September 2008 Archives

When I was at school I had two nicknames that were often used, but never really stuck. The first, Morph, was due to the similarity in appearance between myself and a plasticine man. Morph first appeared on Tony Hart's 'Take Hart' series that ran between 1977 and 1984. The other, introduced by one of my secondary school teachers, was Jasper. As the teacher saw it, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Jasper Carrott, a comedian from the same televisual era as Morph. Carrott once said that, 'laughter is the best medicine- unless your diabetic, then insulin comes pretty high on the list.'

Although neither Morph nor Jasper Carrott represent the most flattering of nicknames, they were, thankfully, inoffensive, which probably accounts to why they failed to stick. My experience at school displayed to me that only the cruellest, most cutting nicknames were the ones that stuck to the poor casualty. Viscous and unpleasant it no doubt remains with the persecuted still.

In the adult work environment nicknames are largely much funnier and are not used directly at the target. The nickname is reserved for use only when the butt is just out of earshot. 'Betty Swollocks' is a memorable one that the office staff use for one unfortunate employee.

Last weekend I was 'encouraged' to join my partner, B's, family for a birthday celebration. I was to be on my best behaviour because 'The Duchess' was going to be there. The Duchess was once in the very same profession as myself,but was forced to take early retirement due to a back injury (dubious according to the family). Despite her modest lower-middleclass lifestyle she allegedly likes to look down on her family members with disdain and self importance. I had heard so much negativity about 'The Duchess' that I pointed out to B that I had no idea of this person's actual name!

It is the case that even in families, nicknames are rife. As with the workplace, they are secret and mostly very funny. A few years ago during the annual family get together, it was disclosed that my cousin's husband had nicknames for some of the family on his mobile phone. When I was a boy, in my Nan's garden was a pond with some goldfish in. Subsequently and rather cutely, she was referred to as 'Nanny Fishy'. As the grandchildren grew older and had children of their own, the memorable factor became that Nan would ply the great grandchildren with snacks and cakes, so her moniker became 'Nanny Biscuit'. My cousin's husband's take on this- 'Bonkers Biscuit'!

I remember my Dad chuckling with merriment at this. He wiped the tears of laughter as he heard that his sister, who is partial to the odd trinket and bauble, was listed as 'Nanny Ratner'. The hilarity was maintained until I heard my Mum shoot at my Dad, 'I don't know what you're laughing at, you don't know what he calls you!'

Well, summer came and went without even a hint of those long summer days that are so memorable from our youth. The days when you would run out of the classroom at lunchtime as fast as your legs could carry you and reach the bottom of the school field half an hour later!

But hold on, did someone whisper something about an 'Indian' September, can it be true? And what does it mean? Is it that the weather will be particularly warm and dry or does it mean that I'll be boarding the roof of the train to London Bridge?

All of this is of course irrelevant, it has been pouring with rain and I have no intention of writing a meteorological based blog!

In a rare break in the clouds yesterday, I learnt a new way in which to judge a man's social standing. There I was in the staff car park, talking with the bursar. I found myself suddenly talking to myself - as something of greater interest had caught the bursar's eye. He crept slowly towards the Violin teacher's car, hunched over as if stalking prey. He made a sudden grab for the windsrceen wiper and turned to me triumphant, holding aloft an autumnal leaf.

'You see!' He enthused. 'You can tell this man has class by the type of leaf that has fallen onto his car'. Partly thrilled and part lament, the bursar continued. 'Beech!' His voice shrilled, as he waggled the leaf at me.

This morning I awoke, looked out of the window only to observe that yet again I'd be needing a anorak. My eyes fell from the grey clouds to my car parked parallel to the house. Aside from the droplets of rain on the windscreen, there fixed in place by the wiper was something flapping in the wind.What could it be? Beech? Birch? Oak? Perhaps I'm a Horsechestnut kind of guy? Alas it wasn't a leaf at all, but a menu from The Mitcham Balti House. Perhaps it is going to be an 'Indian' September after all! 

Since last week I have taken H out many times to practice his ever improving cycling skills. There has been a mounting embarrassment on my part each time we enter the park. Being quite big for his age, H on his Spiderman bike had begun to resemble a hoodie on a mini-moto- just ridiculous!

Today, armed with my tape measure, we set out determined to find a suitable replacement that screamed, 'My parents are not neglecting me and are in fact very generous'. The solution was soon agreed upon, a very trendy looking, red BMX. The bike was paid for, taken home and after some pretence of toolbox manliness, was successfully assembled and ready to roll.

'Oh yes!' H exclaimed, 'This is much better.' With minor adjustment to his push-off, H set off, proud on his normal sized vehicle. In a short amount of time H's handling skills have vastly improved and were proudly observed when I called out to him to watch out for the dead pigeon that adorned the path. 'Okay!' came the delayed cheery response. I watched H successfully align himself parallel with the dead bird. As he pedalled closer he appropriately used both brakes to slow down to gawping speed, his face a combination of repulsion and intrigue as he contemplated the columbidae corpse.

Dead pigeons always arouse my suspicion, they always appear to have fallen mid-air and always, always have their eyes closed. I read on the BBC site this week, about a dog that had thirteen golf balls in it's stomach. On his daily walk around a golf course in Fife, Oscar, a five-year-old black labrador was swallowing the golf balls he found in the hedgerow. Perhaps the pigeon had suffered a similar fate. I'd like to think that being in the same family as a dove, the pigeon's gizzard was stuffed with olive branches, consequently the pigeon had closed its eyes and died overwhelmed by peace and satisfaction. The reality is it was probably blasted out of the sky by a air-rifle wielding hoodie on a mini-moto or perhaps it simply choked on fag ends.

On our way home H confidently informed me that his new bike does 30mph in just 12 seconds!

Returning home from my first day back at school after the summer holidays, I enjoyed a unexpected spring in my step. The dreaded return to work had been rather pleasant. What made it even more enjoyable was the fact that the pupils don't return until Wednesday.

Buoyed by my exuberance and with an unusual amount of energy left at the end of a day at school I decided to take my son to the park for some cycling practice. The last time we went out we managed to eradicate the need for stabilisers. H had whooped with joy as he went round and round in a circle for the first time unaided. I'd had a genuine tear in my eye as I realised the satisfaction of teaching H a skill he would enjoy forever...or so I thought.

Admittedly it has been some months since that eureka moment. The second H got in the saddle he seemed to have lost all sense of balance, control and movement. Every push off resulted in H in a crumpled heap. So much for the old saying suggesting that once you've learnt you never forget!

With his steadfast resilience and impressive determination H continued in his sorry succession of defeats until his senses seemed to awaken in unison and off he cycled. A sense of relief washed over me and my chest once more filled with pride as I enjoyed the sight. After a few revolutions I started to day dream only to be rudely awakened by H ramming right into the back off my leg! What happened to the brakes? What happened to the well-mounted bells (one on each side)? Well that's okay I thought, he may have had a couple of acres in which to manoeuvre but he's still finding his feet after a long lay-off. It serves me right really for leaving it so long to encourage H back onto his bike.

It was at this moment that a foul stench burnt my nostrils and it dawned on me that H had cycled through dog's excrement. Upon inspection it appeared that he had impressively found the largest canine (I assume) turd ever observed and got it lodged in all sorts of intricate nooks on the bike.

I guess what Einstein failed to adequately explain in his tidy soundbite is that the obstructions are many and often rather unfortunate.