No Ivory Tower

One of my recent posts here was entitled "Welcome to the Real World".  This week I'm looking at things from the other end of the telescope, as it were.  In my reflections the other morning, I thought of my new-look life here in south Yorkshire in terms of an escape from the 'ivory tower' of my cosy flat in Letchworth Garden City.

In many ways my move has put me more 'in touch' with life.  The transition has not been free of problems.  For example, as expected, I was without the internet for a fortnight; the roof leaked and at one point in a heavy rainstorm the other week I saw a 'river' running down the wall; some of the rooms - perhaps all of them - had a strange smell: I suspect my predecessor may have been a smoker; and the frame of the bedroom window is twisted, so that it no longer closes.

With most of these problems now overcome, or at least with the necessary remedial work in hand, I now find I can see some of the benefits of my move.  I can hang my washing on a proper line to dry in the fresh air.  I'm reliant on there being no rain, and trusting that the wind will not be so strong as to overcome the strength of the pegs, but it's better than hanging washing in the window to dry overnight.

I now have a 'street view'.  I can see real people walking along the road past my window, as opposed to noticing a passing figure and wondering what he or she is doing on private property.  Living at a road junction, I can see some way up the road, compared to catching a glimpse of a pedestrian before they disappeared behind the ever-growing bush outside my flat window.  Here there are neighbours (as I mentioned last week) that I can see, instead of merely hearing them banging about in the next room or on the floor above.

I also have custody of my own rubbish, and know that there's no risk of my litter being scattered around the street, as happened on occasion when the bins got full.  Not that long ago, I had great difficulty - for the second time, in recent years - in being able to get my recycling into any of the green bins at the flats because, as a result of people putting incorrect materials (usually the bag they had collected their recycling in) into the bins, they hadn't been emptied by the local authority.  I have four bins in my courtyard, and have just about memorised what the different colours are for.  I have learned which are to be put out for emptying in which weeks, and must remember that 'Wednesday night is bin night'.

And I had the 'privilege' of a sore thumb the other afternoon after a session in my garden.  The cause of this was essentially my trusting to the protection of inferior quality gloves as I removed some of the jungle I've inherited.  At least I can be thankful for the presence of 'my own nettles'!

And finally, let me comment on one facility of my previous life that has been almost identically replaced: the postal service.  In less than the time it takes for my computer screen to go into 'idle' mode, I can walk out of my door, round two or three corners, post a letter - knowing that it will be collected by 9.0 the next morning - and return home, just as I have done for many years.  The only difference is that here the post box is built into the wall of a house, while there it was a pillar box on the corner of the street.

I confess to a degree of excitement as I wonder what other blessings lie in wait for me just around the corner.

Who is My Neighbour?

The programmes in a recent television series began with the statement, 'History is all around us.'  I know that's true but, as illustrated by the old story about cobblers' children being the worse shod, we're often guilty of not appreciating - or even being aware of - what we live amongst, because it is so familiar in its present day form.  I'm not yet three weeks into my new life in what are still strange surroundings, and so I'm far more aware of my environment than will be the case in a few months' time.  

I'm aware that I'm now living in a former mining area, but as yet I haven't learned anything about the local dimensions of that history, and have only stereotypes (not always reliable!) to go on.  One of these images is of 'back-to-back' houses, and I have only to look out of my window for a present-day example.  The standard illustration of such housing is of parallel streets of dwellings with no gaps between them, and just a small interval between front door and street ... or none at all.  

Depending on the space available, each house might have a small back yard, beyond which a narrow passage separates this from a similar back yard of the houses in the next street.  The other day I walked along the passage beyond my own back gate, which is (probably unusually) wide enough along which to drive a small car, although I have no intention to try this for myself.  I noticed that some of the sheds that back onto the passage still retain the little doors that, in past days, would have facilitated the delivery of coal for the fires.

As I write this - without moving an inch - I can see not only my own courtyard, but that of three other houses.  Although it's quiet now, through my open window I often hear the sound of children playing and, although the  details are indistinguishable, I'm aware of adults enjoying themselves chatting in their gardens ... or arguing, as was the case for a while earlier today.

Compared to my former home in a purpose-built block of flats, the neighbours here - although more distant - have a greater impact on life.  In my two decades in the First Garden City, I don't suppose I really got to know more than a dozen neighbours in three different flats, and only about three as a result of actual conversation.  I have already seen enough of the three neighbours whose back ways I can see, to form an opinion of their lives (whether true or not, I may or may not discover in coming weeks or months!).

The concept of neighbour is a broad one.  It's usually thought to refer to the people living on either side in the same street, but in my new situation the three householders I have referred to comprise one 'next door' (the one on the other side being obscured from view by my own kitchen and further by a tall fence) and two in the next street.  I have come to the conclusion that all four of us, two men and two women, live alone and, while our lives overlap only a little as we use our back gates and the passage between, it's clear that the neighbour with whom I shall have most contact will be the one adjacent ... if only purely as a result of the distance of the other two from my door.

It's a Whole New World

First, I must apologise to regular readers for the absence of a blog last week.  It does seem that one of the inevitable consequences of moving house in the digital age is the temporary loss of internet facilities.  This aspect of the process falls into place in what I quickly realised was a very inter-dependent chain of events. 

The first link in that chain was the very significant step of signing a lease, without which access to the premises would not be possible.  Next was contact with a ready-primed removal firm to learn the earliest date on which the move could take place.  Only when this had been established, could notice be given to the broadband provider, who typically requires 30 days’ notice of a change that will take place in only a couple of weeks. 

I thought I was being clever in my decision to change providers to whosever equipment might already be present in my new home.  By the time I had established this and made application to the provider, the earliest date by which they could provide a service was still weeks away and, although I have a wi-fi hub provided by my mobile phone supplier, I am having to restrict my use of that to vital things only, so as not to exceed its monthly data limit … and, of course, the removal date was right at the start of a new billing cycle, so there is no hope of spreading the load across two separate charge periods.

So, having got that explanation out of the way, how has the process gone?  The move itself was finished in only about six-and-a-half hours, and that includes the 135 miles travelling.  I was most impressed by the strength and fitness of the two removers.  I had 22 boxes of books, for example.  Working at the hospice warehouse, I’ve got used to what 15kg of books feels like and I had felt guilty that, by my judgement, many of these weighed more.  I was staggered to see the younger of the two men pick up two of these boxes at once and carry them out to the van, time after time.  At the other end, I was even more surprised on one occasion to see him run up the steep staircase carrying a box of books in two hands, with complete disregard for the handrails!  It turns out he’s a footballer and his job provides him with a regular training work-out.

There were two unfortunate ‘refusals’ when it came to transporting my complete lifestyle from one place to the next.  These were the wardrobe and the bed, both of which were thwarted by the awkward juxtaposition of chimney-breast and a right-angle bend up a step to get onto the staircase.  The wardrobe was returned as far as the lounge, where part of the afternoon was devoted to its dismantling.  Then, once the components had been carried separately upstairs, they could be re-assembled in the bedroom. 

The single drawer-divan base has assumed the role of the elephant in the dining room, until either I can find someone with transport to take it away for a good cause, or I lose patience and take out my saw.  Meanwhile, I’ve been able to obtain a flat-packed bedframe, and spent an afternoon putting this together – a job whose instructions included the expression, ‘some aspects of this are best carried out by two people’!  By back-tracking and taking the steps in a different order, I was able to overcome this major deficiency.

The experience with a flat-packed bathroom cabinet sadly didn’t complete a DIY trio in the way I’d hoped.  After successes with wardrobe and bed, this proved the most unsuccessful assembly I think I’ve ever attempted.  The basic problem was that the pilot holes for the screws had not been sufficiently drilled.  Next day, inspired by adaptation and innovation, I removed the doors and turned these into picture-style mirrors that now fulfil this need in both toilet and bathroom.  I’m now left with an un-fronted, but tidy, shelf unit that stands on my dressing table keeping all kinds of medicaments satisfactorily in order.

Now I shall transfer this ready-made blog-post to the internet, with apologies for any deficiency in appearance.  With luck, normal service will be resumed next week.

How Green was my Valley ... or are my Fingers?

In a moment of utmost astonishment the other morning, I was taken back in my mind to a time probably forty-five years ago, when I worked at a factory in my Norfolk birthplace.  The factory had been there by that time for about twenty years, give or take, and was one of the town's biggest employers.  The business had been founded in London in the 'fifties by a couple of ex-RAF chaps and, after a few years of steady growth, they moved out to the country.

Typical of many small town factories of the age, this quickly grew into a 'family business'.  An employee, - being an electronics firm, the employees were mainly female - seeing that there was a vacancy, or a general appeal for more to join an expanding workforce, would tell mother or daughter or an out-of-work sibling, and so the whole family would go along there.  That may not have proved such a good idea when contraction of business led to redundancies, but no one thought of that then.

Every year there was a sports day, for the employees and their families to join in, and every year, too, there was an outing to the seaside, with the three nearest resorts - Clacton-on-Sea, Felixstowe and Great Yarmouth - being visited in rotation.  There was also a thriving social club, whose principal activities were the daily operation of a tobacco and confectionery shop housed in a cupboard on the shop floor, and a savings scheme in which those who wished could put away their savings for Christmas.

Talking of Christmas, on the afternoon of the last working day before the holiday there was a grand raffle.  This, too, was run by the social club and the tickets were sold by committee members for several weeks beforehand.  In return for the management's permission to hold it in the factory, the founder and managing director was invited to conduct the draw and hand out the prizes.  He was very much the 'pater familias', and enjoyed that role.

Yes, it was very much like a big family and, just as in a real family with lots of children, from time to time someone would leave, maybe to get married or to have a baby.  This was a day of great celebration.  The leaver's friends would make the effort to get to work early on her last day, and her workbench would be decorated with streamers and ribbons, and piled high with gifts and cards.  No one seemed to mind that, overall, several hours' work was lost as a result.

I came there about eighteen months before the founder retired and the firm was taken over by an international organisation, so I caught the tail-end of this family atmosphere.  It didn't come to an end overnight but, one by one, the 'family frills' of life there were eliminated.  Profit became king and the place was never the same again.

Whenever I've left a job, I seem always to have been working right up to the last hour to leave things as tidy as possible for whoever should come after me, and nothing different had entered my mind about leaving this voluntary job that I've been working at a couple of days a week since the autumn of 2018.  So yes, I was quite surprised to walk in on Tuesday morning for my last day to find

                                waiting for me.  I was so taken aback that it didn't occur to me to take the picture until I'd brought it home.  It's not the same as the scenes I remembered from long ago, but then I'm not in the same happy circumstances!  I have an idea where it will live, and I'll do my best to look after it, but I fear my horticultural expertise will be sadly lacking.