Month: September 2021

Outside: Part Seven

~ beetleypete ~ 28 Comments

This is the seventh part of a fiction serial, in 725 words.

When the man came to fit the intercom and outside light, Gillian made him a cup of tea, and this time added a Penguin biscuit. She liked the elderly man, and wished more people could be like him and her mum. But she knew they weren’t. When he had finished, he showed her how they worked.

“I have removed the old doorbell and put the new entryphone in its place. There is a sticker on it that says ‘Press to speak. Release to listen’. The same thing on the inside for you, so don’t forget to let go of the button to hear the replies. The outside light has this three-way switch on the inside, near the door. Turn it left for off, in the middle for motion-activated, and to the right to leave it on all the time. It is in the middle for now. The bulb should last a long time, but if it goes, just contact the company and I will come and fit a new one. It is fitted higher than the camera, which also looks like a light, as you know. But this one is bigger, and covers the path and front door really well”.

She rang the bank while he was there, and transferred the payment. Then he tidied up his tools, and left.

Next day, Gillian watched the CCTV monitor for the postman, the only person who regularly came to the door. When he showed up just before ten, she was thrilled at how clear the image was. Just a shame he had no reason to ring the new intercom door buzzer, then she could have tried it out. Over lunch, she made a mental list of reasons why she might still have to go outside.

Dentist.
Doctor.
Dustbin day.

She smiled at the fact they all started with D. Dustbin day was an essential, but she could creep out after dark, leave it just outside the gate, and collect it the same way that evening. The dentist might be an essential trip, and she couldn’t imagine she could pay one to treat her at home. As for the doctor, that could wait until she was very ill with something. Then she could offer to pay privately for a visit at home. She was sure that could be arranged.

She had forgotten something. The back lawn. Mum always cut the small patch of grass with an electric mower kept in the little shed by the back gate. Gillian wasn’t about to take that job on, so she would ring around some local companies and get it concreted over. Mister Allen the window cleaner came once a month, but they always left his cash on the upstairs window sill. He would have to take a cheque in future.

Put it in a plastic bag so it didn’t get wet, then place something heavy on it so it wouldn’t blow away if it was windy.

It never occured to her to question why she had suddenly wanted to stop going outside, but the thought of opening the door and walking out onto the path now filled her with dread. When mum had been alive, she had never once thought about it. But she had everything she needed, and was happy at home, so she didn’t think it mattered in the least.

The next time she was due to put the plastic dustbin out, it didn’t go quite as easily as she imagined. After standing at the open door for almost twenty minutes, she closed it again and went back inside for a cup of tea. Then she put the outside light on and sat watching the CCTV to see if anyone was on the street. When it was completely deserted, she went out and dragged the bin to the gate, leaving it there propping the gate open.

Turning to go back inside, the front path seemed to be ten times longer, the house receding into the distance. Breathing fast, and trembling with fright, Gillian closed her eyes and made a run for the door. She tripped up the step going in, but luckily didn’t injure herself.

Sitting with a glass of Pepsi and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, it took her a good half an hour to calm down.

Dustbin day was going to be something she hated.

Foreign students

~ beetleypete ~ 14 Comments

After yesterday’s post relating to foreign exchange students, I was reminded of this old post, one that many of you have never seen.

beetleypete's avatarbeetleypete

In 1978, we had moved to a house in Wimbledon, an affluent suburb of South London. The mortgage was manageable, but with interest rates above 12% and climbing, any help with finances was always appreciated. My first wife, then working as a college lecturer, had planned to take on examination marking during the holidays; a temporary, albeit well-paid extra job. I was working as a company representative, on a fair salary, with a new car supplied. Still, we had to run the other car, and the house needed repainting, as well as some other minor jobs. We considered our options to generate extra income, and they were few. My wife noticed an advertisement in the local newspaper. Host families required, for French students visiting the area, to improve their English skills. The remuneration offered was £40 a week, almost 70% of what I was getting, as an acceptable salary. It…

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A Teenage Crush

~ beetleypete ~ 73 Comments

After writing about an unpleasant memory yesterday, I thought to counter that with a pleasant one. Like most very old memories of mine, good or bad, they pop up uninvited, and I have no control over them.

In 1967, my parents had moved us out of London to the Kent borders, the village of Bexley, which has since become part of a much larger London borough. I was doing quite well at school, especially in French, and it was suggested that we take part in a student exchange scheme being run through my school in London. (I was commuting by train after the move.)

Mum and dad agreed to having a French boy stay during the Easter holidays, and in return I would stay at his house for two weeks that summer. He lived in Courbevoie, a district of Paris. I had already been to Paris by then, but was keen to experience the city accompanied by someone who lived there.

My dad had to drive me to Peckham Civic Centre on a Saturday morning, to collect the schoolboy chosen to stay with us. I discovered that all the French kids were sixteen or older, so somewhat older than me. We were matched with a tall and heavy-looking boy whose name was the rather ordinary Jean Brun. (John Brown) He was chatty and extrovert, and told me two of his best friends were also on the trip.

We got to meet the rest of the group, and I was very taken with one of the girls. She had an Arabic appearance, and the most beautiful eyes. She told me her name was Nicole Zaoui, and that we would all meet again at the farewell dance when the exchange was over. On the way home in the car, Jean, who spoke no English at all, told me that I should not have talked to her. “You don’t want to be seen with her, Pete. She’s a blackie”. He said all this in French of course, and I had to constantly translate for my dad, who insisted on knowing what we were saying.

Before we arrived back in Bexley, I had already decided I didn’t like this boy one bit.

Various trips had been arranged by my parents. We took him to some seaside towns, and up to London to see sights like The Tower of London and other tourist spots. But he was hard work. He didn’t like our food, got easily bored on the trips, smoked heavily throughout, and kept asking me to fix him up with a girl. He told me that he had a motor scooter in Paris, a large group of friends, and had been with many girls. Much of it was probably boasting, but I didn’t care either way.

More importantly given the nature of the trip, he made no attempt to speak English, other than “Thank you”. So the evenings were long, as he couldn’t watch TV, and didn’t enjoy listening to most of the records I had, which were predominantly Soul and Motown. “Why do you only have blackie music? You should have some good white groups too”. I was at a loss to understand why he was even on the exchange, to be honest.

And I had already decided to turn down the return trip to Courbevoie.

With the farewell dance coming up, I was relieved that it would all soon be over. They were all leaving after the dance, taking a coach down to Dover to get a night ferry, then driving on to Paris. Their luggage was stored in the Civic Centre, and the disco started at around seven, for three hours. Before that, some teachers made speeches about the value of language trips and student exchanges. The teachers who had come from France had stayed with teachers from my school, all over London. Then there was some buffet food and soft drinks, in a rather awkward atmosphere.

I spotted Nicole standing alone against the wall, and went over to talk to her. She also lived in Courbevoie, and her parents had moved to France from Algeria, many years before she was born. I didn’t mention Jean being so rude about her, and he had gone off to be with his mates anyway. After a couple of slow dances, we went and sat on the stairs outside the hall, and I was enraptured by her looks, and her quiet manner. She asked for my address so she could write to me, and jotted that down in a small notebook she had in her handbag.

Like Jean, she spoke very little English, certainly not enough for any normal conversation, so we had to speak in French throughout. When it came time to leave, she asked me very politely, “Please kiss me, I want to remember your kiss. I will write to you next week”. I stood outside watching them board the coach, and waved to her as it drove off. My mum and dad had arrived to take me home, after visiting my Aunt’s pub nearby. When he saw Nicole on the coach, he smiled and said “She’s a real beauty”. I was sure that I was in love with her, overwhelmed by how exotically beautiful she seemed to me, and by how genuine I felt she was.

She did indeed write as promised. Very romantic letters, sent by air mail. She wanted me to visit her in France, but warned that I would have to stay in a hotel, as her parents were strict, and were also muslims. I replied to her letters with great fondness, often using my French/English dictionary to find the right words.

After turning down the exchange with Jean Brun’s family, I signed up for a different trip to France. A smaller group, two teachers and just four boys, travelling by train to Perpignan, where we would stay in a boarding school that was empty for the summer. One of the other teachers was going to drive down later in his camper van, and when he got there, we could go out and explore the area. I wrote to Nicole telling her about the trip, and gave her the details just out of interest.

It was a blisteringly hot summer down in the south of France, and we had a great time. Nothing was structured or organised except the meals, and there were other groups from all over the world staying at the boarding school, including some American girls from Chicago, and another mixed group from Montreal, Canada. One late afternoon when we had returned from the beach, the school caretaker came with a message. There was a French girl at the main entrance, asking for me by name.

I was staggered to see Nicole standing there. An older man was standing by a Peugeot car, looking grumpy. She introduced me to her father, who shook my hand and gave me a look that could kill a houseplant. Nicole told me that we could go for a walk on our own, but only somewhere public. We could hold hands, but must not let her dad see us kissing. We strolled to a cafe near the river, and sat down. I ordered two coca-colas, and she told me how she had got there.

“We are visiting relatives in Marseille for a summer holiday. I kept asking my dad if I could come and see you here in Perpignan, but he said it was too far. I was so upset I couldn’t stop crying, so he agreed to bring me today. But I can only stay for two hours, then we have to drive back to my mother and younger brother. My relatives think I am crazy to like an English boy so much, and it has caused a big argument”.

That was a distance of 200 miles, and it had taken over three and a half hours to drive it that day. After two hours in Perpignan, they faced the same drive back to their family. And all the arguments involved too. Just to see me! I was mightily impressed. We sipped our drinks feeling sad that we would have such a short time together, and when it was time to go back to the boarding school, she kissed me very passionately and told me she was in love with me, but that her family would never allow us to have a relationship.

As her dad drove off, she waved to me through the car window, tears running down her lovely face. She never wrote to me again, and I sometimes wonder how her life turned out.

I hope she was always happy.

Outside: Part Six

~ beetleypete ~ 31 Comments

This is the sixth episode of a fiction serial, in 743 words.

With the plasma television and SKY satellite box set up and working, supermarket deliveries arranged, and her excellent computer to enjoy, Gillian was sure she was going to love her new solitary life. There was no need to go out at all, unless she needed the dentist, or had to visit a doctor. She could cut her own hair when it got too long, and everything else she might need or want was available online.

One morning, the doorbell rang as she was halfway through watching a DVD of ‘Cleopatra’. She paused the disc, Elizabeth Taylor’s face filling the screen. Nobody was expected, and there were no orders awaiting delivery. The bell rang again, and she crouched down, speaking through the letterbox. “Who is it?” The voice that replied was familiar.

“It’s Jim Bell, Gill. I was on my way back from a meeting, and thought I would pop round to see how you were”. Naked under her dressing gown, she didn’t feel like entertaining a visitor. She couldn’t remember the last time she had washed her hair or had a bath, and her legs were hairy and unshaved.

“Sorry, Mister Bell. I don’t feel so good today. Got a bit of a temperature. Better not let you in, in case you catch something”. Jim might have been annoyed that she hadn’t even opened the door, but his voice didn’t betray that. “Some other time then. Get well soon, and keep in touch. We all think about you at work you know”.

Before resuming the film, Gillian decided to warm up a Cornish Pasty. Might as well, as she was up and about.

Watching News At Ten that night, there was an appeal for a missing girl, and they showed CCTV footage of her getting on a train at a staion in London. That gave Gillian an idea, and she went to her computer and started searching on Google.

The next day, she rang the numbers of a few home security companies, deliberately choosing some that were not local. Before lunchtime, she had made an appointment for the next morning for someone to come and talk to her about having a camera outside the house. It would mean having to let him in, and getting dressed too, but it was worth that for peace of mind.

The man was quite old, which was good. She reckoned he was at least sixty, and he had a kind voice. He also had a van outside, and said he could fit whatever system she chose there and then. That was a big bonus for Gillian, so she picked one from the catalogue, and made the man a cup of tea as he started working. Late that afternoon, it was all done, and she had paid directly using the phone banking. He showed her how it worked.

“The camera is a wide-angle. As you can see, it looks like an outside light, not a conventional camera. You will be able to see almost all of the front of the house from your gate, right up to the front door. This switch moves the angle, so you can look down, then move it back, and you see wide again. It’s a black and white only, but that makes it more affordable. The recording tape runs on a loop for twenty four hours, then starts again. So if you go out, you can see if anyone was outside your house by playing the tape back. It even shows you the time, and adjusts when the clocks go forward and back. There’s a remote control too, but that’s extra. You can ring the number on the paperwork if you decide you want one, and they will post it to you”.

Gillian nodded. The small control box was like a half-size VHS player, and the monitor screen lifted up from it, much like her laptop. She thought for a moment. “Can you come back tomorrow and fit one of those outside lights that comes on at night if someone comes to the door? It will be winter soon, and dark by four. Oh, and one of those speaker things, so I can talk to the person without opening the door. And you might as well bring that remote control you said about”. He smiled. “Of course I can miss, see you about the same time then”.

She was feeling good. By tomorrow evening, she would always know who was at the front door.

An Unpleasant Memory

~ beetleypete ~ 76 Comments

Sometimes, I watch real-life documentaries about police work in England. As I worked for the police in London before I retired, the procedures interest me, and I like the ‘behind the scenes’ look at how cases are investigated and solved. (Or never solved) I was watching one last night, and it brought back a memory that I hadn’t thought about for some years.

In 1977, I was working as a depot supervisor for a large food company that sold sausages, pies, bacon, and cooked meats from fleets of vans around London. I was based at the Battersea Depot, and we had twelve vans covering west London, out as far as Heathrow Airport.

Because of the nature of the work, it was a very early start. I had to be at work by 4 am, and the vans would be loaded and on the road by 5:30. For the rest of the day, I had to phone in the orders to the factory, deal with routine paperwork, and occasionally drive out to take care of customer complaints about short loads or missed deliveries.

To compensate for the early start, everyone finished early, and the last van was usually back well before 3 pm. Because the drivers/salesmen were sometimes paid in cash by establishments like roadside cafes and restaurants, I had to sort out the banking before I could lock up and leave. The nearby branch of the bank we used was always closed before I could get to it, so we used the Night Safe facility. This was a large opening in the wall of the bank with a pull-down drawer sealing it. I just had to place the sealed leather bag containing the money into it and it dropped into a container out of reach.

Most days, there wasn’t much money involved, but on Fridays some customers paid for a full week’s deliveries, so there could be as much as five hundred pounds in cash in the bag. A fair sum back then. Friday was also a late finish for us as many vans came back to the depot during the day for extra products, with shops and supermarkets asking for more if they anticipated a busy weekend. It was our habit to meet in the local pub when it opened at 5:30 pm, and have a drink before going home.

One Friday, I told the others I would meet them at the pub after dropping off the cash bag. I drove the short distance to the bank, not wanting to walk around that part of south London carrying over four hundred pounds in an obvious night safe bag. I parked (illegally) on a yellow line on the corner of Battersea Park Road and Meath Street, right outside the bank. (I don’t think that bank is still there) There was solid rush hour traffic in both directions, and lots of people waiting at bus stops on both sides of the busy main road.

Walking to the Night Safe which was on the same main road, I could hear someone running fast behind me, and presumed they were running to catch a bus.

The impact of a big man barging into me knocked me straight over onto my side. Another man appeared, trying to grab the bag from my right hand. As I hung onto it, a third man appeared, and kicked me repeatedly in the head. Luckily, he was wearing trainers, or he might well have fractured my skull. The second man stamped on my arm repeatedly as I lay there, until I could no longer hold the bag. Then the first man grabbed it, and all three ran off, turning into Meath Street and heading north.

For some reason still unknown to me, I ran to my car and gave chase at speed. What I was going to do if I caught them I had no idea. But I was angry, and still only twenty-five years old. I soon drew level with them, despite their head start, but being in the car, I couldn’t follow them into the housing estate at the next junction. Only then did I realise that I was still holding a hat I had dragged off the head of one of them. It was wrapped around the gearstick.

They had all been of West Indian appearance, dressed in the ‘Rasta’ style; with casual clothing, and large floppy hats covering their hair. I had this oversized velvet cap, and was determined to keep it as evidence. I turned the car around and drove back to the bank. There were no mobile phones in those days, but many members of the public had seen this happening, and had phoned the police from call boxes or by asking shopkeepers along the road to ring 999.

There were four uniformed police officers there in two cars. I spoke to one of them about what had happened, and he took down the details. I handed him the hat and told him where I had last seen them, minutes earlier. He shook his head wearily. “They will be long gone, I’m afraid”.

Moments later, an unmarked car drove up at speed, and two plain clothes officers jumped out. One flashed a badge at me and said “Flying Squad”, we heard the call go out”. Under his jacket, he was wearing a shoulder holster containing a revolver. Seeing armed police was rare back then, but the Flying Squad from Scotland Yard was world-famous.

I was expecting the police to set off to try to find the suspects. I had given a pretty good description, hung onto the hat for evidence, and declined medical aid. Instead, the Flying Squad officer with the gun took me into the side street, and started to suggest that I was involved. “Where did you dump the bag? What’s the names of those blokes you used to set it up? Come on, you might as well own up. It has to be an inside job, how else would they know what time to be here?”

To say I was outraged is an understatement. I told the police officer just what I thought of him, using language that cannot be typed here.

Eventually, they let me go on my way, and a uniformed officer said “I will be in touch”. But he never did get in touch, and neither did anyone else. There were no arrests, no suspect questioned, (except me) and we never again heard anything about the incident. It was robbery with violence, and as far as I know was never even followed up.

My bruises soon faded, leaving me with an unpleasant memory of not only being a robbery victim, but then being accused of staging it myself.

That memory never faded.

Outside: Part Five

~ beetleypete ~ 37 Comments

This is the fifth part of a fiction serial, in 736 words.

Once she no longer had a job, and could do anything she liked with her time, Gillian started to think about what was going to happen to her. She missed her mum being around, as she had been ideal company, and liked all the same things. But she had never been an over-emotional person, or demonstrably affectionate, which had left Gillian thinking that was the way to act.

Mum’s ashes had come, delivered in a plastic urn inside a thick cardboard box. Gillian had put that in mum’s bedroom, so she would feel at home.They had never been religious, but mum had often said things like “I will be watching over you’, so being in the house was the best place for her. Not that she had any idea where they could have been scattered.

There was plenty of money to spend, and she decided to spend some of it. Her trip to the bank had been brief, but worthwhile. She had set up direct debits to cover every monthly bill, and transferred a lot of money into her savings account, leaving plenty available in the current account. The man had also showed her about phone banking, and how she could just ring up to make payments and do transfers.

Not that she was reckless with money. She still had clothes that were ten years old, and spent next to nothing on make-up, jewellery, or lingerie, like some women did. The thing she craved was a big computer. The laptop still worked well, but she wanted something bang up to date, with a big screen and a proper keyboard.

On the bus to the retail park, Gillian felt uncomfortable. People were looking at her funny, she was sure of that. And two women behind kept whispering, almost definitely about her. In PC World, she bought the best and most expensive computer they had, with the largest monitor they had in stock. Then she paid extra to have it delivered within two working days. Her trousers were feeling tight after spending so long in pyjamas and jogging bottoms, so on the bus back she popped the top button above the zip to release the pressure.

When she got off at her stop, she made sure not to glance at the driver. He had given her a strange look when she got on.

In the corner shop, she stocked up with enough groceries to last the week. She had seen on TV about online shopping with Tesco, and intended to sign up for that as soon as possible. One less reason to have to go out, and much cheaper than buying everything from the Londis shop.

The men delivered her computer on the Friday morning. She shouted through the letterbox. “Leave it there please. I will be able to bring it in” One of them shouted back. “Sorry, love. You have to sign for it!” Before she opened the door, Gillian put the chain on it. The man passed the form on a clipboard through the gap with a pen, and she signed it and poked it back through. As they walked away, one muttered something to the other one, and they both laughed.

She waited until the big van drove away before opening the door to get the two big parcels.

Set up on the dining table, the new PC looked wonderful. She had it connected to the Internet with a cable, so it was much faster than the laptop too. She was so busy scrolling websites, she forgot to have lunch, and by the time her stomach was grumbling to tell her to eat something for dinner, she had an online account with Tesco, and with Amazon too. Now she could get her groceries delivered, and buy any CD or DVD she wanted.

When she had finished her pie, chips, and beans and done the washing up, she settled down to watch one of the soap operas that came on early. But after a few minutes, she got bored, and went back to the computer. Long before she was tired enough to go to bed, she had signed up for a Sky satellite system to be installed, and ordered one of those flat-screen plasma televisions she had seen for sale in the shops.

And she had ticked the box to pay extra for installation and setup too, even though that meant some man coming in.

Outside: Part Four

~ beetleypete ~ 48 Comments

This is the fourth part of a fiction serial, in 767 words.

Jim Bell more or less took charge of things after her mum’s death. Gillian went with him to register the death, and then they went to the undertaker where mum had already taken out a funeral plan. It was going to be very basic. Just the hearse and one car, followed by a short cremation service. Jim said he would come to the funeral with Maureen from work, surprised to discover they had no family or friends attending.

It was a sad affair to see, with just three mourners and a vicar who Gillian had never met before. There was no wake after, and standing outside with the flowers, Jim Bell told her to take as much time as she needed.

Her mum had always told her that Purdey’s had her will and instructions, so a week after the funeral, Gillian made an appointment to see someone in that firm of Solicitors. She was shown in to the boss himself, Graham Purdey. He said the usual condolences, and then got down to business.

“Your mother has left everything to you, Miss Baxter, as might be expected. As well as the house, I am pleased to inform you that there is a substantial sum of money. Your father’s pension lump sum was paid after his death at work, as well as the life insurance. Then once I get the paperwork sorted for your mother’s pension, I expect that will come to a lot of money too. She worked for the civil service for a long time, and has thirty-four years of pension to be paid to her beneficiary. That’s you. As far as I can estimate at the moment, there should be something close to two hundred thousand, and then there is the value of the house to consider. I will juggle the figures around to save you paying any death duties, and our fee will be most reasonable, I assure you”.

Back at home later, Gillian treated herself to having a pizza delivered, adding garlic bread and a two-litre bottle of Pepsi to the order. She had missed any birthday celebrations because of all the upset, so it seemed to be the least she could do for herself.

The amount of money discussed by the solicitor was well over ten years salary for her, maybe as much as twelve. He didn’t know about her own savings of course. Not having to pay any bills or housekeeping for most of her working life, at the age of twenty eight she had saved up a lot of money. Eight hundred a month since she had turned eighteen amounted to ninety-six thousand pounds.

As she waited for the pizza delivery, she chuckled to herself. She was rich.

Four days later, the solicitor rang to tell her that she would get half of mum’s monthly pension, but all of the lump sum due. “I have opted for you to take the largest lump sum on offer, and the half-pension should be something over three-fifty a month, paid until you die. The lump sum is estimated at the moment, but I suspect it will be something close to sixty thousand. Meanwhile, I have transferred the rest of your mother’s funds and savings into your account. You will have to visit your bank to make any arrangements for the money, but it is substantial sum, almost one hundred and thirty thousand pounds. I will need you to come in and sign some more paperwork soon though”.

Gillian’s accounts were at the same branch of the same bank as her mum’s, so she would pop in there soon and arrange to sort out her finances. Meanwhile, she went online to look at her own pension. She had been paying into it for eleven years, and she filled in an online estimate which returned a figure of a little over three hundred a month, with a lump sum of twenty-seven thousand on top.

In bed that night, she made a decision.

Around ten the next morning, she rang into work and asked to speak to Jim Bell. He was tied up with something, so Maureen said he would ring her back later. As she was enjoying some toasted waffles with raspberry syrup, the phone rang. It was Jim, returning her call. Eager to get him off the phone and finish the waffles, Gillian made it short.

“I have decided to resign. Can you sort out the paperwork and inform the pension people, please? I’m sorry to let you down, but I have inherited some money from mum, and I don’t need to work any longer”.

Outside: Part Three

~ beetleypete ~ 29 Comments

This is the third part of a fiction serial, in 753 words.

After two weeks, and no recurrence of her Angina, Rebecca Baxter was looking forward to going back to work on the following Monday. But when Gillian didn’t appear downstairs that morning, she went back upstairs, and into her room.

“Gill, why aren’t you up and about? Come on love, you will be late for work, and make me late too”. Gillian looked sulky. “I don’t fancy going in, mum. Tell them I will use the rest of my holiday, I feel like taking a longer break”.

On any other morning, Rebecca would never have tolerated such nonsense from her daughter. But it was her first day back after being off sick, and she didn’t want to be late. “Okay, I will ask Mister Bell, but I can tell you know he’s not going to like it”. With that, she left in as much of a huff as she could be bothered to display. Then she almost missed the usual bus, and had to run up the hill to catch it just as the doors were closing.

By the time she got to work, Rebecca was feeling rather breathless, and quite stressed. The last thing she needed was to have to apologise to the boss about her daughter’s seemingly pointless absence. He was busy on the phone, but he smiled at her, and pointed at the chair opposite. As his phone call went on, Rebecca could feel the shortness of breath getting worse, and there was a pain along the side of her jaw that felt like toothache. She rubbed at it, but it didn’t go away.

As there was no pain in her chest or arms, it didn’t occur to her to take one of her tablets from the packet in her handbag, and place it under her tongue.

Jim Bell was still trying to explain to a factory manager why he didn’t have anyone suitable to recommend, when Mrs Baxter fell off the chair, face down onto the floor of his office. He hung up on the factory manager and rushed around his desk. She was as white as a sheet, and he could get no response from her. So he went back to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialled 999 for an ambulance.

Gillian was settling down with two toasted teacakes when the phone rang. She suspected it was going to be her mum, ringing to have a moan at her.

“Hello, Gill. It’s Jim Bell from work. You mum has collapsed unconscious, and the ambulance is taking her to the General. I have to tell you that they were doing resuscitation on her before they left, and it doesn’t look good. Maureen has gone in the ambulance with her, but you need to get down to Casualty as soon as you can”. Gillian was determined to finish her teacakes before they got cold, so took them upstairs with her and ate them as she was getting dressed. She could get the 187 bus to the General Hospital, it wasn’t that far away.

It took about forty minutes until Gillian walked into the busy Casualty Department, then waited for a receptionist to become free to talk to her. “My name is Gillian Baxter. I’ve come to see my mum, she was brought in by ambulance”. The woman gave her a knowing look, and a pleasant smile that seemed false. “Please take a seat, I will get someone to come and speak to you. There was a friend from work with her, but she left about five minutes ago”.

A young Indian doctor came into the waiting room. He took her to a room, the same one she had sat in that night over two weeks ago. When she had sat down, he sat next to her, and spoke very quietly. “I am very sorry to tell you that your mother has died, Miss Baxter. Between the ambulance crew and the medical team, we tried hard to save her, but after thirty minutes, there was no point carrying on. Is there someone we can call to be with you? A relative or close friend perhaps?”

Unsure what to say, Gillian looked at him for a long time. “No, there’s nobody, doctor. She was only fifty you know, just fifty”. He nodded sympathetically. “Would you like to come through and see her? She just looks like she’s asleep, nothing horrible I assure you”.

Shaking her head, Gillian sat up straight. “No thank you. I don’t think I would like that”.

Thinking Aloud On A Sunday

~ beetleypete ~ 72 Comments

Selfishness.

Following the media hype about non-existent fuel shortages, the last few days have shown us the worst side of human nature that exists in this country. A blatant display of selfishness and disregard for others that always makes me ashamed to be English.

There have been confrontations in queues at petrol stations, and examples of flock mentality that makes me question the intelligence of English people in general. Hard to work out when this happened, but it is a long way from the pulling together and genuine community spirit that got this country through WW2.

Not content with filling up the tank of their car, many drivers rushed to also fill containers with extra fuel.

There were also people on Ebay trying to sell full containers at inflated prices. Shame on them.

This idiot was photographed filling unsuitable plastic water bottles with fuel, turning his car into a potential bomb.

I woke up this morning thinking about people like those pictured. People who don’t care about essential workers needing fuel to get into work to serve the community. People who feel satisfied when they have bought as much petrol as they can cram into any available container, then presumably drive home with a smug smile, hoping to boast about their exploits to family and friends.

They are not me. I am not one of them. They disgust me.

Vitamin B: An Update

~ beetleypete ~ 57 Comments

In June, I wrote this post about taking Vitamin B tablets to ward off biting insects.

Vitamin B, and Biting Insects

Three months later, and close to the end of ‘the biting season’, I have a very positive update.

Since publishing that post, I have had just FOUR insect bites, including the one mentioned in June. Compare this to the regular 3-4 bites I used to get almost every day, even when I was wearing some heavy-duty insect repellent.

Regular readers will know that I walk my dog Ollie every day without fail. Those walks include a long riverside path, as well as woodland areas in the shade. Both of those locations are favoured by the usual midges and mosquitoes that have always craved my blood.

Even though I have still been able to see and hear those insects over the past three months, I have been unaware of any bites whatsoever, while out in the countryside. In fact, I am sure the four bites I did receive were done at night in the bedroom, when I was asleep.

Whatever bit me must have been desperate, and ready to overcome the effect that Vitamin B has on my skin.

My conclusion is that the experiment has been a SUCCESS, and I will continue to keep taking my daily tablet of Vitamin B. Especially as a year’s supply only cost me £7.99.