Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Blog Resurrection
After a lengthy hiatus, The Emslie Effect is back.
The main bit of news, actually, there are a huge number of bits, is that The Emslie Effect is transferring from the page to the stage. I will be taking my show 50% Liability to Edinburgh Festival Fringe this August. A collection of some of the most extreme things to have happened to me over the years.
Rather than giving anything away in advance of the show, I'm going to use this blog for updates as I prepare to decant myself to Edinburgh for a month.
Faced with accommodation during Fringe costing up to £14,000 a week (Yes that's right, a real advert I saw) I decided to think outside the box and buy a box.. A caravan! What could possibly go wrong? Updates to come....
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Off my Trolley
My car is currently being worked on for its MOT test. The yearly doom, that is more 'how much it will fail on' rather than, 'will it pass'. I have therefore been without transport for over a week. The irony is, that this time last year, I had three cars. This was more through circumstance than being ostentatious. As time has gone on and finances have determined, I've sold off the other two. If I lived in the city, it may not be such an issue, where I am, is about a three mile walk to a bus stop. Inevitably, I got to the point of running out of milk and other provisions. Kindly my neighbour lent me her car today, to go to the supermarket to stock up.
Being self employed, and probably more importantly, single with no kids, I'm used to going shopping when I want. That is often following my DJ work in the early hours of a Sunday morning. More often than not, it will be an evening or a weekday. Certainly never a Saturday afternoon. Today might have been particularly bad being Halloween weekend, I do not know but it was sheer hell.
I normally quite like grocery shopping. Perhaps that's strange for a guy. I do like comparing prices and get an enormous sense of satisfaction if I have got bargains. True bargains, not the ones where shops now trick you with a big display of something pretending to be on offer, when it was actually cheaper last week. I certainly will not grab the first thing off the shelf, preferring to compare the price of another brand, or delving to the back of the shelf for a longer 'use by' date. I have no hesitation in buying a reduced item if I can incorporate it into that night's meal or freeze it. I regard my approach as more common sense than anal retentive. I do impulse buy too, justifying the fresh cookies snatched from the shelf, against the half priced fish grabbed earlier. Today, I did not enjoy my experience one bit.
First, I needed a trolley. Usually during busy times, I can skip (not literally) through the store with only a basket. Unfortunately, I needed all the big heavy stuff: Potatoes, Coke, Milk, Tinned goods. I could take a large unwieldy trolley, or a small one. Dipping into my wallet for a pound coin, the small ones are apparently more sought after than the big ones, I discovered two Two pound coins, some notes and small change to the value of just over one pound! Entering the store muttering to myself, I nearly tripped over the impromptu fireworks display stand and was confronted with a massive queue for the kiosk. Of course, how could I forget, Saturday night is Lottery night. Obviously the rest of the week, or for that matter, the ability to play easily online, escapes most. Spotting a woman at the customer services desk, then throwing a guilty glance towards the queue for all her colleagues, I approached clutching a Two pound. Armed with two One pound coins, I ventured back outside to gather a trolley. Negotiating a mother trying to locate an unwilling, and vocally so, small child into the seat of another trolley, I pushed in my coin and headed back inside.
After, this time, succeeding in colliding with the oversized cardboard display by the fireworks, I was able to start negotiating my way through the shop.
The lottery queue was now clashing with the 'pumpkin browsing' section and forming an effective barrier. Politely, although nearly knee-capping an errant child, who had obviously had far too much sugar to be going out tonight collecting even more sweets, may lie on the boundaries of politeness. Had I meant to, I would have made galvanised steel connect with hyperactive brat. That was not today's mission. I tried several approaches through the aisles: Steering straight at people was certainly the most effective but I'm far too courteous for my own good, preferring to hang back to allow oncoming traffic. Quite a few did thank me. If there is something that really gets me, it is allowing someone through and them pointing nose to sky as if it were their right. In those cases, a publicly audible "Thank you would have been nice" or "You're very WELCOME!" does the trick nicely. I tried abandoning the trolley to delve down particularly congested aisles. Feeling like a ninja, bending my hips around trolleys either side of me, stooping low to duck under a browser concentrating their arms on upper shelves.
Imagine you are driving down a road, two truck drivers have recognised one another from way back. In order to talk, they draw up alongside each other on a main arterial road to have a fifteen minute conversation. While I’ve seen bus drivers try this stunt, and then only until traffic builds up behind one before they move off. Why not, we allow everyone to do this on our roads? If I see someone in a supermarket and begin chatting, we will move off to one side, call it ‘pulling into the verge’ if you will. Why is it acceptable to have two people, full sized trolleys, spouse and children magnetically hovering right beside each one, making passing impossible? An “Excuse me please” is often met with the same derisory stare one might otherwise expect if you had just tried to push in front of them in a queue. Surely I cannot be the only one, who secretly wishes I had paramilitary weaponry while shopping. Some well aimed rocket propelled grenades would make the experience so much more enjoyable. I’m wondering if the fireworks stand can help me out on that one.
If the fellow shoppers were not bad enough, the tannoy announcements put the icing on the Halloween cake. Someone in marketing must have thought it a great idea, for the announcements to all be done in a cackling witchy voice. I’ve heard plenty staff in that store who could easlily have auditioned for the job with their normal voice. Previously wincing at the skirl of “Queueeee Busterzz ti checkouts please, Queue BusTEERS tae checkOOTS!” These announcements opened a whole new realm of ear bleeding utterances. Over acted cackling laughter following every mention of a product, repeated on every five minutes.
Finally, with a trolley full of the essentials, I made my way to the packed checkout lanes. The self service was not an option, as I had far too many booby-trapped items that would likely trigger the over sensitive mechanisms to tell me I had not bagged an item, when in fact, I had merely moved the box of eggs in the bag to save their impending doom from another item. I began loading my goods onto the conveyor, quickly realising the assistant wanted to ‘help’ by bagging my items. Help is always appreciated. Putting raw packs of chicken in with an open packed half baguette is not. As soon as all my stuff was on the belt, I hurried to re bag the mismatched provisions. “Be careful with those eggs” she politely said, whilst shoving a bag of potatoes on a collision course from scanner to bagging area. I paid with my card, as she helpfully forced stray (fragile) items into existing bags. Everything now back in the trolley, I exited the store, giving the fireworks a wide berth, while this time on a collision course with a family of five.
Out in the car park, I gave myself a shake to remember it was not my car I was looking for. Locating my neighbour’s car, I brought the trolley through a vacant car space close up and loaded up. Ready to return the trolley and get my pound back, I now noticed a car had boxed in the escape route for my trolley. With other cars badly parked over white lines, I contemplated lifting the entire trolley to get it out. I then noticed the newly parked had had seen my predicament and was reversing back out to give me space. He was a driving instructor, going by the big plastic pyramid on the car’s roof. I thanked him with a wave, put away the trolley and walked back to the car as he was exiting his. I made a point of thanking him verbally this time. I assume he was going in to do shopping too, rather than offering remedial training in trolley use, aisle positioning and general courtesy.
Being self employed, and probably more importantly, single with no kids, I'm used to going shopping when I want. That is often following my DJ work in the early hours of a Sunday morning. More often than not, it will be an evening or a weekday. Certainly never a Saturday afternoon. Today might have been particularly bad being Halloween weekend, I do not know but it was sheer hell.
I normally quite like grocery shopping. Perhaps that's strange for a guy. I do like comparing prices and get an enormous sense of satisfaction if I have got bargains. True bargains, not the ones where shops now trick you with a big display of something pretending to be on offer, when it was actually cheaper last week. I certainly will not grab the first thing off the shelf, preferring to compare the price of another brand, or delving to the back of the shelf for a longer 'use by' date. I have no hesitation in buying a reduced item if I can incorporate it into that night's meal or freeze it. I regard my approach as more common sense than anal retentive. I do impulse buy too, justifying the fresh cookies snatched from the shelf, against the half priced fish grabbed earlier. Today, I did not enjoy my experience one bit.
First, I needed a trolley. Usually during busy times, I can skip (not literally) through the store with only a basket. Unfortunately, I needed all the big heavy stuff: Potatoes, Coke, Milk, Tinned goods. I could take a large unwieldy trolley, or a small one. Dipping into my wallet for a pound coin, the small ones are apparently more sought after than the big ones, I discovered two Two pound coins, some notes and small change to the value of just over one pound! Entering the store muttering to myself, I nearly tripped over the impromptu fireworks display stand and was confronted with a massive queue for the kiosk. Of course, how could I forget, Saturday night is Lottery night. Obviously the rest of the week, or for that matter, the ability to play easily online, escapes most. Spotting a woman at the customer services desk, then throwing a guilty glance towards the queue for all her colleagues, I approached clutching a Two pound. Armed with two One pound coins, I ventured back outside to gather a trolley. Negotiating a mother trying to locate an unwilling, and vocally so, small child into the seat of another trolley, I pushed in my coin and headed back inside.
After, this time, succeeding in colliding with the oversized cardboard display by the fireworks, I was able to start negotiating my way through the shop.
The lottery queue was now clashing with the 'pumpkin browsing' section and forming an effective barrier. Politely, although nearly knee-capping an errant child, who had obviously had far too much sugar to be going out tonight collecting even more sweets, may lie on the boundaries of politeness. Had I meant to, I would have made galvanised steel connect with hyperactive brat. That was not today's mission. I tried several approaches through the aisles: Steering straight at people was certainly the most effective but I'm far too courteous for my own good, preferring to hang back to allow oncoming traffic. Quite a few did thank me. If there is something that really gets me, it is allowing someone through and them pointing nose to sky as if it were their right. In those cases, a publicly audible "Thank you would have been nice" or "You're very WELCOME!" does the trick nicely. I tried abandoning the trolley to delve down particularly congested aisles. Feeling like a ninja, bending my hips around trolleys either side of me, stooping low to duck under a browser concentrating their arms on upper shelves.
Imagine you are driving down a road, two truck drivers have recognised one another from way back. In order to talk, they draw up alongside each other on a main arterial road to have a fifteen minute conversation. While I’ve seen bus drivers try this stunt, and then only until traffic builds up behind one before they move off. Why not, we allow everyone to do this on our roads? If I see someone in a supermarket and begin chatting, we will move off to one side, call it ‘pulling into the verge’ if you will. Why is it acceptable to have two people, full sized trolleys, spouse and children magnetically hovering right beside each one, making passing impossible? An “Excuse me please” is often met with the same derisory stare one might otherwise expect if you had just tried to push in front of them in a queue. Surely I cannot be the only one, who secretly wishes I had paramilitary weaponry while shopping. Some well aimed rocket propelled grenades would make the experience so much more enjoyable. I’m wondering if the fireworks stand can help me out on that one.
If the fellow shoppers were not bad enough, the tannoy announcements put the icing on the Halloween cake. Someone in marketing must have thought it a great idea, for the announcements to all be done in a cackling witchy voice. I’ve heard plenty staff in that store who could easlily have auditioned for the job with their normal voice. Previously wincing at the skirl of “Queueeee Busterzz ti checkouts please, Queue BusTEERS tae checkOOTS!” These announcements opened a whole new realm of ear bleeding utterances. Over acted cackling laughter following every mention of a product, repeated on every five minutes.
Finally, with a trolley full of the essentials, I made my way to the packed checkout lanes. The self service was not an option, as I had far too many booby-trapped items that would likely trigger the over sensitive mechanisms to tell me I had not bagged an item, when in fact, I had merely moved the box of eggs in the bag to save their impending doom from another item. I began loading my goods onto the conveyor, quickly realising the assistant wanted to ‘help’ by bagging my items. Help is always appreciated. Putting raw packs of chicken in with an open packed half baguette is not. As soon as all my stuff was on the belt, I hurried to re bag the mismatched provisions. “Be careful with those eggs” she politely said, whilst shoving a bag of potatoes on a collision course from scanner to bagging area. I paid with my card, as she helpfully forced stray (fragile) items into existing bags. Everything now back in the trolley, I exited the store, giving the fireworks a wide berth, while this time on a collision course with a family of five.
Out in the car park, I gave myself a shake to remember it was not my car I was looking for. Locating my neighbour’s car, I brought the trolley through a vacant car space close up and loaded up. Ready to return the trolley and get my pound back, I now noticed a car had boxed in the escape route for my trolley. With other cars badly parked over white lines, I contemplated lifting the entire trolley to get it out. I then noticed the newly parked had had seen my predicament and was reversing back out to give me space. He was a driving instructor, going by the big plastic pyramid on the car’s roof. I thanked him with a wave, put away the trolley and walked back to the car as he was exiting his. I made a point of thanking him verbally this time. I assume he was going in to do shopping too, rather than offering remedial training in trolley use, aisle positioning and general courtesy.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Sticking Point
How hard can it be to stick the letters E, M and S on the side window of a car? Probably in anyone's normal world, incredibly straightforward. It is purely letters, no fancy artwork, no shape to match up exactly against the margins of the glass. That was the case with the window tints, fitted for security rather than vanity or any "boy racer fashion"
I am socially patient, I have the presence to remain calm while teaching someone to drive. Otherwise I would not have gone halfway through instructor training. I can stand in a queue without my brain exploding in frustration of not getting anywhere fast. Many other aspects of life, I like to think I am patient. Therefore, I conclude that I am Dexteritally Impatient. My mind tells me to be incredibly careful, my hands slow right down, acting in a calculated manner. Yet the finished result looks more like an Aero bar or a lunar landscape and belies the time taken over the job. I know this to be one of my failings, therefore wallpapering is something I do not profess to have the patience for. Plenty other people can do it, I am a perfectly good painter, I can perform joinery tasks without too much trouble, align doors, measure and cut materials, lay a smooth path of concrete but show me some kind of thin sheet material and things have the potential to go haywire.
I approached a sign maker to produce lettering for the car. As a whole package, including H&S signs, magnetics for the car and other decals, he was going to be ridiculously expensive. "How hard can it be?" I asked myself. With Ebay as my friend, various self adhesive products were ordered. Hi Viz tape for the side, Hi Viz chevron strips for the rear and a great looking product, A4 self adhesive sheet that accepts standard inkjet ink to form a permanent outdoor sticker. Apart from the side stripes having now faded in spite of the cost and the chevrons facing only one way, making their mirroring a complete headache of wasted material and mismatch, the A4 sheets seemed to promise a very easy quick, professional look.
Firstly I had to finish the tints. In tune with what I've already said, they now presented themselves each as unique pieces of work, four pieces of glass each side, every one now with its own scale of imperfections. Given my choice not to tint out the rear window and the declassification of Pluto as a planet, you could probably align them all as a representation of our solar system. I could call one Mars to represent the pieces of sand which still abound in the car following the use by the previous owner. A gust of wind coming into the car at the crucial point being sufficient to embed hundreds of grains on the vinyl sheet. Definately a couple would be gas giants, given the amount of air now permanently trapped, despite my best squeegying efforts. The added risk on this occasion, was found in a few after they had been applied, stray head hairs, unnoticeable before offering them up, now nicely pressed like a butterfly in a collection for all to see. Earth, with its flaws and ozone hole quite, quite apparent by those pieces where I either refused to give up on the squeegy and had now pieces of black pigment scraped off, or the sheet had pulled it's own ink off when the sheet doubled back on itself. They were on, in the most part showing a black face onto which a contrasting yellow set of letters would be affixed.
Transport font, as used on all British road signs made sense, A simple block lettered font, highly visible. Three letters as large as possible to fit on one page. After only a few hours... margin alignment, telling the computer that No, I didn't want them over two separate pages, I was ready to print. I used plain paper first just to make sure, it all seemed fine. I double checked the instructions on use of the adhesive sheets to determine which side to print on. As a generic instruction sheet, I followed the guidance which I thought related to the type I had purchased, Clear vinyl with white backing sheet, that way, I could print yellow and it would show yellow up against the black glass background. I hit print and waited. The instructions noted that the sheet must be left for a minute for the ink to dry, so the rather blotchy result emerging from the printer did not initially phase me. Five minutes later, I was less than impressed. The finished piece resembled an oil slick in a puddle, albeit an oil slick neatly within the margins of the lettering. Thinking it may be a printer issue, I fed the sheet back in to apply more ink. Two things happened, firstly, the printer and my laptop started complaining the colour ink was low. I had recently changed the black ink. Only having bought the printer in May, the longevity of the ink did concern me, most new printers tend to only come with half filled ink cartridges and I did choose a Kodak so replacements were hardly a remortgaging matter, so I was not unduly worried. The second thing, was a newly over printed sheet with the same puddle-like characteristics, only this time, the outlines were a little more vague. With the mantra of "It'll look ok from a distance" I proceeded to the next stage.
The instructions suggest that for maximum outdoor longevity, an acrylic vehicle lacquer be applied over the sheet. Once trimmed to size, I took the sheet out to the garage, layed it beside a few pieces of Hi Viz tape in the hope the overspray might prevent them fading once used, and commenced carefully applying a protective coat. Once dry, I set to peeling off a small corner of backing paper ready to take for applying to the vehicle. The word off, quickly acquired another letter and became capitalised and repeated- O-FFS! The garage resounded to the adult version of a frustrated child stamping it's feet, on the discovery that I had misread the instructions for distinguishing the adhesive sheet from the backing sheet. Simply flipping the sheet and printing the correct side was no longer an option. Not only had I trimmed it from A4 to some, probably printer unrecognisable shape, but there was insufficient ink even if I could.
A couple of days later, armed with a new colour cartridge and a fresh sheet of adhesive, I set about trying again. I had ordered five A4 sheets, with the main purpose being the decals, together with a side project of making smaller asset stickers for my equipment. This looking increasingly unlikely and my paranoia at the planned miserly approach to using as much of the sheets as possible, probably resulting in text over text, writing off more sheets, combined with the new idea to add, what I call 3D Barcodes, technically known as QR Code to the sides of the car, meant I should just concentrate upon getting this right. The sheet loaded in the printer correctly, the computer suitably dismissed for suggesting the parameters were outwith normality (I wonder what the on screen message would be, were my laptop connected to my brain!) I hit print and waited. A perfect result emerged, this was duly repeated for the other side, the QR codes were printed too and I put all four sheets through the trimmer, then headed out to do the lacquer finish.
It’s quite windy here, it may be a calm day across the rest of the North East, in the Lumgair microclimate, it will most likely be force ten. This obviously does not help when trying to apply stickers. Undaunted, I was determined to get this done. I mean, how hard can it be to slap a sticky piece of vinyl onto a bit of glass? The rearmost side window would bear the text E M S, with a QR code on the white paintwork below it. All making a professional, yet subtle, livery for a car that is not only used for business but may visit a municipal waste tip with a friend's fridge freezer and not wish to be accused of being a trader trying to circumvent waste regulations. The QR code would be there for anyone who wished to know more about the business, taking a user straight to the website from their mobile phone. Most phones now come with this as standard, I thought it to be novel and portray a forward thinking business.
The areas to be "stuck upon" were prepared, the glass washed, the paintwork cleaned with T Cut. Time to peel the backing off and start to apply the first sticker. As the E was smoothed onto the glass, all was not looking so rosy, or rather not looking so yellow. Firstly, I thought my smoothing was removing the ink but I persevered until the only bubbling was under the clear areas and not the letters. Stepping back from the vehicle, I could clearly see that a sticker had been applied, there were three vague letters on said sticker. Rather than bold lettering standing out, the black bubbly window imperfections were now joined by a further rippled, squint flaw, only this time applied to the outside. Peeling it back off, the yellow became clear again in the daylight. The ink was intact so I tried again, this time following a better window line to ensure a straighter application. The yellow now became invisible once more. As good as the ink was, it was printed onto a clear material, making the yellow translucent. Set onto a black surface, the darker colour was winning out. In desperation, with the adhesive now having been tried twice already, I placed the sticker on the driver's door. The yellow on white worked very well, it was not the look I was trying to achieve and I was deeply unhappy with the overall effect it created. That was some hardy adhesive. Even if I didn't want it on the paintwork, it held on for dear life as I relieved it of its position once more.
My final attempt was on the back quarter of the car, just below the window where it had been intended. This was the area onto which the QR codes would be stuck, I adjusted the spacing accordingly to allow both stickers to fit. The QR sheets, by comparison, were a breeze to apply. Obviously care had to be taken to avoid any bubbles or the scanners would not read the image correctly. Once on, the checks with my phone produced a reassuring 'ping' any rust, of which there are all too many examples on the car had also been avoided from delivering the wrong scan. The backing sheet to the first sticker applied had been allowed to blow away at the time. I rescued it from the verge and deposited it in my wheelie bin. Half an hour later or so, this wheelie bin was upturned to rescue the backing sheet, thankfully the only contents were the sheet and a small piece of kitchen roll used in the preparation. My miserly approach had returned. I did not want to waste the sticker but had decided, upon reflection, I still did not like its positioning. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I have an email to write, requesting a new quote from the professional signwriter.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Rare sympathy and empathy for a football player
I am not, in any way, a football fan. Asked to name a footballer though, the name Rio Ferdinand would be one of the more high profile stars I could bring to mind. I have as little sympathy for these players generally as I have time for the “beautiful game” frankly if you asked me to describe a beautiful game, perhaps Trivial Pursuit would be a candidate, the symmetry, those coloured plastic pie sections and the graphics on the board too. If a footballer wants to have an affair with a high class call girl, it is up to him, if he expects his shenanigans to remain secret, then it does rather show why he kicks a ball around a bit of grass, rather than having a job which involves intelligence.
Despite my negativity, I did sympathise with Rio Ferdinand recently with the story of his stalker. According to the BBC she made a number of trips to his home, whereupon she demanded she speak with him. Susanne Ibru was convicted of harassment and sentenced to ten weeks in jail and had a ten year restraining order imposed on her. She may not visit the town in which Ferdinand resides, nor approach him or any of his family. Ibru also turned the court into a farce when she allegedly sacked her defence counsel before continuing to represent herself. It would appear she had the foresight to realise the verdict would not go her way and failed to return to court for the verdict. On her re arrest, it is reported she spat in the face of the arresting officer. The ten week custodial sentence is all I can see mentioned, although she admitted when brought back to court, the spitting incident. Ibru was described as an “accomplished athlete” who had aspirations to become a sports agent. A profession where you focus on other people’s positives to promote them, not unlike the business of public relations. The judge told her “"The pre-sentence report describes you as living in a fantasy world, unable to interpret social situations and boundaries…."You display a predatory and manipulative lifestyle and try to deliberately mislead interviewers." My interpretation of this, is a very dangerous individual. I believe, had she been a man harassing a woman, the sentence would have been much harsher. I also wonder how long it took Rio Ferdinand, despite his wealth and influence, to try to convince police to take him seriously. Did he get the inference to “man up” or, as those who have never experienced such a psychotic individual’s attentions, the suggestion that he should take it all as a compliment?
Maybe the above phrases echo in the minds of the majority of the public who have not experienced such manipulative individuals themselves. It is an established notion, that paedophiles are mentally ill and they receive no public sympathy for their actions. They tear lives apart and leave deep emotional scars on the individuals they target and those close to their victims. Thankfully, laws are there to protect those seen as vulnerable and massive agencies exist focussed on child protection. The same cannot be said of stalking or harassment, it is bad for women who receive it, for men, it obviously does not happen, oh no, of course it has just been reported that it does. “Sticks and stones may break your bones but someone turning up in the dead of night ranting or threatening suicide has absolutely no effect” Food for thought?
Despite my negativity, I did sympathise with Rio Ferdinand recently with the story of his stalker. According to the BBC she made a number of trips to his home, whereupon she demanded she speak with him. Susanne Ibru was convicted of harassment and sentenced to ten weeks in jail and had a ten year restraining order imposed on her. She may not visit the town in which Ferdinand resides, nor approach him or any of his family. Ibru also turned the court into a farce when she allegedly sacked her defence counsel before continuing to represent herself. It would appear she had the foresight to realise the verdict would not go her way and failed to return to court for the verdict. On her re arrest, it is reported she spat in the face of the arresting officer. The ten week custodial sentence is all I can see mentioned, although she admitted when brought back to court, the spitting incident. Ibru was described as an “accomplished athlete” who had aspirations to become a sports agent. A profession where you focus on other people’s positives to promote them, not unlike the business of public relations. The judge told her “"The pre-sentence report describes you as living in a fantasy world, unable to interpret social situations and boundaries…."You display a predatory and manipulative lifestyle and try to deliberately mislead interviewers." My interpretation of this, is a very dangerous individual. I believe, had she been a man harassing a woman, the sentence would have been much harsher. I also wonder how long it took Rio Ferdinand, despite his wealth and influence, to try to convince police to take him seriously. Did he get the inference to “man up” or, as those who have never experienced such a psychotic individual’s attentions, the suggestion that he should take it all as a compliment?
Maybe the above phrases echo in the minds of the majority of the public who have not experienced such manipulative individuals themselves. It is an established notion, that paedophiles are mentally ill and they receive no public sympathy for their actions. They tear lives apart and leave deep emotional scars on the individuals they target and those close to their victims. Thankfully, laws are there to protect those seen as vulnerable and massive agencies exist focussed on child protection. The same cannot be said of stalking or harassment, it is bad for women who receive it, for men, it obviously does not happen, oh no, of course it has just been reported that it does. “Sticks and stones may break your bones but someone turning up in the dead of night ranting or threatening suicide has absolutely no effect” Food for thought?
Tax
Recently, I had the occasion to make a claim for tax relief. It kicks in if an individual is working thirty or more hours per week; helpful when times are hard and hopefully, before long, I will be making so much money, I will have to pay it all back.. Back in October, when I began self employment, my advisor gave me a form prefilled to be signed and returned but I was too honest for my own good and did not return it due to the odd disco here and there not mounting up hour sufficiently. Straight forward enough to just apply now then? Well it is, in theory. They found no trace of me living here, despite having my payslips, P60, benefit stuff and every voter's roll since moving to this address. "I needed to attend my local tax office with two proofs of ID, there, they would have the form ready to finish off and the application would be done" I arrived at Ruby house in good time (I know!) Produced my DL and a bank statement and was then handed a form. "Is that prefilled then?" I asked. "Oh no, we cant do that but take it away and fill it in" "Oh so can I not hand it back to you to get it into the system?" No, we cant do that, but go over to a booth and if you are struggling use the quick dial to call the helpline" I got my name and address down then had to call the helpline. Of course I hadn't taken any information with me such as my self employment tax ref (not my NI, I've known it off by heart since my wallet was stolen in '89) nor my income for last year, it is some notional figure made up in a dusty office somewhere. "Hello help line ?? speaking" Hello I'm in my local tax office having just confirmed my ID, can you give me my tax reference please?" "No we cannot give out such information over the phone" "But I'm in my local tax office as I speak.." "No we cant divulge personal information" "What about my income details for the form?" same answer. She helpfully suggested she could post out a tax coding notice but it may take up to fourteen days. I respectfully thanked her but declined, adding that I could probably drive home quicker. I got up to return the pen to the advisor and asked if, maybe he could find my TAX REFERENCE NUMBER. "Oh no, we dont hold that kind of information here. "But you're the tax office" I almost sobbed. Remember, all I had to do back in October was sign and date. Instead, a drive to Aberdeen on a day I could have been working, fuel, parking charges, a long walk as, with new tyres and a lowish fuel tank, I could not guarantee clearing the height limit on a multi storey. As I walked back to the car on a warm, sunny day in my T-Shirt, I mumbled to myself as I clutched the various envelopes and forms I had been given away with me. As I continued to mumble, there were a few drops of rain noticable. Once I returned to the car, my T-Shirt was soaked through and I placed the papier mache that had been in my hand on the passenger seat!
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
George Alexander Forbes Emslie 1925-2010
As many of you may know, my father died on the 28th of April. I thought it appropriate to put up here the words I used for him at the funeral.. It had been written complete with pauses, I have edited out some of the anotation to make it read a bit better.
My father, known to most of you as George, was a remarkable man.
Unconventional…. maybe even eccentric.
He had a kind word and a cheery quip for everyone.
If you met him in the street, after a word from George, you would walk with more cheer.
The encyclopaedic knowledge and humorous slant on current / local news / enthralled everyone he met.
He treated everyone as an equal yet had little regard for hypocrisy.
Some authority figures suffered the wrath of his tongue when they did not perform as he thought fit.
There was honesty and integrity to the man.
When asked if he was a regular church goer, he would joke “I go to the Kirk every Sunday….. Laurence-Kirk for a pint”
George had all the qualities of a true Christian, for him, love was action not empty words. He would always do things for others… without regard for himself
His window cleaning made him a highly visible figure in the town.
The round should probably have taken a couple of hours at most….. yet the time spent yapping to everyone, kept him out all day.
Amongst his regular windows, was the Red Cross shop.
George made no charge for cleaning their windows, often going in to buy yet another Haynes manual.
After 14 years, The Red Cross presented George with a certificate of recognition for this voluntary work.
George was a perfectionist with his window cleaning.
It wouldn’t be uncommon to see him cleaning the same shop several times in one week.
As a child, I was always getting footballs and tennis balls stuck on the high roof - of the building - that had been the picture house, my father was always there to get them down.
One day, he decided it was time for me to go up the ladder.
With his encouragement, I overcame any fears.
“After all….. the ground will aye break your fall”
Of course…. one obvious father to son thing he couldn’t do for me…. was teaching me how to shave. Instead preferring to deliver another of his regular jokes.
“I’m employed by Gillette, They show a photo of me and say, Buy our razors or you’ll look like this”
During his recent illness… his sense of humour remained as strong as it had ever been.
The medical staff told… of how they were drawn to George because of this… and because of his undemanding gentle nature.
One of my earliest memories….. is of my dad coming home during the snow and taking off his wellington boots.
The soles had a triangle shape… and I was fascinated by these little triangles of snow that came off. He went back outside to pick up more snow on the boots… so I could play with it.
That snow has melted but my memory remains strong.
We all have our own memories of George..
Each one will remain strong as a lasting tribute.
My father, known to most of you as George, was a remarkable man.
Unconventional…. maybe even eccentric.
He had a kind word and a cheery quip for everyone.
If you met him in the street, after a word from George, you would walk with more cheer.
The encyclopaedic knowledge and humorous slant on current / local news / enthralled everyone he met.
He treated everyone as an equal yet had little regard for hypocrisy.
Some authority figures suffered the wrath of his tongue when they did not perform as he thought fit.
There was honesty and integrity to the man.
When asked if he was a regular church goer, he would joke “I go to the Kirk every Sunday….. Laurence-Kirk for a pint”
George had all the qualities of a true Christian, for him, love was action not empty words. He would always do things for others… without regard for himself
His window cleaning made him a highly visible figure in the town.
The round should probably have taken a couple of hours at most….. yet the time spent yapping to everyone, kept him out all day.
Amongst his regular windows, was the Red Cross shop.
George made no charge for cleaning their windows, often going in to buy yet another Haynes manual.
After 14 years, The Red Cross presented George with a certificate of recognition for this voluntary work.
George was a perfectionist with his window cleaning.
It wouldn’t be uncommon to see him cleaning the same shop several times in one week.
As a child, I was always getting footballs and tennis balls stuck on the high roof - of the building - that had been the picture house, my father was always there to get them down.
One day, he decided it was time for me to go up the ladder.
With his encouragement, I overcame any fears.
“After all….. the ground will aye break your fall”
Of course…. one obvious father to son thing he couldn’t do for me…. was teaching me how to shave. Instead preferring to deliver another of his regular jokes.
“I’m employed by Gillette, They show a photo of me and say, Buy our razors or you’ll look like this”
During his recent illness… his sense of humour remained as strong as it had ever been.
The medical staff told… of how they were drawn to George because of this… and because of his undemanding gentle nature.
One of my earliest memories….. is of my dad coming home during the snow and taking off his wellington boots.
The soles had a triangle shape… and I was fascinated by these little triangles of snow that came off. He went back outside to pick up more snow on the boots… so I could play with it.
That snow has melted but my memory remains strong.
We all have our own memories of George..
Each one will remain strong as a lasting tribute.
Monday, April 12, 2010
I have half finished pieces of blog all over the place. Whilst I fine tune them for publication, I have succumbed to the lure of the microblog. As I expected, 140 characters is nowhere near enough for me. What it will do, is allow those of the TLDR (Too long did not read) mentality to enjoy the snippets, and those who appreciate fully constructed sentences to dwell here a bit longer.
Pop in “theemslieeffect” to Twitter’s search
Pop in “theemslieeffect” to Twitter’s search
African Rant
In the western world, we see Africa as an impoverished continent. We see starvation, war, disease and who do we blame? We blame the leaders and autocrats for being corrupt, we blame ourselves for not doing enough. The people we don’t blame are the poor people trying to make ends meet. My experience is that all the way up, the people are simply out for what they can get. Ghana produces cocoa, gold and, soon to be vast amounts of oil. The world’s second largest uranium mine is in Niger. They all have things we in the West want. Want, an emotive word. I was brought up with the phrase “I want, doesn’t get” ringing in my ears. However, here in Ghana, it is adults who “want” Don’t get this confused with wanting for something. The system is not as bad as we may think. Medical care is freely available, the state provides for those who cannot work. If you are fired from a job, it is customary, no, it is expected that you will be paid two month’s salary to compensate you. Even if you were fired because you were lazy or dishonest. What a wonderful work ethic to have.
Am I jaded? Perhaps. Am I being unfair to the good citizens? You find me one, they are pretty thin on the ground. Have you ever donated clothes so they can be distributed to the less well off over here in Africa? Have you ever considered what happens to these clothes? Distributed from the back of a United Nations truck perhaps. Offered, based on size to the most needy. Of course we would love to think that is how things are done. After all, the poor people are grateful of aid. Unfortunately, we forget that the same corruption that stifled the development of these countries will grasp every opportunity to profit. Have you worked it out yet? Am I asking too many questions of you? Those old t shirts, denims, dresses you hand in to help those less fortunate than yourself are SOLD not given to people. The common complaint I hear is that the leaders are corrupt. That’s not a problem, someone else will come along, depose said leader via a military coup and take over. The film from the ‘80s Wall Street coined the phrase “Greed is good” It has been here in Africa long before that and perpetuates today. By now, you think I am narrow minded, you may think I am colonialist. Heaven help me, you may even think I am being racist. Think what you like. I am here. I am waiting twenty minutes for a coffee in a restaurant whilst a Ghanaian is served in five. I have people served in queues way behind me. Another popular culture quote comes to mind, that of Sasha Baron Cohen in the guise of Ali G. Turning his well known phrase on its head, I want to utter, or have emblazoned on a t shirt “Is it because I is white?”
This is an unfinished piece, some statistics have not been verified
Am I jaded? Perhaps. Am I being unfair to the good citizens? You find me one, they are pretty thin on the ground. Have you ever donated clothes so they can be distributed to the less well off over here in Africa? Have you ever considered what happens to these clothes? Distributed from the back of a United Nations truck perhaps. Offered, based on size to the most needy. Of course we would love to think that is how things are done. After all, the poor people are grateful of aid. Unfortunately, we forget that the same corruption that stifled the development of these countries will grasp every opportunity to profit. Have you worked it out yet? Am I asking too many questions of you? Those old t shirts, denims, dresses you hand in to help those less fortunate than yourself are SOLD not given to people. The common complaint I hear is that the leaders are corrupt. That’s not a problem, someone else will come along, depose said leader via a military coup and take over. The film from the ‘80s Wall Street coined the phrase “Greed is good” It has been here in Africa long before that and perpetuates today. By now, you think I am narrow minded, you may think I am colonialist. Heaven help me, you may even think I am being racist. Think what you like. I am here. I am waiting twenty minutes for a coffee in a restaurant whilst a Ghanaian is served in five. I have people served in queues way behind me. Another popular culture quote comes to mind, that of Sasha Baron Cohen in the guise of Ali G. Turning his well known phrase on its head, I want to utter, or have emblazoned on a t shirt “Is it because I is white?”
This is an unfinished piece, some statistics have not been verified
Friday, January 29, 2010
House Part 2
Early morning was a chance to reminisce on the journey we had taken to spend our first night in the new house. For two days, the cleaners had been a liability to themselves and others. Even my soft approach had not worked and I had hit breaking point. Kevin and I returned to the house to be told by Sarah that despite her protests, they tried to wet the hall floor just as movers were taking things through. She had told the cleaner to stop; she had summonsed Kenneth to get him to stop. A female cleaner stationed at the front door, even had the audacity to challenge Sarah that the movers should use another door. Heavy pieces of furniture would have had to traverse the garden, only to double back to the rooms close to the hall. I brought Kenneth into the part soggy hallway to ask for an explanation. Contractors were back in the form of the air conditioning professionals. My brother once worked as a professional photographer. He encouraged my attempts with the reassurance that “The only difference between an amateur and a professional, is that the professional is paid” therefore, you get very good amateurs in a field and some very bad professionals. The air conditioning contractors rode in on an Opel Omega, maybe not hired guns, namely because they carried something far more dangerous, their qualifications and screwdrivers. A light load then, the qualifications were clearly eminent works of fiction, the screwdrivers often recognisable, in fact, as Kevin’s. More to come about who was soon to be come known as Emanu-hell.
“Kenneth?.. a word!” I was no longer in any humour to be polite. No taking him aside for a quiet word. The amphitheatre, a double height hallway, six feet wide stairs winding their way up one side, to an overlooking balustrade on the first floor. Lots of front row views for what was soon to become our audience. I asked him if he remembered our previous conversations, if he remembered my polite manner and calm nature. I went on to reiterate I was the calm one, yet was finding it increasingly difficult to restrain Kevin or Sarah. The issues in my absence were raised, did he know what “Stop doing that” meant? My volume steadily increased, as did the pitch of my voice, anger surging through my vocal chords. I know that when I raise my voice, I find an authoritative tone difficult to maintain. Somehow, the desired booming sound, comes out as a high pitched, loud squeak. “If someone tells you NOT to do something, what should you do?” I squeaked. “Why then, did you continue to do it?... Had you all done your job properly, you would have been finished by now….Why does every thing your staff do, or not do, cause a problem?” In full rant mode, my soprano solo continued. Kevin silently slipped past us, he later told me he was desperately trying to keep a straight face, neither he, nor Sarah had heard me like this before, it’s possible only dogs could actually hear me by now, yet there the concert hall was certainly filling up. Most of the cleaners had stopped whatever hapless task they had been engaged in, Sarah stood aghast half way up the stairs. Even the diligent movers had temporarily suspended their tasks. “Do you know what this is Kenneth?... DO YOU?” “No Sir” he sheepishly replied. “This…this whole thing, is a Clusterfuck!, Do you know what a Clusterfuck is Kenneth? I continued, not allowing him a reply, his ashen face enough to convince me my slight displeasure may be apparent by this point. “That’s fucked, that’s fucked, that’s fucked” I pointed randomly all around his head off the direction of different parts of the house. “..It’s all fucked, that is what a Clusterfuck is Kenneth, it is a cluster of fucks and you and your staff deserve the title like no other” The swearing benchmark, now comfortably set, my tone lowered again. “I am a very patient man but you have tried my patience, you and your staff have been rude to my best friend. It seems that speaking nicely did not seem to work, I apologise for my language but not for my anger, this is ridiculous, what are you going to do?” My head jerked towards Sarah’s stance, he knew from that, the first thing would be an apology.
Kenneth and I had more little chats over the next week. There was the question as to the width of the scaffolding they had used in the hall. Kenneth gave me a rough measurement stretching his arms. I corrected his measurement by showing him two previously unbroken floor tiles, now smashed. The many curtains had been taken away for cleaning. They finally arrived back, with Kenneth and another cleaner tasked with tackling the worst bits of their neglect. Rather than deal with the high areas we had no access to remedy, Kenneth was set on scrubbing little bits downstairs. He was adamant that they would not re hang the curtains. Eventually, Kevin just told them to get out. We would do the curtains, how hard a job could it be after all?
The so called electrician, employed by the developers of the complex, Trasaco, started hanging the curtains. He was a lot better at doing curtains than he was electrics, not particularly difficult given his exploits with electrics. On opening one of his wired plug tops, the wires fell into my hand, rather than use the customary screws, he had relied on gravity as a fixative. We had a debate on whether it really was wise to install a cable along the top of an outdoor sink. I used the visual aid of turning the mixer tap towards the wall, he countered with running water onto the outer insulation of a cable. I concluded by holding the cable up to allow the water to drain towards the connections. He was not the worst electrician; then again, he wasn’t the best curtain hanger. I had to get him to step back and tell me what was wrong with his current drape. Thankfully the left hand trailing two feet below the right, was enough of a clue that he may have mixed up a pair. I was left in hysterics by another of his efforts. A single curtain at the top of the stairs pulls either to one wall or the other. depending on which side has been attached to the non moving ring. Sarah found me with one leg over the top banister, arms outstretched. I felt a reassurance was necessary that my intention was not to jump. When I tried to explain, I was inable to control the giggles again, part way through my explanations, Sarah joined me in the uncontrollable laughter. Both sides had been fixed, making the curtain more or a blind than anything usable as a curtain. From then on, “Trasaco Man” as he became known, endeavoured with varying degrees of success to tackle other jobs. Plastering he cannot be faulted for, painting too, I would question the wisdom of using emulsion paint for the outside masonry. This came to light during a heavy rain shower. I expect the house to resemble a half sucked Smartie come the proper rainy season.
There was an incident where I spoke to Trasaco Man in the kitchen. Rather, I thought it was Trasaco Man. The kitchen fitters had a habit of disappearing for hours on end so, when they went to leave en mass, I challenged them. I was told they were off for lunch and would return in thirty minutes. I suggested tgey should leave their tools behind, after all, it must be tricky carrying a sandwich, tool bag and an electric drill. They insisted they would come back and I further insisted they should leave their tools which I would look after. So paranoid was I that this may be them abandoning a half finished job, I took hold of one man’s drill, telling him that, based on past performances, I didn’t believe they would take only half an hour. Reluctantly, I let go and confirmed with them it was now 12:40 and I would see them at 1:10, “oh yes, sir, yes” I was told as I looked back on the still unusable kitchen that should have been finished the week previously. The time in my head was twenty past one to start worrying. I need not have worried; in fact I should have known this wouldn’t happen. At just after four, I greeted them back. As they puddled away, I got into conversation with Trasaco Man, “These kitchen guys, they promised me they would be back in time, we have a kitchen we cannot use, I even tried to take a drill off one of them” I explained with displeasure. “Yes, that was me” he replied, “You held my tools, I am Frank, I do woodwork” A lesson learned not to confuse people and be aware that sometimes they change T- shirts half way through a day so going by the colour someone is wearing is not always the best indicator.
The kitchen was eventually finished; many take-aways later and with a few minor challenges along the way. The gas hob ran from an outside LPG bottle. Copper pipe ran all the way to the back of the cooker where there was an unfitted joint. This joint upon connection just would not seal correctly. We did a test connection; we applied washing up liquid to the joint to check the seal. If there are any leaks, gas will produce small bubbles. With my head under to smell and listen, I came away with a headache, quite a big leak then. One of the helpful staff reassured us he could fix it and that he would give it a squirt of silicone sealant. Kevin had to firmly tell him that not every job can be done with silicone. He had already corrected a piece of waste pipe covered in silicone that was leaking. By this point, very little surprised me, Emanu-hell, had done his utmost to rub us all up the wrong way.
I have a little knowledge with electrics. I rewired my old flat, the Fordoun house and have a father and two uncles with over a hundred years of experience between them. I am still learning and would never profess to know everything about circuits but with my knowledge, I knew that Emanu-hell was quite simply full of bullshit. Sarah and Kevin had complained about his attitude, he was certainly not the most personable man, preferring to whistle to his staff as if they were dogs. He tried to summon me a few times with a grunt, he knew my name and besides, a simple “Excuse me” would have been better. After more grunts, I told him my name was John, he could call me John, Sir or John Sir but to please stop grunting. An incident arose where the tumble dryer plug melted the socket. His explanation was obviously wrong to me and I told him so. He told us, the plug was thirteen amps, where the socket was fifteen. This made absolutely no sense and, after trying to politely correct him several times I walked off, calling back “Bullshit”… “You’re talking out of a hole in your arse” I decided he was not only a liar, but a liability, both to himself and our safety. His favourite tactics, are making out the other person does not understand electrics. When proved wrong about something, he tries to turn it around that it was not what he meant in the first place. He is arrogant and takes no care over other’s property. More than once, Kevin’s electrician screwdrivers needed to be rescued from his clutches. The situation came to a head when I tried to tell him how deep a new cable to the generator needed to be. I have covered this before, possibly in more depth than the general rule for soil depth is here. Both Sarah and I had spoken with Emanu-hell’s staff a few times to persuade them to put the cable further under the ground. I had dug a deeper hole using the spade to show them the minimum depth we wanted. Much shallower than I would ordinarily do, but deep enough, that neither the dog, nor a lawn mower could uncover. They needed constant checking and asking whether their hole was the same depth as mine yes or no. As I hovered, Emanu-hell summonsed me with his customary grunt. He was telling me his men did not need to dig the hole any deeper as it was armoured cable they were using. I countered that it was not armoured cable. I have worked with armoured cable and even that I sank deeper than this stuff. The cable in question was standard white flexible cable, carried inside plastic conduit. At some points, the lengths were springing out of the ground.
“This is not armoured cable”
“You do not understand”
“I understand perfectly well, that” I pointed to the main feed from the generator “is armoured cable, steel wire armoured, probably made by Pirelli, this, is not armoured, it is PVC sheathed flex, flex-i-ble. YOU are lying to me again. I know what I am talking about, all I want is for that stuff to be buried deeper for SAFE-TY”
“I am electrical engineer, this is deep we put things here”
“Not here you don’t, besides, you put in the armoured cable, it is deeper, you tell me the point of putting an armoured cable so far into the ground, and a flimsy piece like this barely under the surface”
This continued for some time, I kept telling him to stop lying to me, he kept insisting I didn’t know what I was talking about. Eventually, tempers completely frayed, I was shouting at him barely an inch from his face. My shouting was of genuine anger this time, no squeaky voice as with before, being outside, we had though attracted a larger crowd. His men stood by, guards from the complex had flocked to see for themselves what they had heard from afar. I was just finished telling him that he was stupid, that I knew it was an insult and repeated it again, “A FUCKING IDIOT, STUPID LYING FUCKING IDIOT” when Sarah interrupted us for fear of violence breaking out. I wouldn’t have done anything to him; he was much bigger than me in any case.
What I first mistook to be sweat was all over his face, I was literally spitting mad at him. I walked off, knowing I could never have won the argument, out onto the road and started walking laps of the house to calm myself down. I can truly say, this place has brought out the worst in me. With good reason, Sarah has now been electrocuted four times and counting, I have seen the little one be close to getting hit with showers of sparks from an exploding TV or flying light bulbs due to overloading, overheating or incorrect wiring of things. Making the fuse box live, was a particularly good move by Emanu-hell. Strangely, the rest of the house had been plunged into darkness, yet there was power there to throw her backwards as she tried to isolate the distribution board. It was later found, that a neutral had been used as an earth, with the earth cable dangling in mid air. Emanu-hell had charged to service the ACs. This included cleaning the filters, a simple job but when we checked, we discovered none had been done. He should have dismantled the boxes on the outside too. How could he, when one was twenty feet up a sheer wall and he had no ladders? That same AC had a bird’s nest which should have been cleared. He was, and still is a truly unpleasant, arrogant, ignorant man. His habit of turning up at six am, the day after he should have been there, was tempered slightly by Sarah’s calls to him after ten at night, eventually. He stopped answering those calls but it was still nice to randomly let the phone ring to disturb his sleep.
The new electrician, Sammy, was a complete breath of fresh air; I met him just as his jobs were nearly finished. He was very personable, interested in my experience and suggestions to allow jobs to be done easier, very conscientious and trustworthy too. As I’ve said before, not all Ghanaians are bad; I hate to portray that impression of them. It just so happens, The Emslie Effect seems to attract the dodgy ones.
“Kenneth?.. a word!” I was no longer in any humour to be polite. No taking him aside for a quiet word. The amphitheatre, a double height hallway, six feet wide stairs winding their way up one side, to an overlooking balustrade on the first floor. Lots of front row views for what was soon to become our audience. I asked him if he remembered our previous conversations, if he remembered my polite manner and calm nature. I went on to reiterate I was the calm one, yet was finding it increasingly difficult to restrain Kevin or Sarah. The issues in my absence were raised, did he know what “Stop doing that” meant? My volume steadily increased, as did the pitch of my voice, anger surging through my vocal chords. I know that when I raise my voice, I find an authoritative tone difficult to maintain. Somehow, the desired booming sound, comes out as a high pitched, loud squeak. “If someone tells you NOT to do something, what should you do?” I squeaked. “Why then, did you continue to do it?... Had you all done your job properly, you would have been finished by now….Why does every thing your staff do, or not do, cause a problem?” In full rant mode, my soprano solo continued. Kevin silently slipped past us, he later told me he was desperately trying to keep a straight face, neither he, nor Sarah had heard me like this before, it’s possible only dogs could actually hear me by now, yet there the concert hall was certainly filling up. Most of the cleaners had stopped whatever hapless task they had been engaged in, Sarah stood aghast half way up the stairs. Even the diligent movers had temporarily suspended their tasks. “Do you know what this is Kenneth?... DO YOU?” “No Sir” he sheepishly replied. “This…this whole thing, is a Clusterfuck!, Do you know what a Clusterfuck is Kenneth? I continued, not allowing him a reply, his ashen face enough to convince me my slight displeasure may be apparent by this point. “That’s fucked, that’s fucked, that’s fucked” I pointed randomly all around his head off the direction of different parts of the house. “..It’s all fucked, that is what a Clusterfuck is Kenneth, it is a cluster of fucks and you and your staff deserve the title like no other” The swearing benchmark, now comfortably set, my tone lowered again. “I am a very patient man but you have tried my patience, you and your staff have been rude to my best friend. It seems that speaking nicely did not seem to work, I apologise for my language but not for my anger, this is ridiculous, what are you going to do?” My head jerked towards Sarah’s stance, he knew from that, the first thing would be an apology.
Kenneth and I had more little chats over the next week. There was the question as to the width of the scaffolding they had used in the hall. Kenneth gave me a rough measurement stretching his arms. I corrected his measurement by showing him two previously unbroken floor tiles, now smashed. The many curtains had been taken away for cleaning. They finally arrived back, with Kenneth and another cleaner tasked with tackling the worst bits of their neglect. Rather than deal with the high areas we had no access to remedy, Kenneth was set on scrubbing little bits downstairs. He was adamant that they would not re hang the curtains. Eventually, Kevin just told them to get out. We would do the curtains, how hard a job could it be after all?
The so called electrician, employed by the developers of the complex, Trasaco, started hanging the curtains. He was a lot better at doing curtains than he was electrics, not particularly difficult given his exploits with electrics. On opening one of his wired plug tops, the wires fell into my hand, rather than use the customary screws, he had relied on gravity as a fixative. We had a debate on whether it really was wise to install a cable along the top of an outdoor sink. I used the visual aid of turning the mixer tap towards the wall, he countered with running water onto the outer insulation of a cable. I concluded by holding the cable up to allow the water to drain towards the connections. He was not the worst electrician; then again, he wasn’t the best curtain hanger. I had to get him to step back and tell me what was wrong with his current drape. Thankfully the left hand trailing two feet below the right, was enough of a clue that he may have mixed up a pair. I was left in hysterics by another of his efforts. A single curtain at the top of the stairs pulls either to one wall or the other. depending on which side has been attached to the non moving ring. Sarah found me with one leg over the top banister, arms outstretched. I felt a reassurance was necessary that my intention was not to jump. When I tried to explain, I was inable to control the giggles again, part way through my explanations, Sarah joined me in the uncontrollable laughter. Both sides had been fixed, making the curtain more or a blind than anything usable as a curtain. From then on, “Trasaco Man” as he became known, endeavoured with varying degrees of success to tackle other jobs. Plastering he cannot be faulted for, painting too, I would question the wisdom of using emulsion paint for the outside masonry. This came to light during a heavy rain shower. I expect the house to resemble a half sucked Smartie come the proper rainy season.
There was an incident where I spoke to Trasaco Man in the kitchen. Rather, I thought it was Trasaco Man. The kitchen fitters had a habit of disappearing for hours on end so, when they went to leave en mass, I challenged them. I was told they were off for lunch and would return in thirty minutes. I suggested tgey should leave their tools behind, after all, it must be tricky carrying a sandwich, tool bag and an electric drill. They insisted they would come back and I further insisted they should leave their tools which I would look after. So paranoid was I that this may be them abandoning a half finished job, I took hold of one man’s drill, telling him that, based on past performances, I didn’t believe they would take only half an hour. Reluctantly, I let go and confirmed with them it was now 12:40 and I would see them at 1:10, “oh yes, sir, yes” I was told as I looked back on the still unusable kitchen that should have been finished the week previously. The time in my head was twenty past one to start worrying. I need not have worried; in fact I should have known this wouldn’t happen. At just after four, I greeted them back. As they puddled away, I got into conversation with Trasaco Man, “These kitchen guys, they promised me they would be back in time, we have a kitchen we cannot use, I even tried to take a drill off one of them” I explained with displeasure. “Yes, that was me” he replied, “You held my tools, I am Frank, I do woodwork” A lesson learned not to confuse people and be aware that sometimes they change T- shirts half way through a day so going by the colour someone is wearing is not always the best indicator.
The kitchen was eventually finished; many take-aways later and with a few minor challenges along the way. The gas hob ran from an outside LPG bottle. Copper pipe ran all the way to the back of the cooker where there was an unfitted joint. This joint upon connection just would not seal correctly. We did a test connection; we applied washing up liquid to the joint to check the seal. If there are any leaks, gas will produce small bubbles. With my head under to smell and listen, I came away with a headache, quite a big leak then. One of the helpful staff reassured us he could fix it and that he would give it a squirt of silicone sealant. Kevin had to firmly tell him that not every job can be done with silicone. He had already corrected a piece of waste pipe covered in silicone that was leaking. By this point, very little surprised me, Emanu-hell, had done his utmost to rub us all up the wrong way.
I have a little knowledge with electrics. I rewired my old flat, the Fordoun house and have a father and two uncles with over a hundred years of experience between them. I am still learning and would never profess to know everything about circuits but with my knowledge, I knew that Emanu-hell was quite simply full of bullshit. Sarah and Kevin had complained about his attitude, he was certainly not the most personable man, preferring to whistle to his staff as if they were dogs. He tried to summon me a few times with a grunt, he knew my name and besides, a simple “Excuse me” would have been better. After more grunts, I told him my name was John, he could call me John, Sir or John Sir but to please stop grunting. An incident arose where the tumble dryer plug melted the socket. His explanation was obviously wrong to me and I told him so. He told us, the plug was thirteen amps, where the socket was fifteen. This made absolutely no sense and, after trying to politely correct him several times I walked off, calling back “Bullshit”… “You’re talking out of a hole in your arse” I decided he was not only a liar, but a liability, both to himself and our safety. His favourite tactics, are making out the other person does not understand electrics. When proved wrong about something, he tries to turn it around that it was not what he meant in the first place. He is arrogant and takes no care over other’s property. More than once, Kevin’s electrician screwdrivers needed to be rescued from his clutches. The situation came to a head when I tried to tell him how deep a new cable to the generator needed to be. I have covered this before, possibly in more depth than the general rule for soil depth is here. Both Sarah and I had spoken with Emanu-hell’s staff a few times to persuade them to put the cable further under the ground. I had dug a deeper hole using the spade to show them the minimum depth we wanted. Much shallower than I would ordinarily do, but deep enough, that neither the dog, nor a lawn mower could uncover. They needed constant checking and asking whether their hole was the same depth as mine yes or no. As I hovered, Emanu-hell summonsed me with his customary grunt. He was telling me his men did not need to dig the hole any deeper as it was armoured cable they were using. I countered that it was not armoured cable. I have worked with armoured cable and even that I sank deeper than this stuff. The cable in question was standard white flexible cable, carried inside plastic conduit. At some points, the lengths were springing out of the ground.
“This is not armoured cable”
“You do not understand”
“I understand perfectly well, that” I pointed to the main feed from the generator “is armoured cable, steel wire armoured, probably made by Pirelli, this, is not armoured, it is PVC sheathed flex, flex-i-ble. YOU are lying to me again. I know what I am talking about, all I want is for that stuff to be buried deeper for SAFE-TY”
“I am electrical engineer, this is deep we put things here”
“Not here you don’t, besides, you put in the armoured cable, it is deeper, you tell me the point of putting an armoured cable so far into the ground, and a flimsy piece like this barely under the surface”
This continued for some time, I kept telling him to stop lying to me, he kept insisting I didn’t know what I was talking about. Eventually, tempers completely frayed, I was shouting at him barely an inch from his face. My shouting was of genuine anger this time, no squeaky voice as with before, being outside, we had though attracted a larger crowd. His men stood by, guards from the complex had flocked to see for themselves what they had heard from afar. I was just finished telling him that he was stupid, that I knew it was an insult and repeated it again, “A FUCKING IDIOT, STUPID LYING FUCKING IDIOT” when Sarah interrupted us for fear of violence breaking out. I wouldn’t have done anything to him; he was much bigger than me in any case.
What I first mistook to be sweat was all over his face, I was literally spitting mad at him. I walked off, knowing I could never have won the argument, out onto the road and started walking laps of the house to calm myself down. I can truly say, this place has brought out the worst in me. With good reason, Sarah has now been electrocuted four times and counting, I have seen the little one be close to getting hit with showers of sparks from an exploding TV or flying light bulbs due to overloading, overheating or incorrect wiring of things. Making the fuse box live, was a particularly good move by Emanu-hell. Strangely, the rest of the house had been plunged into darkness, yet there was power there to throw her backwards as she tried to isolate the distribution board. It was later found, that a neutral had been used as an earth, with the earth cable dangling in mid air. Emanu-hell had charged to service the ACs. This included cleaning the filters, a simple job but when we checked, we discovered none had been done. He should have dismantled the boxes on the outside too. How could he, when one was twenty feet up a sheer wall and he had no ladders? That same AC had a bird’s nest which should have been cleared. He was, and still is a truly unpleasant, arrogant, ignorant man. His habit of turning up at six am, the day after he should have been there, was tempered slightly by Sarah’s calls to him after ten at night, eventually. He stopped answering those calls but it was still nice to randomly let the phone ring to disturb his sleep.
The new electrician, Sammy, was a complete breath of fresh air; I met him just as his jobs were nearly finished. He was very personable, interested in my experience and suggestions to allow jobs to be done easier, very conscientious and trustworthy too. As I’ve said before, not all Ghanaians are bad; I hate to portray that impression of them. It just so happens, The Emslie Effect seems to attract the dodgy ones.
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