/ Don't breath - air displacement might cause the vehicle to change direction

7/ DO NOT REVERSE POLARITY!!!!!

8/ We're all going to die!!!!!

After 60 minutes of staring at the rear bumper of the RAC recovery van, praying that Rosie's brakes will act, react and disengage appropriately, we make it to the relative safety of King's Worthy and, as agreed with the RAC man, head through the village and out again to the farm yard where my friendly car mechanic Mick Adams has his workshop. It is only at this point it dawns on me that we, and Rosie, are about to be towed past our local pub, the King Charles, on what is now a sunny Sunday afternoon. Everyone will see us! Oh, the ignominy!! I crouch my head down in the hope that no one will notice, knowing that anyone there that knows me will also know and recognise Rosie. As we reach the pub, my relief is palpable. Today is the day of the annual Go-Kart race, held in the farmer's fields opposite the pub. Whilst there are 3 or 4 times the number of people normally there on a sunday, their attention is conveniently and welcomely diverted.


We get to the farm and unhitch our sad and incapacitated charge. We are met by Megan's dad...yes, David - for it is he! - and, leaving Rosie for Mick to inspect the next day, we are taken back to his house for lunch and a much needed glass of Prosecco. Our weekend was coming to an end. We were tired and our adventure is nearly concluded. And, bless him, David never once said 'I told you so'!


Epilogue

So, Rosie has blown a hole in her engine casing. This means a re-build - possibly a new engine. We knew, when we got her, that looking after a 40 year old campervan was never going to be without incident. We had hoped the the incident wouldn't occur quite a soon as it did. However, in the (misquoted) word of Oscar Goldman...


"Gentlemen, we can rebuild her. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic campervan. Rosie will be that van. Better than she was before. Better, stronger, faster."

Thank you for reading.