Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Boning Up
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®
Friday, February 11, 2011
On The Buses
My Grand-Pop, Bill, was a conductor on the number 3 bus which ran from Crystal Palace, where he lived, down to Brixton, past The Oval, around Trafalgar Square and on to Piccadilly and Oxford Circus. I can only vaguely remember being on the bus once but unless he was putting on a special show just for me I think it's fair to say that he was a character who probably enlivened more passengers than he annoyed.
Eventually he became too old for the rigours of issuing tickets and he took a part time job with the police training academy around the corner from his house. We had to pass the building on our way to visit our Grandparents and I can clearly remember the three of us in the back of the Cortina giggling as we repeatedly sang, "Hello Grand-Pop cleaning the lavatory". It seems rather patronising now and maybe indicative of the social climbing our family was engaged in. However, my father never took steps to admonish us so maybe it was just playful fun and not disrespectful of a man who worked his entire life starting with delivering milk from a horse and cart. Cow's milk from a cart.
I try to use the bus as much as possible as it always seems a more interesting way to travel. Obviously you can see out of the window but the people seem more inclined to express themselves on a bus. Everywhere I go in Boston seems to be on the same bus route, the 66. It runs from Harvard all the way to Dudley Station which takes over an hour and seems to travel between two countries. Harvard is affluent, clean, predominantly white and stuffed with bars and restaurants and the area around Dudley Station isn't. I volunteer at a school near Dudley Station, I pay weekly visits to the dentist in Longwood, I visit someone in Brigham Circle and I've recently got a job in Allston. All on the 66 bus route.
The first time I took the bus back from Dudley Station a man at the front of the bus was exhorting his fellow passengers to show more emotion, not a plea I would have thought was entirely necessary from my experience of Boston buses. "We keep it all bottled up man, not allowed to show how we feel. Gotta' let it out. To prove that he was as good as his word he proceeded to break down. He folded in two, touched his head to his knees and wailed while rocking backwards and forwards on his seat. I don't mean sobbed. I mean wailed. He really let it all out and was an example to us all as to the merits of free expression. It wasn't the sort of spectacle that one feels able to observe with impunity but as I was unable to concentrate on my book I pretended to read while trying to focus on his words which were blurted out through the tears and snot and dribble he was so freely expunging.
He paused to answer the phone which I thought might be an opportunity to glean something slightly more coherent but the caller was treated to no more comprehensible an explanation than the rest of the passengers were. Following the call there was something of a lull as he described to a woman who was sitting on the opposite of the bus to him that the caller, "Didn't know, he didn't know'', and it eventually became apparent that someone close to him, perhaps his mother, had just died.
How 'bout that?
Eventually he became too old for the rigours of issuing tickets and he took a part time job with the police training academy around the corner from his house. We had to pass the building on our way to visit our Grandparents and I can clearly remember the three of us in the back of the Cortina giggling as we repeatedly sang, "Hello Grand-Pop cleaning the lavatory". It seems rather patronising now and maybe indicative of the social climbing our family was engaged in. However, my father never took steps to admonish us so maybe it was just playful fun and not disrespectful of a man who worked his entire life starting with delivering milk from a horse and cart. Cow's milk from a cart.
I try to use the bus as much as possible as it always seems a more interesting way to travel. Obviously you can see out of the window but the people seem more inclined to express themselves on a bus. Everywhere I go in Boston seems to be on the same bus route, the 66. It runs from Harvard all the way to Dudley Station which takes over an hour and seems to travel between two countries. Harvard is affluent, clean, predominantly white and stuffed with bars and restaurants and the area around Dudley Station isn't. I volunteer at a school near Dudley Station, I pay weekly visits to the dentist in Longwood, I visit someone in Brigham Circle and I've recently got a job in Allston. All on the 66 bus route.
The first time I took the bus back from Dudley Station a man at the front of the bus was exhorting his fellow passengers to show more emotion, not a plea I would have thought was entirely necessary from my experience of Boston buses. "We keep it all bottled up man, not allowed to show how we feel. Gotta' let it out. To prove that he was as good as his word he proceeded to break down. He folded in two, touched his head to his knees and wailed while rocking backwards and forwards on his seat. I don't mean sobbed. I mean wailed. He really let it all out and was an example to us all as to the merits of free expression. It wasn't the sort of spectacle that one feels able to observe with impunity but as I was unable to concentrate on my book I pretended to read while trying to focus on his words which were blurted out through the tears and snot and dribble he was so freely expunging.
He paused to answer the phone which I thought might be an opportunity to glean something slightly more coherent but the caller was treated to no more comprehensible an explanation than the rest of the passengers were. Following the call there was something of a lull as he described to a woman who was sitting on the opposite of the bus to him that the caller, "Didn't know, he didn't know'', and it eventually became apparent that someone close to him, perhaps his mother, had just died.
How 'bout that?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
News just in...
In a shocking new development it has emerged that an unnamed person has admitted to leaving the guard off the hair clippers after, 'trimming my bush'.
More news as soon as she's out of hospital.
More news as soon as she's out of hospital.
Phew, that was close.
Good news.
I've just heard that I've got an interview with a global management consultancy business on Monday. I've been told that they're pretty informal but even so I thought I should make an effort to appear professional and thought a quick trim might not go amiss.
Bad news.
The guard was not on my clippers.
Good news.
I've stuck it back on, do you think anyone will notice?
Lucky I stopped in the nick of time or I could have looked a real fool on Monday.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Waste not, want not.
Our condo is so small that Peta and I are typically never more than a couple of metres apart. I would estimate that if I pressed myself close to the front door and she leaned out of the bedroom window we could be separated by as much as 4 meters but things haven't quite reached that stage yet.
Aside from the bathroom the only door in the flat is the bi-fold louvre door between the bedroom and the remainder of the living areas which seems to be designed for symbolic or ceremonial use. When I find myself in need of in need of privacy or tranquillity I tease, drag and bounce this door closed but I am still only spitting distance from Peta as she works at the dining table. I can still hear her tapping annoyingly at the keyboard or provocatively scratching her pencil across notepaper. When lying down to sleep I can still pretty much see her which makes me wonder why the door is there at all. Perhaps it is designed to create the illusion of privacy while maintaining the illusion of space.
There's no room for a washing machine so we are compelled to take the elevator to the basement where the spotless and efficient communal washing facilities reside. There is also a soft-drink machine and a table and chairs which suggests that a convivial hour or two could be spent discussing the merits of one soap powder over another with one's neighbours. Having spent some time seated on these chairs I can confirm that conversation does not flow but I have learnt some new folding techniques for large ladies underwear which I hope to be able to put to good use in the coming years.
This week however I was waiting for the lift, clutching my still-warm washing to my chest when a hitherto unknown neighbour, carrying a large cardboard box approached me with a question. My ear seems not yet attuned to the local accent so I leaned forward and pressed my good right ear in her direction and asked for clarification. "Do you need a miniature whisk?" was what I felt she said but not being acquainted with such a thing I assumed I must have misheard but felt that whatever she was offering sounded similar enough to what I thought I heard to warrant repeating the phrase in search of enlightenment. "A miniature whisk?" I echoed.
She confirmed that this was indeed what was being discussed and further clarified the situation by pulling what can only be described as a miniature whisk from the box.
I can't abide waste as much as the next man so while trying to conceal my surprise at something which looked like it would more at home in a dolls house I racked my mind for some possible use to which this object could be put. It was whisk like in every way, made of shiny, silver wire with a solid metallic handle but it was little larger than my index finger. I wondered whether her condo was even smaller than ours and in an effort to create an illusion of space it was filled with miniaturised objects. I also wondered what other Lilliputian items she had already given away, leaving her with a large cardboard box containing but a miniature whisk.
I remain ever conscious that everything we buy in America will have to be given away or shipped back to Australia when we leave in a few months. This is one of the reasons why I am less inflamed by my bike being stolen than I might otherwise have been. Peta is buying a pair of shoes a month so the chance of my bike making the cut when it comes to filling boxes seems quite remote and although a miniature whisk takes up much less room than a bike, even a miniature bike, it seemed rash to relieve my neighbour of her task when there was little chance of finding a miniature egg or a miniature pan with which to make miniature omelettes.
So I declined the kind offer and wished her well but I can't help but feel she's out there somewhere, trudging through the snow with her box and her burden in search someone who can find a use for a miniature whisk.
Aside from the bathroom the only door in the flat is the bi-fold louvre door between the bedroom and the remainder of the living areas which seems to be designed for symbolic or ceremonial use. When I find myself in need of in need of privacy or tranquillity I tease, drag and bounce this door closed but I am still only spitting distance from Peta as she works at the dining table. I can still hear her tapping annoyingly at the keyboard or provocatively scratching her pencil across notepaper. When lying down to sleep I can still pretty much see her which makes me wonder why the door is there at all. Perhaps it is designed to create the illusion of privacy while maintaining the illusion of space.
There's no room for a washing machine so we are compelled to take the elevator to the basement where the spotless and efficient communal washing facilities reside. There is also a soft-drink machine and a table and chairs which suggests that a convivial hour or two could be spent discussing the merits of one soap powder over another with one's neighbours. Having spent some time seated on these chairs I can confirm that conversation does not flow but I have learnt some new folding techniques for large ladies underwear which I hope to be able to put to good use in the coming years.
This week however I was waiting for the lift, clutching my still-warm washing to my chest when a hitherto unknown neighbour, carrying a large cardboard box approached me with a question. My ear seems not yet attuned to the local accent so I leaned forward and pressed my good right ear in her direction and asked for clarification. "Do you need a miniature whisk?" was what I felt she said but not being acquainted with such a thing I assumed I must have misheard but felt that whatever she was offering sounded similar enough to what I thought I heard to warrant repeating the phrase in search of enlightenment. "A miniature whisk?" I echoed.
She confirmed that this was indeed what was being discussed and further clarified the situation by pulling what can only be described as a miniature whisk from the box.
I can't abide waste as much as the next man so while trying to conceal my surprise at something which looked like it would more at home in a dolls house I racked my mind for some possible use to which this object could be put. It was whisk like in every way, made of shiny, silver wire with a solid metallic handle but it was little larger than my index finger. I wondered whether her condo was even smaller than ours and in an effort to create an illusion of space it was filled with miniaturised objects. I also wondered what other Lilliputian items she had already given away, leaving her with a large cardboard box containing but a miniature whisk.
I remain ever conscious that everything we buy in America will have to be given away or shipped back to Australia when we leave in a few months. This is one of the reasons why I am less inflamed by my bike being stolen than I might otherwise have been. Peta is buying a pair of shoes a month so the chance of my bike making the cut when it comes to filling boxes seems quite remote and although a miniature whisk takes up much less room than a bike, even a miniature bike, it seemed rash to relieve my neighbour of her task when there was little chance of finding a miniature egg or a miniature pan with which to make miniature omelettes.
So I declined the kind offer and wished her well but I can't help but feel she's out there somewhere, trudging through the snow with her box and her burden in search someone who can find a use for a miniature whisk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)