Tag Archives: Society

Jungle Reset – Dateline Malaysia and Borneo

The Fourth Parallel North, or Four North, runs round the globe just above the equator. Tracking it from the Greenwich Meridian, it heads East into Africa, passing through the Gulf of Guinea, Cameroon , the Congo, South Sudan, Uganda, and through Lake Turkana in Kenya, from where it routes through Ethiopia, and Somalia, crossing the Indian Ocean, passing through the Maldives and through the island of Sumatra. Crossing the Straits of Malacca and bisecting the Malaysian peninsular, it then streaks off over the South China Sea, over the third largest island in the world, Borneo, from where it crosses the Pacific, over Micronesia, eventually making landfall at Malpelo Island in Colombia. It then sneaks through Venezuela, the town of Roraima in Brazil, Guyana, Suriname, French Guiana, then crosses the Atlantic making the west coast of Africa just south of Cape Palmas in Liberia.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, if you are a regular reader of my not too regular posts, you will know that I am partial to a good cup of coffee, and instead of writing in my usual haunt of a local branch of Costa Coffee, I am sitting pretty much on the fourth parallel, on Mabul Island.

To be precise, and for those that really want to know, my position is 4°14’48”N 118°37’52”E. This is the Scuba Junkie Diving Resort, and I am slurping absolutely delicious coffee from a plastic mug, whilst contemplating life.

Since coming to Malaysia for a long break, I have taken in the sights in Kuala Lumpur, visiting Chinese Temples, and Muslim Mosques; I have eaten in fabulous street restaurants in Penang, (Try the Kapitan Indian Restaurant in George Town for a real treat) and from Hawker Stalls in Jalan Alor. I have stared out over the multifaceted city of Kuala Lumpur from the observation deck of the KL Tower, watching it disappear into the mist shrouded Malaysian Peninsular.

I have seen the struggling species of orang-utans, and seen the excellent work being done by the folk at the Sepilok sanctuary. I have been close to the wonderful yet so endangered Sun Bears too.

I have stayed in the Bornean Jungle, been privileged to see elephants, orang-utans, proboscis monkeys, macaques, giant kingfishers, silver leaf monkeys, herons, egrets, huge butterflies.

I have visited remote caves inhabited by swiftletts and horseshoe bats, and watched in wonder in the darkness, at the life that crawls through the inches deep carpet of droppings; Cockroaches, beetles, venomous millipedes, centipedes, spiders, crabs and even small flying lizards.

I have witnessed tropical sunsets, and towering thunderheads, illuminated from within by lightening spikes that compete with the dying orange globe of the sun, as it dips slowly into the South China Seas.

I have observed first hand, the abject poverty of the sea gypsies, and the living conditions that are their lot.

So now I sit here contemplating.

Looking around me at the slender Malay people, emphasises my decreasing height to weight ratio, I am definitely under tall for my 94 kilos. Back calculating, I see that I should be a shade over 2.08 metres tall, or about six feet ten in real money. Well, that’s never gonna happen.

So. I have to shed some of my blubber. I have to stop the regular uptake of alcohol, and get a bit more active – more riding my bicycle, and more walks. I have to also modify my work life balance. I have been sitting in possibly one of the most beautiful places on the planet, and I have been worrying about work for two weeks and wondering how I will cope on my return to the office.

Clearly this is not acceptable. Something has to be done. But what?

I need to address the work/life balance. Coming to 4 North has initiated a reset, Clear Alt Delete at a personal level. So, work less, laugh more, maybe earn less, but be time rich.

I may never own my own jet, but I have a sweet little microlight, on a rural farm strip, so I need to readjust my aspirations and expectations, and spend less time focused on working, and more on regaining my fitness, and enjoying doing not a lot.

Its going to take some careful planning, but the journey is beginning.

I wrote this about two years ago. Since then, I am pleased to say that I now weigh a trifling 89 kilos, so I only need to grow by another 2 cm and I am good to go! I also decided to retire from my previous role, and do something more enjoyable. Now I just have to shed a further 9 kilos. Well. Everyone needs a challenge, right?

Snowy Saturday Update

Regular readers of my literary meanderings will know that I am partial to a good cup of coffee whilst sharing my happy, yet jaundiced view of life. Hopefully, you will have noticed that I always try and put a comedic spin on everything I write. I have enjoyed humour and comedy since I was an infant.

I recall sitting on my Dad’s lap in the mid 1960s, listening to the radio on Sunday lunchtimes with him.

In most matters my father was quite a serious man. A highly skilled engineer, in both communications and electro-mechanical disciplines, but his sense of humour was, to put it mildly, weird and wonderful.

And so the development of my comedy muscle was exercised by listening to the Goons, Hancock’s Halfhour, The Navy Lark, The Clithero Kid and many more.

My sense of humour was further nourished by watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus, The Goodies, The Kenny Everett Radio Show, Kenny Everett on TV, –  and then the fantastic Young Ones, Bottom, Blackadder, The Fast Show.

So my sense of humour is by necessity somewhat offbeat, and sometimes is quite dark and black – as I believe in the old adage that its always good to laugh at misfortune, even if it’s someone elses.

Anyway, I thought you would enjoy my account below.

Whilst I don’t have much hair left, I do like to go to an old-fashioned gents barber shop, rather than an androgynous “salon” where a haircut can evaporate a sum equivalent to the National Debt in a matter of seconds.

However, whilst my tonsurial consultant is a traditional gents barber, it doesnt prevent him from engaging in conversations and freely sharing his opinions with me whilst he’s buzz cutting my head.

So, there I  was a couple of months ago, getting a haircut prior to departing on a short holiday trip to Rome. When I mentioned the trip to the barber he responded:

“Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded & dirty and full of insane drivers. You’re crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re taking Alitalia”  I replied. “We got a great rate!”

“Alitalia?”  he exclaimed. “That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are tired, their flight attendants are even older, and they’re always late. So, where are you staying in Rome?”

Sighing, I explained “We’ll be at the downtown International Marriott.”

“That dump! That’s the worst hotel in the city” He replied. “The rooms are small, the service is surly and they’re overpriced. So, whatcha doing when you get there?”

“Well, I am planning on going to the Vatican and  hope to see the Pope.” I replied.

“That’s rich,” he laughed. “You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Jeez I wish you  good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

A month later, I went into his small shop to have my regular haircut. The barber asked me about my trip to Rome.

“It was wonderful,” I explained, “not only were we on time in one of Alitalia’s brand new aircraft, but it was overbooked and they bumped me up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a beautiful 28 year old stewardess who waited on me hand and foot. And the hotel – – it was great! They’d just finished a $25 million remodeling job and now it’s the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave me the presidential suite at no extra charge!”

“Well,” he muttered, sullenly buzz cutting my scalp……

“I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

“Actually, I was quite lucky, for as I toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the Pope likes to personally meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me. Sure enough, five minutes later the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down as he spoke a few words to me.”

“Really?” asked my Barber. “What’d he say?”

He said, “Where’d you get that SHITTY haircut?”

THANKS DAD!

Vehicle Security – Brave New World?

Forty-two years ago, I learnt to drive a car, a spotty-faced 17-year-old, lurching along the leafy lanes of West Sussex, my Father patiently instructing me, his face impassive as he hid his grimaces as I crashed the gears. He did relax a little once I had mastered the co-ordination of gear lever and clutch pedal, and he seemed to enjoy getting me through my driving test.  He must have been reasonably good, (or maybe I was) because I passed my test first time.

My first car was an Austin 1100, built at the BMC Longbridge plant in 1965, so by the time I bought it in 1977 it was 12 years old, and had about 55,000 miles on the clock. Fantastically easy to drive, I enjoyed owning it for a year or so after my test, finally replacing it with a 1969 Vauxhall Viva SL90 – which to be fair wasn’t nearly as good mechanically, but looked flashier to my 19-year-old eyes.

These two vehicles did have something in common – and that was their complete lack of anything except the most rudimentary security. There were only two barriers to stop a would-be thief from stealing my cars – the simple key locks on the doors, and the simple ignition key.

This was state of the art at the time the cars were built. A thief could quite easily force the door lock, and by reaching under the unsealed dashboard and bypass the ignition switch, thus activating the car systems and enabling the vehicle to be started. The car could then be driven away.

Statistics show that from 1968 thefts of vehicles soared, primarily as a result of “Joy Riding” (also known as Twocking, – Taking Without Owners Consent), and theft to obtain parts for resale.

To combat this, UK legislation was introduced in January 1971 to compel manufacturers to fit steering column locks to all new vehicles. Most manufacturers incorporated these into ignition switches making it much more difficult to steal a car. Once this requirement filtered into the market, thefts of vehicles began to slow a little, but thefts from vehicles continued.

During the early years of my car ownership, alloy wheels were extremely popular, and as such, opportunistic thieves would simply jack a car up, remove the wheel nuts, and steal the wheel, leaving the car propped up on bricks.

Industry quickly countered this with locking wheel nuts, so the criminal community moved on to stealing car audio systems. Again, industry reacted by building the radios into the car dashboard in such a way as to make them virtually permanent.

Modern cars are extensively fitted with high technology systems, many of which are controlled by buttons built into the steering wheel. Additionally, the steering wheel also contains an airbag, and is an expensive item – a quick check on E-Bay will show second hand steering wheels, complete with airbags and column fetching in the region of £600!

So, have we come through a complete circle? In the 1970s the introduction of Steering locks, and later immobiliser chips built into ignition keys cut theft. This was reinforced by central door locking, and on-board security alarms.

As vehicles developed, we saw the introduction of remote locking, remote starting, and GPS tracking systems for cars.

The downside is that as we have become more reliant on high technology, the bad guys have become equally adept at hacking into systems.

We are just starting to hear about cloning devices that capture the digital signature of your remote key fob. Once this digital code has been hijacked, it may be used to unlock and then drive your pride and joy away.

So – what’s next?

My car has an integrated radio, locking wheel nuts, an immobiliser, a steering lock, and an alarm. But the bad guys can still target my car.

Thinking about this, there are a few simple precautions that may be taken.

If locking or unlocking your car in a public place, you may be better off by using the mechanical lock fitted into the door handle to unlock the car, thus denying any opportunistic thief the ability to skim your codes.

Secondly, Maybe invest in a steering wheel lock immobiliser such as the Disklok® which will prevent the theft of your steering wheel, and coincidentally makes the electronic capture of your unlock codes meaningless.

So, there are some areas where the current levels of electronic and computer aided vehicle security fail, and then it’s back to good old-fashioned mechanical protection.

Welcome to Brave New World.

 

 

Mark Charlwood© 2019

Note: I am not sponsored by Disklok topromote their product(s). Other Steering Wheel Immobiliser Locks are available:

Stoplock

Maypole Ltd

 

 

 

 

 

 

Can Underpants Contribute to Sustainability?

My Mother always used to tell me when I was a child, that I must wear clean underwear every day. Her justification for this advice, was that I wouldn’t be embarrassed if I had an accident, and got taken to hospital. Strange logic, maybe, but I grew up with the healthy habit of wearing clean underwear every day.

 

This offers two benefits to society.

 

Firstly, it reduces the chances of body odour, and secondly, ensures that any bacteria and microbes that accumulate in the old under-crackers are reduced to a much lower level that they would be if one were to wear them for days on end.

 

Having said that, the wearing of clean underwear every day takes its toll on the environment.

 

A report conducted by Yates and Evans[1] found that 12% of domestic electricity demand, and 13% of mains freshwater demand in UK homes was for laundering.

 

Further reports suggest that an average washing machine will consume 17,160 litres of water per year, and given that the average household uses their machine 270 times per year, that’s a massive 63 litres every time the machine is used!

 

Apparently, according to the UK’s Daily Mirror[2], the average UK man owns 13 pairs of underpants in total, buys new pants once every six months spending an average of £20.75 a year on them. Interesting?  Maybe not, but stick with me…

 

Now the same article also goes on to explain that shockingly, 10% of my fellow men wear their shreddies for seven days before washing them. YUK! Un-hygienic for sure, and probably not likely to make you irresistible to the ladies!

 

Society is stuck on an unsustainable track – The garment industry manufactures clothing, we buy it, use it, wash it, use it, wear it out, throw it away, and then buy more, and so the cycle goes on.

 

Interestingly, the textile industry is one of the major contributors to pollution and the generation of CO2. According to a report by the Ellen MacArthur Foundation the textile industry’s share of the carbon “budget” will increase from 2% in 2015, to 26% by 2050.

 

Manufacturing textiles is also greedy of other resources. In 2015, the manufacture of textiles consumed 98 million tonnes of oil. By 2050, this will have increased to 300 million tonnes, (always assuming there will be any left by then!)

 

A chilling by-product of manufacturing clothing, is the addition of an estimated 23 million tonnes of plastic microfibres into the world’s oceans.

 

We should be doing all that is possible to reduce the amount of new garments that are coming into existence.

 

I am not advocating that we extend the use of underpants creatively with a wearing pattern such as day one right side out, day two inside out, day three back to front etc., but there is a new alternative.

 

But there is hope.

 

Organic Basics is a Danish company that has been developing sustainable fashion, and designing clothing that impacts far less on the environment.

 

By using silver thread within the construction and weave of their range of pants and socks, they have extended the wear to wash interval hugely – and laundering a pair of pants just twice a month is now possible!

 

This is all down to the use of silver, which kills 99.9% of bacteria, and is used as an anti-bacterial filter by NASA in space travel.

 

The garments are made from 100% recycled materials most of which is recovered from post-industrial waste such as fibre, yarns and waste from weaving companies. Furthermore, they are fully approved by Bluesign, an organisation supporting a sustainable textile industry.

 

However, sustainability does come at a cost – in this case two pairs of men’s Silvertech® Boxers costs a whopping €56.00 (£48.56 as at 24/01/2019) so this may put them out of reach of many individuals.

 

There is light at the end of the tunnel though. A recent study by Nielsen showed that 66% of global consumers are willing to pay more for ethically sourced and sustainable products. In the case of millennials, this rises to 73%.

 

So, the question remains –

 

Will my Mother’s advice still hold good?

[1] Dirtying Linen: Re-evaluating the Sustainability of Domestic Laundry (2016) University of Manchester (UK)

[2] Daily Mirror, 21/04/2016

He Rides a Different Road

He’s in his fifties, yet leather-clad, his grey hair proves his years,

His tattoos long since faded, and his belly fat, from beers,

With chains, and studs and heavy boots, his presence here is awesome,

The patch upon his back is clear, he is an iron horseman,

 

Iron Horseman, iron Horseman, on your two wheeled steed,

In search of lost horizons, a wistful, restless breed,

Always riding to the future, in search of some deep truth,

Or chasing down the tattered fragments of your youth.

 

You’ll see him up the Ace Cafe, or at a bikers boozer,

He spends less on food and clothes, than he does upon his cruiser,

In his mind he’s easy rider, he’s Brando on the run,

Mad Max on the Highway, Terminator with a gun,

 

Iron Horseman, iron Horseman, on your two wheeled steed,

In search of lost horizons, a wistful, restless breed,

Always riding to the future, in search of some deep truth,

Or chasing down the tattered fragments of your youth.

His summers packed with ride-outs, just cruising with the HOG,

In a roaring stream of metal, they look a fearsome mob,

But behind the beard, and denims, the leather and the chrome,

Is a bloke who’s’ taking Christmas toys, to the local children’s home.

So when you sit in judgement, from your shiny, ivory tower,

On your dull commute to office land, where you wield such puny power,

Of the old bloke on his noisy bike, In his jacket, jeans and scarf,

Remember that he’s just chosen, to ride a different path

 

acecafe20th-2013-03

Mark Charlwood 2019©

Facebook – A Modern Time Machine

Social Media is a wonderful thing.

A few years ago, when my dear old Father was still alive, I recall a gloomy conversation that I had with him about friends. He lost touch with many of his school day friends, mainly as a result of being evacuated to different parts of the UK during the war.  He was expressing his sadness about how he had never been able to find those old friends of his lost and damaged childhood. 

Friends Reunited, and Facebook arrived too late to help my Dad, and so he died having never found those boys he grew up with.

I am very privileged. Using Facebook,  I managed to reconnect with a number of old friends, some from school, and some from my apprenticeship and college days. I am happy to say that I am still firm friends with all of these individuals , despite the passing of the years. It just needed the catalyst of social media to re-ignite old friendships.

I was sitting in my man-cave the other day, when my IPad softly chimed, indicating an incoming message. Putting down my mug of tea, I opened the app, and read my message. It was from a very old friend, Mark 

Now, I should perhaps explain here, that Mark was a year younger than me, but his Father had been my headmaster, a man who is still fondly remembered by many of my friends, if their comments on social media are to be believed. 

Mark and I used to be regular members of the local youth club, the Wallis Centre and both of us developed a passion for motorcycles – a passion encouraged by the leader of the youth club, a middle aged eccentric who loved bikes, and was a skilled photographer. I have many black and white photos of my bikes, accompanied by either my girlfriend of the moment, or in some cases, me!

At the time, in the mid nineteen seventies, there were a number of cliques in my youth club. There was my age group – seventeen and eighteen year olds, and a number of older members who were already in their early twenties.

However, under the wise management of Stef, we made the transition to adulthood with a soundtrack provided by the Mighty Status Quo, Lynyrd Skynrd, Thin Lizzy, Led Zeppelin and the Stones. We all got along, and grew up together.

I remember the thrill of taking my first real motorcycle up to the Wallis; a metallic blue Suzuki GT125, and then as the years passed, of riding up on different, ever larger machines, from my ponderous Honda CD175, to my agile and nimble Suzuki TS185, the TS250,  The Yamaha RD200, Suzuki GT380, GT550, Yamaha XS750, and so on.

Friday nights used to be almost a ritual. Black fringed leather jacket.  Check. Levis. Check. Despatch rider boots. Check. White tee shirt. Check. Denim cut off with badges and patches. Check.

Bikes would be washed and polished – never knew when Stef would have his camera out. A gentle potter up to the Wallis centre and park up – along with maybe twenty or thirty other bikes.

The disco would be in full swing, and the sounds of rockabilly, rock, and rock and roll would be pounding.  Black ink stamp on the back of our hands.  Helmets and jackets everywhere. Long lines of guys n girls stomping out line dances to the Stones and The Quo.

All of these leather jacketed “bikers” in a polite and orderly queue, buying bags of crisps and bottles of Pepsi at the tuck shop – no alcohol allowed in the youth club. 

Summer evenings, outside, with your girl, enjoying a snog and a hug. Quiet conversations over a cigarette, helping mates through the pains of a break up, or helping them to screw up the courage to ask a girl out.

Bad Ass people us motorcyclists.

At ten o’clock sharp, we would be unceremoniously ordered out, and we would tumble out of the doors, a happy throng, and jump astride our bikes, kick them into life, and a stream of Hondas, Yamahas, Nortons and Triumphs would make their way into the High Street, where we would park up by the war memorial.

Laughing and joking, we would all pile into the Public bar of the Rose and Crown, where we would have a few pints and shoot some pool.  Once the pub turned out at eleven o’clock, we would wander across the road, and sit down on the steps, by the memorial. There we would sit, smoking, laughing and talking.

This would go on until the Town’s local police car cruised past us for the third or fourth time. Eventually, the car would stop, and PC Rain would casually walk over.

“Evening Lads” he would say. All of us would respond, “Evening Sir”. A little banter would ensue, with gentle insults traded in both directions.

It would normally end with “Plod” heaving a deep sigh, saying, “Goodnight lads. I don’t want to see you here when I next come past”

He would then climb back into the little sky blue and white Ford Escort, and slowly drive off down the town.  We knew from previous experience that he would drive down to the fire station, turn around in their car park, then come back up the town, via the cinema. 

About ten minutes.  He was always very reasonable, and we all liked him. 

Within five minutes, we would be helmeted, started, and gone, leaving only the smell of burnt two stroke oil, and a slight haze to testify to our existence.

We would be back in place by ten o’clock on Saturday morning. We would sit on the steps and chat, and maybe take a wander round the market. By noon, we would descend on the Wimpy Bar, where we would take up residence for the afternoon, drinking tea and coffee until we were unceremoniously booted out at five o’clock

This went on without issue for months, but apparently, somewhere, somehow, we had managed to irritate someone.

We only discovered this, when someone wrote to the local paper, complaining about anti social motorcyclists gathering by the war memorial. The East Grinstead Courier were delighted with this, and the headlines screamed out “Top of the town motorcycle gang causing concern”

Really?  A bunch of bored middle class kids enjoying a cigarette and each other’s company? I never witnessed any problems – not even dropping litter. Yes, we may have got a bit loud sometimes, but we were never villains. I think I still have a copy of that headline. 

Eventually, we all grew up.  Moved away. Had kids. Got divorced.  Got back into motorcycles.

So, within the last three or four months, my old friend had got in touch with everyone he could think of who used to be part of this notorious “gang of n’ere do wells”.

And so it came to be – the Rebirth of the Top of the Town Bikers. Forty years since it all began.

As a result, if you venture up to the top of the sleepy West Sussex town of East Grinstead at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning, you are likely to see fifteen or twenty middle aged men and women, on a selection of bikes from sports bikes through to customised cruisers.

You will witness much laughter.  You may be in time to see them mount up, and start their machines, the ground shaking, and the peaceful high street woken up with the noise of engines.  Then they will be off, majestically sweeping off down the town, off on a ride out somewhere. Probably back to 1976. Who knows?

I was with them on the most recent ride out – there must have been 12 bikes, including 6 Harley Davidsons, and the rest sports bikes.  We rode down to Goodwood motor racing circuit, and enjoyed ourselves in that uninhibited way that only long time friends can.

 

Happy days…thanks to Facebook!

Modern Offices – Efficient, but Where’s the Fun?

I looked expectantly at the middle aged woman sitting across the desk from me. I could feel my pulse thumping in my wrist, and my mouth was dry with anticipation. Would she, or wouldn’t she?

She smiled, breaking the tension. “Yes, I think we’ll go ahead with your electronic typewriter.  We’ll start off with one machine, which I will place with the typing pool supervisor, and if she likes it, we will order a further twenty machines”.

I swallowed hard. I was thinking of the commission.  My old maths master would have been proud, as during his classes of modern maths, I would stare hopelessly out of the window, whilst wrestling with the problems of tessellations, matrices and other modern maths nonsense.

However, I had become quite adept at knocking percentage discounts off, and then working out my commission to a reasonable level of accuracy.  In this case, I estimated that even after the discount I would have to give to land such a sizeable order I would scoop about three and a half grand.

Back then the average wage was about £6000 per year, so a cool six months’ salary.

A few weeks later, I got the go ahead, and delivered twenty further machines into the offices of a medium sized factory. More precisely into the typing pool.

How times have changed.

In order to keep the orders rolling in, that factory needed 21 college-trained typists, whose sole job was to type out letters, quotes, orders, specifications and manuals. The noise generated by 21 typewriters was phenomenal, and the output continued without remission from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon. A whole room in the bowels of the building.

Office clerks would walk down to the typing pool with memos, and other draft copy and would place these into a basket where the supervisor would allocate the work out to the typists.

A junior manager would normally share a personal assistant with two or three others managers, and this individual would usually be trained to take dictation in shorthand, which nowadays is a virtually dead art.

Generating correspondence was a labour-intensive task back then!

Other subtle and sinister advances in office technology, such as dictation equipment removed the need for a secretary skilled in Shorthand. Managers were now evolving to sit alone in their office, dictating their letters and memos into an electronic recorder, using magnetic tape, normally contained in a small cassette.

The skilled secretary could now be replaced by an audio typist, who would transcribe the audio tape, whilst wearing a headphone and using a foot control to start and stop the recording.

Brave new world.

Further “evolution” has meant that current managers and executives, even those at the highest levels of seniority generate their own correspondence.

Modern offices are relatively quiet, except for the muted clatter of fingers pecking away at keyboards.

Egalitarian too, with male employees openly accepting a task that thirty years ago would be seen as “woman’s work”.

Gone, then are the days of fingers blackened with carbon paper, the thwack of typewriter hammers thumping text onto a page, and a whole room filled with young women; the admin clerk who opened the incoming mail, the intimacy of sitting in the office with a trusted secretary, dictating mail, safe in the knowledge that despite the ramblings, the completed work would be correctly spelled, accurately punctuated, and grammatically perfect. The signed document would be whisked away to the post room, leaving only the smell of delicate perfume.

Forgotten, then, the adolescent thrill of sitting in the office, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the ladies of the typing pool – a fashion catwalk, and the start of many teenage fantasies, and in some cases dates. The smell of hot electronics mixed with a faint aroma of methylated spirits, completed letters left on the desk in a folder for signature.

Replaced by what?  Efficiency. Sterile, drab and devoid of human interaction. Individual managers, efficiently bunkered in their electronic silos, creating and typing their own correspondence, often by email – signatures inserted digitally – even the humble ballpoint pen being slowly replaced by biometric data.

Auto correct and spellcheckers unerringly ensure that documents are almost perfect, and it may be days before anyone receives a hard copy document.

Thirty years ago, I would have either drafted this article in pen, or dictated it.

However, I have created it all. Consulted nobody. Flirted with no one.

I may be old fashioned, but I kind of miss those days.

Welcome to brave new world.

 

Mark Charlwood 2018©️

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Rural Pub

My Rural Pub

 

 

Balmy evening, sun not set, sky is azure blue,

As I set off to the pub, to sink a pint or two,

I stroll along the leafy lane, and cross a rotting stile,

It’s not a gruelling journey, just barely half a mile

 

The woods I have now passed through, and either side are crops,

And over in the distance, is the village church and shops

On my left is golden wheat, to the right is yellow rape,

And my friend, the lonesome horse, stands waiting by his gate

 

I walk into the village, up round past the church,

Up cobbled lane, my local, The Robber and the Birch

Rural English tavern, horse brasses, and oaken beam,

Weather-beaten whitewashed walls, slowly turning green

 

Ducking to protect my head, I push the creaky door,

Entering the alehouse, where footpads drunk before,

All the chequered history, of my ancestors lie here,

You can smell it in the woodwork, and taste it in the beer

 

Minstrels, Monks and Robbers, perhaps a Prince or two,

Have stopped to quaff a jug of ale, as they were passing through,

Relaxing by the window, I slowly sip my beers,

With the sounds of Merrie England, still ringing in my ears

 

The cricket teams’ just entered, a very happy crowd,

I think that they’ve just won their match, and feeling very proud,

The clink of cheerful glasses, loud celebrating toasts,

With giant plates of sandwiches, provided by our hosts

 

 

It’s time to go, I nod goodbye to the old man by the door,

Glancing round my local pub, it’s English to the core,

I wander back, round past the church, and down the dusky lane,

Down through the fields, and past the horse, away, to home again.

 

 

Mark CharlwoodÓ 2018

 

The Sad Plight of the Modern Train Commuter

The train squealed to a grudging stop at Liphook Station, where I stood waiting at the tired platform. The electronic chimes announced that the door interlocks were released, and so I duly stabbed the button mounted on the carriage door.

After a few seconds pause, presumably for the system logic to decide that the command was lawful, the doors sullenly opened, to enable me to climb aboard.

The seating area was packed; every seat taken by a dismal commuter. A sea of open laptops, and furrowed brows. The slight, tinny and insistent twitters of headphones pumping banalities into disinterested earlobes.

I leaned against the side of the carriage, contemplating how things had changed. I used to be a regular train commuter back in 1975. It was definitely different then. No rose tinted glasses in my reminiscing. My first experience as an adult going to work – October 1975

I used to board the 0715 bus from East Grinstead Railway Station in West Sussex, which would be filled with sleepy travellers, each muffled up against the autumn chill. Conversation was muted, even amongst regular fellow travellers. I would see Kathy and Sharon, with whom I would flirt outrageously, and the aged double decker would lurch and sway through the Sussex and Kent Weald, enroute to Tunbridge Wells.

Kathy and Sharon were both on a course at West Kent College – Nannies and Nurses One, and I was a fresh faced apprentice – a journeyman attending the same college to pass my exams as a communications engineer.

The old 291 bus would wheeze it’s way through Tunbridge Wells, finally stopping at Tunbridge Wells Central Railway Station. It would then be a mad rush for us students to cross the road and get down onto the platform to catch the 0836 – if we were lucky.

The train was old school. Slam doors, and grim, noisy and dirty. I would stand in the door area, and look into the carriage where I would regard with awe, the denizens within. Wreathed in cigarette smoke, a sea of newspapers, each edition shrouding its reader in the news of the day.

It would be the same on the way home, with the carriages filled with smoke, and returning office warriors, each unwinding with the Evening News, or unfinished crosswords.

Those bygone commuters thought they had it bad. The lonely pre dawn walk to the station, the tedious journey to a London terminal punctuated by a myriad of stops at middle class oases – Places such as Haslemere, Milford, Godalming – and Clandon and Effingham Junction, all bastions of middle class existence.

The modern commuter is definitely a different animal. They still “enjoy” the same commute, but now they travel in well it comfort, generally air conditioned. Today though, their bleary eyes are focussed on spreadsheets rather than broadsheets, Word documents rather than crosswords.

Sad intense faces, hunched over, fingers feverishly bashing away at their keyboards, buried against distraction, wringing out an extra one hour ten minutes on their way in to work for a nine hour day. Then to repeat the ridiculous exercise for the hour and ten minutes of travel home.

Almost eleven and a half hours of work, and get paid for seven. A cool extra two days a week.

Idiocy? Exploitation?

Welcome to brave new world…

Mark Charlwood© 2018

The Demise of My Blue Denims… Or Not

Settling back into my customary seat near the window of Costa’s in Petersfield, I took a cautious sip of my medium skinny wet latte with an extra shot. I say cautious, as the last time I sat here, I was nursing a burnt tongue and lip – the barista thought I had said “Extra Hot” instead of extra shot. I won’t get caught out like that again in a hurry.
Leaning back, I started leafing through the shop’s copy of the Daily Mail, in search of articles of interest. It was a bit of a slow news day, with lots of coverage of the US hustings between Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. 
I mentally switched off. Reading about our own home grown liars and cheats was enough, without reading about someone else’s. 
I carried on, skimming articles for value, when my eye was drawn to a few column inches at the foot of the page.
“Why You Should Ditch Your Denim at 53!”
“Surely not” I thought. I read the article swiftly. It seems that research has shown that many people feel that denims and jeans are the province of the young, and that older folk such as myself shouldn’t wear them. 
I looked askance at the article. The very foundations of my world were rocking. Last week, it was my old trainers that I decided had to go, as balding fat blokes shouldn’t wear such items if they were to retain even a shred of street cred. 
Jeans and trainers were the uniform of my generation – our trademark, our sartorial protest at the generation before, in their baggy grey flannels and knitted pullovers. 
The style was academic, and in the past, I have worn skin tight drainpipes, flares with hems of twenty four inches, straight legs, and boot cut varieties, in standard denim blue, black denim, and, embarrassingly in the early seventies, crimson denim. I’ve had comfort fit, relaxed fit, button fly, zip fly, and even a pair with a Velcro fly, although to be fair that was a homemade repair when I got the old zip jammed and couldn’t be arsed to get it fixed. 
Over the years I have used many makes, including the eponymous Levi’s, Lee Copper, Inigo Jones, Wranglers, and even Tescos own. 
I have had (to my shame!) matching denim jackets, one of which was even fleece lined, but it in my defence it was the seventies, and I was in my late teens. 
I felt a bit sad. The thing about denim jeans is that they are so eminently practical. Pull them on in the morning, walk the dog, fix the car, cut the grass, go out shopping and then go out for a beer, and all without having to even think about changing.  
The things are almost indestructible too. I have had a pair which I have practically lived in, that I bought in 2008 on a trip to the USA. Levi’s, standard weight blue 501s. I used them for walking, motorcycling, flying, boating, cycling, and dare I say it. Even after that level of use and abuse, they are only just beginning to decompose around me. 
Don’t get me wrong, it’s just the material at the entrances to the pockets that is fraying and falling apart. The rest of the structure is OK, with the dye fading, and the wear patterns in the pockets where I habitually stow my wallet and mobile phone showing almost white. They just won’t die!
Carrying on my musings, it occurred to me that if I make the decision to retire gracefully from wearing denim, I need to assess and decide upon the look that I will need to replace it. 
I could take up wearing chinos full time. The trouble is that Chinos are fairly smart casual, and I couldn’t work on a motorcycle, and then go shopping without changing. Military surplus is a non starter. 
I could buy a few more pairs of adventure utility trousers with the zip off legs. Maybe invest in some cargo trousers, with multiple pockets.  
Or maybe I should just ignore the style gurus, and carry on wearing my blue denim jeans. They have served me well for forty five years, and I guess another twenty won’t hurt.