Retirement

49 Years, Some Days and a Wake Up

You may have read my Grandad's diary. I put it on-line some time ago. ( http://www.beltoncricket.co.uk/Downloads/fletch.html ). The most frustrating part of the transcription is the technical terms he uses which must be specific to the cloth trade. It's often difficult to make out what he's talking about. He didn't have the internet, but I do - so I'm determined not to make the same mistake.

We are popularly told that this present generation will have far less job security and will have to work until they drop because the pension system is so screwed up (many thanks Bankers!).

This may be so, and if it is, I'm truly sorry; but I've done my bit, and I retire in a very short time without any compunction.

As part of the process, I decided to note all the different jobs I have had and briefly describe the how, why and where.

This may be a salutatory message for the generation to come, or the last ravings of an overworked retiree and loon.

Here goes.

I started working on the old man's milk route when I was about 11. That would be in about 1957. I know this because by then I was old enough to be of some use and stupid enough to think it was a kind of treat to be able to help on the milk route. In a very short time, I was dissuaded from both innocent ideas.

A milk route is really quite hard work. You start early. In the early days, I only helped on Saturdays (it was a six day operation) and gradually this expanded to working also during the school vacations. It worked like this: you went to Myers Dairy on Dodgion (I have a photo which clearly shows the old loading dock) and after the Old Man messed about filing out paper work and getting the order organised you loaded up the truck with the day's dairy goods and set off. In a day you travelled at least 100 miles – stopping and starting and knocking on doors with milk in your hands. The OM was famous for quipping (after you had left the truck and taken a few steps) - “watch out for a dog up there”. I was bit once and nearly was more than a few times.

Early routes included Ruskin Heights in South KC where a tornado smashed through on 20 May 1957. OM and I were among the first to see the damage as we were allowed in to deliver milk supplies. I also distinctly remember seeing the swath of damage on South Noland Road (south of 40 Hi-Way) where the same tornado cut a passage through trees either side of the road. This bare swatch was visible for many years afterwards.

I'm sure I couldn't count this as paid work for Social Security purposes, but the old man would buy you a cup of coffee and a sweet roll and sometimes, particularly when I got older, give you 50 cents for helping. Getting older was a two pronged fork. You always got the 50 cents but you also had to do six days a week in the summer. It's not easy getting up at 4:30 when you are barely a teenager.

My next foray into work was doing my cousins paper round for two weeks whilst he was on vacation. I'm not really counting that.

The best way out of this (I figured) was to get a real job, so the day I turned 16 I both passed my driving test and went to work as a fry cook at 70 Hi Drive-In on 39^th and Noland Road, Independence, Missouri. We were living on 39^th street terrace at the time. I could walk to work. We worked a shift system - Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Sunday evenings (maybe 5 till 11) one week and Tuesday, Thursday Saturday nights in the next week. Or, did we do lunchtimes at the weekend? I think maybe we did and the system was more complicated that I have described. Sorry, it was a long time ago.

Sam Lerner was the owner and I was paid the princely sum of 75 cents an hour. After training in the gentle art of cooking hamburgers I got 90 cents an hour. The first week I worked I made $18.75. I remember that because I had to use the money to buy some new trousers for school. We really were quite poor. Over the years most of the people I knew as close friends ended up working for Sam. Larry Stoner was my bun boy for a while. I taught Bosco Cox how to cook hamburgers.

Sam was an old man then and now must be long dead, but he was a first class boss and a first class human being. He gave us “kids” real responsibility and thought nothing of going away for the weekend ( his passion was horse racing – for which you had to go to Omaha, Nebraska to indulge in )and leaving me more or less in charge when I was barely 17. He taught me a lot about the world of work. He taught me a lot about growing up.

We moved to 28 Berry Lane and Bobby Lawless lived a short walk away. The OM was in his racing stage and so I was in it too. Bobby was quite successful in ¼ midgets, and I won lots of trophies in my go-cart. Bobby and I hand-built a motorcycle and rode it around the neighbourhood. It was hairy. It had no throttle so he would sit front and steer and I would give it the gas with a cable direct to the carb whilst riding pillion. We didn't kill ourselves, but I don't know how.

Anyway, Bobby worked at the Kansas City Booth Manufacturing Co ( http://www.kcbooth.com/ ) - they are still in business! He got me a job there, but I can't remember the chronology? It was an education! It must have just been for the summer cause I wasn't there long. I think I'd have been about 17 or 18 and must have left 70 Hi (at least temporarily).

Anyway, the KC Booth Manufacturing Co was in North KC and was populated by a crew of Mexicans who did the real work. There is quite a large Latino population in KC and they must all have relatives who worked at KC Booth. I swept the floor and generally tidied up. They did all the skilled jobs. They made beautiful booths for posh restaurants and the quality was superb. They also taught me Spanish – of a sort. Mostly how to swear. It was an education.

I was 18 and at Central Missouri State Residence Center in Independence – right behind the Harry Truman Library. I had no money. I had to borrow some from my Grandad and Aunt Jane to get started. Borrowing money from my Grandad is one of the supreme accomplishments of my life. I temporarily had no job.

My sister, Ruthanne was waitressing at an Italian Restaurant on 71 Bypass just south of 39^th, or it could have been further north? She got me a job as the dishwasher. I joined the Honorable Company of Pearl Divers. Washing dishes in the Italian Restaurant may be the worst job I ever had. What my sister didn't tell me was that there was no dishwasher at lunch-times. So, when I got there at (say) 5 p.m. all the dishes from lunch were waiting for me. It took two hours to catch up – just in time for the evening's dishes to arrive. Trying to remove caked-on Italian sauces from a large pot requires a hammer and chisel. I kid you not. At one stage I thought that Tootie did this to me on purpose, but that was being uncharitable.

I was there only for a few months when I made it up with Sam and returned to 70 Hi. I had only left because I wanted a raise to $1.25 an hour and he wouldn't agree. He let it be known that I could come back and have the raise. I took it. Gladly.

Eventually, I ran out of money good and proper – as in stony broke – as in no pot to pee in and no window to throw it out of. I'd exhausted all the available avenues and had to drop out of school and get a real job. By real, I mean 40-ish hours a week and wages that put you in the paying income tax bracket. I went to work for 7 Eleven. My first and last foray into the retail trade.

I knew soon I was not cut out for it, but I needed the money and it was steady work. Not withstanding getting robbed - (http://malkauffman.blogspot.com/2011/06/raytown-bulls.html ) - it wasn't all that bad. Fortunately for us humans - as the years fade we forget lots of the bad things and only remember the good. It was boring and dealing with the public is a pain in the bum.

Whilst waiting to get drafted, my sister Ruthanne and her husband Alan managed to get me on at the Western Electric factory in Lee's Summit, Missouri ( http://www.thinkkc.com/sitelocation/realestate/section/summittechcampus.php ). I did the night shift ( 15:00 to 23:30) and like all factories it was boring but it paid reasonably well. I was back to sweeping up with a little light production work as well. I stayed there until I got drafted, St Valentine's Day 1968, and I returned there after I completed my time in the U.S. Army.

I suppose the United States Army qualifies as a job, but it sure didn't feel like one. A whole blog should be devoted to my time serving Uncle Sam. Mayhaps I will get back to this one day, but not now – it would simply take too long and take up too much space. I will say this – I did have some interesting experiences and met some very interesting people.

Returning to civilian life also meant a return to Western Electric. Even though the country was going through a mini-recession they had to take me back. It's part of how the government looks after its veterans. So, I spent a week on days more or less doing nothing and then they found a spot for me in the packing department. Obviously, if you make things they have to be packaged up and sent somewhere before they can be used. We packed. We packed everything that was made in the factory and sent it places. I was back on the night shift (good thing because I had resumed my glittering academic career at CMSU) and the packing department was no picnic. First thing at 3 o'clock I had to move all the packing stuff from one side of the bench to the other – to accommodate my left-handed outlook on work. Many times I was told that I could not do a particular job at Western Electric because of my left-handedness. I ignored them and after a few minutes studying the task, re-arranged the work space and got on with it. It was tedious work and my work mates were uninspiring. I can't think that I made anything like a friend among fellow workers in the packing department.

I wasn't there for long. I got moved to transistors and back to the designation “floor hand”. Glorified cleaner and odd-job person is what it was. We arrived. We got our floor sweepers. No brooms – too much dust would be whipped up. We wandered about for two or three hours sweeping and chatting to the ladies who did the actual work. We killed time. We did some production work on the “dirty room”. Some manufacturing processes produced dust and grime so an enclosed space within the department housed the “dirty” processes, even to the extent that the air pressure was lower inside so when the door opened the air came in – not out. I worked with Danny Ray Grimm, what a character. Danny Ray was once was arrested for drink driving whilst sitting amidst a pile of empty beer cans that completely obscured the floor of the car he was driving at the time! He, somehow, talked his way of that one! He was a character. He used to come by my house on South Lynn and we would ride motorcycles to work in the summer. He had a Honda 400 cc and my 350 cc Yamaha would really shift!

I worked at Western Electric all the time I was at Warrensburgh finishing my degree. So, I got up early, drove 50 odd miles to Warrensburgh, went to class, drove 50 odd miles to Lees Summit, worked until midnight and drove 10 miles home. Easy when you are in your 20's. Wouldn't want to try it today. I used to “hide” in the dirty room and do my required reading.

Summer of 1974 we moved to England. Even though I was on a visitor's visa at the time, I went to the labour exchange and got a job at Klingers Gasket Factory in Foots Cray. Their headquarters are now in Bradford, and the Foots Cray site seems not to be in existence any more. This was quite an introduction to the world of work in England.

First of all this was pre-Maggie Thatcher; therefore, everyone had a job. Well, everyone went into a place of work, even if they didn't do much of a job when they got there. That was definitely the system at Klingers. We had breakfast in the subsidised staff canteen. We did a bit (actually it was quite like the Western Electric packing department – we had a trolley and we went and found the gasket material for the order then we packed it up for shipment).

We had a long lunch. We did next to nothing after lunch. Jimmy and Taffy, my work-mates were big into horse-racing so they had fixed up a rest area, made out of old packing crates, complete with tea pot and radio. My job, being young and fit, was to take the bets to the bookies.

Good thing was the number 52 bus ran almost to the factory door from Welling and it was convenient to get to work. It was certainly an eye-opener! Meanwhile I was trying to get my first job in teaching.

I had already figured out that the best weather in England is in East Anglia. It's the warmest and driest part of the country – statistically speaking.

So, when I saw an advert for a job near Gt. Yarmouth, I applied, and I got it. I started my teaching career at Duncan Hall and was there for 12 years. I learned was humility among many other things.

There was a little lad named Toby – only about six. One day as they lined up for afternoon lessons he looked up at me and said, “I like you Mr Kauffman.” I was about to say something appreciative when he continued, “Mind you, a lot of people don't.” A real definition of deflation.

One of my ex-pupils works at Roys of Wroxham and I see him often. Occasionally, I hear news of one or other “Old Boys” and it never fails to make it all seem worthwhile.

While I was there as a struggling, ill-paid teacher, I always had a job in the summer holidays. I scrubbed toilets and took care of the swimming pool at a Caister holiday camp. I delivered papers for Menzies, the wholesale newsagents. I refuelled helicopters and checked bags at North Denes airfield.

In order to make ends meet, I cycled from Winterton to Yarmouth every morning at about four to do the papers. I drove the van and Jimmy worked in the back sorting out the bundles. Jimmy had been a prisoner of the Japanese during the war and really hated them. Even in the 1970's if he saw an oriental-looking person he would go mental.

I'm glad I was young when I had to cycle miles to work for about £10 a week. I'd hate to try it now! I was delivering papers when they tracked me down to attend the birth of son number two.

Duncan Hall closed in 1986 and I was temporarily unemployed. I did some supply teaching at Feltwell. Uncle Sam had a High School there for children of Air Force personnel at Lakenheath and Mildenhall. I needed a steady income and a return to teaching, but I found myself, instead, working as a security guard for Dardan Security at the gas terminal near Bacton, Norfolk. It was local, and it was steady work - if uninspiring. Night shifts were interminable. I was only there a few months when an opportunity came up at Finborough School near Stowmarket. I knew many of the teachers there from my time at Duncan Hall and was appointed third in the English Department with a little Science teaching thrown in for fun.

I was at Finborough from 1987 until I took early retirement in 2004. I did my best work at Finborough. There developed over the years an excellent staff, and I made some friends who will stay with me until we are all too old to care!

After some lazing about I got a job on the “bank staff” register at the Norfolk County Council. My first appointment was to edit the gibberish produced by a Social Worker who insisted she was severely dyslexic. She couldn't write for toffee and that's a fact. So, I would take her notes and bits of paper and produce statements for the courts. Some of them were just sad, as when grandparents (who just happened to be heroin addicts) wanted access to their grand children. Others were hair-raising, involving some shocking cases of child abuse here in tranquil Norfolk. It was an education. I did some work for the careers service in Yarmouth, mostly creating a database of service users and amenable local companies who might employ them to improve their chances of getting a real job. All in all it was very part-time and not very lucrative.

I saw an advert in the Eastern Daily Press. It looked interesting, so I logged on to the NHS web site and applied for the job of Housekeeper at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. Next thing you know I got an interview and – sure enough – I got the job. I was just over two years from retirement.

Working in a hospital is really interesting. Especially on the Acute Medical Unit. People die at a steady rate, pretty much one or two a week – sometimes a day! I gained a new and enthusiastic appreciation for the work of the nurses. The doctors are good, but generally they live in a world of their own and often seem either lost or just about to be lost. The ancillary staff without a doubt are excellent.

At the N&N there are some superb people who will look after me when I am so aged that it becomes my final stop-over before the grave. There are a lot of worse places to end your days.

Unfortunately, that's where most oldies in Norfolk go to die. The scenario: GP is called out to oldies house and, despite knowing that they are coming to the end of their life, feels Hypocratically bound to call an ambulance and have them taken to AMU. They are put in a bed and kept comfortable but they will not leave the hospital except to go the the morgue. Far better to die at home. Unfortunately, in this litigious society the doctors don't have much choice. They should, perhaps, say to the relatives that Granny is dying so just let her die in peace at home. But, they daren't.

So that's it. Nearly 50 years of work. No wonder I'm tired sometimes.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Neander Chavs

I had a good plan last Sunday. I needed to go to Tesco and get the things for the cricket tea and, using my valuable 5p off voucher, get some petrol at the same time.

Tesco actually open at 10:00 on Sunday to abide by the trading laws, but they allow you to enter the store at 09:30 to fill your trolley. The check-outs don't function till 10.

So, off I went.

I got to Tesco about 10 to 10. I thought I'd get the petrol first.

Petrol stations are un-nerving places – particularly Tesco's. First you have to choose your queue having mind which side of the car the filler cap is on. I can never really remember. Then you have to guess which queue is likely to progress soonest. It's hard to guess. The people are inevitably un-helpful. That's the customers I'm talking about; I'll get to the staff later.

I suggest you get down to your local Tesco petrol station and make a short documentary film. You could call it “Anti-Social Dimwits”. Quite catchy I think. People are in front of you in the queue. I accept that. But, often the car in front is populated by idiots. Watch them and see if I'm exaggerating. They dawdle, oblivious to anyone else. They fill the tank. They saunter off towards the shop. They see their mate and stop for a chat. They pick up a bottle of coke and a Mars bar. They finally get in the queue. They reach the front. They seem genuinely amazed that they have to pay for the petrol. They fumble for their wallet/purse. They can't find their Tesco Club Card. The decide they need a bag of crisps as well and go back and get one.

And what are the people in the queue doing? Nothing. Sorry, not nothing – they are wondering where Dippy is!

Eventually they appear and, after a momentary pause whilst they wipe the drool from their lip, they start towards their car. Sometimes they go to the wrong car and gormlessly grin, excuse themselves and make their way to the clapped out Mini they came in.

Then the real fun begins. They stow their provisions on the front seat. They adjust their mirrors. They roll up (or down) the window. They exchange words with any passengers. You see the rear stop light come on as they switch on the ignition with their foot firmly on the brake pedal – as if they are afraid the beast will leap off all on its own. Finally, they start the car. You'd expect it to move; often it doesn't. They switch off and go back to the shop. They have forgotten to buy breath mints. Finally they leave.

Sometimes the car at the front pump has already left and, if you can, you manoeuvre past the troglodytes to the other pump. These are satisfyingly rare moments. I almost managed this on Sunday – except Dippy had parked too far from the pump and just as I was about to set off for the front pump Dopey pulls up to the pump on he left in his van. Not enough room.

I put in petrol. I pay for it. I leave. It really is quite simple.

It's now about 10:10. Tesco's car park is full. Can someone tell me what these Drongos are doing in Tesco's on Sunday morning at 10? Are they insane? I'm just trying to get some stuff for the cricket tea!

I find a spot half a mile from the store. I manage to get a trolley. I make it to the front of the store. Neander-Chav has beaten me by three paces.

There he is. The sun is shining for the first time this spring. It's actually pleasantly warm. Neander-Chav has taken it upon himself to declare UDD – Unilateral Dumbo Day. He got his tank top on so the tasteless tattoos on his arms and shoulders are impossible to ignore. He's got his best Bermuda shorts on – you know – the ones he always wears on holiday at Clacton. Mrs Neander Chav and the little 'uns are with him.

You have to see Mrs Neander Chav to believe her. Her make-up is an inch thick. Her blue eye shadow tastefully matches her skimpy blue dress, which rides up when she reaches for the bag of Mars Bars so you can see the thong strap between her bum cheeks. You feel the need to throw up! (Recent scientific discoveries seem to support the idea that early man did, indeed, mate with Neanderthals and some Neanderthal genes are still in the human gene pool – it is certainly possible that one might jump on Mrs Neander Chav, but some sort of pre-historic drugs would be necessary first!)

Whilst the kids run about the shop causing mayhem, Neander and Mrs Chav split up so they can shop in a dually obnoxious manner.

I rush about Tesco and fill my trolley with the essentials for cricket tea.

I make it to the check-out.

A fairly normal-looking chap is in front of me buying vast quantities of drink – among other things. The check-out assistant reaches the last item, which is some sort of Gillette razor in one of those packs that have a security tag attached. Razor blades? Crown Jewels? No, razor blades?

He's got a coupon for a few pence off the razor blades. He give it to the assistant. She informs him that it's the wrong blades for the coupon. If he wants to save a few pence he needs to get another kind of Gillette blade. Absolute magic!

So, he says to the check-out pillock that he will pay for his groceries, go to the customer services and get the correct Gillette item and use his coupon there.

Unbelievably she says, “Oh no, just go back and get the right one and bring it here.”

Right. We're in check-out aisle 27 and the razor blades are on aisle 2. The store has filled up to bursting point with more Neander Chavs and their drooling kids. Super Numptie heads off. We, in the queue, amazed, just stand there staring at the check-out operator.

More than a few minutes go by.

We stand and wait.

He returns with correct Gillette packet, pays, mumbles some kind of “sorry” and leaves.

Check-out operator gives us a cheerful, “Sorry you had to wait” and starts on my bit of the conveyor.

I pay. I head for the car. I get out of Tesco car park as fast as practicable.

I'm having a bad day – a really bad day. We lose the cricket match.

I'm not surprised.

Missing Link?

Human evolutionary theory has suffered a shock recently with the release of details of a possible direct human ancestor dating from 6 million years ago – Ardipithecus ramdius – or Ardi for short.

Finding a specimen that old is surprising enough in itself; yet the real surprise is the revelation that Ardi lived in a well-forested and tropical environment and walked upright.

So, what' so surprising about that?

Previous theories about man's evolution have focussed on the idea that bi-pedal locomotion developed in response to a move to the dryer grasslands and away from the trees. This always seemed unlikely to me. The theory was that in order to see predators from a distance evolution favoured our ancestors who could stand and walk so they could see over the grass and spot the lions before the lions spotted them. Sounds good, until you stop and think about it.

In order for this theory to hold water you would have to have evidence that the environment was changing quite rapidly and that staying close to the trees was not really an option – unless you are a chip or orang-outang. This clearly flies in the face of obvious logic. Why would you choose a very precarious existence out on the plains when you could stay very close to the trees? Tough one that old Ardi may be able to shed light on.

According to the scientists involved in Ardi's discovery, she was up and about a long time before her descendants moved out onto the plains. Why? They speculate that by freeing up her hands she (and more particularly the “he” versions) were more able to gather food and return it to their mates, thereby providing the evolutionary advantage of walking upright a long time before we left the trees for good. Sounds fairly appealing.

But, in common with all theories – it's only a theory, and there are problems.

First, and I confess that I didn't really fully understand this before, the fossil evidence for Ardi and most of the other possible human ancestors you can find on the family tree is really very scanty. So scanty that we have many more fossils of, say, sabre-tooth cats than we have of humans. Therefore the analysis of human fossils remains and the extrapolation of the fossil evidence to form a theory about human evolution is based on very slim fossil evidence, to say the least. In Ardi's case the actual discovery of the fossil bones was made some 8 years ago and the field workers have been busy ever since in trying to firm up the evidence by using a variety of techniques and sources. We are just short of evidence. Very short! Why?

In my view, this is the key question.

Just stop and consider, we are talking about millions of years of human evolution. During that long period we have only a very few skeletal remains upon which to base any theory. Even given that the base populations in Africa were probably quite small, millions of years still adds up to millions of years of potential fossils. That's a lot of potential human carcasses lying about willing and able to form ancestor fossils.

They either are not there or we haven't found them yet. If they aren't there, why not?

Simple. What most of the researchers seem unable or unwilling to deal with is the place early man occupied in the food chain. Ardi and her cousins had very small brains – some only just slightly larger than a chimp. Their lives were short and brutal. They were prey species for all the large to medium predators. Think about the function of the hyenas and vultures on the plains of Africa today. They clean up. They clean up everything. They most certainly would have cleaned up any human remains they found. Result? Some very small, very chewed bone fragments.

After every rain (and these are fairly infrequent!) the scientists return to the valley where Ardi was found and search for newly uncovered bones. They may find some more evidence for Ardi and her kind. We wish them luck. Fortunately, the cause of evolution and, in particular, Darwinian evolution does not depend on their discoveries.

What evidence there is forced the scientists into formulating a new theory to account for the advent of bi-pedalism so early in the evolutionary saga. They came up with sex. Postulating that the males, by freeing up their hands, were able to gather food on the forest floor and near the edge of the savannah and carry it back to the females – thereby providing the earliest equivalent of the ubiquitous box of chocolate on record!! These males were successful in mating and evolution provided the rest.

This pre-supposes that early hominids were very unlike their simian relatives in mating behaviour. Even before the advantages of males co-operating in hunting activities may have “forced” them to be co-operative in mating, our ancestors were (seemingly) avoiding the potential fatal consequences of fighting to secure mates for a more equitable and sociable outcome. This gave us the real advantage over the other branches of the family. We work together and share the females. This behaviour is passed on to our offspring.

Every dog (or indeed proto-human) really does, therefore, have his day.

Bovine Mayhem, Raccoon Terror

Worrying!!

Strange to see in the paper yesterday two stories about animals attacking humans.

Story one, from the local EDP, concerned a farmer being trampled by his own cattle.

Number two – a woman in Florida was attacked by a marauding band of raccoons.

No, I'm not making this up!

Now, I have heard of cow attacks before. Despite the unlikely nature of such premeditated bovine assaults, it appears they are much more common than you might think. If you think not, try typing “cow attacks” into a Google search.

Herewith I must confess to putting a whole generation of school children at extreme risk by assuring them that cows are harmless, docile creatures and will not harm you. (Bulls are an exception!). I must plead ignorance. I just didn't know that cows were so damn dangerous! They never were when I was young.

At Thorndon in Suffolk, a farmer received “multiple injuries” after he was trampled by his own cattle. Roger Jones had broken ribs, cuts on his face and injured his shoulder after the cattle attacked him on his own land. He was in a stable condition in the hospital. (I had a look in EAU but didn't see Roger – I would have liked to find out some of the details!) Most of the cattle assaults documented on Google concern cows with calves. This makes sense. No matter how domesticated the beast, when the young are threatened (or are seen to be threatened by a brain-less cow) they will defend the calf. Fine. I can understand that. What I would like to know from Roger is what exactly was he doing when he was attacked? If they were his cows, surely they would be used to him and not see him as a threat?

People in England have died after being trampled by cows. Yes, it's true.

Part of my pitch to kids was our divorce from the natural world. Our recent ancestors would have had intimate knowledge of domestic (and wild) animals which we have lost. Ask most kids where a steak comes from and they will say Tesco's. The idea that a cow had to die and be butchered to get a steak is only peripherally known to most kids. They know it, sort of deep down, by they don't really think about it or imagine it as part of their daily lives. Confronted with the reality of slaughter, most kids instantly convert to vegetarianism (fortunately for Tesco this conversion only usually lasts until the next BBQ!).

I just wish the paper had let us in on more of the details.

Same day – same paper – a real human interest story.

Gretchen Whitted, resident of Florida was trying to chase some raccoons from her garden. Five raccoons surrounded her and attacked. She ended up in the hospital with cuts to her neck and leg (presumably she fell down – the idea that a raccoon could, or would, leap a metre or more in the air to bite Gretchen's neck is just too much to take in!) Still, a pack of killer raccoons loose in a Florida garden is pretty worrying!

Again we are sadly lacking in detail. Did, for instance, Gretchen corner the raccoons? Most animals will attack if cornered. What does it mean when she tried to chase them from her garden? With a stick? A broom? Her hands? A twelve gauge shotgun??

I need and want to know!

From the Associated Press

LAKELAND, Fla. — Animal control officers hope to trap a pack of raccoons that mauled a 74-year-old Florida woman who tried to chase them from her yard.

The sheriff in Polk County, east of Tampa, says Gretchen Whitted fell when five raccoons surrounded and attacked her Sunday. She was taken to a hospital with extensive cuts from her neck to her legs.

“We’re not talking about a lot of little bites here,” Sheriff Grady Judd said. “She was filleted.”

A neighbor called for help after hearing the woman’s cries and seeing her covered in blood.

Whitted was treated for rabies, though officials doubt the animals were infected.

Fire crews flooded nearby drains to drive the animals out, but none appeared. Animal control officers hope to catch them using cat food and sardines as bait.

Filleted! Not just bit, but filleted!!

There's something strange going on here! I'm sure raccoons could give you more than a nasty nip, but the idea that they form a gang, make a plan and then attack someone needs investigating – and now!! There are a lot of raccoons!! They're all over the place!!

My expose regarding harmless animals, given in good faith and with more than a modicum of humour and with tongue firmly in cheek is looking fairly irresponsible and, perhaps, the basis for a very expensive legal action.

I can see the headline now: Girl Trampled – Irresponsible Teacher Blamed!

A young lady was savagely attacked by a herd of cows whilst walking near Stowmarket yesterday. Sally Smith told he Mum she was going for a walk but is now in hospital in Bury with severe concussion after being trampled by up to 15 cows near her home in Lackbrain Crescent.

“I was just walking across the field to get home when the cows charged at me and attacked. I wasn't doing anything to annoy then! My English teacher, Mr Kauffman, told me years ago that cows were not dangerous. He lied to me! I'm very upset.” Suffolk Constabulary refused to comment saying the incident is under investigation.

I may need a good lawyer. Not to mention a fence to keep raccoons out of my garden!

Scary.

Aviva Cowards

The Norwich Union Insurance Group (now know as Aviva) high-ups have really outdone themselves recently.

Not only have they managed to upset the whole of East Anglia, not to mention their shareholders, with their name-changing antics and the vast sums of dosh employed to advertise what is essentially a non-story; they have now ducked swiftly the obvious choice for their new advertising campaign and decided to take the Michael out of the cor bugger janners!

What cowards when they have perfectly good Norfolk folk to make as butt of their jokes.

The boys in Oggy Land must not be very happy. We already know they're not very bright – at least according to NU.

Now, not a lot of people know this, so pay attention. The Regimental Song of the 1^st Battalion, The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment is The Tiddy Oggy Song! Part of which goes lie this:

Oh how happy us will be when we gets back to the West Country.

Where Tiddy Oggies grow on trees, Cor bugger Janner.

You make fast, kiss my a***

Make fast the dingy

You make fast, kiss my a***

Make fast the dingy

For we'll all go back to Oggy Land,

To Oggy Land, to Oggie Land

For we'll all go back to Oggy Land

Where they can't tell beans from

Tissue paper, Tissue paper

Marmalade of Jam

Ain't culture wonderful?

NU have missed a golden opportunity. They should have had a crowd of numpties trooping into Carrow Road singing:

I had a girl, really nice girl, down in Wroxham Way,

She were wholly nice to me back in the old school days,

She would smile all the while, but Daddy didn't know all,

What she used to say to me behind the garden wall.

"Hev you gotta loight boy? Hev you gotta loight?"

Then one day, she went away, I don't see her no more,

Till by chance I see her down along the Mundesley shore,

She was there, twice as fair. Would she now be true?

So when she sees me passing by, she say, "I'm glad that's you!

Hev you gotta loight boy? Hev you gotta loight?"

Molly Windley, she smokes like a chimley,

But she's my little nicotine girl.

Classic. I can see it now.

Why go all the way to Devon when you could take the rip close to home?

Cowardly, damn cowardly, I say.

Six of the Best

Time to go to bat for the away team.

Every bus/train/pub conversation will inevitably turn to the credit crunch and listening to the “we're doomed” brigade launch into a “bring back Maggie Thatcher chant”can be irksome and tiresome; so, it's time to promulgate the six best things about the UK and see if anyone agrees.

Number One

The Sunday Times – don't forget - despite the profligate number of Red Tops which are not actually newspapers at all, Britain still boasts some quality newspapers and a readership that is second to none – The Sun, The Mail and The Mirror are all in the top 13 selling daily newspapers in the world. Most of the really big sellers, of course, are from China, India and Japan.

The Sunday Times makes my Sunday. Any description of a perfect Sunday starts with reading the paper. The roast beef comes much later.

Number Two

The NHS. President Obama had health care reform as part of his electoral appeal and it worked. Unfortunately, the prospect of him persuading Congress to come up with anything like an NHS is very remote. Why? The vested interests in the United States just will not give up the milch cow that is the present system.

By contrast, Britain's NHS is the envy of the world – or most of it at least. It is far from perfect, but it does work. And it is genuinely free at the point of need.

People in Britain take it for granted and every paper has at least one story of an NHS failure on a daily basis; but it is so much better than any alternative; it would be easier to get the turkeys to vote for more Christmases than it would be to devise a better plan to cover a nation's health care needs than the NHS.

Number Three

The BBC. I never watch ITV – perhaps that's why they are losing money and advertisers faster than a man going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. I would watch ITV if there were any programmes worth watching, but since there aren't and we all pay for the BBC through the license fee anyway – why bother? ITV is full of soaps and naff game shows. I never watch it.

Number Four

Liverpool Street Station. Not the present station, the old one – before they tarted it up and added the glitzy shops and the arcades full of designer sunglasses. It was smoke encrusted. It was dingy. It was dirty. It was uncomfortable. In short, it was everything that represented the best of old England. Now it's gone – sold out to the bean counters and the advertisers. Shame.

Number Five

Stratford-on-Avon. I know it' daft, but I get a thrill visiting Stratford. It's almost all modern stores and houses by the bits that are “preserved” make it worthwhile. If you can't get excited visiting Holy Trinity and the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust – then you are probably immune to nostalgia and reverence for the Bard. More fool you.

Number Six

Trent Bridge. There must be nothing like a Test Match at Lords – though I have never been and I like the Oval – especially on a really hot day when you can drink a hogshead of beer and sweat it out so fast that you don't get drunk, but Trent Bridge is my “home” ground (that is to say the nearest one to Norwich with good rail communications). It really is a great place to watch cricket. The crowd are rowdy but very good natured and they don't take the cricket too seriously. Sitting in the New Stand and gazing at the old pavilion is a joy. Visiting the Trent Bridge Inn is a glory. And, you can get the train home. Magic.

Diss, Diss, Diss - lexia

Reading?

I compulsively sort out my papers. I find it relaxing. I take a pile of papers on my desk and go through them methodically and, maybe, find one or two I can throw away. Lest I be accused of some un-natural vice, I confess that this urge only happens occasionally.

Somehow I had mis-placed a very interesting article, “Dyslexia: a label to get you off the hook?” for about 18 months. Shame really. It's quite an interesting article and theory. Shuffling my papers reunited us.

I thought I would try to remember when I first heard the term, dyslexic. I think it might be in the 80's – maybe late 80's. I tried looking this up on Google but got nowhere. I did find that there are a lot of good folks trying to sell you aids guaranteed to help you overcome this affliction. There's clearly money to be made in dyslexia.

Not only money but also a lot of kudos. This is the main thesis of the article in question: dyslexia has become the educational lexicon replacement term for lazy, bone-idle, inattentive, gormless little nerk chiefly because it allows parents to medicalise Little Jimmy or Joanie's lack of academic progress and, therefore, gain extra advantages in the exam system.

I know this doesn't sound exactly earth-shattering and probably doesn't rival nuclear proliferation or climate change (another perhaps equally spurious label) as a threat to Western democratic society, but it does highlight an important sociological trend I have long identified and often regretted.

A few academics, St John-like, assert that dyslexia as a medical or psychological condition just doesn't exist. The insist that some children just don't read very well and for a variety of reasons, many of which are their own fault. The difficulty here is that parents believe that reading is an inherent pointer of native intelligence and, ergo, if their child is having difficulty reading they cannot be unintelligent, so they must have some medical problem.

Wrong on both counts.

Reading is not really allied to intelligence. Understanding and being able to make out what is read needs a lot of intelligence, just reading the words does not. Likewise, unless there is a problem with eyesight or some other physiological difficulty, there is no reason any child cannot learn to read adequately.

But, reading requires concentration and application. In my experience, these are what are lacking in “poor readers”. Children who have never been exposed to reading rather dislike it. Children who would rather watch television than read a book are in the majority. Children who clutch at the dyslexic straw are really quite clever.

At a stroke, they have satisfied Mum and Dad that it isn't really their fault that they are not doing very well in school, gained a life-long advantage over the rest of the population and ensured that they will be looked on with pity and sympathy for the remainder of their days. Good call.

I spent some time working for a Social Worker who was dyslexic. Most of what she wrote was gibberish, but her reading was really very good.

You figure.

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Least Favourite Meals

Schools make a dog's dinner.

Some philosophers are born, some are made and some just happen. I may have just made that up – though it is, of course, a paraphrase of a famous diktat.

My old mate and part-time philosopher, The Chef, had his Unified Theory of the Least Favourite Meal to fall back on when either the time or the meat was ripe. It goes something like this.

If you ask any group of school children what is their least favourite school dinner and remove that meal from the menu, all that happens is the next least favourite meal simply “moves up” to take its place. Eventually you'd be having fish fingers and chips every day until the kids were thoroughly sick of them!

Simple. Logical. Works. But, not from the Jamie Oliver School of Nutritious School Dinners.

It occurs to me that this insightful dictum can be applied to all sorts of things – things far more important than little Johnnie's lunch-time nosh. How about Johnnie's school for instance?

This is what was happening on BBC Question Time last evening. The Unified Theory of the Least Favourite Meal had morphed into the General Theory of the Least Favourite School.

The debate focused on the advantages, real or perceived, of faith schools and the dastardly tricks some parents will go to in order to obtain places for their children at these”good” schools.

Parents take the view that faith schools are better than non-faith. In individual cases, this may be correct. As a generalisation: it's a generalisation.

What was most interesting was the methods some parents use in order to place their children in a faith school – even though they are, strictly speaking, not of that faith. I suppose this does do some good in swelling the pews on a Sunday morning, but I'd be surprised if these phoney attempts to convince the local vicar you are a devout Christian really work.

An example. I started school as a bright-eyed five year old at a Catholic School on the south-side of Chicago. In those days, all white children went to the Catholic school because there were black children in the local maintained school. Therefore, about 25% of my school was Catholic and at least the same number were Jewish. This made for interesting education!

Even as a five year old I can distinctly remember the nuns being very angry on Jewish holidays! Al the Jewish kids stayed home!

While this anecdote may say more about race relations in Chicago in the 50's than it does about faith schools, it does resonate with the parents of today who think that their children should get an advantage (more perceived than real I would argue) simply by pretending to qualify for state-aided religious education.

The summing up was from the Labour Party spokesman who blithely informed the audience that, in any event, it would be impossible to do anything about faith schools – or independent schools for that matter – because the European Court would surely strike down any attempt to limit their existence as impinging on the parents rights to choose education for their children.

What we need are smarter parents

Until that happens, we're stuck with the least favourite meal. Bon apetit!

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