Too smooth to last

Orignially posted April 2010

Regular readers of this blog may remember that the water board has been digging up our street to replace the storm drain.  The work started in September, finished in March and a couple of weeks ago we all got a letter advising us to move our cars as they were going to resurface the road …

One morning a huge machine came along and ate the top layer off the road.  That afternoon another huge machine came and laid a smooth strip of black asphalt on our side of the road.   

The next morning it returned and laid an equally wonderful strip on the other side of the road.   

It drizzled that day so with the steam and the fumes it did look a bit Mordorish for a while.   

But when the smoke cleared we were left with a beautiful pristine road surface.

There was such a difference that when Number One Son got out of his school taxi he looked on the works with wonder and commented “Smoooth” is a really cool-jazz sort of way.

I am relishing living on probably the only street in the North East with no patches and no potholes.  In fact having recently returned from a trip to West Wales I’m fairly certain we have one of the half dozen roads in the country with no patches or potholes.

This morning, however, our Nextdoor Neighbour rang the doorbell and asked “I know this is a personal question but, is your water a funny colour?”

I led the way into the kitchen, filled an empty milk bottle from the cold tap and discovered we had tea coloured water too.

“Well I’m glad it’s not just us” said NN “because I’ve just rung Northumbria Water to complain.”

We walked back to the front door and looked wistfully at our immaculately smooth street.

“Ah well” said NN “I suppose it was too good to last.  I wonder when they’ll come and dig it up again?”

Impertinent questions

 First posted April 2010

A few days ago our toaster died.  I should have just left it by the front gate for the ragman.  However, being a good citizen, I rang Envirocall this afternoon to see how best to dispose of it. 

I’ve had to ‘phone Envirocall a few times over the years and their call centre women have invariably been charmless and overbearing to the point of bullying.  I once wrote a letter of complaint which was apparently totally ineffective.  I appreciate dealing with the great unwashed is unrewarding but even so their telephone manner and attitude doesn’t help.

After three attempts, and listening for minutes to their recorded messages telling me I would be dealt with as soon as possible, I finally got through to a human and asked whether I should put the toaster (worth £5 new) in my recycling bin or normal bin?

“Oh no you can’t do either of those” she said in horrified didactic tones “you’ll either have to bring it to the incinerator YOURSELF or arrange to have it picked up.” 

Her tone of voice made this sounded more like an order than advice to the valued customer their recorded messages reassured me I was.

I didn’t bother to point out that our binmen’s schedule gives them no time to do anything other than stick the wheely on the wagon and trundle it back to near the front gate.  The idea that they might be able to see what’s four foot down in the bin, let alone hoik it out is ridiculous.

So I opted to have it collected:-

I was quite happy to give her my address as this is fairly essential to having something collected.  I’m not sure why my ‘phone number was required but maybe they’d need to get in touch for some reason.  But at the next but one question I dug my heels in.

The dialogue went something like this.

“What’s your name?”

“Benton Bag”

“Miss or Mrs?”

“What’s my marital status got to do with anything?”

“I need it for the computer.”

“Well unless the computer wants to marry me it’s none of its business.”

“But I need it for the computer.”

“I don’t care.  Whether I’m married or not has got nothing to do with getting a dead toaster picked up.  Tell the computer to go away”

(I’m actually quite proud of being restrained enough to say go away instead of the more vulgar alternative)

At which point she gave up and went on to tell me when the collection date would be.

I know in the grand scheme of things being asked “Miss or Mrs?” is not hugely important - but honestly!

This is a modern democracy in the western hemisphere in the twenty first century.  We’ve had the vote for nearly a century, the (admittedly ineffectual) Equal Pay Act and feminism for nearly half a one and anti-discrimination legislation coming out of our ears.

Yet women are still being routinely asked their marital status for things and occasions where it has absolutely no relevance whatsoever.

Men aren’t.

That is sexual discrimination and it is being practiced by North Tyneside Council and their associate Envirocall, sometimes known as Sita, and whoever designs their software.

It is also hugely annoying.

So ladies, women or girls (however you prefer to be addressed) let’s stop this intrusive waste of ink, electricity and computer memory and revolt against irrelevant Mrs or Miss questions.  Ask them why they want to know?  If they don’t give you a satisfactory reply (and “the computer wants it” isn’t) tell them it’s none of their business and maybe eventually they’ll learn.

In the meantime the next time I’m asked I may reply “Baroness” and see how the computer deals with that!

Morning Mayhem

First posted January 2010 

The water board are replacing the storm drain in our street.  This means digging a trench 8ft deep, 3ft with and anything between 6 and 12ft long.  They started at the main road end in September and reached our house just before Christmas.  They are digging, doing the work, backfilling and replacing the tarmac as they go.  So this hole and surrounding cage gradually works its way along the street.  The workmen are friendly, thoughtful and helpful and to be honest disruption has been kept to a minimum.  Apart from understandable parking problems there has been no real disruption.  Except on bin day …

The garbage truck and recycling truck normally go along the street picking up and dropping off the various bins as they go.  However with a great big trench and cage in the way they’ve taken to backing up as far as they can and then the men bring and return each bin to and from the wagon.  Our bin wagons arrive at about 8, at about the same time as the boy’s taxis and just when they start work on the hole.  Last bin day was cacophonous.

First the men came to the hole and opened its cage:  rattle, clash.

Then the caterpillar tracked JCB digger came along:  grind, clash, rattle with continuous boggler-boggler of the diesel engine.

The tipper lorry that takes the dug up earth away backed up to the digger:  brum-brum, rattle beep-beep-beep and continuous rumble of engine.

The little dumper truck full of yellow stuff trundled up and sat grumbling companionably next to it.

Number One son’s taxi arrived and left.

Then the garbage truck backed up; beep-beep-beep, clash, rumbling engine. 

All the two dozen or so waste bins from the whole street were trundled thunderously to the wagon.  There was the grind and roar of the lifting and tipping gear and they were even more thunderously trundled empty back.   

The garbage truck left.

Number Two’s taxi came and went.

Finally the recycling wagon reversed up:  beep-beep-beep, continuously rumbling engine.

All the two dozen recycling bins were thunderously trundled to the wagon, this time with tiny tinkles from the bottle canisters.  There was the grind and roar of the lifting gear; accompanied by a cascade of clashing as the glass canisters were emptied into their bit.  I must say we seem to use a lot of glass in this street.

At about quarter past eight the bin wagons had done their bit and the work vehicles turned off their engines and here was a moment of blessed silence.

Then they turned on the electric saw and started cutting through the asphalt.

Fester normally rises at 8.30.

He told me that even turning Radio 3 up really loud couldn’t cover the cacophony.

Having risen before 7 to get the boys up for school my sympathy flowed like putty.

Weakest Link Feedback

First posted 9 January 2010


I’ve been the recipient of loads of ‘phone calls, emails, texts and other messages since appearing on the Weakest Link: they have been almost entirely positive …

Fester went to the Kingsman Epiphany Curry on Wednesday evening, after watching the show with me.  He returned after closing time with their verdicts …

1.                  She was robbed

2.                  She didn’t like that hypnotherapist bloke

3.                  Potato?  Next time you see her say “Plant dear”

Which seemed fairly fair.

 

The piece-de-resistance came yesterday afternoon when The Joculator rang with his four penn’orth.

I first met The Joculator a number of years ago on Elvett Bridge when Tyne Bridge danced at Durham Folk Party.  Even though his team wasn’t there he was in kit and asked my permission, as bagman, to take our collecting bucket around the crowd.  When he came back, having got £15, not knowing my name he called out “Where’s Mrs Bucket?” – which is what he has called me ever since.

The Joculator had watched The Weakest Link with his wife, family and in-laws; none of them knew the result.

“We were cheering for you all the way” he said “the neighbours must have thought we were watching a football match the roar that went up when you were voted off.

“The mother-in-law found you right away in the line up” he went on “she says ‘Is that her?   

The one that’s looks like Patricia Routledge?  Is that why you call her Mrs Bucket?'” 

The thing is, whenever I watch Hetty WainthropInvestigates I am reminded of my mother, who looks at me out of the mirror more and more these days.  So, whilst I howled with laughter, I wasn’t at all insulted or upset (which the Joculater knew anyway).

 

Besides which, there are far worse people to resemble than Patricia Routledge, or even Hyacinth Bucket. 

I have no idea why the font is all over the shop in this blog - I have tried my best but the blasted technology has defeated me!