Hello,
the second of no more or many more rememberances from the fuzzy haze of my employment on Joiner street in the 1990s.
Following a recommendation from myself (see Morning John post), my friend not Mark was employed with us doing packing and picking of exam papers. One regular employee was not Paul, who wasn't a sculptor and didn't live in Dronfield. Hopefully the word not will prevent anyone from identifying themselves or others in this post.....
Paul, sorry, not Paul, was a rather serious individual. Not Mark was a rather jolly chap with a determination to wind people up, at any length. He also possessed the world's most annoying high pitched and very loud laugh. If one, say, not Paul, was already annoyed by his wind ups, then his laughing at the same would hugely exacerbate the affects.
One day Paul* confided in us, for reason that given the above are unclear, that he was having issues with his latest sculpture. Mark** laughed. Paul was immediately annoyed and noticeably disappointed, and stated that he knew he shouldn't have tried to confide in us about his calling ( I made the last two words up....). I tried to assuage his discomfort with supportive mumblings but he said he didn't want to talk about it because Mark would laugh. Mark insisted this was not the case. And so it began...
M: "Paul, go on mate, tell us about your sculpture"
P " No, I already said no"
M "Goo on mate"
P " No"
M " Goo onnnnn"
P "No"
M "why not?"
P " because you'll laugh"
M "I wont".
P "You will"
M " Paul, mate, I wont"
P "You will"
M " I promise I wont....."
Ten minutes later.....
M "Goo on Paul, tell us"
P "NO!"
Myself and Mark had often talked about how immature and yet simultaneously amusing humour by repetition was. Taking this on board, Mark began a three month campaign of repeated queries about the nature or even name of Paul's sculpture. Every time Paul would steadfastly refuse to divulge any details about his handiwork.
Eventually, in the last week of his stint (we only worked until September in the main) and after having been asked approximately a thousand times in the preceding months, Mark asked Paul what the sculpture was of, about and called. Having asked Mark three times for his assurance that he wouldn't laugh, Paul decided to finally off load.
The thing is, after such a long time I can't remember what Paul said. I think he started by saying "It represents" and he went on to provide a reasonable, cogent, non outlandish description of its form and meaning.
I looked at Mark.
He laughed.
The loudest, highest pitched, most exaggerated laugh you have ever heard. For about ten minutes. With tears rolling down his face. And our colleagues also laughed.
Paul nearly laughed as well, before his serious face intensified and he looked down at the table in front of him, slowly shaking his head after a long, despairing sigh.
Its tribute to the overwhelming sad hilarity of Mark's persistence that I remember that, only, and not a word of Paul's painfully extricated admittance of inspiration or sculptured meaning. This was a victory for the power of repetition, and an event which sadly may have made Paul question the meaning of his work to the extent that he simply stopped creating claymotions. I genuinely hope that is not the case.
As much as I genuinely also hope that Paul now looks back on that moment with at least a wry smile.
Yannis
*Not
**Not
Friday 26 January 2018
Wednesday 3 January 2018
Wells
Hulloo,
in 2009 or 2010 I went to visit my Canadian relatives in Mundesley where they were staying, in Norfolk*. I say it was Mundesley, but am not 100% sure - none of my pics names the village or where we stayed or the restaurant we visited them at. En route we stopped at a pub called the Chequers at Binham, which was selling food and own brewed beers. To be honest it was too early to eat so we just had ale, but not long after leaving we wanted a bit of snap.
Wells next the sea is a "civil parish" according to Wikipedia, and a town according to Google, and had a pub selling Woodfordes ales on gravity according to the Good Beer Guide. We didn't go in as wanted a bite to eat, maybe a sandwich or soup. Within the conurbation we spotted a sign for a licensed tearoom selling cakes, sandwiches, soups and real ales. This sounded ideal. The venue was, indeed, a purveyor of all the listed. Once you had navigated your way though their incomprehensibly rigid and unbending application of the house rules that was. Thus....
Arriving at 13.40 they served food until 14.00 so we ordered straight away. The waitress said "you'll ave t ope thorven still on" and stalked off in disgust to check. Now, I'm not a catering professional, but my oven takes just over six minutes to heat to 200 degrees, and less time once its turned off, to reheat. At 13.48 she returned and grumpily conceded that the oven's warmth had been sufficiently maintained to cook, but we would have to order immediately since they stopped serving food at 14.00. Warmed by this jolly badinage we ordered simple dishes that would take little time to heat up, along with two Woodfordes bottled beers. We were told we could only have beer if we were eating. It was difficult, having just ordered food at great personal cost to the tea room, to know how to respond.
Whilst awaiting our tiring masticatory exercise to begin, a group nearby ordered three cream teas, which, as the board of truth made clear, comprised of a mug of tea, and a large homemade scone with jam and cream. One of the group of incomers asked if instead of tea she could have a coffee. "Year, but yull arv pay exstra forr it" was the enlightening response. No explanation of why the cup of tea could be replaced by coffee for the difference in price of the two alone, was provided. Since a cup of coffee cost £2.50 they were charged £4.50 for the scone and jam and cream and the £2.50 on top. Amazing!
Having eaten our luckily available food stuffs I got a couple of bottles of beer to take out and the waitress of unhappiness strode away with our plates, to meet a gentleman who had come in to the tearoom with his DOG. I expected the doilly-dour to pick up a shotgun but instead she barked "yurr carn aff yur dorg in eurr" to which the apparent miscreant replied he had simply come in for a cream tea and would happily take it to consume outside. He was informed that they couldn't take the china cups, plates or tea pots outside as it wasn't allowed (it was a private courtyard) so, undeterred, he said he would put the dog outside, wait for them to serve his cream tea and then take it outside himself. " Can't do thart neiver" was the response. He left.
At 14.05 a group of seven came in wanting food. Heathens! They had obviously in their impudence not read the sign, and were roundly rebuked for their unwarranted intransigence. Disappointed they opted to stay for a pint, but were firmly instructed that the pub (which did exist, at the back), was only open on days of the week with a "w" in and only opened at 19.00. Despite this, they all opted for a tea and piece of cake. Apparently that is not food. Who was to know?
I waited to pay by card with a card machine whose connection speed was comparable to the Arctic circle whilst the pissed off waitress was barked at rudely by managers. Seeing her ill treatment reminded me that actually, it was likely an establishment or owner led campaign of absurdity. The lass didn't want to be there any more than the put upon visitors. It was quite a sad scene.
I never cease to be surprised how many folk set up business in the catering and hospitality sector who don't appear to have an ounce of hospitality in them. I realise they often have any humanity drilled out of them by hoardes of dysfunctional simpletons, but if anything that just makes the whole situation even more sad.
The above is not why I have never returned to Wells nts, which am sure is lovely, but goes into my file of ridiculous rules and restrictions which appear to belong almost exclusively to cafes and tearooms in the UK.
Cheers!
Yannis
*to be fair, my friend Ade, who is from Norfolk, and whom even after reading this remains my friend, has posted a link to Norfolk dialect on my Faceache wall. So here it is, for your perusal.....
in 2009 or 2010 I went to visit my Canadian relatives in Mundesley where they were staying, in Norfolk*. I say it was Mundesley, but am not 100% sure - none of my pics names the village or where we stayed or the restaurant we visited them at. En route we stopped at a pub called the Chequers at Binham, which was selling food and own brewed beers. To be honest it was too early to eat so we just had ale, but not long after leaving we wanted a bit of snap.
Wells next the sea is a "civil parish" according to Wikipedia, and a town according to Google, and had a pub selling Woodfordes ales on gravity according to the Good Beer Guide. We didn't go in as wanted a bite to eat, maybe a sandwich or soup. Within the conurbation we spotted a sign for a licensed tearoom selling cakes, sandwiches, soups and real ales. This sounded ideal. The venue was, indeed, a purveyor of all the listed. Once you had navigated your way though their incomprehensibly rigid and unbending application of the house rules that was. Thus....
Arriving at 13.40 they served food until 14.00 so we ordered straight away. The waitress said "you'll ave t ope thorven still on" and stalked off in disgust to check. Now, I'm not a catering professional, but my oven takes just over six minutes to heat to 200 degrees, and less time once its turned off, to reheat. At 13.48 she returned and grumpily conceded that the oven's warmth had been sufficiently maintained to cook, but we would have to order immediately since they stopped serving food at 14.00. Warmed by this jolly badinage we ordered simple dishes that would take little time to heat up, along with two Woodfordes bottled beers. We were told we could only have beer if we were eating. It was difficult, having just ordered food at great personal cost to the tea room, to know how to respond.
Whilst awaiting our tiring masticatory exercise to begin, a group nearby ordered three cream teas, which, as the board of truth made clear, comprised of a mug of tea, and a large homemade scone with jam and cream. One of the group of incomers asked if instead of tea she could have a coffee. "Year, but yull arv pay exstra forr it" was the enlightening response. No explanation of why the cup of tea could be replaced by coffee for the difference in price of the two alone, was provided. Since a cup of coffee cost £2.50 they were charged £4.50 for the scone and jam and cream and the £2.50 on top. Amazing!
Having eaten our luckily available food stuffs I got a couple of bottles of beer to take out and the waitress of unhappiness strode away with our plates, to meet a gentleman who had come in to the tearoom with his DOG. I expected the doilly-dour to pick up a shotgun but instead she barked "yurr carn aff yur dorg in eurr" to which the apparent miscreant replied he had simply come in for a cream tea and would happily take it to consume outside. He was informed that they couldn't take the china cups, plates or tea pots outside as it wasn't allowed (it was a private courtyard) so, undeterred, he said he would put the dog outside, wait for them to serve his cream tea and then take it outside himself. " Can't do thart neiver" was the response. He left.
At 14.05 a group of seven came in wanting food. Heathens! They had obviously in their impudence not read the sign, and were roundly rebuked for their unwarranted intransigence. Disappointed they opted to stay for a pint, but were firmly instructed that the pub (which did exist, at the back), was only open on days of the week with a "w" in and only opened at 19.00. Despite this, they all opted for a tea and piece of cake. Apparently that is not food. Who was to know?
I waited to pay by card with a card machine whose connection speed was comparable to the Arctic circle whilst the pissed off waitress was barked at rudely by managers. Seeing her ill treatment reminded me that actually, it was likely an establishment or owner led campaign of absurdity. The lass didn't want to be there any more than the put upon visitors. It was quite a sad scene.
I never cease to be surprised how many folk set up business in the catering and hospitality sector who don't appear to have an ounce of hospitality in them. I realise they often have any humanity drilled out of them by hoardes of dysfunctional simpletons, but if anything that just makes the whole situation even more sad.
The above is not why I have never returned to Wells nts, which am sure is lovely, but goes into my file of ridiculous rules and restrictions which appear to belong almost exclusively to cafes and tearooms in the UK.
Cheers!
Yannis
*to be fair, my friend Ade, who is from Norfolk, and whom even after reading this remains my friend, has posted a link to Norfolk dialect on my Faceache wall. So here it is, for your perusal.....
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