Once I was faster than Usain Bolt

My first serious conflict with the establishment took place at Carr Lane Middle school, I was pulled out of a line for bad behavior. Of course I was innocent of breaking any rules but it would be many years before the idea of human rights emerged as a legal privilege, in those days the teacher was the sole judge, jury and executioner.

Every morning no matter if it was raining, snowing or blowing a gale we had to wait outside in the playground before the start of school. A teacher blew a whistle that signaled the start of school and then each class had to form a single line of its own. Then each class took turns in walking through the school door into the cloakroom where we left our coats and from there directly to our classrooms, regulations demanded that this procedure had to take place in complete silence and with military precision.

To this day I don’t really understand what I’d done wrong because it all happened so quickly, I think I laughed or smiled at the wrong time. On this morning the teacher was a particularly strict battle axe who went by the nickname of “Mrs. Spitfire” because of the spittle that would emerge from her mouth when she was angry. I remember someone in the ranks said “watch out it’s Mrs. Spitfire” and this caused her to wade into the lines and pick a bunch of boys located in my vicinity, interestingly the girls around me had behaved perfectly.

Mrs. Spitfire was a huge fan of corporal punishment, she had a collection of canes that she’d use to strike the open palm of your hand. Legend had it that this was not only painful but that parents would be able to see the mark left behind and further punishment at home was to be expected because you’d disgraced the family by being naughty. Once I’d been pulled to the side I knew my fate was going to a good whack on the hand, just the thought of it was bringing me close to tears but I had to try and look brave because my friends would have enjoyed making fun of me acting like a big girl.

The school was designed with one long corridor consisting of six class rooms on each of the two floors, at the ends of the corridor there was a staircase  that connected the two floors. My class room was on the ground floor and Mrs. Spitfire had a classroom in the middle of the top floor. There was about 15 fellow pupils in the line of condemned boys and we were the last line to be allowed into the school, Mrs. Spitfire counted us and told us to get out of our coats and form a line in the corridor.

I found myself second in line behind a regular “victim” of Mrs. Spitfire, once we were all ready Mrs. Spitfire instructed us to walk to her classroom. She led the line to the stairs and then she paused halfway up the staircase where she made certain that the end of the line continued to follow. I’m not particularly religious but even at that early age I could appreciate having a priest administer the last rights could be comforting for a boy about to meet his maker.

Then we reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner, for a brief moment we were out of sight of Mrs. Spitfire, below I could hear her telling the stragglers in the line to get a move on. It was then that the boy in front of me started to sprint to the end of the corridor, due to some kind of survival instinct I followed. I remember being way faster than anything Usain Bolt has achieved. Within seconds we reached the stairs at the other end and didn’t look back as we rounded the corner. It was a brilliant move, Mrs. Spitfire didn’t see anything because she was concerned about the back of the line. It was strange but my partner in crime and I didn’t exchange any words throughout the entire process, we walked down the stairs, peered around the corner to make certain that the coast was clear and then darted to the safety of our classrooms.  

I tried to hide in plain sight and retrieved my books from my desk, I didn’t feel safe from Mrs. Spitfire’s cane because she’d counted us and felt certain that one of the other bad boys would give us away in the hope that their punishment would be reduced for good behavior. I was scared, I knew I’d raised the stakes by running and no doubt faced several more strokes from the cane if I was caught but thankfully our lessons started without interruption from Mrs. Spitfire.

About 10 minutes later boys started drifting into our classroom with red eyes and rubbing their palms, obviously still in considerable pain. I felt guilty that they been punished so violently but at the same time I was relieved that I had escaped the wrath of Mrs. Spitfire in full swing. I decided to forget the entire episode, to pretend that I’d never been involved, it was difficult because I was very curious about what had happened once the line had reached Mrs. Spitfires room and she’d realized that she’d lost two very bad boys. Looking back she didn’t seem physically strong enough to go down a line of 15 boys and give them each a full power whack perhaps under normal circumstances the back of the line was the place to be.

At lunchtime the “regular victim” asked me if I’d been caught and I said no, he confirmed that he’d also escaped the cane. I asked him if he’d done that before and he said that he’d done it twice and got away with it. He also divulged that he’d climbed out of the toilet windows three times and once hidden under a bunch of coats. My admiration for him grew immensely but I certainly didn’t want to become his regular partner in crime, once was enough for me.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

Olympics on BBC at lunchtime

The 2016 Olympic games in Rio have ended and Team Great Britain is going home with a record 67 medals, 27 gold, 23 silver and 17 bronze. This is an achievement that anyone from my generation would find amazing. Early in my lifetime Great Britain, the United Kingdom, England and Yorkshire struggled to win anything. Now that I’m on the back nine of the golf course of my life I can enjoy the memories of victorious Ashes cricket campaigns against Australia, a world cup in rugby and just recently the Yorkshire cricket team has won the championship several times. 

My first real memory of being interested in the Olympics dates back to 1968, that year Mexico were the hosts and we took home 13 medals, 5 gold, 5 silver and 3 bronze. I’ll never forget David Hemery winning the 400m hurdles, Chris Finnegan’s gold in the men’s middleweight boxing and Lillian Boards silver in the women’s 400 m. It was the meeting where Dick Fosbury flopped to a gold in the men’s high jump and Bob Beamon jumped to a new world record that would last 22 years and 316 days. 

Back in 1968 I was 11 years old and attending Nunthorpe Grammar School in York. The BBC covered the Mexico Olympics via satellite and broadcast a special lunch time show, at the time this was a huge deal well before 24 hour television was available. The school made it’s only black and white television available in the school gym for the pupils to watch the show but only pupils allocated to the first sitting for lunch were allowed to watch. Also for some reason 1^st year students were banned. Unfortunately I was a member of the second sitting lunch group and being a 1^st year student I wouldn’t be allowed to watch. Of course I didn’t quite see it that way I decided to skip school lunch and join the smokers at the nearest fish and chip shop and return to watch the show.

This plan worked well, if I ran in both directions I could get back in good time to watch the show. I had to bluff my way into the room because prefects had been posted on the door. Since I’ve always been tall it wasn’t much of a problem to walk past the pimpled gate keepers and once inside everyone was glued to the sporting events on the screen. Everything went well for about 7 school days and then everything went wrong. The faculty decided to start a campaign against the smokers and the fish and chip lunch guys, for some reason leaving the school grounds for lunch was illegal. About twenty fellow pupils were caught eating fish and chips, you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to spot the offenders because we were all in school uniform, the good news is that I didn’t know the teacher and he didn’t know me so I identified myself as Richard Kirby (my cousins name). I was given a detention form by the teacher and despite the administrative delay I was able to run back to the gym in good time for the start of the Olympics TV show. 

I walked confidently past the gatekeepers only to hear my name called, it turns out that one of the prefects lived a few doors down from me and he knew that I didn’t belong in the room. The peperoni pizza faced prefect was 4 years older than me, so he wasn’t really a friend and after he handed me a detention form his chances of becoming a friend decreased dramatically. This time my real name was on the form, there was no chance of me escaping my punishment, at the end of the school day I dutifully reported to the sixth form common room to serve my detention. My name was checked off the list of about 30 boys that had been given detention, some were fish and chip offenders, others were smokers, there was one other pupil who’d tried to get in to see the Olympics which is probably a hanging offence these days. 

When I looked down the list I could see that Richard Kirby had failed to turn up, fortunately my cousin attended another school and wouldn’t face any consequences from my deception. There was about 20 boys that had reported for detention and after a short sharp lecture from a teacher we were given the task of writing 200 lines before having to go to every classroom and make certain that all chairs were on top of the desks. The detention would take about one hour to complete, it was a pain to be held back after school but rather than mess about I set about writing my lines and quickly moved on to the next phase. I kept my head down and managed not to smirk at the teacher and prefects as they discussed what to do about the pupils that hadn’t reported for detention, my dear cousin was in for some serious detention time if they ever caught up with him. It’s my sincere hope that there was lots of fictitious names on that list. 

At the time I couldn’t understand why anyone would ever want to become a prefect and have to stay behind after school to run the detention program. The only benefit was being able to wear an upgraded school tie and boss people around, back then I didn’t understand the drug of power that can become an addiction for a certain type of person. After my detention experience I decided that my days of viewing the Olympic lunchtime show was over, I wasn’t going to lower myself and join the other 1^st years trying to watch the TV through the gym windows!

Jobsonian

Voting, what was I thinking

As a young 18 years old living in the UK I voted against joining the European Union. At the time of the EU vote I was concerned about wine lakes, butter mountains, grain surpluses and foreigners dictating what should happen in the country of my birth. Recently I was back in the UK when the Brexit vote took place and I must admit that I’d have voted to remain in the EU. I’ve no idea what happened to the lakes and mountains that resulted from the “crazy” agricultural policies of the EU but there was no mention of surplus farming in any of the debates that I saw. I also believe that the EU fishing quotas is helping to restore the stock of fish around our shores and yet I still wonder why Spanish trawlers continue to fish in British territorial waters.

However I can’t get too emotional about the Spanish because I remember the UK had no issues harvesting cod from what the Icelandic government considered their territorial waters. In 1973 the UK was so convinced that it could fish inside the new 50 mile fishery limits declared by the Icelandic government that it sent some war ships into the area in what we now call the “Cod War”. I’ve just looked up the naval strength of the two parties involved, Iceland had 3 large patrol vessels, 2 small patrol vessels and 1 armed whaler against the Royal Navy with 30 frigates, 1 destroyer, 11 RFA supply vessels and 5 defense tugs. I guess the UK government was fairly confident that if it came to a real fight the Royal Navy would be victorious with a 47 to 6 vessel advantage.

Having said that the so called minnows of the Icelandic soccer team just dispatched the mighty English team out of the 2016 European Cup. Iceland has a population of 323,002 to find the talent for their soccer team while England can select from a pool of just 53,010,000 million. Perhaps the Icelandic soccer team have proved once again that "size doesn't matter". Even though I'm an English supporter I admired the Icelandic teamwork and they enjoyed excellent support from their travelling countrymen. Like many other soccer tournaments before this I found myself relieved that England was out of the competition and I could start to enjoy watching the soccer without any emotional investment other than the "anybody but Germany" ideology. 

A long time after the EU vote I spent 6 weeks in Iceland which is one of the travel highlights of my career, one of the reasons being that it’s not a popular destination and always generates interest in any conversation.

The project I worked on was at the government printers and they had the most wonderful cafeteria with restaurant quality food. I mentioned this to one of the managers I was working with and the next lunchtime I was show to what we’d now call the chefs table where I enjoyed the personal attention of the head chef and what a character he was. I’ve always gravitated towards friendship with people that have the joy of life in their eyes and the Icelandic chef was no exception, he’d spent time working in Scotland and had plenty of stories about his experiences among the kilted Celts.

I’d never been much of a fish eater, I didn’t like messing about with the skin and bones but my time at the chefs table changed my life forever. The fish my new friend prepared was so delicious that I started to wonder if all the chefs in the UK didn’t understand how to cook seafood. The chef laughed when we talked about that and he said it’s no special secret, he told me that they keep all the best fish in Iceland and send all the low quality fish to England. I thought he was joking but then again the product on my plate suggested that he might be serious.

I was quite sad to leave Iceland, I’d made some great friends, seen some fantastic sights and had some fun experiences.  The work had been challenging but also successful and so I felt quite pleased with myself as I boarded the flight home. I should mention that there was a huge shortage of men on the island and from what I saw a surplus of ultra-attractive single blonde women, if I wasn’t married even I might have been able to find love. I could have been a big fish in a small pond so to speak.

The "international" standard hotel that I stayed in would rent out TV sets for your room, of course I didn't bother paying for this luxury but it was very interesting to learn that no television programs were broadcast on Thursdays, the Icelandic government decided that Thursday was family day. I guess that law doesn't continue today but perhaps if the UK had a day free of television our soccer team might be able to practice and eventually become worth the money they are paid!

On my last day at the Icelandic government printers the chef gave me a package of frozen fish to take home, it was well wrapped and he assured me that it wouldn’t leak if it started to defrost. Although my wife wasn’t too impressed with my gift from Iceland she changed her mind after cooking some of the fish for dinner, it just tasked better than any fish we had available in our supermarkets. We had enough fish to be able to give some to a friend and his family also thought that the fish was something special.

That's my reality,

Jobsonian

I'm only certain of one thing

I’m enjoying a Yin & Yang experience in my TV news viewing, I’ve switched from watching Fox News with wife 23 to CNN and even MSNBC with my beloved librarian. It’s proving to be quite a ride and I doubt I’ll ever recover from the whiplash effect of the difference between the left and right political interpretation of all news events.

When I was married to wife 23 she insisted on watching Fox & Friends in the morning. I’ve never really been a political kind of person, I couldn’t see myself signing up for any kind of political party because I can’t vote in the USA but mostly due to the fact that over the years I’ve realized that life isn’t easy and there’s always lots of differing opinions and solutions to issues we face. I guess in the perfect world we’d adapt the best ideas rather than be concerned about which political party was behind the proposition.

The morning ritual of watching Fox & Friends ended after I started to pay attention to the actual content of the “news” show. Little by little I realized that much of the news they presented wasn’t accurate or deep enough for me to form an opinion. There was two events that made me find the courage to tell wife 23 that I didn’t want to watch Fox & Friends any more. One was the Terri Schiavo case where she’d suffered a cardiac arrest which caused massive brain damage and eventually declared to be in a vegetative state. Eight years after the diagnosis her husband Michael petitioned to turn off Terri’s life support but her parents opposed the move.

To watch Fox news you’d think that Terri was up and about doing the Riverdance and completing Monday’s New York Times crossword inside 15 minutes despite the fact that Florida’s best medical experts had declared Terri vegetative.

It must have been a very sad situation for everyone involved and Fox news moving into a parking lot opposite the hospital can’t have helped ease the pain. Eventually the feeding tube was removed and Terri died, a postmortem of her body revealed that her brain had deteriorated and lost a great deal of tissue. However I didn’t learn this from Fox news because they didn’t even have the grace to acknowledge that their so called reporting was wrong let alone apologize to Michael Schiavo, Terri’s parents or indeed their viewers.

The other even was far less emotional but was the straw that broke my back. Fox news was covering some kind of Royal event in England and up pops their Royal Correspondent who is a Royal Family insider and so called expert in all things Royal. I was in total shock as I saw some idiot from England spouting utter nonsense about the Royal family and their private thoughts and fears. This “expert” wasn’t a former member of the BBC or ITV news team, he had the reputation of being an eccentric fool when I was in England and once again this viewpoint was being confirmed as he spouted verbal diarrhea on my TV screen. I would have loved to get the Queen to come out of the palace and confront the charlatan, she’d have no idea who he was but the very idea of him being “close” to the Royal family was preposterous and yet Fox News fell for his bullshit and expected their viewers to do the same.

I turned off the TV and declared that my house would be a Fox News free zone in the mornings, wife 23 was taken aback by my passion, so much so that she let me have my own way for the first time in our relationship.

My beloved librarian, has a fabulous brain with at least 3 degrees from reputable American universities for this to be an indisputable fact. The librarian subscribes to The New York Times newspaper, The New Yorker magazine and The National Enquirer. No seriously The National Enquirer is just a joke. We don’t listen or watch the news in the morning because the librarian believes in quiet time, initially this was a new concept for me but I’ve become a great fan of quite time.

For election coverage the librarian has morphed from watching CNN to MSNBC, in particular Rachel Maddow who like Bill Clinton is a Rhodes Scholar. The librarian is always interested in the academic achievements of TV presenters and Rachel excels in this area gaining a Doctor of Philosophy from Lincoln College, Oxford. While I’ve nothing against Rachel, MSNBC or the librarian I’m always agitated by anyone who has an opinion and a certain amount of reluctance to embrace input from other sources and yet I respect someone who has an opinion. Try living with that contradiction in your life, the phrase "I used to be undecided but now I'm not so sure" is so appropriate to my life.

I’ve always enjoyed great strategy even though I’m a person that’s been gifted with a fantastic eye for a ball but a small brain that hasn’t been worthy of academic certificates. I just enjoy evaluating both sides of an argument but this prevents me from being able to give 100% commitment to one side or the other.

I can see the Yin and yet also see the Yang and so I remain firmly non-committal about anything in life apart from having no doubts that I was born in the best county in England or even the world. That’s my Yorkshireman reality,

Jobsonian

The journey to the predators lair

Wife 23, or "the predator" as my friends would call her, had two black Labradors when she first moved in and started to live with me. These two dogs appeared to be almost identical but their character couldn’t have been more different. KC, the eldest dog by two years, was kind of stand offish, aloof and very rarely showed any need for affection or gave any affection unless you had food in your possession. The youngest dog Chance was a lover, constantly giving and wanting to receive affection even if you didn’t have any treats in your hand.

When I got home from work Chance would be at the door wagging her tail and very excited to see me, minutes later after hearing the noise of their food bucket open KC would turn up and wait for her bowl to be filled. Sometimes I thought I saw KC nod her head to say thanks but deep down I knew this was just a figment of my imagination. As a child the only pet I’d ever had was a hamster and so I was quite inexperienced with regard to living with man’s best friend, never mind two of them.

My first meeting with the dogs didn’t go that well, both KC and Chance spent the first 15 minutes barking and snarling at me. Like any brave Yorkshireman I stood my ground and tried not to show fear, eventually they gave up and went back to their couches. I must admit that I wasn’t too impressed with the way I was left to face the music by my eventual wife. At the time I concluded that this was some kind of test or initiation process that I had to endure.

When KC did gave some affection it felt wonderful, it was so rare that it was memorable and in many ways meant more than anything Chance could give. Of course this feels wrong, why should affection from a cold heart mean more than affection from someone who always gives affection all the time? In many ways I had the same problem with my two daughters, I enjoyed a fabulous warm and loving relationship with my youngest child Emma but for many reasons including my own fault I’ve never had anything like the same deep affectionate exchanges with my eldest child. While Emma could be very demanding and needy, I’d give anything to face that kind of problem again. Looking back now I probably took Emma’s kind and caring nature for granted, unfortunately I won’t get a second chance to correct that stupidity.

One Friday I’d just returned to the USA after spending 3 months in Denmark due to issues with my USA work visa. When I got home my old Jeep Laredo and even older Jeep Wrangler wouldn’t start due to what I thought was battery issues. Eventually I managed to get the Jeep Laredo going but even after driving around and attaching a battery charger overnight any attempt to start the car couldn’t be guaranteed to be successful.

My mixed tennis team was having an end of season party on Saturday, I was looking forward to seeing my friends again. Since the venue was in the next neighborhood after making certain my AAA card was valid and in my possession I decided to risk taking the Laredo. Over the 3 months I’d been away I’d kept in touch with a few friends via a group email, after one of these exchanges a lady who was single sent me an individual mail. Unknown to me at the time this was the start of my relationship with the “the predator” or wife 23 as she eventually became.

The emails between “the predator” and me hadn’t been romantic in nature and so I walked into the party without any expectation of any kind of relationship starting. In fact previously I’d never had a one on one conversation with “the predator” but that was about to change. The party was fun and I enjoyed circulating and playing games with my friends, it was the perfect way to catch up. In a break between games I was refreshing my drink in the kitchen when “the predator” approached and we started talking about our mails, eventually she double checks to see if we are alone and then asks me what I’m doing later. Since it was already 1:00 AM in the morning I said I’d be going home, “the predator” slipped me a piece of paper with her phone number and address and informed me that I might want to grab a night cap at her house. Obviously experienced in these matters she told me that we should leave the party separately, that she was going to leave soon but I should follow after 30 minutes or so.

I was like a deer in headlights, not knowing what to expect but hoping that things could get interesting. In the course of the evening I’d had several beers, while I felt sober the reality was that I could have been on the very edge of failing a potential breath test. I watched “the predator” leave with her friend and shortly after that the party started to break up. My heart was pumping with excitement as I jumped in my car and turned the ignition key but disaster followed as I heard “clunk” rather than the purr of the 4.0L engine kicking into action.

Trying not to panic I tried again and again, sometimes the engine turns over and sometimes it doesn’t but it never showed any sign of bursting into life. By this time most people have left but one friend offers to take me home, I couldn’t tell him how important it was to me that I was able to drive away in my own car. Each time I tried to start my car the friend became more and more persistent that he should take me home saying that we could deal with the problem in the morning. Inwardly I just wanted to scream but I had to try and remain calm so that nobody would become suspicious of my situation. Then just before I’m about to give up, there’s a huge backfire and the Laredo engine starts to show signs of life, it started with a non-rhythmical chuga chug chug and then after another backfire it settles into a normal running sound.

From the depths of despair to elation in just five seconds. My friend even commented that I seemed happy but he’d no idea how happy I really was! This was back in the days before GPS and so my first task was to drive home and MapQuest the predators address. Since I’m a smart Yorkshireman I left the Laredo running when I went inside, I could hear the car on idle from the computer room and 10 minutes later I was on my way. It was about 01:45 by this time and I was hoping that this would be the last driving I’d be doing that night. While I wasn’t exactly driving like I stole it I was making haste to my destination, then I noticed that I had a police car behind me. I lifted off the accelerator and dropped 4MPH below the speed limit, when I checked the mirror there was no flashing lights and the police car was pulling out to overtake me. My car needed gas and I had to turn left into the nearest gas station which was going to be difficult because the police car was alongside me and the passenger was “observing” me.

I didn’t know what to do, several minutes passed as we drove side by side and then we reached the lights where I needed to turn left. On the dash my gas low light was flashing, I couldn’t risk driving any further and so I decided to tell the officer about my dilemma when we were stood at the red light. He told me to turn left in front of him when the lights went green and that’s what I did but the police car followed me, I thought I was doomed to a breath test and consequent death by electrocution. I was so relieved when the police car continued driving straight when I turned into the gas station. Again I kept the car running and performed a dangerous splash and dash rather than wait for the entire tank to be filled.

Fortunately the rest of my journey was incident free and I arrived at “the predators” lair ready and willing for anything.

After I’d been to the lair four or five times the two dogs actually seemed pleased to see me. One time when we were on the phone the predator mentioned that her dogs liked me and I told her that they actually like me more than her. The predator declared that we’d test that theory in the evening, I’d go into one room and she’d go into the other and we’d see who the dogs followed. Previously I’d overheard a conversation about the wonderful powers of a dog food called Bil-Jack, it’s a frozen dog food and that evening I prepared for my visit to the lair by rubbing my legs with Bil-Jack and also filled my pockets with the dog treat.

When I walked through the door I secretly gave the dogs a small treat of Bil-Jack and they got very excited. Then the predator said that we should go upstairs, I should go in the back bedroom and she would go in the front bedroom. She was so angry when both dogs followed me into the back bedroom, she couldn’t believe what had happened. I told her that some people were dog people and some just didn’t have the dog thing going for them, this didn’t help improve her mood. By now the two dogs were jumping up and down against me, they could smell the Bil-Jack in my pockets and it was time to reveal my trickery when I gave them a handful of the dog treat each. The predator was so relieved to see that I’d had to resort to bribery to get her dogs into my room.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

I'm confident that I'm good for nothing

Confidence is something I must have been born with but has been eroded throughout my life, I don’t know why this happened but I refuse to do what any good physiatrist would advise and blame my parents.

In my working life I’ve encountered several colleagues who have confidence to the point of being almost arrogant and then for the other side of the coin there’s me. If someone was to ask for my date of birth I can imagine that I’d answer something along the lines of “I think it’s 02.27.57”, while my confident colleagues wouldn’t hesitate to shout out “02.27.57” leaving any audience in no doubt. Obviously I know my date of birth, so why would I give such a wimpy kind of answer, probably because I lack confidence.

I used to have a manager who no doubt will be the subject of a dedicated volume of my memoirs and at least 235 entries in this blog, he was a real piece of work who ruled by fear, he was a complete bully and should never have been given a position of power in the company. This manager was also confident, the word evil doesn’t really cover it but I’m not the kind of guy to speak ill of the dead, but have no doubts that on this particular person I will!

One time I was in a project meeting with our team, the manager asked a work related question regarding a problem that our customer was having, he looked at me for an answer and I said that I didn’t know the answer but I’d investigate and get back to him. The manager wasn’t happy with my reply and asks “Mr. Confident”, I watch in amazement as my colleague answers the managers question with such sincerity that he’d sail through a lie detector test even if it was administered by Maury’s best guy. It’s not just Mr. Confidant’s voice but also his entire body language that leaves me in no doubt that everything he says is 100% true.

My manager turns to me and says “that’s exactly the kind of reply I need and expect, why don’t you know the answer because you’ve been working here longer that him?” I find myself cornered but previous experience has told me that challenging the manager especially in a room full of people is not a good move. Somehow I manage to say I’m sorry I’m just not familiar with that part of our product. I’m not angry with Mr. Confident, more amazed that he knew the answer, even if I knew the answer to the question there was no way that I’d sound as confident as Mr. Confident.

Once I’d left the keyboard department of the Scarborough Evening News I’ve tried hard not to bullshit and always had pride in providing answers that could be relied upon, I never appreciated colleagues that “guessed answers” and presented them as facts. I don’t mind if they tell me that this is just a guess but not telling me it’s a guess really pisses me off. My approach to most issues is let me investigate and I’ll get back to you but this particular manager didn’t like this approach.

When the meeting breaks up I go back to my desk and take the time to investigate the issue and try to implement the solution that Mr. Confident had given. Not for the first time I discovered that Mr. Confident was wrong but what can I do, should I go to the manager and tell him the situation or do I just fix the problem and move on. In the past I’ve tried both, once I went into the manager’s office and told him that I’d fixed the issue by doing this and that. It had been my experience that it didn’t matter, the window of opportunity to impress had been closed, opinions had been formed with the managers personal investment. These opinions wouldn’t and couldn’t be changed because that would mean that the manager would have to admit, even if it’s just to himself, that he was wrong and that could never happen.

Only recently the garbage disposal in my kitchen sink failed, in the 20 years I’ve lived in the house this was the second time that I’d had to replace the device. My dad replaced the last failed garbage disposal, I remember him telling everyone including my neighbor from 5 doors down that he’d repaired something because I couldn’t do. In a moment of inspiration and perhaps stupidity I thought I’d try and exchange the broken disposal with a new one all by myself. From the moment I made that decision I started to have doubts but I pushed myself in the hope that I could save myself $90 for a plumber to make the repair. Once I’d bought a new garbage disposal unit I read the installation instructions and gathered all the tools that I’d need, on paper it looked like an easy repair but there was a little voice in my head saying “you can’t do this”.

I remember even after testing that the new disposal was working and just before tightening the last screw I still had doubts that I couldn’t install the disposal by myself. I can’t understand where these negative thoughts come, I do know that I’ve had them all of my life. My father was an only child, I guess just reading that fact is enough for some people not to need any more information. My dad is very talented at DIY (Do It Yourself), he’s able to attack any problem around the house and fix the issue. The only problem with that is that he’d self-publicize what he’d done for the rest of the week, of course this would involve telling people that I was so useless that he’d had to step up and make the repair.

My mother used to praise my dad all of the time, of course this was a good thing unfortunately any praise would also involve comments about how bad my brother and me were in comparison to my dad. The message from my parents has always been your dads fantastic and you are not, my mom favorite saying was “you’ll never be half the man your father is”. My dad had a spectacular career in the North Yorkshire Police force, even reaching the rank of Superintendent. My brother also joined the police and reached the rank of Detective Chief Inspector which was just one below our dad. I was there when my mother once again told my brother “you’ll never be half the man you father is” and my brother told her quietly but firmly that he’d broken that barrier many decades ago when he was promoted to Chief Inspector and became the boss of Inspector Morse, the look on my mother’s face was priceless.

Soon after leaving the keyboard I attended a “Train the trainer” seminar, one of my colleagues lectures involved how to hang wall paper and after listening to this I decided to hang wall paper in my own home. My first attempts to hang wallpaper were quite bad, think Laurel and Hardy but eventually after multiple rooms in several houses I became quite skilled at the task.

When we returned to Newbury after living for 12 months in Nelson, NZ we decided to refurbish the whole house and I decorated every room, hanging wall paper and painting trim.  it was quite an undertaking. Once I've started a project I often enjoy the challenge but I'm absolutely useless at cleaning up at the end of the day, fortunately my wife always stepped up and took care of everything. I remember feeling quite proud of myself when the main living room was finished complete with new curtains, carpet and fireplace. Everything looked great.

The next time my parents visited the house they complimented the new wall paper and asked who’d done the work, I proudly told them that I’d done it all myself. They didn’t believe me, my mother even said “I know you didn’t but you should tell however did the work that they did a wonderful job”. When my wife walked in the room they asked her who hung the wallpaper and she confirmed that I’d done it, even this wasn’t enough because my parents went so far as to ask my children when they got home from school. The next morning I came downstairs and caught my mother going through our bill drawer looking for an invoice, I laughed and told her that I don’t send myself bills for hanging wall paper. It was as if my own mother couldn’t believe I was good for anything.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

Always check the seal

One evening at a newspaper in Manchester, UK a colleague and myself were onsite helping a customer to get their newspaper out. Fortunately we weren’t particularly busy because the journalists had everything under control and so we had plenty of time for conversation.

For the purpose of protecting the not so innocent I’m going to call my colleague Ian. Eventually the topic of conversation drifted to the worst thing we’d done while travelling for work. Ian then told me his story and I’ve never been the same since.

One evening Ian returned to his hotel after spending a night out in a strange town, he’d managed to pick up a girl at a local bar and after turning on his considerable charm managed to have sex with her even though they’d both enjoyed way too many adult beverages. Once in his room he tried to fall asleep but he started to be concerned about having unprotected sex with a girl that gave it up the first night.

No matter how hard Ian tried he couldn’t get the thought of catching some kind of sex related infection and then in his drunken state of mind he had an inspired idea. The best thing he could do was wash his equipment not in a shower but in alcohol. Ian opened up the mini bar and took out three miniature bottles of whiskey and poured the contents into a huge glass (we only have is word about the size of the glass he needed) and started to wash his manly parts. Having done that he left the glass on the side of the sink and thinking that any potential health problems had been solved he was able to fall asleep.

However in the morning Ian checked out the price of the 3 miniature bottles of whisky and decided that he was being ripped off. So Ian poured the contents of the glass back into the three bottles and topped them up with a bit of water from the tap. Then he screwed the tops back on and replaced them in the minibar but at the back of the row of whiskey bottles. The idea being that no one would discover what he’d done because when the room was serviced it would look like nothing had been consumed from the minibar.

Of course I was laughing at Ian’s story, his deviousness was quite impressive but I also thought about the poor person who enjoyed more than a couple of whiskeys and would reach Ian’s bottles in the course of one evening. I guess the only clue that something was wrong would be that the seal around the bottle top was broken but who checks that?

Ever since Ian told me his story I always check the seal of any bottle I open.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

I've been in a room with many famous people

One of the many things I love about my beloved librarian is her admiration of theatre and when we were visiting England we were lucky enough to see three live plays – The National Joke, The Mousetrap and The Comedy About A Bank Robbery.

Although I lived in Scarborough when the Stephen Joseph Theatre was created I’d never actually been to see any of their productions. In my late teens and early twenties I was all about playing sport and the thought of watching a bunch of “lovey” actors messing about on stage didn’t appeal to me one iota. Now that I’m well into the back nine holes of my life I can appreciate that my blinkered attitude caused me to miss out on so many potentially great evenings of entertainment. The prolific English playwright Alan Ayckbourn has written and produced over 40 plays, from 1972 through 2009 Ayckbourn was the artistic director of the Stephen Joseph Theatre and all but four of his plays received their first performance in Scarborough.

Later in my life I adored the Ayckbourne trilogy “The Norman Conquests” and I have no doubts that I would have loved many of his other productions. Once I was working in London and read about Tom Conti being amazing in “Who’s Life Is It Anyway” I managed to scrounge a ticket to see the play from a friendly journalist at the newspaper. Although I went by myself it was an amazing experience and the subject matter of a sculptor who was paralyzed from the neck down was very thought provoking. Tom Conti had to stay completely still for the entire length of the play, the physicality of that performance was something I’d never seen before. Imagine not being able to move for 2 hours or so, it must be so difficult to do.

Once when visiting the government printers in Iceland I joined the employees on a trip to see a play at a theatre in Reykjavik, the play was in Icelandic but that didn’t really matter because somebody explained the plot before we sat down in our seats. The play opened with a nude scene and I was perfectly positioned to see a detailed view of the attractive female leads private parts, somehow I remained calm, just like Tom Conti I didn’t move, I didn’t have to because I was in there in the middle of the action. The play was a family drama, even though it was in Icelandic I enjoyed the performance. If I had one criticism it was that the opening scene was too short. Many years later when I was able to see The Graduate with Kathleen Turner I had the exact same kind of view when she was naked on stage. Ms Turners magnificent stage presence and the way she carried herself on stage made me look away because in some strange way she scared me this sensitive Yorkshireman, I was fascinated by the way she could draw your attention even when she was just standing and watching the other cast members, I was so lucky to be able to see her performance. A few weeks later my friend went back to see Lorraine Bracco (Dr. Melfi from the Sopranos) play the same part as Ms Turner and he said it was different, not better or worse just different. I often wish I’d been able to see both actors performing the same role.

Watching The National Joke was my first experience of watching a play where the audience surrounded the “stage”, just watching the actors even when they weren’t speaking was so interesting. Unlike a TV experience I could watch what I wanted, not what the director of the show dictated I must watch. The SJT is such a small venue that we were touching distance from the actors when they were on the extremities of the stage, I was shocked by the skill of the performers and their ability to be totally immersed in their role. Every emotion was there to be seen, not just on their faces but on their whole body. Perhaps for the first time in my life I began to understand the gift of being a talented actor.

What made the performance so special was that the writer of the play Torben Betts actually read one of the parts because a member of the cast was ill. Betts actually read the part from a Kindle and so his ability to act the part was severely restricted but this just made the evening more interesting because the other actors had to interact with this guy holding a Kindle, Betts couldn’t give anything back or really add anything to the performance. However I was so happy that the play wasn’t cancelled and Bett only added to the experience. I’d tried to get my parents to go to the play with us but they continue to be shackled by the Yorkshire blinders that I’ve been able to break away from. Why should they pay to be entertains when there was plenty of stuff on the TV was something I would have said but not these days because I’m enlightened and perhaps sophisticated.

The Mousetrap was the next play we saw, it was an interesting contrast from the modern play we’d seen in Scarborough. The Mousetrap has been playing since 1952 and so it could be considered dated in some aspects. The librarian is a huge Agatha Christie fan and being able to see The Mousetrap was another lifetime ambition that she was able to accomplish. Once again all of the cast was superbly talented and the plot stood up well for being over 64 years old. I read recently that the only piece of original scenery was the clock above the mantel piece, I wonder how many couches they’ve worn out in that 64 years. The evening ended with a standing ovation and I wondered if this was something special or happened after every performance.

I’d really wanted to see “The Play That Goes Wrong” but that wasn’t playing the week we were in London and so I decided that we should see “The Comedy About A Bank Robbery” instead. Once again it was an amazing night, super writing, comedic performances, creative sets and moments of incredible athleticism. The librarian pointed out that we were seeing the best actors in the world that weren’t playing on Broadway but deep down she knows that the West End is the center of theater land.

For 5 months of my life I worked at the New York Times and was very fortunate to be with a colleague who wanted to see some shows.  Once every other week we’d walk out of the NYT building and go to the TKTS both in Times Square where we’d purchase anything available. We were fortunate to see, Phantom,  Les Misérables, Urinetown, The Graduate, Aida, Frankie and Johnny in the Clair De Lune to name a few. I’m somewhat reluctant to write that we also went to see La Boheme because if this became public knowledge then I’d be in danger of losing my membership of the Yorkshire Republican Army.

The librarian talks about how wonderful it is to be in the same room with famous actors, while this is true it’s a one hell of a big room and sometimes one of us isn't wearing clothes.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

The historian and the dog lover

My beloved librarian joined me on my latest trip back home to England, it was about 5 years since I’ve enjoyed breathing the sweet air of Yorkshire. I always feel that a trip home is a waste of money because I’ve been there and done that, I always pretend that I’d prefer to spend the money on exploring new locations but the reality is that there’s nothing that can replace the feeling of being in my homeland.

Although the librarian hasn’t traveled very much she has lived in Croatia for 12 months of her life, she loves to travel and experience different cultures. Before this vacation started I felt quite a lot of responsibility to make certain that the librarian would be able to able to enjoy the best of what England has to offer, I spent quite a lot of time on the internet trying to squeeze the most of the 15 nights we’d be in the country of my birth.

The most important reasons for my visit was to spend time with my parents and also my eldest daughter Amy. My parents had booked a Pullman service lunch on a North Yorkshire Railway steam train for the middle Sunday of our trip and this meant that I had to plan one week “up north” and a second week “down south”. Once I’d realized this I could start to plan individual days of sightseeing and the jig saw didn’t take long to come together once this reality dawned.

The librarian could be a member of the Three Degrees, she has a history degree, a masters in library science and an education degree on top of that she’s also a great singer! Wife 23 was a proud graduate of the University of Georgia with a degree in physical therapy, among the talents she nurtured at the height of UGA’s party school reputation was drinking, dancing, intermural sports, cheerleading and hangover recovery. She continued to perfect those talents throughout her life, wife 23 was a party animal and full of the joys of life.

In the past I’d also taken wife 23 on a similar trip to the UK, I’d no idea how different these trips would be. Previously I’d be walking with wife 23 and notice that she’d dropped behind to stroke a dog or two while she was surrounded by old buildings that didn’t really float her boat, she was completely unimpressed by her historic surroundings. When walking around England with the librarian I’d constantly have to turn around and go back to where she was checking out an old monument or structure, it didn’t matter what the building was, each old antiquity demanded her attention.

Consequently days out exploring the country with my beloved librarian took much longer than I’d anticipated, actually it was good for me because through the librarians eyes I started to appreciate so many things that I’d taken for granted in the 40 years I’d walked on England’s green and pleasant land.

At one point while we were in Trafalgar Square wife 23 was in tears about a dog that she thought was a stray. She wanted me to call the equivalent of animal control to make certain the dog received some kind of care. It was then that I had to explain that the dog belonged to the homeless guy that was sat less than six yards away, wife 23 couldn’t believe it and asked how he could afford to have a dog, it blew her mind when I told her that having a dog meant that the guy would receive more social security benefits and that was why the great majority of homeless people had a dog.

On this visit we paid to see Whitby Abbey, Scarborough Castle, the Castle Museum (York), a bus tour of Oxford, Windsor Castle, the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey. All other attractions were free if you don’t count the almost compulsory “Pay and Display” parking fee. I did plan to pay for a bus tour of London however the Yorkshireman inside me realized that I had enough knowledge to make certain we’d see all of the popular tourist sites that the librarian needed to visit.

On our last day I decided that I didn’t need to stand in line for 40 minutes and pay £25 to see the inside of Westminster Abbey but librarian had a dream of seeing Poets Corner and so we separated for a couple of hours. When I saw the librarian exit the Abbey her eyes were full of tears because her visit to Poets Corner was such an emotional event for her. Only then did I think I’d probably missed something special but the 234 dogs I’d stroked in those two hours were all special!

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

Per Diem Expenses

Systems Instructor was  the title of first job away from the keyboard room at the Scarborough Evening News. I had to move from Scarborough in my beloved county of Yorkshire to Cheltenham, Gloucestershire when I started working for Linotype-Paul.

My new position involved visiting newspapers and teaching their staff how to use the various equipment that we supplied. It was a huge change in my life and in the 5 years I worked in this capacity I was fortunate to work in Holland, Belgium, Portugal, Spain, Norway, Sweden, Italy and Singapore. For a young Yorkshireman these were exciting times, just escaping the keyboard felt like I'd been let out of prison and the international travel was a huge bonus.

I can remember calling home after my first international trip which involved picking up a 12MB hard drive from our factory in London then driving to Heathrow airport to catch a flight to Amsterdam. The tricky part was that I had to walk through customs with the 12MB hard drive in a suitcase and meet up with a customer in the arrivals hall. I was breaking all sorts of import/export laws but who'd turn down lunch in Amsterdam.

Interestingly all of our software could be stored on such a small amount of space but the actual hardware in those days was like a huge cake tin, anything related to computers had to go through the proper import/export process, I tried to remain calm as I approached the Dutch customs desk and managed to get through without being detained.

The customer was waiting in the agreed spot and was extremely happy to receive his new software. I checked in for the flight back to Heathrow and bought some lunch on the air side. When I got home that evening I called my parents and they couldn't believe I'd been to Amsterdam for lunch.

One of the best things about working for Linotype-Paul was their policy for expenses, they gave you a per diem or daily allowance when you were working away from home. They published a book with the amount that they'd pay for every country where we had customers. Initially this included the cost of the hotel but later this was booked directly by the company and the per diem was only for meals.

The most lucrative trip from an expenses point of view was the seven weeks I spent in Singapore. Previously only our sales department had visited the country and so the daily allowance was relatively high and indeed if I'd stayed in a tourist hotel it would have enough to cover that cost. Basically I had to survive on £40 a day, the hotel I'd booked into was £27 a night and so I had £13 for food.

Since the flight from London to Singapore was over 7 hours I qualified for a business class which was another first for me. While waiting for my case to come off the conveyor belt at Changi airport I started talking to a backpacker that was travelling on his own money, he told me that he was staying at the YMCA for $6 a night and he laughed at the price of my hotel.

When I'd check in to my hotel and taken a relaxing swim in the pool I started thinking about the YMCA and the £21 difference in price per night. I managed to get a map from the hotel reception and asked them where the YMCA was, fortunately it was a short walking distance away. So I decided that I'd investigate the YMCA situation first thing in the morning.

The Singapore YMCA didn't have a pool or a bar but it did have two squash courts and a gym. I asked if I could look at a room and I was surprised to see that the room had a color TV, an on suite bathroom and a bible. I made a reservation for rest of my 7 week stay. I never used a hotel mini-bar and so I knew I'd be very comfortable in my new room without one.

I packed my case and walked over to check in at the YMCA where they asked me if I wanted a room with a window or without a window. The room without a window was £1 cheaper than the room with a window and so it was a "no brainer" that I'd choose the £5 cheaper option.

When I walked into my room I thought they'd made a mistake because there was a curtain across one of the walls but when I pulled back the fabric the only view I saw was the concrete wall. In the reception of the YMCA there was a small shop and I could buy breakfast provisions for £1. Instead of using taxi's I bought a bus pass and for lunch the guys in the Singapore National Printers cafeteria would make me fried egg sandwiches for £2 a day. When I told the local guy what they were charging he laughed, he said he could feed his whole family for a week for less than £2. I always wondered why those guys treated me so well.

So I was looking at a total cost of £5 for the room, £1 for breakfast, £2 for lunch, £2 for dinner giving me a potential profit of £30 a day. This was a lot of money, I could come home with $1,440 tax free in my back pocket. At the time my annual salary was £4,800 a year and so this was a huge deal for me. I set myself a target of taking home £1,000 because I knew I'd need to treat myself now and then.

There was other items like taxi's that I could claim on top of the per diem but I needed to provide receipts in order to claim those. While walking through the SNP building I discovered a small "jobbing" shop with cases of type and a small hot metal proofing press, I set myself the challenge of befriending the manager of that small area and eventually convinced him to let me create and print my own taxi receipts. So I printed 98 taxi receipts that looked authentic and even had a car graphic in the corner. Filling out each receipt for £2 a trip gave me another £186 in my pocket.

Catching the bus was a fun experience and helped me gain an understanding of how the real locals lived. Singapore was a safe and clean place to visit, I never felt in danger even though it was obvious that I was a tourist in some non tourist areas.

I bought so many gifts that I had to buy another Samsonite case for my return journey. The only mistake I made on the whole trip was walking past my wife who'd come to meet me at Heathrow airport. In my absence she'd changed her hairstyle and hair color, in my excitement of being back in England I'd failed to recognize her. She was upset and angry but once I opened up the new Samsonite case her anger level declined as she saw the clothes and gifts that I'd bought her.

The money I made from that trip was enough to carpet our whole house and build a patio in the back yard. In those days we never had to save for anything, going on a work trip would result in cash that could be used to buy the luxuries in life.

That was my reality,

Mark

I love my cars

I love my cars, not quite in the biblical sense but I really appreciate being able to drive cars that I'd never be able to afford to run if I was still living in the UK.

Wife 23 was a Lexus fan because her brother had owned a few and it was her that convinced me to buy his old 1992 Lexus LS400. It was a beautiful car, although at the time it was over 14 years old. When I took it out for a test drive I wasn't too impressed because the interior showed signs of wear but there was something special about the ride and the quite of the cabin.

Later after the death of my youngest daughter and the subsequent release from her constant need for cash infusions I was able to buy a 2002 Lexus SC430 from my best friend Vandy. He'd bought the car when it was first released to the market and when he took me for a spin I was totally green with envy and then he took the top down! I never dared to dream that I could own such a car but we did a deal and thanks to his generosity I was able to become the second owner of the most wonderful care I've ever owned.

At the time I was talking to a colleague about buying his Porsche Boxter but his initial price was way too high and there was no way that we could meet anywhere close to a figure that I could afford. Interestingly he ended up selling the Boxter for much less than I'd offered. I think he'd over estimated my interest in the car and he'd no idea that I was also looking at my friends Lexus. Of course to any red blooded male the Porsche name is something special but the moment I sat in the SC430 drivers seat I knew I'd been born to own that car it was a hard top convertible that drove like a race car but had all the luxury items a man of my stature deserved.

Several years later the son of wife 23 totaled my Lexus LS400 and when the insurance check arrived I decided that I needed to buy a newer Lexus LS430. I'd been looking around on Craigs List and Ebay to get some kind of idea about what I'd have to pay for a really nice car but never felt able to pull the trigger on any of the cars available. Then one Saturday morning I was on Ebay and discovered a 2003 white Lexus LS430 that was reasonably priced with average miles and all the extras I was looking for. The location of the car was Boston but that didn't deter me from thinking about making a bid.

I really didn't know what kind of strategy to use and I've never been a wheeler and dealer. I called my dad and he took a look at the listing. Looking back I don't know why I involved my dad but it was nice just to get some kind of support. The LS430 was listed at a Buy It Now price of $14,500 which was just a bit above my $14,000 limit. At the time the highest bid was $12,750 but as the end of the auction was getting closer the price was slowly going up and up.

My dad said what would you pay for the car and I told him $14,500 because that seemed a fair deal, so he asked me to explain why I wasn't pressing "Buy It Now" instead of putting the potential purchase at risk. Of course I didn't have and answer to that other than I was hoping to get it cheaper. Writing about this now everything seems so calm but in that moment my emotions were all over the place. I noticed that the highest price was $13,250 and decided that I'd abandon my last second bid strategy and press the "Buy It Now" option. Unbelievably as I reached for the mouse the "Buy It Now" price dropped to $14,000 and in that instant I pressed the button. I'd won the car exactly for the budget I'd set myself.

Instantly I contacted the seller and he asked me to confirm that I wanted to buy the car, I found this a bit confusing because I'd pressed "Buy It Now" but the seller didn't like the fact that I'd come from nowhere and won the auction. Later he told me that several potential buyers were in direct contact about the car and he was concerned that I wasn't real. We agreed that I'd send a scan of the bankers drafts that I'd get from my bank and to calm his nerves further I also included details about my flight from Atlanta to Boston.

Two days later I was arriving by taxi at the sellers address in Boston and there was no sign of the car or the seller himself. I started to panic but fortunately he picked up his cell phone on the third ring and he told me that he was on his way back from the car wash. You can't imagine how relieved I was to hear that. True to his word the seller arrived 5 minutes later and we went for a test drive, 30 minutes later I was on my way home to Atlanta driving a really nice 2003 Lexus LS430. You can't imagine how excited I was, I turned south for Atlanta before I'd had chance to play with all the new buttons and functions.

I drove all day and decided to stop just over halfway in a cheap hotel. I had a quick dinner at a local pizza place and set my alarm for an early start the next day. When I checked out and walked to the car I was delighted to see that the car wasn't just white but it had a great kind of metallic edge to it. The LS430 turned out to be everything I hoped it would be.

Just outside of Charlotte, NC I was pulled over because I had no license plate. The cop was so excited and had lots of questions but when I showed him my insurance and bill of sale he was quite disappointed, however he needed revenue and so he contacted his HQ to see what laws I'd broken and he came back 15 minutes later with two tickets, something like failure to display a license plate and non payment of car registration.

While he was getting advice I broke out a sandwich and a coffee from my thermos thinking I could enjoy a bit of a break, when the cop saw this he wasn't happy. He almost revealed a nervous twitch when I offered him a coffee and a biscuit, I guess it was the first time he'd met a Yorkshireman on a happy day out. I asked the cop what I could have done to avoid the tickets and he said he had no idea, I remained polite, friendly and calm because there was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of getting pissed.

He was much happier as I waved goodbye, but even the prospect of a $100 fine couldn't take the edge of my day. For the cop it was obviously all about the money. I was now the owner of two Lexus luxury cars, I never for one moment thought about the fact that they were both over 10 years old.

It's not the cost of the cars that would have prevented me from owning a Lexus in England more the 15 miles per gallon that these cars return but over here in the USA gas prices are ridiculously cheap compared to the highly taxed petrol of Europe.

When I'm driving the convertible it's my favorite car but when I'm driving the LS430 that becomes my favorite car. Each model has it's own plus points. If I had to choose between them I'd probably choose the convertible just because of the romance of having the top down and driving beneath the stars.

However if I'm in a mature kind of mood there's nothing like the smooth, quiet and stately ride of the LS430 and a certain type of refined woman really appreciates such a thing or so I'm told.

That's my reality,

Jobsonian

FRIDAY APRIL 4 2014 - I remember it well

For some reason I just found myself reading a couple of pages of a diary I kept while wife 23 (aka Cecie) was fighting cancer. Anyone caring for a cancer patient might say they don't need help but most definitely they do, they just don't know it.

Here's a window into the day of a life that I used to have:

FRIDAY APRIL 4 2014

It’s 03:11 AM as I type after yet another diarrhea and vomiting crisis. Since Cecie fell down her confidence in being able to walk safely has gone and so these activities have taken place while Cecie’s been laid down in bed. Cecie has no energy and that’s because she’s not been eating and no fuel is being fed to her body.

I’m now running my 4th batch of washing as I try to keep up with the towels, rags, buckets and wash clothes that we have used. The good news is that Cecie’s now sleeping again which is great but I’m still buzzed from all of the activity and so I find myself typing away.

The clean up isn’t such a big deal after you’ve witnessed Cecie going through these intense situations, she’s fighting to throw up or not at the same time the diarrhea is also in action. At these times there’s no relief for Cecie, absolutely no dignity, everything is just out there as she continues to struggle and get through the attack.

The focus of today will be to try and get stable so that we avoid any trips to the emergency room over the weekend.

Cecie continued to cough throughout the night, I tried to get her to take a puff or two from her inhaler but my suggestions fell on deaf ears. I guess she feels that her cough comes from deep inside her lungs and that the inhaler won’t help but we really should give it a try.

Yesterday I went to GNC to see if I could get some meal replacement shakes that would be good for Cecie. The lady behind the counter was a cancer survivor and she told me to buy a certain shake that had kept her alive when she was going through chemo. They had three flavors, chocolate, strawberry and vanilla, the lady told me that chocolate was their best seller and didn’t taste chalky. However she did say that the chemo drugs change the taste buds and that it’s impossible to predict if a person would enjoy the drink or not.

I told this story to Cecie when I presented the shake, immediately I could see that even before tasting the shake she wasn’t going to like it. I live through these situations regularly whenever I suggest watching a TV series or a movie from the UK, instantly it’s judged as total rubbish by Cecie. Although my dear American wife did eat some humble pie when her friends and eventually herself became fans of Downton Abbey ;-)

Now for the rest of the story . . . .

I tried to take Cecie’s blood pressure using the electronic device that our neighbor Debbie has let us borrow, of course I couldn’t get a decent reading and just assumed that this was because I was a man but I tried it on myself and the device returned the normal perfect result for a sporting legend like myself. For Cecie I could only get 78 over 45 which I now know is very low.

I’d emailed Dr. D’Amato’s nurse about Cecie’s situation and she called me as soon as she’d read my description. Angela told me that I had to take Cecie to the ER, it was a matter of urgency.

I was out walking the dog at the time and so I headed directly home and told Cecie that we needed to go to the ER immediately. She asked for 5 minutes to get herself together and so I started loading up the car and parked on the grass so that Cecie wouldn’t have far to walk.

We should/could have called 911 but they’d have taken her to Kennesaw and Cecie insisted that we go to Northside Hospital ER because that’s where her doctors are. Now I must admit that I lost a bit of patience with Cecie because trying to get her dressed took much longer than anticipated.

Mark : What type of pants do you want to wear?

Cecie : Any, it doesn’t matter

So I go the the closet and pull out a pair of black workout pants

Cecie : Not those, black but a different pair!

For those of you that have had the pleasure of viewing Cecie’s considerable clothing collection you’d know that this task was going to be difficult. 5 different pairs of black workout pants later I found the “perfect” pair.

Mark : What shoes do you want to wear?

Cecie : Any, it doesn’t matter

I go back to the closet and look down at the vast collection of trainers and select a pair that would go with black workout pants.

Cecie : Not those, black and pink!

She has at least 6 pairs of black and pink trainers. Three pairs of trainers later I find the perfect pair! It could have been worse like six pairs later ;-)

Cecie : I need a black baseball cap

Mark : Which one?

Cecie : Any black cap, wait the one from Nike

Easy peasy lemon squeasy that’s the kind of instruction I can follow.

I’m amazed by this, we need to get to the ER and Cecie is concerned about what she’s wearing. Myself I’d have pulled on my lucky Nautica Sailor Boy boxers, the closest top, a pair of shorts, some socks and shoes and would have been ready in less than 60 seconds. Of course I wouldn’t be color coordinated but who cares? Now I can answer that Cecie DOES!

It was a tremendous effort to get Cecie down our stairs, she was very nervous because of the incident last night where her legs just gave way. Somehow we managed it but it had taken a great deal of effort from Cecie, just as we shuffled through our front door I felt Cecie’s legs give way again. I could have grabbed Cecie and carried her to the car but that would have involved me inflicting a lot of pain on her. I made a split decision to lay her gently on the ground and let her have some time to recover.

Then I looked around and started to panic, I didn’t really know what I was going to do next. At that moment our next door neighbor Mary’s boyfriend (or friend with not enough benefits - he, he, he) Sir Eric drove up, he stopped his car quicker than Vandy’s Tesla that’s run out of electricity. I hear lots of clanging as our knight in shining armor rushed to our aid. Sir Eric helped me get Cecie into the car and we set off for Northside.

On the drive down to the hospital Cecie told me that when she was on the ground she’d actually seen the bright white light and came back to earth listening to Sir Eric and myself discuss how to get Cecie down the front steps and into the car. With two people this turned out to be a very easy thing to do, also Cecie was determined to get into the car and go to Northside.

The journey was uneventful, Cecie and myself talked but I could see that she was struggling, trying not to throw up or evacuate. When I wheeled Cecie into the ER they were expecting us as promised and we went directly to the treatment area. The nurse realised that Cecie was having difficulties and took her back to a room and started to hook her up.

The doctor arrived with lots of nurses, both Cecie and myself answered a lot of questions and I was politely pushed out of the room. Of course I sneaked a peek through the gap in the curtain and was shocked to see the blood pressure reading of 55 over 35. They put a saline drip in her left arm, then a port specialist arrived and he got both ports opened while another drip was attached to Cecie’s right arm.

By the time I was allowed back in the room she had 4 bags of saline being infused at the same time. I was relieved to see that Cecie’s blood pressure had improved to 81 over 40 and that Cecie was starting to get some color back in her face. The only thing that kept me calm was that Cecie was always awake and answering questions correctly.

Gradually Cecie’s blood pressure started to climb, throughout this process I was surprised that her heart rate was fine and very impressed that her blood oxygen level was 100% which makes me think that the left lung is fully operational. Once the blood pressure climbed to 90 over something or other I could feel the tension leave the room.

Then the blood results came back and they were bad, no white cells, very low platelets, very low potassium and some other bad stuff. The doctor told me that Cecie would be admitted, he had a call out for Dr D’Amato to discuss Cecie’s situation and while that was going on he wanted to give her two drips of antibiotics just in case she had any infection, even though there had been no signs of infection or fever.

After talking to Dr. D’Amato it was decided to admit Cecie into the ICU, not that she was in any imminent danger but to be on the safe side and to be able to make certain that she did not get any infection. It was the lack of white cells that was the cause for concern and so after another drip of potassium was added they moved us up to the ICU and room 23.

The two nurses in charge of transportation and myself exchanged a bit of banter while making the journey to the ICU ward and I was pleased when Cecie laughed and joined in with the jokes. That was the first time I’d seen the $1,024,000 smile that day.

It was strange to be back in ICU again, they hooked Cecie up and replaced the empty fluid bags. Cecie managed to drift off to sleep now and then. Dr. D’Amato visited and talked to Cecie about what had happened, once again Dr. D’Amato was on great form with her incredible bedside manner. She’s so patient and always finds a way to describe the most technical medical thing in simple terms that even I can understand.

I told Dr. D’Amato that I couldn’t believe how quickly things had deteriorated and why was it taking 10 days for the chemo to cause these issues. In simple terms the body normally replenishes itself all of the time, it create white blood cells that replace white cells that die naturally after 10 days or so. Chemo kills everything and prevents the new white cells from being created, so after 10 days when existing white cells die Cecie is left with no white cells because her body hasn’t been creating any new replacements - she hits the wall. This kind of scenario is true for all sorts of stuff in Cecie’s body.

So the plan is to keep hydrating Cecie, to give her some platelets to speed up her recovery and to get her body kick started on creating new cells. Cecie will be in ICU for a couple of days, then perhaps released to a general ward and only allowed home when her blood is back in good shape.

Dr. D’Amato told us that she might have given Cecie chemo that was just a bit too strong but she wanted to be aggressive because she wants to go for the cure. Cecie told her that she likes the idea of being aggressive but that we should have been more aware of the consequences and reacted at the first sign of any major issue. Looking back I told the Dr. that the signs were there but we didn’t understand the consequences of not reading the signs correctly.

The Dr. told us not to beat ourselves up over this situation and that the reality is that we can expect multiple visits to the ER while “enjoying” chemo treatment. There was nothing unusual about Cecie’s situation and nothing to be concerned about now that she was in hospital and getting treatment.

There’s a few more details but for now that’s where I’ll leave the diary today.

Thanks so much for all the offers of help. I’ve no doubt that I’ll be getting back to our friends and taking them up on their kind offers but for now we’ve got things covered. Cecie asked me to tell you that sending prayers her way is all that she wants and needs!

Michael is with Cecie tonight and I’ll take over from him at 7:00 AM in the morning. I’ve just taken Sadie for a nice long walk, we’ll do the same in the morning before I leave for the hospital.

I’m looking forward to a poop free night of sleep ;-)

Unfortunately that was my reality,

Jobsonian

Trembling knees

When the sales process for the New Zealand project was taking place we ran a week of workshops to as a proof of concept exercise. This involved producing several pages of their newspaper including advertising, photos, graphics and editorial, the volume of work was too much for one person and so I was assisted by a Belgian colleague who took care of the challenge of creating the advertising content.

We’d flown down to Nelson separately because I also had meetings with other newspapers the week before and the week after the proof of concept. It was Jan’s first trip outside of Europe and he was very excited to have crossed the equator. Jan arrived full of energy and positive determination to be successful in the mission he’d been given. The advertising departments of most newspapers tend to have a large percentage of female workers and it quickly became obvious that Jan’s “French/Belgian” English accent was a huge hit with the ladies.

At the Nelson Mail it was a kind of tradition that every Friday after  the papers presses had started rolling printed everyone would gravitate to a local pub that was situated next door to the building we were working.

When Friday came along we decided to join our new friends at the pub and it proved to be an interesting mix of young and old, I drifted towards the reporters and got involved in conversations about rugby, cricket, squash, music and the British Empire while Jan found himself surrounded by the young ladies he’d been working with. Since I was on expenses I put some money behind the bar and the consumption of adult beverages increased dramatically. This was my 3^rd visit to the newspaper and I’d become quite friendly with a lot of the guys, I ordered some bar snacks and the evening was starting to become memorable. Each time I looked over in Jan’s direction he appeared to be having a great time holding court with his admirers.

The pub toilet facilities were quite limited, just two mixed individual restrooms. As the evening progressed a line formed as people waited to avail themselves of the facilities. As usual once I’d broken my “seal” I had to stand in line a few times myself. Around about 22:00 the owner of the bar told me that the money had run out and it was time for people to start leaving, in his professional opinion continuing to drink would lead to issues. The owner was an experienced guy, we became good friends once the project had started and I became a regular when I escaped the newspaper building for my afternoon latte and iced bun.

Just before I left the pub for my hotel one of the sports journalist bought me a drink to say thanks for a great evening. At the time I was quite touched by this gesture and I understood that a refusal would have been bad form.

We had to work on Saturday and I met the same sports journalist at the entrance to the newspaper building, he told me that he had a terrible hangover and his first reaction was to check his wallet to see how much he’d spent. He told me it felt like a really expensive hangover. He couldn’t believe it when he realized he’d only spent enough for one beer then he remembered that I’d put money behind the bar and instantly he felt better.

The MD (managing director) of the newspaper was a real character, an ex-rugby player, a hard man but fair and always enjoyed a joke or two. The FD (financial director) was about my age and we’d always enjoyed a few laughs when we’d been together. Jan and me had a meeting with the managing director and the financial director around 10:30 in the morning. I hadn’t seen Jan at breakfast, I’d even knocked on his room door to make certain he was fine but there was no answer, however he arrived at the newspaper in good time for the meeting. The four of us sat down and thrashed out a few details about the actual implementation and eventual go live on our equipment. Throughout the meeting the MD and FD would make comments about knee trembling, they say things like “that’s enough to make your knee’s tremble”, “just thinking about that makes my knee’s tremble”, “Jan, do you think we can do that without your knee’s trembling” and “my knees are trembling at the thought of that”.

While I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer it was obvious that they were enjoying their word play. When I wasn’t involved in the conversation I tried to work out what was going on, in my terminology a “knee trembler” was having sex standing up but I didn’t know if this was also a Kiwi saying. Eventually the meeting ended and Jan left the room, I kind of hung back and asked the two guys what was going on. They told me that Jan had enjoyed a good old knee tremble at the bar last night.

I laughed even though I couldn’t believe it, then the two jokers told me that one of the toilets was occupied for a long time and that Jan and a girl had been seen entering the facility together. As the demand for the toilets increased several people had knocked on the occupied door, it was then that the ever gallant Belgium tried to save the reputation of the girl and decided to climb out of the toilet window. Unfortunately the cook was outside having a smoke and he witnessed Jan’s escape and consequently rejoining the throng inside the bar as if nothing had happened.

The cook told his brother who worked at the newspaper, the brother told his mates at the newspaper and eventually both the MD and FD learned the story. In the newspaper business news spreads like wild fire! The trembling knees comments were used continuously throughout our stay, eventually Jan asked me what was the “knee trembling” all about, I smiled and told him about it meaning having sex standing up. He asked why it would be mentioned all the time and I said “you were spotted climbing out of the pub toilet window”. Blood drained from his face and then he said “but my knee’s didn’t tremble” and we burst out laughing.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian

Tour De France

My first experience of the Tour De France was in my early teens, we were on the way back from our annual pilgrimage to the Mediterranean sea for two weeks sun, sand and warm crystal clear water. It’s amazing to me that my dad would drive us through France, Switzerland, Germany, Holland and Spain with no ability to speak anything but English. Somehow he had the confidence to walk into shops and come out with everything that we needed to survive, I guess he was fluent in Yorkshire sign language.

I was seven year old when we first started driving through Europe, for the first trip my granddad came with us. Even now I don’t understand why Ernest joined us on the trip because he’d be on the beach every day in his long-sleeved shirt and trousers, taking off his shoes and socks was his only acknowledgement to the superb weather.

My granddad had been called up for WW2 even though he was officially too old, he received his paper work towards the end of the war and was fortunate not to experience any active duty. Once basic training was over he was sent to defend Australia from the Japanese, by the time he arrived “down under” the Americans had dropped their nuclear bombs and the Japanese had surrendered. I don’t know how long my granddad spent in Australia before sailing back home but for a man who was born and lived in a small Yorkshire village all his life it must have been the trip of a life time. Then again I don’t think I’d have slept too well if I’d been on a ship knowing that we were being hunted by the fleet of devastating German U-Boats.

The HBO series Pacific has an episode or two where the heroes are stationed in Australia before they leave to attempt the nightmare task of removing the Japanese from a multitude of Pacific islands. After watching these shows I had a lot of questions that I’d liked to have asked my grandad but unfortunately he’d departed this world a long time ago. When living at home my grandmother only allowed granddad to have two bottles of stout a week at the local pub, it’s my sincere hope that his average consumption of adult beverages increased dramatically while serving his country.

One evening we were on our way back to England, my father didn’t like to drive at night and so he decided that we’d spend the night in Arras, France. These days the drive from Arras to the cross channel ferry in Calais takes about an hour but in those days it would take considerably longer. I don’t think my dad booked hotels in advance, he just drove around and when he saw something that looked decent he’d go inside and negotiate. As we were driving around the town was full of bicycles, not just the old bone shakers that are peddled around York but some kind of sleek beautiful machines with contraptions on the back wheel that I later learned were called gears. These bicycles were unlike anything I’d seen before, a kind of glimpse into the future. Outside every hotel several bicycles had been left chained together for security, my parents had no idea what was taking place and it was getting quite dark before my dad was able to secure a room for us all.

After talking to the receptionist my dad told us that the Tour De France was “in town” for the night and everywhere was booked up but using his Yorkshire charm he’d found the only room available in the city. We had no idea what the Tour De France was and found the idea of cyclists racing around France to be very strange. My dad was aware of Tommy Simpson who was an English Olympic bronze medalist and subsequent professional cyclist who became the world road race champion in 1965. Simpson was born in Haswell which is a village from “up north” and that automatically made him a hero in our family.

These days I’m a huge fan of the Tour De France, in the USA we can enjoy hours and hours of superb television coverage of the race with expert analysis. Thanks to the internet I can read all about the teams, their tactics and the riders involved. The internet has allowed so much information available and made the process of booking a hotel room very easy. Thanks to Al Gore inventing the internet my own children probably think that traveling around Europe in a car is no big deal but when my dad started doing this there wasn’t such a thing as an “autoroute” and all roads used to lead to every towns “centreville” and the “toutes directions” where we’d reach the town roundabout and be able take the exit for our next destination. My mum was the navigator, she’d have the AA route maps at her feet and she’d give my dad instructions as we drove through every town or city on the way to the sunshine coast.

My dad carried the suitcase to our room and then we set off in search of dinner. Of course all of the restaurants were busy but somewhere in the main square we found a food truck that was serving pommes frites, fries or freedom fries. These days they’d be similar to McDonalds fries but in the swinging 60’s all I’d ever known was chips from our local fish and chip shop. I remember my brother and me qualified for a Coke because we’d been on best behavior all day. There was some kind of confusion when my dad paid and I could tell that he was preoccupied as we walked back to the hotel, the exchange rate for an English pound to a French Franc involved some tricky math and since we didn’t have an abacus and pocket calculators hadn’t been invented my dad had to use his considerable brain to work out how much he’d just paid for 4 x pommes frites and 4 x cokes.

It wasn’t long before my dad concluded that we’d been ripped off, it must have been bad because he was so angry but what can you do? This incident has festered ever since then and for years while driving through Arras he’d point out where the food truck had been parked and declared that we’d be buying nothing in Arras in protest of what had happened.

Fast forward 50 years and I could imagine my dad voting for Brexit while muttering “that’s for the French food truck in Arras that ripped us off”, once a Yorkshireman is wronged it stays with him for the rest of his days. Unknown to the librarian while in England a few weeks ago I deliberately avoided going to a cafe in Windsor because the service was so bad 302 years ago, have no doubts that I showed them!

When I started this blog entry I had the intention of writing about drugs in sport but I’ll save those thoughts for another day. Meanwhile it should be noted that Tommy Simpson died in the Tour De France while ascending Mont Ventoux. Tommy's death was attributed to him mixing amphetamines and alcohol but on the official paper it was death by exhaustion. I guess he was a leader in the field of performance enhancing drugs but that wouldn’t prevent me from demanding “fisticuffs” if you have anything bad to say about a fellow northerner.

That’s my reality,

Jobsonian