London 2012 Olympic Games

This is not a very long blog-post this time, which will please those of you who are turned off by the sight of too much text on a screen.




How many of you I wonder, are, like me, less than ecstatic over the looming Games? Is anybody else already bored to death by the whole Olympiad extravaganza? Wondering about my lack of enthusiasm this morning, as I absentmindedly shaved my nose, , I thought; “why am I not bombing down to Lands End to see the Olympic flame begin its triumphant journey around Britain?”



The reply I got was basically twofold. Firstly I have no feelings of nationalism or patriotism in me, none at all. In fact I deprecate such feelings in anybody. As I see it; nationalism is the result of ignorance and prejudice and the cause of hatred, persecution and war. I just can’t feel ‘proud’ because a British person can jump higher than a French one. Secondly the games are a complete rip off! Who benefits from them? It seems to me that hardly any of my money is going to support the athletes, but rather it will go to the architects, developers and builders, consultants, lawyers, advertising agencies, and perhaps worst of all, to the bookmakers! Like taking candy from babies, bookmakers will have another gifted opportunity to part poor people from the little they have, and desperate housewives from their child benefit. All these and other carpetbaggers will have a bonanza.



It’s obvious that most people like to see a fellow countryman run faster than anyone else, and think it a great is achievement. I have questioned friends who are athletic fans, to try and discover what it is that makes them care so much, and it seems they are able to identify with the athlete in some way, if only in the fact that they just happen to be born in the same country. Our politicians love it of course, and will take every photo opportunity, as will a whole gaggle of celebrities.



So, I shall miss the start of the Olympic gravy train, as it is dragged East-Nor-East behind a tacky torch on Saturday, and my television set will have a quiet rest for a while. It won’t be hard to find more interesting things to do.

I have lost count now!  Is this stage 13 of my 'Self Portrait'?

This must be stage 14 then.

Self Portrait moving on...

Lucian Freud uses the word "Reflection" instead of "self Portrait", I presume because he can't bear to use the term. I am not happy with it either, while "Portrait of the Artist" is an even worse title. However, "Reflection" might be OK for Lucian, but it's a bit too pretentious for me, so "Self Portrait" will have to do and I try not to wince when I write it.




You can see what fun I am having with this work as it progresses, rather like Hogarth's "Rake", through a series of encounters with life's little temptations. The temptations in this case are all to do with the excitement of finding form, or to put it another way, with sheer joy in the power of destruction and creation. Anyway, the work is going in the right direction, and might, or might not, reach a state where I can say it's "finished", or like the "Rake", fucked!



I am not sure it's a good idea to share the process of making an artwork with you good people. Perhaps it would be best to leave it a mystery. Perhaps now you will say "Oh is that all! Anyone could do that!” You would be right of course, in a way...





THOUGHT FOR THE WEEK: “A critic is a man who knows the way, but can’t drive a car.” KennethTynan.



Pip, pip,



The Leg.

More wisdom from the 'Cod's Head'.

Thinking that you have all probably had enough of me for a bit, and that it was about time we had another subtle contribution from our friend Brian at ‘The Cod’s Head’, I dropped in for a half of the ‘Betty Stoggs’ and a packet of ‘Burt’s Crisps’, with my little pocket recorder in my jacket. This is a transcription of an early evening ‘conversation’ at ‘the Cod’s Head’.




“Dining out again are we Squire? Ha, ha, ha!”



(I am not one of Brian’s regulars, as you might gather, not one of his best customers, but he is pleased to let me record his witticisms and bon mots, for what he calls posterity, at which, his little audience grins appreciatively.)



“I’ll tell you what, I’ll tell you what; if things go on like this there’s not going to be a lot of dining out in this country. Not going to be a lot of dining out anywhere in Europe either is there? Restaurants going bust all over the place, and nearly every pub in Cornwall is up for sale. Some of em been on the market for years. You ask Jim here. Is that right Jim?”



“Oh yes, true enough Brian, true enough. Very difficult to find a buyer for a public house in the current climate, very difficult indeed, very difficult”.



(James Trevithick, a Truro estate agent, deals mainly with commercial properties.)



“I’ll tell you what, If that Alex Salmond has his way we’d all be a sight better off. Am I right? It would do this country a bit of good if we could get the Scots off our backs. If Scotland is such a great place what are so many of them doing down here in England? Answer me that! Doctor Johnson said that the best prospect that a Scotsman would ever see was the highroad to England, and he should know, right? The Houses of Parliament are stuffed with em, stuffed with em! The last government was full of Scots and now we even have one for prime minister! Am I right? Mind you, I don’t blame em for coming down here, if you was born up there you would wouldn’t you? Nobody would choose to be born Scottish if they had the choice would they? Course not, course not! Bloody obvious innit?



“Good evening sir, what’ll it be? - - - - Anything else? No sir, we don’t do bar food, we have crisps, pork scratching, nuts, or a pickled egg. Right then, that’ll be six pounds thirty Squire.”



“Where was I Jim? Oh yes, Scotland and that bloody man Alex Salmond! Billions! That’s what Scotland costs us every day in subsidies, billions, AND they get free university education, AND free prescriptions, AND free care for the elderly, all paid for by us down here in England. It’s anomalous, that’s what it is, bloody anomalous! I for one will be glad to see the back of em. Not that there aren’t some decent Scotsmen about of course, and as I say, it’s not really their fault being Scottish is it? Nobody asks to be Scottish for Christ’s sake do they?”



“I’m not the only one mind you. I read in the paper yesterday that if there was a referendum in Scotland and England, the Scots would vote to stay in the Union, while the English would vote for em to leave. Am I right?” I reckon that if we get rid of em we should make em pay back some of the money we’ve spent on em over the years. They can keep the oil; cheap at twice the price. The oil and gas are running out anyway. Do you ever listen to the radio? Can’t hear an English voice on there half the time can you? If it’s not a totally unintelligible Scots accent, its Welsh, Pakistani, Caribbean or some such. We’d be better off shot of the lot of em, Northern Irish as well. They’re all a drain on this country and..”



“Yes sir, thank you sir”



“Alex salmond? Don’t talk to me about Alex Salmond, he says he can keep the pound if he gets independence whether we like it or not! Keep the pound! I ask you! The bloody cheek of the man! Typical Scotsman, too bloody mean to fork out to join the Euro Zone. Why don’t they invent their own currency then? I’ll tell you why not, I’ll tell you why, because it wouldn’t be worth a sou, thats why. I’ll tell you what Salmond is, a Scotsman on the make!



“What’s a sou then Brian?”



(That question came from the truculent youngster Dicky Burley, who smirked at the cleverness of his own remark.)



“A ‘sou’, Mister clever Dick, Mister Dick clever, is a virtually worthless old French coin. Am I right Jim”



“Indeed you are Brian, indeed you are, it comes from the French word ‘sol’ which in turn comes from the Latin, ‘Solidus’. In fact, there is some doubt that there was actually ever such a coin as a ‘sou’ which was probably merely a slang term for any small coin”.



(This explanation was greeted with quite a long silence.)



“Well I’ll tell you what! I tell you what! We should have got rid of Northern Ireland years and years ago, when the Irish got their independence. Am I right? Years and years of bloody conflict over a god forsaken, cold, wet, windswept scrap of land full of bigotry and superstition. Just think of the cost of all that in lives and money! Let’s give Scotland back to the Scots I say, whether they want it or not. The ones down here should be encouraged to go back, and take their kilts and bagpipes with em! And, while we’re at it, Wales and the Falkland Islands can bugger off as well. Perhaps after that we shall all be dining out again in England!”



“I don’t know how many of you have been to Scotland, but I have, and I can tell you that they are not called dour for nothing! Talk about unfriendly! You won’t find a friendly pub like this North of the border. Doctor Johnson also said that seeing Scotland was like seeing a worse England. It’s a land of oat cakes, Calvinism and sulphur! What do you recon Jim?”



“Well, I’ve tried to like Scotsmen all my life Brian, but I confess I have had to give it up as a bad job. I went there once on business; never again! It rained the whole fortnight and if I went into a pub it would go so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and never a smile. The further North you go the worse it seems to get. Not only that, but I have a Scots mother-in-law.”



“Enough said Jim! I’ll tell you... Good evening Squire! What can I get you?”



Thought for the week: “I prefer to sail in Italian ships. There’s none of that nonsense about women and children first.” Noel Coward.

Getting on.......

Pip-pip,

The Leg.

More Dirty Brushes

Self Portrait, oil on canvas, 76 x 76 cm Stage 4.

Sun shining brightly for the last couple of days here in Cornwall,

while a wonderful wind blows away the poly-tunnels.

Dirty brushes

Hello lovers of art n stuff. 

Having actually put brush to canvas I thought I should make the most of it and post the work as I go along.  It seems to me that nowadays people are more interested in what the artist likes to have for breakfast, and how he sets about his work, than they are about the work itself, so enjoy, ha, ha, ha!  In the highly unlikely event of me being famous one day, perhaps art lovers will make a pilgrimage to my bathroom to see where I cleaned my teeth – etc!  The work, a self portrait, is 30” x 30”, oil on canvas.

By gum!

That’s the trouble wi' Blog Posts, they all comes together in clumps, one after t’other, and not a bit spaced out proper.

This is me kitchen, wi' me 'scoot about' stool.  I'm still getting used to the lectric cooker and burn a few things, specially boiled eggs.

A real nice friend of mine, wot lives in France, said “why don’t you show me some photos,” of me new place like, now I’m divorced and all, so here they are:

     

These are of me sitting room like.  You has to click on em I think if you want to see em any bigger.

An this one's tut view out't big window.

Pip, pip en all, en Merry Christmas,

The Leg.

Jingle bells etc.

Here we go then, another Christmas rushes monstrously and headlong towards us, casting tinsel and tat in all directions, so it's time for this blog to send the Seasons Greetings to all its merry readers.

Nothing much to say about Christams that I haven't said already many times, so here is a copy of this years lovely Round Robin from a dear friend of mine.  I hope it cheers you up as much as it did me.

Dear lovely friends,

Two thousand and eleven has been an eventful year in the Leg family. January found us in our lovely Trossacks as usual and this year the lovely deep white snow was deeper than ever – “deep and crisp and even” ha, ha!. “Our” little cabin is so cosy with its lovely old wood burner, so it was just jolly bad luck that we were unable to find out where the logs had been stored, and of course the snow was so deep that it was impossible to look for them. (Hannah got lost just outside the back door for the most of one morning). We were not downhearted though and jolly fun was had by all (except for poor little Woofie, who we never did find) and I expect we might get a small bill to replace the furniture we had to burn. What a good job we brought all those tins of baked beans after all! The ‘loo’ is outside of course and we couldn’t quite get to it, which was a tiny inconvenience. I am always amazed at how we all manage to fit in each year, but fit in we do!



Do you ever wonder why there are not more ducks on Radio 4?

Easter was lovely fun as usual at Chez Nous! The grandparents arrived early this year, which was really no trouble at all. The sweet new puppy amused everyone with his antics and kept me busy mopping up ha, ha! The children got over him eating all their Easter eggs in the end, but gosh, what a lot of shoes the dear little chap manages to spoil! (John got quite cross, not like him at all!!) The grandparents stayed on a few days longer to “make the most of our grandchildren,” so John’s back has given him a bit of bother ever since. The put-you-up is a rather old model - and a bit small. Easter is such a very special time for us…

We all think Marcus did jolly well with his CGSE’s. He manages to cope with his dyslexia terribly well all things considered. The school fees keep going up of course, but it is a lovely old school and a line has now been drawn under the little “incident” that the ghastly media made such a silly fuss about. Apropos the jolly old school fees, John thinks we can still manage to run both cars if he gets the promotion he expects next year. Hanna is still having a tiny bit of trouble with her weight, but the doctor says that her skin is clearing up nicely. It certainly doesn’t seem to be getting any worse, but you know what girls are like!
Our usual three weeks en famille in “our” little Haute Maritime pavilion was bliss! SO lovely to get away from it all!! This year we took delivery of a lovely new Bosh dish-washer, so my chores will certainly be cut down a bit!! John says that they must have ordered one for a different voltage but I am sure that he will get it working next year if anyone can! He is so clever with anything electrical. I always say that a change is as good as a rest, and that doing housework and cooking in France is so much more fun than back home. John says that I am jolly good at improvising (praise indeed!). Everyone round there puts the washing out over the bushes. Hanna’s sunburn cleared up nicely, leaving her skin looking a whole jolly lot better to my eyes.



A bit of a jolly old “Stop Press” announcement:
Announcing our impending divorce came as a bit of a shock to many of our lovely, lovely friends. Mummy said she was surprised I hadn’t left him years ago but I don’t believe she meant it. John’s parents have been terribly kind and say they don’t think his new woman is a patch on me, and that my pastry is far better. I have always been praised for my pastry. Well, it’s his loss I say, and he will soon find out what SHE is like! Hanna says “jolly good riddance to bad rubbish” and is on MY side, but Marcus is still not speaking to anyone and stays in his room. I think they will both get used to the comprehensive soon. I hear that lots of pupils get jolly good grades and even go to university from there. It might actually be better for poor Marcus as he might not feel quite so “challenged”.

Well, here we are then, all looking forward to yet another jolly old Christmas. The grandparents will be with us as usual and there will be a bit more room this year so that’s one good thing! Hanna is to get her I Pod after all thank goodness, and Marcus is going to be given a “Wii”, whatever that is, so I expect it will be business as usual at Chez Nous, with us all having a lovely time.

Doodoo (the puppy) is really quite big now and needs lots of walkies, so that gives me lots of lovely exercise – whatever the weather, and Christmas will be no exception. The vet says he will probably grow out of chewing shoes, furniture and handbags, so that’s another thing to look forward to, but I had no idea that dogs could be so expensive in vet’s fees! Well I must get on now as I am determined to make my own Christmas pudding again this year. Christmas is such a very special time of year for us…

Lots of very special love to you from Hanna, Marcus and Doodoo, and best wishes for a lovely, lovely 2012!!!!

Lots of love, Janie xxxxxxxxxxxx

Well, thats all for now folks, see you in the New Year!

Pip, pip,
The Leg.

Back from French France

103 HOPTON ROAD SW16, the house where I was born and lived until 1951.



In the basement was the coal cellar, with paint tins, spiders, stoneware egg crock, broken things and coal. It had one bare, dim, light bulb dangling from a wire, and dangerous stairs. The coal was delivered by a black faced man, a horse and a cart, and my job was to count the sacks as they were emptied down the chute outside.



My parents, along with my brother and I, had the ground floor which had a ‘front room’, parent’s bedroom, kitchen, scullery, and outside water closet. The bedroom and the ‘front room’ were carpeted in thick black Wilton that mysteriously arrived one day from the garage where my father worked as a mechanic. I believe it was used to carpet the floor of new Chryslers. In the kitchen was a table and chairs, a gas range and a fireplace; every room had a fireplace and I was bathed in a galvanised tub in front of the kitchen fire. Monday was wash day and mostly it seemed that the kitchen and scullery were draped in wet sheets and clothes, so this day I still can’t bare the sight of wet washing.



My grandparents lived on the first floor with ‘Pandy,’ their black and white cat. They had a ‘big kitchen’, big enough anyway for my granddad to pull me around the table on a rug, which I guess kept the lino polished. I learnt to play cards in that kitchen, and it’s a skill that has served me well all my life. I also learnt how to eat a kipper up there and I liked to watch my grandma making perfectly delicious fish cakes. I have tried to make them many times since but it’s no go! Their sunny ‘front room’ had big sash windows that led out onto a small balcony but I wasn’t allowed out there because the blast from a doodlebug had caused it to be ‘condemned’. My grandparents saw a lot of me, because my mum and dad liked to be sociable, as well as being ‘film fans’.



Up in the attic were two rooms. During World War Two, my grandfather made rum from industrial alcohol, in the smaller front room, and then did his carpentry in there once peace broke out, while my brother John and I shared the ‘L’ shaped, back attic bedroom. It was a magical place with sloping ceilings, a view down onto the rear garden, and a fireplace that made the room glow red at night. By my bed was a wooden chest of drawers on which rested a fretted wireless set and a nightlight in a saucer. There were no lights on the stairs, so to go to bed in winter I carried a blue enamelled candlestick, which threw huge frightening shadows here and there in the blackness of the staircase.



At the end of the back garden path, set in the fence, was a tall wooden gate that lead into the alleyway, a favourite haunt it seems now, of perverts and paedophiles. This was my route to ‘Sunnyhill Road Primary School’, which is still there (I Googled it). On my way to school I lobbed hand-grenades over the high fence that lined the gloomy alleyway and heard their delayed explosions behind me. In summer, I could chew the shiny tar that melted on the road, and then in winter, suck icicles that hung from the toilet block gutters.



OTHER THINGS REMEMBERED: My brother’s collection of shrapnel, the air raid shelter in the back garden, the steel shed that rained rust on your head, a blackberry plant growing against the fence, the swing, my tricycle, an ant’s nest by the front door, shelling peas on the back doorstep, an old sink with tiny creatures that jerked about in the water, mint, rough grass, the sound of the lawn mower, visitors at night playing cards downstairs and laughing, mum looking beautiful in a black sequined evening gown, Francis, the freckled girl next door, and the smell of granddad’s pipe and matches.


FRANCE WAS A DELIGHT AS ALWAYS, but I only managed four pieces of work, laziness you see.

Window in Dirol

Not yet Autumn



The Aarchaeologists

Pupa

Joke for the day:   "The barman says: 'Sorry we don't serve neutrinos.'  A neutrino enters a bar."

Not again!

"Red Can Bouy, Truro River".

OLD MEN BATTLE ON.

1^st Old Buffer:             Good lord!  Look at the state of his hair! Uniform              Unbuttoned too!

2^nd Old Buffer:            Youngsters have no idea about war nowadays

1^st Old Buffer:             No they don’t, no idea at all.  Men were slaughtered in their thousands in our day and they didn’t make a fuss about it.  No such thing as traumatic distress orders then eh?

2^nd Old Buffer:            Certainly not!   The men didn’t catch stress orders in our day – men were men! We did what had to be done and we got on with it.  I remember sending men over the top without any ammunition at all – run out days ago – but over they went, just like that!

1^st Old Buffer:             Damn right they did!  Shot at dawn otherwise, knew what discipline was in our day.  Slaughtered in their thousands and not a mention of it in the newspapers back in Blighty, happend all the time, par for the course.  Nowadays just one chap has to get blown up and the whole regiment’s in tears and the newspapers are full of it for days – disgusting!  By the end of our little bash the regiment hardly had a whole man left, mostly bits and pieces.

2nd Old Buffer:           Disgusting! No backbone!

1^st Old Buffer:             Quite -  no backbone!

2^nd Old Buffer:             I was blown up you know.

1^st Old Buffer:             Were you really?  So was I!

2^nd Old Buffer:            Had my leg blown off!  This one’s wood.

1^st Old Buffer:             Good lord I never knew!  My hair was blown off, clean off, worn a wig ever since.  Chap standing next to me had his head blown off by the same shell!  We never bothered to look for it you know, far too much going on.

2^nd Old Buffer:            So you didn’t even try to find his head then?

1^st Old Buffer:             No - my hair.  No point in looking for a chaps head was there?  We never had time to look for my hair.  Got a silver plate there now with this wig on top.  Had the same wig for seventy eight years – damn fine wig from the Army and Navy.  Can’t get em like this now.

2^nd Old Buffer:            Good lord!  I never realised.  Chaps don’t even get gassed these days – Convention and all that rot.  We were gassed all the time as I remember.

1^st Old Buffer:             Oh God yes, gassed all the time, gas, flamethrowers, land mines, booby traps....  kept us on our toes.

2^nd Old Buffer:             One did feel for the horses though.

1^st Old Buffer:             Ah yes the horses!  They went through it all right, lying there in the smoke and shell-fire with their guts out all over the road, or what was left of it.  I always felt sorry for the poor dumb creatures myself.  Had to dispatch a good few of em in my time.  A fine loyal chap, the horse, very much like your Ghurkha.  Damn brave chaps the Ghurkhas.  Used to go over the top in the dead of night and bring back heads.  I had em stop that and bring back just the ears instead.  We had far too many heads knocking about to be pleasant.  My horse went right through the whole thing you know.

2^nd Old Buffer:            No, I didn’t know that!

1^st Old Buffer:             Yes, ‘Lightening’, my daughter named him that because he was rather slow.  Came right through the war with two legs still intact, marvellous chap Lightening, stand any kind of bombardment you cared to throw at him.  Stone deaf ever since the one of our nine inch guns blew up at Bladders.  Gun crew wiped out as far as I remember.  I still have Lightening’s wooden legs over the fireplace in the library.

2^nd Old Buffer:            Oh, is that what they are, I thought they were stuffed fish!  A bit knocked about those legs.  My gramophone caught it, practically a direct hit.

1^st Old Buffer:             My God!  Young chaps have no idea!  Going about with flak jackets or whatever you call em – bunch of nancies!  They croak too – always whinging on about “conditions” or lack of equipment.  Can’t think why they join the army if they don’t want to get shot at.  Ought to be blasted hairdressers instead.  If a man lost his nerve in my regiment we shot him as an example to the others.  Nowadays he’s sent back to Blighty for counselling, whatever that is!  Can’t expect discipline in the ranks if you don’t shoot em.

2^nd Old Buffer:            Ridiculous!  Can’t cure funk with counselling, just makes the rest of the men wobbly.  Lost count of how many of em I shot myself.  Still got the old revolver in my desk drawer.  You never know when you might need to put something out of its misery.  Here, let me get you another...

Do you ever wonder why you seem to be out of step with the rest of society?  The House of Commons voted overwhelmingly in favour of military action in Libya.  The idea was presented as being strictly limited to a ‘No Fly Zone’, not as ‘regime change’.  Are our politicians so naive that they actually believe such a ridiculous notion, that taking action would not in fact mean taking sides in a civil war? How did they think a ‘No Fly Zone’ was actually going to work, and how did they think it would prevent the use of tanks and heavy weapons?  The fact that action was taken without any consideration of how long it would take to be successful, of how success would be defined, and of how we might withdraw, surely reminds us of the last two conflicts initiated by our leaders.

Perhaps someone will remind us who it was said; “What we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history”, (or something to that effect).  Someone might also explain to us why successive governments have been so keen to get involved in foreign conflicts and invasions.  (Keep your hair on Leg, Ed.)

Try ‘Aldi’ for good inexpensive wine and for an excellent choice of ground coffee, all 100% Arabica.  There is a great Aldi in Truro almost next to the nightmare Sainsburys.  Not only do you save money but I personally find it a pleasure to shop there.  The store is always quiet when I go, I can always park close to the entrance, the check-out is fast and the stock interesting and of good quality.  Remember to take a £1 coin for the trolley.

Happy shopping!

Pip, pip, The Leg.

It's been a while....

Hello there,

From the window of "The Cod's Head"

Well it seems a long time since my last post, and it is!  All kinds of stuff has gone on in my private life but this blog is not a diary and it is certainly not all about me.  What I want it to be about is the things I see and hear that people like yourselves might find interesting, informative, or just plain entertaining.  It is your comments that bring this blog to life, so please see if you can take a few moments to share your thoughts with the rest of us.

(Good to have you back! Ed.)



THE 500SL .

Yeah, yeah, I remember it now! While waiting for my tin of porridge to warm up for an early breakfast, about nine fifteen I think it must have been, tying a sheep-shank into each of my shoe laces because they are too long for the shoes and liable to trip me up, and listening to my favourite Monday morning programme, you know, Andrew Marr with three guests who spoke mainly on the the nature of the universe and of how a person nowadays can’t call themselves educated unless they also have a decent knowledge of science, on my new push-button digital wireless, which actually cost less than I expected as I bought it “refurbished” on the internet while in fact of course it was actually brand new (how do they do that?), into my vacant mind came an event from many years ago, a remembered event to do with a chance meeting.




In fact, the event was nothing to do with me at all. It was his event. I was idly staring out of the window of the ‘Spaniards Head’ in Shoreham-by-Sea, at the smoke and steam rising from the power station chimneys, and wishing that my life had a little more colour to it, when a brand new, Ivory Mercedes SL500 with he top open, pulled into the car park. “Wow!” I said to myself. You would have said “wow” too. The driver pushed through the lounge door and strode loose-limbed to the bar.

He was in his early thirties and very black, blue-black, slim and fit looking, wearing this expensive, tan leather jacket. I was intrigued of course and wondering how I might get to speak with him, when he glanced over at me, smiling, and asked: “How do I get served in here?” “Oh, we’re a little slow around these parts” I replied, “amazing car!” His smile broadened, “Yea man! I just picked it up, always wanted one, and now I got one right?”

He was served his drink and came over to my table. We were the only people in the lounge bar at that quiet time of the morning and the landlord wa busy bringing bottles up from the cellar. “The name’s Andy,” I told him that my friends called me PJ and we both smiled. “There must be a story behind that car of yours” I said, “If you have always wanted one, and now you got one?” So he told me the story.

“I was in the ice-cream van business and I had twelve vans on the road once, in the good old days, but it all went sour with the competition, then the game was finished. The business had been going bad for a long while with turf wars over pitches – Mr Whippy whacking Mr Softie ha, ha! - - “



Andy grinned at his own joke and we quietly drank our beers for a while.



“My wife was helping out by doing a couple or three part time jobs, waitressing and stuff, and I was working all hours, but we seems to be on a treadmill going nowhere. We had some terrible luck mind you, but if I tell you about all that you’ll recon I’m just not willing to take the blame for my own mistakes. Oh yes! I made some big mistakes! On top of that three vans got trashed and the dog run over. My wife was on medication in the end, you know, depression, but the pills didn’t seem to do much good. I was depressed too to be honest, but we had good reason to be. Our home was being re-possessed and the business was bust. I realise now what a good job it was that we had delayed starting a family. Our misery seemed to feed on itself. Our friends kind of gave up on us in the end, while we were too exhausted and skint to go out anyway.

I don’t know which of us brought it up first, but we started to talk about killing ourselves, you know, the suicide pact kind of thing? We owed so much money we could see no way out, and some of the people we was in debt to were not so very nice if you know what I mean, threatening this, and threatening that, stuff through the letterbox, like a bullet in an envelope? It was November when there is almost no business anyway. The days were dark and it seemed as though it would rain forever. We were just right down man! - - - Well anyway, we made our minds up to do it, to make an end of it all, you know, pills and booze. The thing is, when my wife killed herself first, I had to help her you see, I suddenly felt a bit more cheerful. I just didn’t feel like dying anymore and so I started to make plans instead. I got all the money I could fiddle and scrape together by selling this and that, and after the funeral I just left! Wow man! I felt so free and light on my feet if you know what I mean. I just walked out and left everything behind.”

He stared out of the widow for a bit, watching the steam as it rose and then vanished above the power station.

“Well, that was nearly two years ago now man. I feel sorry about her of course, but I don’t think she would like my new lifestyle much, she was much more of a ‘home body’, you know. - - - OK, must go, on my way to see a man about a boat. I just fancied a quick pint. Take it easy now.”

I had wondered what he was doing in this part of the world. Looking for a boat huh? The SL pulled lazily out of the car park and I watched it out of site.

Pip, pip, The Leg.