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....

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.

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.

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?

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!

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.

Twitter

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

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

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.

Back in Blighty

I have returned. I'm safe, so far! A detour via Nigeria to boot 35 degrees to minus 8 was a bit of a shock, as was my run in with British customs officials. I made it back though. Lots of time now to sit by a roaring fire and recount even more of the goings on in Africa......

House part 1

There had been contract cleaners in on the Monday. They should have been done by the previous week but, obviously GMT was an influence. Our supervision gave nothing to believe they were up to any good. Admittedly it is a large house but it was completely empty of furniture giving them a chance to get to every surface. All the floors are tiled so no carpets to worry about. A “deep clean” or as I used to call it “A builder’s clean”. I have been no stranger to turning up to clean windows of a newly refurbished house, to find the rendering meant for the walls adorning the windows too. One renovated castle I did the work on had massive windows, some of which were sixty feet off the ground. Each unit comprised of thirty two asticles. Every pane of glass and every join were spattered with mortar or render, some even had the stone chips from the render embedded in the mortar. I’m well used to finding the detritus left by builders, conservatory builders or anyone else who fails to take care. My brother and I even knew who had fitted new windows by the mess left behind. Top of the list for being clarty* buggers were CR Smith. Right enough, a polite enquiry to the householder or a look at the manufacturer’s etching on the base of the unit, confirmed our fears. The job at the new house should have been straight forward then. Sarah and Kevin are the second occupants since it was built. All that was needed was a good clean due to the place having been vacant.

We arrived just before eight to find one body tinkering in the kitchen. He was armed with only a sponge. This was no ordinary sponge, it would’ve been about the size of a large car sponge. It resembled a large car sponge that had got stuck in an automatic car brush wash on the full cycle. If that being the case, it might at least have been clean. It was sort of two tone green and shit in colour. The agreement was that the cleaning team started at six so time was already against them. They had to be done and out before the movers on Tuesday unpacked all the boxes. The plan, logical one would have thought, was for them to start at the top of the house and work their way down. The other fly in the ointment, was the kitchen itself. A new worktop had to be fitted, one of the windows didn’t shut right, the cooker hood was dead, cupboard doors were hanging off or squint and the fitted fridge was somewhere on a holiday. It had been here a few days previously but had vanished. Again, this is not something unique in my experience. The house in Fordoun, which you may remember from older entries here, had white goods included when viewed which subsequently went off on holiday as the previous owners left with them. The neighbours had told Katy and me they reappeared late one evening. Presumably after a solicitor having words in an ear. The other challenge, was the air conditioning units all needed serviced. One had a bird’s nest too close to it, one was at a jaunty angle outside the kitchen, some simply refused to switch on. The electrical engineer contracted to do that would also be milling about. More about him and his “qualifications” later.

By lunchtime, the cleaning team had swelled to over fifteen. Great news, more workers, quicker, better results. This did not equate to more productivity though. Notionally, they had been here since six, physically here en mass since about ten. Either way, more than enough time to have finished one room. The first one being mine. I am up one end of the house. I have a good sized bedroom, a dressing room, in which the window also does not close, and a bathroom. A team of fifteen could easily clean the windows and fly screens, the bathroom fittings, light switches and have the floor done in about an hour. How over ten managed to fit in the bathroom, I have no idea, they weren’t doing much of cleaning it seems. On later inspection, the toilet pan was still dirty and the hairs in the plug hole remained. The trouble seemed to be their ability to just wander off. A bit like an old people’s home where the residents suffereing dementia vanish. I found one guy downstairs armed with a mop ended pole. His job was cobwebs apparently. Sarah summonsed him at one point with the words “Oi, Spiderman” Needless to say, in spite of his several hour long cobweb extravaganza, some were still missed. It was obvious they were simply not working hard enough. Kevin went back up to my room to investigate the delay. I tagged along too, curious to hear new excuses from the myriad we had been given up until now. They had moved onto other rooms so he asked the manager what had been done. Was my room finished? So we were told. On venturing inside the door, it was clearly far from finished. Muddy puddles on the floor, new dirty marks all up the walls. Kevin again challenged the manager to confirm that room to be finished. Again he told us the room was done. Kevin warned him just before the third insistence not to lie to him. With the lie now well and truly out there, Kevin let rip with a string of expletives rising to a crescendo and a cowering manager with stunned staff looking on. The light fittings had not been touched; they needed dismantled to clean any dead bugs from inside. Of the tools the cleaners lacked, perhaps ladders and steps were the most obvious. The dirty marks on the walls explained their method here. A small chap would clamber up an inside wall to gain access to the tops of the frames before disappearing outside. His foot and handprints beautifully decorated rooms in his wake. It was probably just as well he did this, as there was no way of telling whether a window had been cleaned or not. That’s not strictly fair to him, the bloody great streaks and water dribbles were a lasting reminder too. A small set of steps did finally appear, as did a scaffold tower. The tower caused it’s own problems later.

Following Kevin’s explosion, I made it my task to be good cop to his bad cop. I developed a rapport with the manager, his name was Kenneth. He would give me updates as to which rooms they thought they had finished and I would inspect the work and send people back in if I was not happy. Any issues I found, I would take Kenneth aside for a quiet word and things were then dealt with. Every time we spoke, I reminded him of our time scales and the problems they would encounter if they over ran. Kevin is over six feet, I come in about five nine and Kenneth comes up to my chin. Referring back to Kevin’s explosion, I impressed on Kenneth that I was trying to keep Kevin calm. That dealing with me, he was safe from “Big Kevin” and that as long as everything went smoothly, I wouldn’t have to get him back upstairs. One of the times I went up to check, I decided not to investigate further. In front of me, was a puddle of water, snaking through the puddle was an extension lead with parts of the plastic case missing. I had already witnessed the wall socket conversion method of just shoving bare wires into the socket. With a maze of electrics face down in water, I concluded I could wait a little longer before my next routine check up.

Earlier in the day, we had been wandering outside. The air conditioning unit at the jaunty angle caught our attention. From it came a short length of electrical cable. The unit didn’t work so we thought it must’ve been disconnected for some reason. Sarah poked at the wire using her foot – BANG! It was connected then. Apart from being a bit shaken, Sarah was alright. The wall now had a blackened scar across it. Once the power was off, Kevin and I investigated to find this was a cable wired into the connectors of the unit to draw power to somewhere else. It may well have been the water pump whose cables had been ripped out from the ground by a previous contractor who had fitted the electric fence. Where the electrical conduit was buried across the grass, followed exactly the same line as had previously carried the pump cable. When they bury a cable under grass here, the depth is typically in inches rather than feet. I hesitate even to pluralise the inch. The water pump is vital to keep pressure up inside the house. It also serves to draw mains water into the two holding tanks for back up in case of mains water failure. The new pool being built was taking shape. The various utilities severed during its construction slowly reconfigured. The pool boys dug through a sewer, wires for outdoor lights and a water pipe. The sewer was reconnected after a couple of weeks. The only downside of that being, the buttresses built to support the walls of the pool were in the way so they just smashed through them to get a new pipe in. The severed water pipe is the source of water to mix concrete. Rather than put a tap on the end, they chose to just bend it over. Inevitably after a while, the plastic pipe gave up and we had the outside of the foundations filling up with water. Not to mention the mosquito breeding ground, water is metered here so getting a plumber in was important. He didn’t fit a tap but instead pushed a spare piece of electrical conduit inside the pipe and bent that over.

By the end of Monday, the cleaners had finished making a mess upstairs. Things would be tight for time on their return the next day. The new kitchen worktop hadn’t arrived, let alone being fitted. Ten the next morning was when the movers were due. Sarah and Kevin were previously in Libya so there were all their boxes they hadn’t seen in months stacked up in the study. They had their other bits and pieces to move from the apartment which Kevin tasked one of the guards there to arrange transport for. Tuesday came, Sarah and I dropped off the wee one at school before heading to the new house. I had quickly shoved all my belonging back into their cases to save anything getting lost or stolen in transit. We were unsurprised to find no cleaners in attendance. They finally arrived just after nine. We were joined by the guy to fix the air conditioning, he and his staff set to work on the various units throughout the house. He was supposed to have been and gone the previous week. The last thing we needed was even more people under our, and the movers’ feet. As with the cleaners, the AC guy had no ladders. More clambering over roof tiles with FBI grade handprints upon their re-entry. Unless they were using trained ants, there was no way they would reach all the outside units. That would suggest they even bothered about them. Very quickly they disappeared complaining they had run out of gas to recharge units. They also lacked what the guy called his “specialist tool” this later turned out to be a standard pressure washer. The AC man is allegedly an electrical engineer by the name of Emmanuelle, the same name as the ill fated final Carry-On film. How very appropriate except you can sit back and enjoy a carry on film without fear of electrocution, explosion from illegal venting of air conditioning gas or total exasperation from his obvious lack of even basic electrical knowledge. The movers arrived a little late after being sent thirty miles away to where the boxes had been a few weeks before. Immediately, they set to work heaving furniture and boxes upstairs. Below them, the cleaners were wasting time again. Kenneth was summonsed and reminded that although “Big Kevin” wasn’t here, he would be very soon, Kenneth shouted to a few bodies who paid him scant regard. Three large windows look out from the living room. Each measures about eight feet by five, the good thing, is it is only two asticles, only two pieces of glass and a bit of frame. The middle one has sliding doors but the other two are sealed. An easy job that if I were doing, I could have completed in less than five minutes, allowing for possible paint and stubborn marks to need scraped off. To clean the inside of one of these took one cleaner an hour and a half. With that level of meticulous care, one would expect the brightest ever gleam. Something that could be used as a reflector for a giant telescope perhaps? A perfect piece of glazing delight. Of course, it was none of these, it looked like a synchronised swimming team of toddlers had been offered up to the glass and engorged every last drop of spittal and snot. I may be exaggerating slightly; it really was streaky to the extreme. I felt so strongly, I decided it was time for Kenneth to have a window cleaning lesson. I located a two in one mop squeegee; the rubbers on the squeegee had certainly seen better days, a bucket of clean water with washing up liquid added. The liquid was added only after I was able to confirm with Kenneth which unmarked bottle to use. One bottle was marked, that bottle was of solvent paint thinners only found after they left. A small bottle previously used for and marked as mineral water found by a thirsty four year old. Lying just beside this had been a loose razor blade. Just as well then, a certain four year old knew to ask before picking up a drink! I set to work on a downstairs window, explaining my technique as I went along. Soon there were assembled a small crowd watching. I don’t know whether it was for educational stimulation or purely laughing at their boss being shown how to do something by an Abroni. I very much doubt whether Kenneth took any notice of my attempts to help his company work faster and better, it made me feel better at least.

Upstairs the movers were spent the rest of the day flying through their task. Cardboard boxes cascaded into the hallway from above. This display was a sign of how teamwork should be conducted, with only one slight hitch when Kevin had cardboard crash past his ear. It was just cardboard though. The movers unpacked everything from the Libya shipment leaving only the stuff from the apartment to arrive. The moving vehicle was an open 7.5Tonne truck and not everything survived the journey. Firstly, our maid Doreen was left at the apartment to clean everything. As her style dictated, she decided to disregard this and pack everything. That would have been a very lovely thing to do, had she not used a rather unconventional packing technique. Most of my stuff was back in my bags, everything else was stuffed into whatever she could find. Suitcases, plastic bags, anything. No method to this, just
whatever came to hand got tipped in. every morning, I wash my face water. Just water, no soap, no cleansers. Others have suggested using something so my intention had been to use the stuff bought for the purpose. The first morning in the new house, I washed my face with cleanser, I washed my arms with cleanser, I washed my arse with cleanser. Tuesday was the day of moving in, and if you look at that as the nuclear blast, the radiation cloud continued for another week and a half.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible

Apologies for the break in service. A new house and lack of time or internet to blame. A huge amount has happenened in the wekk since we moved. Real blood sweat and tears stuff. Whenever I get the chance to upload at least some of the goings on, I will.

Unlucky in cards, lucky in.......Rock

Thursday saw a couple of social events. Firstly, a game of Canasta, then a pub quiz night. Canasta is a card game introduced to Sarah just before I arrived. Since my arrival, the three of us have been filling evenings with these games. Essential practise then for the big game. After being introduced to all the ladies of the Canasta group, they enquired as to how well I knew the game. Saying we had played almost every night and sometimes until six am, for a week, wouldn’t have shown me to be a beginner. “A few times in the evening” would suffice. The group is a collection of wives living out here. All professionals in their own right, in Ghana because of their husband’s businesses. Oil has not taken over here quite yet, Sarah being the only one whose husband is involved with the oil industry. Wives of lawyers, diplomats, accountants surrounding us, we played cards and enjoyed home bakes. I don’t mind being in a circle of women. They viewed me as something of a novelty. Conversation was varied. I am bound to secrecy as to the content of some discussions. It’s a good chance to realise there are others who struggle with exorbitant supermarket prices and the various mosquito prevention and repellent methods adopted. Some were shocked that Sarah chose to drive here. Most opting to have a local driver to take them anywhere they needed to go. The downside of this, was one admission by a lady who had no idea where she lived in relation to the rest of Accra. If she is looking to go anywhere, she instructs her driver to call the other person’s driver for directions.

After Canasta, we returned back to the apartment where Sarah went through some of my CV with me. I say some of, as I do have rather a lot on there. In the past, trying to condense everything into two pages has proved a challenge. My mother tells me, whenever she has difficulty falling asleep at nights, that she goes through my resume in her head rather than count sheep. She proudly tells me it never fails and she rarely gets to the end before entering the land of nod. My CV therefore needs to be condensed. There has been quite a lot of interest in me since arriving barely a week ago. All these social occasions inevitably lead to people’s occupations and interests. Representatives from multinationals, or those out with aid agencies. It is all very well my taking work out here, the trouble is, I will not be able to attend Canasta and catch up with the gossip!

The regular quiz night at a sports bar was our evening destination. Kevin fought through traffic to get us there early enough to reserve a large booth. We would be eating too. Champs bar is owned by a Canadian, being a sports bar, any wall which is not adorned by television screens, has framed football shirts. From the ceiling, hang flags of countries thousands of miles away. Most of these have been left by visitors. The Scots’ stamp being prominent with several Saltires and Lion Ramparts. The building has air conditioning, it also has vinyl seating. The AC was either needing serviced or set deliberately inefficiently to promote more drinking. The three of us sat while our backsides fused with the vinyl. Only a copious amount of sweat preventing us becoming permanent fixtures. Sarah and Kevin enjoyed kebabs, while I had a themed chicken dish referred to as Chicken Gazza. Any tears would’ve been more appropriate to their choices. Three beef kebabs on skewers. Sauces of piri piri, barbeque and shitto. Yes, shitto. A hot spicy sauce very popular here. I’ve tried it and once you get over the instantaneous sweating, any unpleasant toxins that may have been sitting in your system, become dislodged in much the same way as a drain surges as it finally unblocks. The result is thankfully not as quick as the all over sweat. Only next day do you get the fully flushed feeling! There is a kebab place nearby the current apartment where I’ve been told the shitto is even stronger. As we were finishing up, some more bodies arrived. The team slowly assembled until there ten of us in the booth. I had earlier suggested a team name of “Tro-tros” given that there would be a lot of us crammed in and odd hand gestures may emanate from time to time. In the absence of any better suggestions, that’s the name we agreed upon. A Tro-tro is the bus service here. Usually they are Ford Transit or Mercedes minibuses with a stated capacity of twenty three but all too often, filled with many more. I still have to find one without a single dent. Being bigger than most things on the road, they regularly just pull straight out into a line of traffic. If the drivers bother to use indicators, this is not always obvious. Tail lights rarely are in one piece, or there at all. At nights, it is a common sight, or not, to have a Tro-tro driving along with no lights showing. They have conductors on board. Their job is to hang out the window as they approach agreed stopping points, gesticulating to passengers waiting. With no destination signs, coded hand signals are used. A hand in a downward swirling motion might mean they are going down to the city centre. A signal that could be excused for a cyclist signal for slowing down may mean a different district. With little chance of rust and no chance of having to get through an MOT test, some of these machines are real classics. Ok, classics in my eyes if no one else’s. On my first day in Oxford Street and before I knew what a Tro-tro was, I saw the evolution of the Transit van in a few minutes. First up, a Mark I in red, followed by a dark blue Mark II, oh how that brought back memories of my old Mark II friend. Soon after, appeared a light blue Mark III. I am almost accustomed to them now. Seeing twenty or thirty year old vehicles still in constant use. They will break down from time to time, creating chaos. Obviously when they are working, chaos is still the name of the game, swerving from lane to lane. The battered bodywork a reminder they have done it before and will do it again. Best just to let them through. As the only smokers, the three of us chose to step outside as courtesy to the rest of the team, sliding as best we could over the sticky bench seats. This continued as we anticipated the arrival of the quizmasters. I have been to plenty quiz nights in my time and have even conducted some myself. I was rather puzzled by the numbers involved. Two boffins with bald heads and pony tails, they sat with a laptop each, a lady, whose job it was to gather quiz papers and one man to call the questions. This wasn’t a quiz night, it was an episode of countdown! There were seven or eight teams, ours was by far the largest, well, if you don’t count the fifty million extra helpers our neighbouring team had in the form of Google, a problem that permeates nearly every quiz night. Without an expensive blocking system, where complaints would almost certainly come forward, there is no way of stopping this, unless, of course people grasp the simple concept of cheating being wrong. After the first two rounds, our team were tied with the neighbouring Google team. Perhaps excessively vocal contributors on our team helped them too. We had ages nineteen to fifty, they had ages fifteen to nineteen. It is quite possible those with their phones out were just texting, odd though, that they had the phones out during questions and not so much after. The final few rounds had the focus purely on me. Music lyrics where the Tro-tro hand waving came into play as I racked my brains for the tune, followed by guitar riffs, ending appropriately with some Jethro Tull. We ended the night in third place, a prize of a fifteen Cede bar voucher becoming ours. Not a huge amount but, given that the tab for ten of us for three hours of drinking, was just over sixty, money in a bar goes a lot further here.

Returning to the car, we passed through an open air bar we had visited a few days before. Making eye contact with an attractive local woman at a table, I smiled. To my surprise, she made a kissing motion with her lips. I announced my bite of interest, only to be greeted with laughter from Sarah and Kevin. Once they regained their composure, they confirmed it wouldn’t have mattered how I looked to that particular table of ladies. I’ve been told we should manage a proper night out before I leave, so my fingers remain crossed. At least buying someone a drink won’t cost too much. As long as it’s only the drink I need to buy, I’ll be happy.

AIDS

Monday the first of December is world AIDS day. Nowhere is this more important than in Africa.

I remember the TV adverts of the 1980s with the slogan “Don’t die of ignorance”. In the West, we still hear stories but it is not nearly as high profile as it was, or I think should be. There is still a stigma about it. Some people wrongly believe it is confined only to gay men and intravenous drug users. In fact, due to common sense in the gay community and needle exchange programmes, the highest number of new cases are in young, sexually active heterosexuals. I will now proudly admit I was tested this year. I had been quite promiscuous and was not always careful to use condoms. I no longer fit into the “young” category but I’m still at risk. I was negative by the way. If I do get lucky with a lady or two here, I will, absolutely be using condoms. Two thirds of those in the world with HIV or AIDS live in Africa.

Wherever you look here, there are very public messages explaining the risks. A poster in the reception of Kevin and Sarah’s daughter’s school has a cartoon showing the right steps. A massive billboard in the city has slogans trying to encourage condom use. The problem here is massive. So far, over twenty million have died of AIDS in Africa. Last year 1.4 million died of AIDS and a further 1.9 million became HIV infected.

With Malaria, cases will still occur, even with precautions. It is treatable and most people are cured with drugs. With AIDS, there is no cure but prevention of spread is easy. Things like African fokelore that having sex with a virgin cures it and the Catholic Church whose workers refuse to distribute condoms are complicit in genocide on a massive scale.

I’m not going to bleat on about it endlessly. Just type “aids in Africa” into Google for more. In the time you have taken to read this, another child has just died of AIDS in Africa.

My figures come from United Nations statistics.

Trading places

If you want designer names, come to Ghana. Everything from Gucci watches to Nike trainers. If you want genuine designer names…don’t.

The entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well in this country. The people can do amazing things with their hands. You take a pair of trainers or a piece of furniture to them. Even a photograph of something you’ve seen, can be turned into a material item. Items might be ready within the day, they may take up to three months dependant on the complexity and on GMT. Despite what I’ve said, they really are hard workers when they put their mind to it. Traders are to be found set up at the side of almost every road. All sorts offered including; leather suites lined up in the dirt, dog houses and freshly cooked sheep’s heads. One man has a line of beds and dog houses on his patch. His sign says “Moses” with a telephone number below. He will apparently turn his hand to most things. He may take a while to produce your product though. Not that I believe him to be lazy, it is the tools of his trade which may hamper him. His saw is a bare hacksaw blade. It takes a long time to cut through a 6x2 for a bed frame with one of those. His single chisel is a sharpened screwdriver and for a smoothing plane, he has a razor blade set into an offcut of wood. I mean no disrespect to this man. Sarah has told me she wants to buy him some proper tools to show her appreciation. I’m sorely tempted to do likewise. He is only one of many who keep themselves going by whatever means necessary.


The roads are often poor quality. Regular bottlenecks through single lane underpasses cause no end of problems. Locals have seized this opportunity by making up red and green flags. A pair of men will station themselves at either end and control traffic. They have no power and some will simply ignore them but the system works pretty well. Every few days, we will stop and hand some change to each one as thanks. Not everyone does this; it must still pay as they are regular fixtures. Everywhere you look, there are people trying to free others of their money. I’ve mentioned the vendors on the pavements. The real pains are the hawkers in traffic queues. Pull up and within seconds, hoards of them descend on the car; Toilet rolls, mobile top up cards, pictures of the last supper, puppies. How about a couple of tins of Guiness for a tired driver? The women carry goods on their heads. Certainly an example of having good posture. Not a hawker, just a chap walking along, had a car battery perfectly balanced on his head. As he turned to look towards the road, the battery slowly spun whilst remaining level, a sight to behold. The hawkers will be drawn more to a car full of white faces. We are known as obronis here, a colloquial word used for those with paler faces than natives of Ghana. It is more used in a descriptive context rather than as an insult. To insult a Ghanaian, offensive words and phrases include; using an otherwise term of endearment such as “You’re being a monkey” is a definite no no. Deep offence is caused by telling someone they are a beast, a fool or an idiot. On no account ever tell someone to shut up. These might be mildly unpleasant phrases back home, here they are worse than saying c**t. The hawkers are trying to make a living like anyone else. Some work independently, sourcing goods to sell off. Others work for shops, they will be given a certain amount of stock and have to sell it throughout the day. One product to definitely avoid is bread being sold in late afternoon. It will be the stuff shops want to get rid of. Perhaps even more alarming, are those selling fish products, no real refrigeration and out in the punishing sun all day. A smile and a shake of the head are often enough to ward them off. If there is something we need and it is safe, we will trade with them. I say safe in connection with the sandwiches some will make for you there and then. These men and women are out all day dodging traffic. When the call of nature presents itself, they will just go. No matter which way the men turn, they are facing some kind of traffic, so seeing one urinate publicly is not at all uncommon. The women wear long skirts. While balancing their load on their head, they will just hike up their skirts and squat down. Picking themselves up again just in time to make you a lovely fresh sandwich! The most common transactions we carry out are for MTN mobile phone credit. We buy the sealed cards with scratch off panels. We could use a shop but when we buy twenty Cedes at a time, and locals are more likely to buy one or two Cedes at most, it boosts their day no end. To carry out a transaction, often means the vendor has to run alongside a car as it moves off. Hesitate here, even for a second, and there is a crescendo of horns. Local people will sometimes just drive off. Alternatively, they can be seen throwing the money out the window and leaving the hawker the unenviable task of scrabbling around the road as traffic rushes past. Probably the single most annoying hawkers, are the window washers. You know the drill; you pull up at a traffic light and out of nowhere appears someone with a mop and squeegee. I’ve described before the method of flicking on the wipers to deter them. This doesn’t always work. They may lift your wipers, leaving them stranded waving side to side in mid air. It’s not just the annoyance factor of someone expecting payment for doing what “wash wipe” already does. It’s the permanent damage to the glass that stones on the cleaning surface have. Whether this is accidental or not is unknown. They get very angry when you drive off and they have layed a mere sud. In their eyes they should be paid for this.

The newest product offered, is Christmas tooters. A Santa face with a roll out tooter in the mouth. First it was a single red candy stripe one, then appeared one with a tooter going out either side of the mouth. Seeing this sent the whole car into a fit of giggles. The whole thing seemed surreal. In fact, the idea of the run up to Christmas in temperatures of 35 degrees, rising by the day is surreal actually. Now the evolution is a green tooter one side and a red one the other. Sort of port and starboard. I’ve made it clear, I will only buy one if they have one with a tooter out their arse too. With the stipulation I don’t buy the display model.

Supermarkets are a more convenient option. With convenience comes higher prices. You could buy a lettuce from a fruit and veg stall for one Cede, go to a supermarket and an imported one with less chance of hidden bugs will set you back twenty Cedes. With an exchange rate of two Cedes to the pound, one point four to the dollar, things start to get very expensive. Admittedly, it is generally on imported goods. A one hundred gram jar of Dowe Egberts instant coffee is anywhere from two to two pounds fifty back home. In one of the supermarkets, I saw it on sale for twenty six Cedes. Christmas tins of chocolates will set you back up to forty Cedes. A large box of Fairy washing powder tipped the scales at ninety eight Cedes. Even chocolate made in this country is expensive. If you do see a nice looking price on a shelf edge, by the time you get to the checkout, the price doesn’t match. A few times so far, things have rung through at higher prices. Shopping is a case of keeping your wits about you. If you see an item at a good price, grab it! Stock of certain items often runs out. Assistants favourite phrase is “It’s finished”. Items that are cheaper include water. Just as well with the amount we go through per day. The tap water is safer here than elsewhere but still only risked for washing and brushing of teeth at a push. A five litre bottle at one sixty seven is great value. Cigarettes are very cheap. Hardly anyone here smokes, something they like to make you painfully aware of. In traffic today, I had one out the window. A car full chased up alongside us and a passenger shouted over “No smoking here, you are not allowed to smoke here” Not true, as Ghana has no smoking ban indoors, let alone on a public highway in a private car. They didn’t give up and kept speeding up to draw alongside to shout insults. Now, whatever your views on smoking might be, publicly heckling others in the open air is unreasonable. They especially don’t like seeing women smoke. Sarah has had some very nasty reactions to just standing in a car park or open street. It is a welcome change to be able to smoke inside bars. If my doctor is reading this, please close your eyes now. My consumption has risen dramatically. A combination of the company I’m in, the mosquito deterrent effect and now deliberately pissing off the hecklers. Ah yes, and cost. Two hundred Pall Mall is eleven Cedes, Rothmans a little more. I have yet to find Benson & Hedges although I’m told they are here. With prices for two hundred, effectively less than I pay for twenty back home, I don’t worry so much about getting every last draw out of them, so maybe my health risk has diminished a little. The other plus side of few fellow smokers here, is that I am very rarely bothered by someone asking for one. I imagine having that level of attention, together with traders antics, would get just too much to cope with.

It’s fair enough that some things are more expensive, especially imported goods. Some imports look decidedly unintended. In a large mall shop that does electrical goods, I found ASDA Smartprice microwaves. Thirty quid back home, the price tag of one hundred and sixty seven Cedes here. It is quite possible they are seconds. It is much more likely that the shipping container became “lost in transit” rather than goods having fallen off the back of a lorry, and they regularly do, quite literally! falling off the back of a container ship is a source of products here. The containers themselves often then being used as roadside shop units. I hate to think how hot it must be to work in those. Something else I’ve spotted very cheap, is Singer sewing machines. The antique treadle ones which have been refurbed. I’m sorely tempted to pick one up to take home and flog on Ebay.

GMT

Down here, we are sitting five degrees from the equator. Only five degrees of latitude further South and you have the sun directly overhead. Here’s a question, if you have a satellite dish in the UK, where does it point? Kind of South and slightly upwards? I haven’t researched this but I think most communication satellites orbit over the equator. Therefore, a lot of dishes here resemble upside down umbrellas. Hopefully, the photograph of this will upload to let you see an example.


According to GPS, the longitude is zero. An imaginary line joins Ghana with London and passes just offshore from Aberdeen. It is Greenwich Mean Time all year round here. Back home, we have daylight saving with BST. In Ghana, there is no need to capitalise on the year round sunshine. Just a reminder then, when you ask me what time it is here, and quite a few have done so far, it is exactly the same time as in the UK. With London being the point from which all times are taken, I had always thought this to be an English thing to ensure they were the centre of the empire. Not so.

As recently as the 1880s, there was no standard time. This became a real headache in the US and Canada. The railroads would pass through towns who all kept different times. Obviously this was a logistical disaster. Timetables were all jumbled up, these towns fixing their times according to local sunrise and sunset times. Across the vast continent, the daylight differed between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. A Canadian engineer named Sandford Fleming, he got a knighthood but probably not until his idea was rolled out, proposed dividing the world up into segments. These are the timezones we know today, thanks to Sir Sandford Fleming who, although I said was Canadian, was actually born in Scotland.

In the timezone GMT, lots of different things happen. In London, everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere. The same too in Ghana. I want to describe the driving here but a thousand words cannot convey the anarchy of the experience. Maybe once I’ve ventured behind the wheel myself, I will have a go. If I survive that is! If you want something done in London, you want it yesterday. There is no room for slackers, apart, of course from our glorious government system. In Ghana, GMT has a whole new meaning. If you want a job done, paperwork processed, or even a meal in a restaurant, you need to understand Ghana Maybe Time. It is wonderful to be chilled out and relaxed, but a combination of bureaucracy, faffing, and lateness persists. I know what you’re thinking “Hey John, you’ll fit right in there”. I know I have my moments but some of the processes take time wasting to a whole new level. The pool boys arrived to continue work at the new house the other day. Their pick up, overloaded with gravel and three workers perched on top of that, appeared at about eight thirty five. By nine thirty, they were all having a break. Friday was a holiday in Ghana, there are a very small percentage of Muslims here. It was the Eid holiday for them. It was also Thanksgiving in the US. Ghana took a holiday. When Britain has a holiday, Ghana takes it too. It is great to have so many breaks, it doesn’t really help in getting stuff done though.

It may be worth mentioning the dubious historical connection between the West coast of Africa and Jamaica here. This was a trading post where slaves brought from the interior of Africa were loaded onto boats, bound for the sugar plantations of the “New World” Maps today, still name the stretch of coastline joining Ghana with its neighbour Ivory Coast as The Slave Coast. I bring this up, because many similarities exist between here and Jamaica. I had a Rastaman accost me the other day. He pushed his hand out to shake mine. Despite my previous resolution not to fall into this trap, it is considered very rude not to shake hands. With waterless alcohol hand gel at up to £4 a bottle, it’s an expensive business. He was trying to give me, yes give me, a CD of local music, all I had to do was give some money towards poor children. Of course, he was who I would pay the money to and he would ensure the money got to the children. I tried to back away, making excuses as I went. Kevin took over when I started to tell the Rasta I didn’t really like that music. Another thing they take deep offence to. It is all very well to say you don’t want something, you will not buy today, maybe another day. Do not belittle the goods they are offering. If it is pure tatt, you are entitled to think that but it is poor etiquette to voice this. Even if someone is badgering to part you from your money. Another custom is the handshake itself. Put your hand out in front of you now as if you were to shake my hand. I shake your hand conventionally, then as I withdraw, I click my finger off yours. This is a trick I still need to perfect. I’ll be practising on everyone when I come home. If the prospect of that scares you, I’ll supply you with some hand gel too. The handshake serves another purpose. Much is bought and sold via a hand shake. The money is gripped between the fingers and passes during the shake. Not because of anything shady like drug deals, however, it does have its uses for bribery. The term “back hander” for a bribe, might apply to the lubrication of some processes out here, but in the literal sense, all bribery is right in front of your nose. I was approached in Oxford Street the other day by a very insistent vendor. He wanted to stitch a threaded arm band with my name on it. I told him and told him “Not today” despite this, he was still starting an embroidered John. The guy really wouldn’t take no for an answer. On telling him I hailed from Scotland, he leaned in and asked “You want hashish?” “No thank you”, I grinned. “You must want hashish, everyone in Scotland wants hashish” Well I certainly do not” My grin had disappeared. Do tourists really come over here just to get stoned? Go to the Middle East and slag off Mohammad. They’ll get you stoned for free. This vendor went on to ask if I was having a Rasta holiday with everyone the following day. I explained I was a guest of my friends and they would decide what was happening to celebrate. Incidentally, a part of it was spent trying to extricate kilt socks for Kevin and Sarah’s shoes, from the hundred and forty boxes labelled in Arabic, stacked up in the office area of the new house. Air conditioning almost non existent. All the units are well overdue for servicing before the big move in. I decided to wear all white. Not the wisest move, with boxes from a shipping container exposed to the desert sands of Libya, their previous home. At least I knew which bits of my T-Shirt were clean to wipe my brow. Even the packing tape on the boxes was melting into whitish goo.

Time is a precious commodity the world over. Ghana has a long history of exporting the good and the not so good commodity. Ivory, slaves, cocoa beans, gold, tuna and now oil. Take a look at a Cadbury bar, a John West tuna tin and spend a minute to think of Ghana. Just don’t linger too long, or you will have just imported their time too.

4077 Medical Hospital

Sarah had not been feeling well for quite a while. Severe headaches, sickness and blurred vision. I broke a tooth while out to lunch the other day too. It doesn’t hurt but a visit to a dentist may be on the cards. Before I left home, I had all the vaccinations I was told by the doctors were needed. On arguing with Sarah about the time between boosters for Hepatitis, we realised I had only been inoculated against Hep A. Hepatitus B is strongly advised here, especially if I’m going to be having any dental work done. Hep C should also be done but I’ll get that if I go into the GU clinic back home and say I’ve been a naughty boy over here. That opportunity has not yet presented itself and I will be very careful to use condoms. I will probably risk only using one at a time however. The “double bagging” method might result in an experience akin to that “flup flup” noise you hear when trucks with loose tarpaulins pass!

Two reasons then, for us to visit the local hospital clinic. With Sarah possibly having Malaria and my need for jags, we set off to Nyaho Clinic. She warned me not to be put off by the basic nature of the place. At first arrival, it seemed relatively Western. A car park with guards. Not the British NCP car park attendant that limps up shouting “you cannae park there” This guard was full of smiles. Just as well, given the large truncheon he was wielding. I say truncheon, but it was more like a sawn off baseball bat. We parked up and headed to the reception desk. Sarah has BUPA Gold cover. I have travel insurance but this only applies if something has actually happened to me. Besides, I was told it would be very cheap. As we sat, Sarah explained that we had come along at night because day times here are pandemonium. There were a few people milling about, but essentially we were the only customers. I had tried to explain to the man at the desk that I only wanted the injection. He insisted that I must be tested first. Anyone who knows me, knows how bad I am with blood tests. I’m not scared of the needle, have no problem seeing my own blood, its just that having very low blood pressure, the first problem is finding a vein, even on finding something, there is no guarantee any blood will flow. When it does come out, I very quicly turn a shade of white in the green spectrum and have been known to crash to the floor as soon I’ve stood. I go armed with chocolate or a sugary drink. This evening, I had none of that and was already feeling the heat which made me a bit queasy. We headed through to the first waiting room. The well appointed reception area, gave way to a slightly more dilapidated interior. If you want to visualise the place, what if I mentioned the 1970s TV show M*A*S*H? We sat while a ceiling fan tried to cool the room. Trying too, to fly off its mountings. Windows were just louvered slats to the outside, the odd bug pinging off the fan from time to time. A nurse entered and went through Sarah’s symptoms before coming to me. I managed to explain to her, I had no reason to believe I had picked up hepatitis and that I only needed the injection. We were ushered through a door to the doctor and we had to repeat everything to him. He was a black man wearing a white lab coat and trousers. A pair of Asics trainers on his feet. This room was special, it had air conditioning, some welcome relief on a hot hot night. Sarah was despatched first, clutching scribbled notes. I followed, asking as I left where I was going. He replied “The nurse weel show you” I left through the side door to the outdoor walkway. There was no sign of a nurse but I spied Sarah up at a door back towards reception. As I caught her up, the door closed. A sign said “Payment room” After knocking again, the woman who answered scanned my scribbles before saying “Pharmacee” Another short wait at the pharmacy window until a different man appeared, clicked a few keys and presented me with an invoice. The price of the vaccine would be 19.20 Cedes. Just under a tenner. Before I paid, we went up to another waiting room to get Sarah’s blood taken. A man in a tan boiler suit entered and changed the bin liner. He or others in the same uniform, seemed to wander aimlessly through the whole complex. I’m guessing he was a janitor but his gait and the blank expression suggested more that he may be an in patient. At this, Sarah reassured me that the asylum was in a different part of town! I don’t know whether reassured was quite the right word there. We were ushered through three more doors to a man sitting at a desk. Before him were containers with all kinds of apparatus. From them, he drew the swab and hypodermic to take Sarah’s blood. Everything was carefully used. All the equipment was sealed before use. In front of us, he squirted blood into a green topped vial, a bit more into a yellow topped vial and the few remaining drops onto a glass slide, before adding a solution. We were told to come back in forty five minutes for her results. This may be a developing country but whenever I’ve had blood tests, I’ve had one on, say a Thursday and told to call them after two on the following Tuesday.

We returned to the reception where I paid my due account, before returning to the pharmacy to collect my vaccine. Back down the same walkway to the original waiting room. The ceiling fan still trying to shear it’s mountings. I was called by the nurse to follow her to yet another room in a building across the yard. There, I rolled up my sleeve and felt the, not so cold needle stab into my arm muscle. A small sticking plaster and I was done. I rejoined Sarah to return to the car park for a cigarette. About half way through mine, I started to feel incredibly woosy. I stubbed it out and climbed into the car to enjoy some air con. Within a couple of minutes, the cool air soothed me, just as one of the staff beckoned us to get Sarah’s results. She was issued with another bundle of forms, accompanied by an unsealed envelope. Opening it as we walked back to the original waiting room, she proclaimed her Malaria test to be negative. The other results were scribbles, illegible to either one of us. There was no sign of any nurses. A knock on the doctor’s door was in vain so we waited patiently. We waited and waited. I watched the ceiling fan, curious as to whether it would perform a final flourish to it’s captive audience. After an inordinate amount of time, and more loud knocking on the doctor’s door, we ventured out towards the building I had been stabbed in earlier. This time, there were no signs of life. Another door was knocked, still nothing. We doubled back to reception, where the man apologised and picked up the phone. We could hear the ringing getting louder as we trudged back to the waiting room. The phone in the adjacent doctor’s room rang and rang. When it had run off, we waited. A little less patiently this time. Another bug cascaded down from the fan onto the still unstaffed desk beneath. Sarah, becoming quite exasperated, stood up and marched back to reception. I trailed in her wake. The heat and humidity was fraying patience and tempers. Politely, she again told the man at reception no one was attending to us. Again, he apologised and lead the way back down to familiar “waiting room 3” aka funky fan room. He cut across to stab hut looking through each louver as he went. He stopped at the end door and knocked very loudly. A shape in white stirred and rose. A different nurse made her way towards us, came into the waiting room and knocked on the door leading to the doctor. She then opened the door and there, as before, was the doctor sitting at his desk. Sarah and I threw each other a glance. The same thought on our minds. “Had he been here the whole time and just ignored the door?” He told Sarah she did not have Malaria but that he woud prescribe antibiotics for her irregular white blood cell count. We thanked him and left. Back past reception and round to the pharmacist’s window. He seemed to have disappeared too. I suppose it was understandable, it was just after midnight by this point. We were the only visitors. The heat was unbearable, we were both tired and fed up. Heading towards reception, a new patient walked past. Not unusual, except he was bare footed and missing a large portion of his big toe. All that was left were tendons and blood vessels sticking out haphazardly. I felt a bit humbled by this. When I had foot problems earlier this year, I felt unable to do much. Yet here was someone unaccompanied who had obviously got himself to hospital with a very serious amputation. Sarah told the receptionist we were now leaving. She would get the drugs the following day. We left past the baseball bat guard beaming us a smile as he held open the gates and headed home.

Right now, I am sitting in a pair of tartan trews, white shirt and bow tie. It is the St Andrews dinner dance here tonight. I’m very sure there will be a few stories to tell, once I’ve sobered up from that adventure.