Hymn

Lay By

Today was a perfect day for it, whatever ‘it’ might be. The day was warm and sunny with clear blue skies. Of course I should know by now that the evil Fairy of Embarrassing Incidents has more places to hide in the dark shadows cast by bright sunshine. Still, never one to learn from experience, I look at a cloudless sky and see the opportunity to combine a number of ill-thought out activities in increasingly precarious ways. I’m not known as Throw-Caution-To-The-Wind-Reeve for nothing, although it is a monicker than seems more commonly used when I face a large plate of beans.

My mind was set: I would drive my recently-restored-broken-down-twice-in-the-last-month classic sports car across two counties to an airfield where I would hurl myself out of a perfectly serviceable aeroplane two and half miles above the ground. What possible room for disaster? I thought to myself.

The trouble with leaping out of planes in weather like this is that the jumpsuits are so hot. Oh, they’re fetching, all right. Mine’s black with flashes of purple and white. It’s quite tight too, of course. My, I look a picture! Just like I’ve just stepped of the stage of a flamenco dance-off for people with no rhythm and a penchant for helmets and goggles. Auntie Bill would be so proud. But they are hot. Damn hot. It’s not unlike fleeing a crowd of angry Chinese gymnasts wearing a leotard and leggings and discovering the only safe haven is a sauna populated by welders.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like to sit in a hermetically-sealed Lycra sack as much as the next man. Indeed, nothing perks me up quite as much as swilling around in my own sweat for a couple of hours, particularly if surrounded by close friends with big bags. But even I, the Perspiration Poobah, can only stand so much submersion and take the necessary steps to minimise the situation in all but special occasions. It is important to understand that we often do things in particular situations that might seem a little, shall we say, ‘odd’ in normal life. But I can assure you that tiny shorts and a vest top are perfectly acceptable undergarments for any respectful skydiver. And certain cabaret artistes.

You’ll be pleased to hear than nothing untoward happened at the airfield. In fact, if you accept plummeting to near-certain death as normal, it was a perfectly ordinary afternoon. Quite splendidly - no-one, least of all me, died or suffered any unpleasant collision of any sort. That sort of thing can spoil even the balmiest of days. But no-one was spoiled, stained or contaminated in any way, sweat aside that is.

However, these things often have a habit of taking a little longer than one expects and start to bump up against later appointments. I found myself needing to hurry home as the day slipped away. Rather than change completely I decided, without too much thought, to strip out of my jumpsuit and drive back more or less as God intended - with a couple of scraps of Nike-manufactured cotton covering my haste and nipples. Just. But in the safety and seclusion of my own car who would know, let alone mind? Besides, a bit of breeze would do me the world of good.

The English countryside on an early Summer’s evening is precisely what my car was designed for. I felt like Toad tootling down the hedge-lined lanes, beeping my horn for no particular reason. It was glorious. And the breeze around the various Chippings, very welcome.

Now I’m no mechanical expert but a clank from the engine followed by the overwhelming reek of petrol is rarely a good thing. As the cabin filled with fumes and the fuel gauge swung violently to empty, I began to suspect something might be wrong. A flat tyre, maybe. I was slightly concerned about my big end, especially in my current attire, and the prospect of being stranded on the edge of a quiet road with no suitable tool to fiddle with. Thankfully as the engine spluttered it’s last cough I managed to coast into a picturesque lay-by. At least here I could await rescue.

I called my breakdown recovery service. They promised to send a man. Sometime in the next week.

I waited.

It turned out that the lay-by wasn’t quite as quiet as I’d first imagined. The first three or four cars that pulled up were looking for the nearby prison. It wasn’t immediately clear whether to visit, attend or perform a breakout. Mercifully, the young thugs in their souped-up rides were not in the least bit interested in me or my little yellow car. They merely conducted some drugs deal, dumped some bagged up corpse or swapped Go Faster stripes before racing off in a cloud of wheel-spin.

As the light faded, the lay-by’s clientele changed. Not actually for the better. A steady procession of nondescript cars started to arrive, all with the passenger seat uncomfortably reclined.

Their drivers fell into one of two categories, small weasely men in tank-tops or great hulks of mankind with tattoos and moustaches. They pulled up slowly and wound down their windows with more suggestion than I can describe. Unlike the earlier disinterested visitors, these men seemed eager to ask questions. And most of them concerned the quickest route to Little Bottom, a local village I hadn’t heard of.

Of course, I was able to diffuse the situation immediately, as I sat on my bonnet. In my skimpy shorts. And vest top.

And let me tell you, in case you ever find yourself in a similar situation running screaming into the neighbouring field is not necessarily the cleverest thing to do either.

I fear it’s the last time I ever see that little car of mine. Or those shorts.

Flaming Cars

I had an unexpected trip in my new old car today.  Up to God’s Own Country and back again.  Ordinarily a pleasant enough drive but today a bit against the clock.  Still, a good opportunity to enjoy my new wheels.  Of course I’m not under any illusions about the general appeal of my car - it is stunningly dull.  It’s not fast, luxurious or sexy; no-one would call it a hot rod, it would be virtually impossible to Pimp My Ride and it’s inconceivable that any kind of kitten would opt to travel in this wagon.  It is frankly embarrassing and wholly in keeping with my inability to be cool.

This afternoon I discovered an unexpected feature of the car.  Fire.  Now, I’m a great believer in fire; it wasn’t so long ago that some Neanderthal chums and I rubbed our sticks together somewhat too vigorously and saw them burst into flames.  It was a bit of a shock at the time but soon those little sparks became our regular playmates.  Even now in these sophisticated times there’s nothing more homely and welcoming than a good blaze.  So, I am no stranger to combustion although the allegations that I was the Phantom Fire-starter of Pudding Lane were never proven.  I generally understand when and where to expect it.  I didn’t expect it in my glove box as I hurtled down the motorway.

It taught me a valuable lesson though: no matter how hard one tries to ignore a problem, it rarely takes the hint and goes away.  Damn it.  We live in such an inconsiderate world.

The unmistakeable smell of melting plastic was the first sign.  I willed it to be the sulphurous gases from the nearby coal processing site.  It wasn’t.  The initial gossamers of smoke, I imagined as simply Summer haze.  They weren’t.  Great plumes of grey smog I decided came from another vehicle.  They didn’t.  Paradoxically, it was at the point when I couldn’t see any problem at all, or indeed out of the windscreen, that I thought it wise to investigate.

I believe the correct protocol in these situations is to run screaming from the car, preferably with some part of one’s anatomy in flames.  I was too cross to give anyone the satisfaction.    I pulled over, turned off the ignition and kicked the offside rear wing as I retreated to the verge.  Damn car.  This would never happened if God had enabled me to fly as I’d always asked.  He and I will have a lot to talk about one day. 

I stood indignantly for a few moments, the object of intense rubber-necking, as smoke billowed across the road. Hard shoulders are miserable places.  You’d have thought the Highways Agency might have made a little effort to make them more accommodating.  I mean if it wasn’t inconvenient enough having to pull off the main carriageway, there wasn’t even a bench from which to watch my car burn.  At least, I thought to myself, I could record the explosion on my mobile phone and earn £250 from some Schadenfreude television programme. 

It stopped smoking.

It stopped doing anything at all.

It sat like a failed firework. 

Balls.

I tried to recall the Public Safety Announcements of my childhood.  I could remember Tufty but now in my memories he was being abused by Itchy and Scratchy.  And there was another advert with a boy, a ball and an electricity substation but I couldn’t see any relevance there except a warning about tank tops.  And, though I wracked my brain, I couldn’t bring to mind any guidance about a car that had failed to detonate.

I waited.

I kicked my heels.

I waited some more.

I popped the bonnet.  Thankfully it only popped.  There wasn’t any scorching let alone any flames.  I admit, I was mildly disappointed.

I checked the wheels.  Still nothing unusual - although with my negligible mechanical knowledge I was only really checking to see if I still had four of them.  I did.

I looked inside the cabin.  Apart from looking like a soap bubble cleverly filled with cigarette smoke by a children’s entertainer, there didn’t seem anything untoward.  I opened the door.  The fumes slunk out like naughty children.  I kicked to disperse them and scolded them on their way.

More disappointment.  No charred remains.  Nothing resembling the petrol-bombed wreckage that littered my Sunday School outings.  In fact as the smoke disappeared I began to wonder if I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.  Then I opened the glove box.  It looked as though it had been redesigned by Salvador Dali.  The compartment bore only a surreal resemblance to what I remembered.  I looked in vain for my mittens.  Gone.  My jousting gauntlets hadn’t fared much better.  Nor my oven gloves.  All incinerated.

Through a droopy hole in the back I saw some mangled wires and a fuse box that had fused to some unidentifiable fixture or fitting.  Not troubling any sense or intelligence I used my finger to check if it was still hot.  It was.  I removed as much molten plastic from the fuse box as the fuse box removed skin from my hand.  I think we came out equal - although of course I am human being who can feel pain and it was an inanimate object made in Singapore.

Now, the sensible thing would have been to call for some professional help.  But I haven’t got to where I am today by worrying about distractions like common sense.  I prefer the road the less trod, the one with obvious flaws, obstacles and really prickly brambles.  Besides I just wanted to get home rather than wait on the tarmac for another couple of hours.  Free of the constraints of wisdom, protocol and acumen, I quickly determined that the best solution was to disconnected every wire from the remnants of the fuse box.  It took me ten minutes to prise everything apart but finally I pulled out what looked like a mutilated sea urchin.  I knew that that would sort it out.

Miraculously, the ignition still worked.  Nothing else did.  The lights didn’t light, the wipers didn’t wipe, the radio didn’t radio.  But there was no more fire.  I drove home, occasionally thumping my impotent horn at the unobservant drivers that didn’t see my hand signals.  Sometimes the road can be a very dangerous place.

Morning

My body tells me it is 4am even if the clocks say 7.  I have had no sleep.  We have travelled five and a half thousand miles a flying sardine can.  By the time we leave Heathrow, London is enjoying Rush Hour.  Home is still a long way away.  Suddenly my great idea to drive doesn’t feel like such a winner.

Thankfully I can always fall back on the alarm call of driving over cats’ eyes.

Bitty

On this particular flight, it wasn’t much easier for T but for reasons that will become apparent, I didn’t look across too often.

I know some people have some strong opinions about this.  Pretty much everyone agrees in the beginning though.  It’s only later when they start to disagree.  We did it ourselves for sometime.  Maybe we wish we could have done it for a little longer.  But, you know, all good things must come to an end.  Years later some people still think it’s a beautiful thing.  But I don’t think I know any of them.

The couple on the other side of us had a young daughter too.  Not as young as S, mind.  Young as in six or seven.  That’s still pretty young in so many ways.  But it is quite old in others.  You’d think she wouldn’t need quite the same looking after as a baby; that she’d be able to do some things herself.  Like swallowing to stop her ears from popping on take-off and landing.  It seems not.  Seems she needs a little extra something.  A little extra comfort.  A little extra comfort from Mummy.   

When T first tugged my arm, the thing I saw was a woman lifting her top to expose her breast.  Now, I’m as open-minded as the next man about random acts of breast showing.  If that’s you’re thing, then go ahead - burn your bra.  I won’t stand in your way.  I might happily stand in front of you; I might equally just watch calmly from a short distance.  But it’s not what you expect on a short haul flight.  We weren’t even a mile high: just twelve feet off the ground.  Still, it was better than watching the safety announcement.

Then it all went wrong.  Horribly, horribly wrong.  The young girl latched on.  And started sucking.  Mummy patted her head gently.  This girl was well into school age.  And there she was.  Sucking.

Now don’t get me wrong: I think breast-feeding babies is the most natural thing in the world  But this little girl was a long way from being a baby.

The father glared at us.  As though we shouldn’t noticed.  I didn’t look again.  But I could still hear the slurping.

Balloon

Now I appreciate that my little travelling group ranks pretty high in the Nightmare Passengers league.  Even if our in-flight experience so far has been okay I can see the dread in people eyes as we check in.  I don’t blame them.  You never know who you’ll be sitting next to.

We were allocated seats either side of the aisle.  Strangers filled the window places at the edges.  They ended up making me feel much less worried about the disruption we caused. 

On one side of us was a whale of a woman with a bladder problem.  She didn’t so much sit down as ooze into her seat.  Great mounds of blubber rested like water-filled balloons on the arm-rests.  She didn’t look comfortable.  Mind you, as she seeped into our space, neither did we.  Now I’m pretty thick and cumbersome but this was something else.  Watching her trying to find her seatbelt was like watching a kangaroo pick up a marble.  I thought about stepping in but worried about losing a limb.  Eventually she called over a stewardess.  Poor girl.  She was a model of professionalism though: her smile remained completely fixed as she entered into a desperately unequal sumo match and her arms sank into the folds of skin like quicksand.  They grappled and grunted for some time before wrenching the ends of the belt free.  It was hopelessly too short.  With more tact that I could muster, the stewardess went quietly for an extension.  Actually she connected two together and then, like securing a airship in a gale, strapped this woman down. 

In her position, I think I’d have stayed put for the short internal flight but she was clearly going to get her money’s worth from the complimentary refreshments.  Unfortunately her body couldn’t match her ambition.  I timed it.  Each of the four drinks she consumed took between twelve and sixteen minutes before requiring a trip to the Little Girls’ Room, although clearly she was an honorary member of that club.  Some people might have become angry with her very physical and frequent demonstration of a hyperactive bladder but it gave me a chance to inhale.  I didn’t complain.

Taxi Two: The Airport

I ask concierge for a taxi.

“How much to the airport?” I ask.
‘Sixty Real.’
“Sixty Real?”
‘Yes, sir.  Sixty Real.’
“To the airport?”
‘Yes sir.’  There’s that look again.

“Sixty Real to the airport.” I state to the driver.  He nods.  I relax enough to allow my cheeks to ripple from the g-forces created by his acceleration.

Twenty minutes and thirty miles later I pass over two crisp fifties with my still trembling hand.  He gives me back twenty in small change.

I remonstrate.  Something I always find easier when we don’t share a language.

“Sixty.  The hotel said sixty.  You said sixty.”

He points to a notice within the cab.  He stabs at it with his finger.

He has all the cards.  And the money.  I curse loudly but given the language barrier offend only my family.

I can sense a pattern emerging. 

Taxi

Some would say that I’m linguistically challenged.  Plain English is often a struggle.  Portuguese is entirely out of the question.  Despite the weight of historical evidence that points to the fact that basic language skills elude me, I have rehearsed a number of simple phrases, including: “Excuse me, you young rascals.  You will be able to tell from the expensive camera slung around my neck, the multitude of suitcases and the unfeasibly large denomination notes bulging from my pockets that I am a tourist.  It is 3am, there are no street lights in this part of town and no-one knows I am here.  I am lost.  Please could you direct me to the nearest representative of Her Majesty’s Government?” 

Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try, it always seems to come out “Hey there Batty Boy, your breath smells. And by the way, your girlfriend is a slug.”

This is not the best basis for a conversation with a taxi driver.  Especially when I responsible for my family.  God help us all.  I have had to pick the lock of too many car boots, from the inside, to risk it with a baby in tow.  Thankfully at the airport, there is a system for morons like me.  Pre-pay taxis.  Genius.  And the girl behind the desk speaks English.  I am saved.  But I decide to make the effort with the correct pronunciation. 

“I’d like a taxi to the Marie-curie Hotel, please.
“Can I spell it?  Why yes.  M...E...R...C...U...R...E.  It’s in Pauline-is-tina.  P...A...U...L...I...S...T...A”
She nods at me.  There’s something familiar in her expression.
‘That’s thirty-five dollars, please.’
“Here you are”  I said handing over the exact money but adding humorously, “Keep the change.”
She does not laugh.  I put it down to the subtleties of the British wit and start to explain why it’s funny.  T tugs my arm.

Our cab has the capacity for one less suitcase than we carry.  Our driver improvises by balancing it on his lap.  Peering over the handles, he catapults the car forward.  He does not speak English.  He is apparently new to the city.  He reads the ticket carefully.  He shakes his head.  But he is determined: what he lacks in knowledge, he wants to make up for in velocity. We rocket down back streets with a movements that defy most of the laws of physics although seem to be compliant with local traffic regulations.  I sense he is attempting to reach 88mph at which point the Flux Capacitor will kick in and we’ll be magically transported through time to the right place.  Presumably after he has a work visa and a map of the city.

We call at three hotels in quick succession.  Clearly, he is working on a process of elimination.  We are in the world’s third most populous city; I wonder how long this might take.  I have had my eyes shut tight for the last ten minutes so it is easier to concentrate on the calculation.  It could be a very long night.  We have another plane to catch in two days so the possibility of staying at the airport starts to be an attractive option.

As we hurtle down another unpaved, unlit road, his phone rings.  It is not to hand or in sight and he devotes his complete attention to finding it.  Impressively, we do not slow down at all.  After a few minutes with his head buried under the dashboard, he emerges with a mobile clamped between his teeth.  Resting it on top of our suitcase, he starts screaming furiously.  I cannot tell if he is shouting at his controller, his wife or the gang that will demand a ransom for three hapless tourists and a baby. 

I not entirely sure of the contents of the conversation but whoever was on the other end seemed to convince our driver of something.  He hurled the phone aside as he made what would have been a hand-brake turn if only he could have reached around the luggage.

We only called at two more hotels before arriving at ours.

‘Lateteen dollar, peas’
“We’ve already paid”
‘Yes, lateteen dollar.’
I resort to Universal English.
“I HAVE PAID.  THIRTY FIVE DOLLARS.”
‘No.  Lateteen.”

He pointed to a chart of hieroglyphics in the cab.  He stabbed at it with his finger.
‘Lateteen dollar.’

I looked at my ashen family.  And paid.

Audience

Did I mention that it was an eleven and a half hour flight? 

Within an hour I am hoarse from silly voices and have cramp in my cheeks from pulling so many ‘funny’ faces.  I am exhausted and so too is my repertoire of amusing diversions for baby.  She starts to whimper.  Oh God.  I sense muscles clench and teeth grit across the cabin. 

We’re not too far over the Atlantic: I consider the swim ashore but an air steward wearing trousers that are a little too snug bars the emergency exit.  He smiles in a way that only air stewards in tight pants can.  I am petrified.  He too seems a little rigid.  I am stuck.  In my panic, I grab Baby.  A miracle happens.

As she clears the height of the seats, she catches sight of our fellow travellers.  She likes people.  She beams.  She grins from ear to ear.  And then she scrunches up her little nose and smiles some more.  The cabin melts. 

Until this time, I’d only managed one glance back at other passengers.  They glared back as if to say: “This is an eleven and a half hour flight.  You’ve brought a baby.  Are you out of your mind?”  I didn’t think they’d appreciate me agreeing so readily.  I quickly formulated a defensive strategy: I pretended to be Polish.  It worked fine until I was rumbled by a huge burly miner from Gdansk.  My knowledge of eastern European languages isn’t great but I think she threatened to add my name to the long tattooed list on her rippling forearm.  It was enough to make me sit down and stare at the unmoving map of our journey.  Time to destination: 40 days and 40 nights.

Now though, the vision of a flying lynch mob had transformed.  I look out over a sea of smiling faces.  Waving ripples across the rows.  Women have gone gooey.  Even the blokes seem pleasantly distracted. Periodically girls come over to coo.  I am holding The Golden Child.

And so the remaining journey passed. 

Completely unexpectedly, we do not feel the need to rush off the plane when it touches down.  There is no howling horde chasing us.  Instead a queue forms.  Seriously.  A queue of adoring women.  Each one wanting a stroke and cuddle.  To give, that is, not receive.  Sadly, it is nothing to do with me.  It is the Papal Infant on my lap.

Flight of Fancy

People call me crazy all the time.  Not in the 1970s American “You’re crazy, man” sort of way.  Or in the 1980s British ‘wacky’ way.  Just in the plain old simple, “You’re out of your mind” way.  I’d like to believe it’s eccentrically attractive but then I’d like to believe in the tooth-fairy and comfortable Underground rides too; I know, deep down, that they are all completely out of the question. 

Baby has just had two courses of antibiotics to shake off an ear infection.  Chicken pox is going round her nursery.  I’m about to put her onto an eleven and half hour flight.  To the sub-tropics.  A lot of people are saying I’m out of my mind.  I tell them of her extensive travelling experience so far - a couple of hours in the car.  They shake their heads and try to recall the number for Social Services.

Most parents that have attempted something similar advise drugs.  Most non-parents suggest travelling separately.  And not on their plane.

Still, I have attempted to mitigate the experience.  We will be flying by day.  Fewer people will be trying to sleep.  All we need to do is keep Little S amused.  For eleven and a half hours.  How hard can it be?  We do it all the time at home.  Of course at home we have space and her toys and the garden and nice walks and quiet and her own bed and everything to hand.  And our staircase isn’t 35,000 feet high.

What’s the worse that can happen?  She might cry.  For eleven and a half hours.  That’s six hundred and ninety minutes.  Most people can tolerate a screaming baby for about thirty seconds.  Oh God.  What have I done?   

Empty

It feels like my first day back at work.  It isn’t.   But it is the restart of routine.  The early morning commute leaves me feeling ever so slightly detached from life.  I’ve made this journey so many times that it passes like a dream; my movements mechanical and my mind blank.  It’s a bit like long distance running or a meeting about paperclips.  Often I can’t recall a single moment of the trip.

I always swim through Oxford Circus following the currents of fellow travellers.  It’s the connection between two trains from Hell and little imps swing bags and umbrellas at our legs as we struggle through.  Today something woke me from my sleep.  The trains were as busy as ever and platforms as violent but now I was utterly alone.  Not metaphorically (although that’s often the case) but really, absolutely, completely alone.  Like a lighthouse keeper, the silence made me start.  I stopped.  I looked back and forth.  The passageway was fifty metres long.  It was empty.  Not a soul in sight.  I wasn’t quick witted enough to worry about wormholes or zones of twilight.  I had pushed past a couple of fur coats but hadn’t noticed any wardrobe.  For the age of a moment, I paused.  Nothing happened.  Nothing continued to happen for another moment.  I walked on.

The instance I rounded a corner, the throng was there.  Crowds of people In front of me.  And behind.  Hundreds of the buggers.  Although I looked, I could see no sign of a snigger, no stifled laughter.  There was no Ta-dah!  Just another train.  Just another manic Monday.  With a peculiar eddy of calm.