A segue story

Not a lot of writing has been done on this trip to this hemisphere.  

Guess some call it writer’s block.  I call it – too busy.  It has been non-stop since leaving Auckland some many weeks ago in mid-May.

There are so many stories that could be told; some I will tell others I shan’t.  Indeed, some I shall leave to enjoy retelling verbally to all and sundry on my return.  Sometimes the written word does not best describe particular incidents and situations.  Whereas verbal intonations, vocal emphasis and situational hand and body gestures often tell a story so much better.  Particularly over a nice, mellow glass of red wine or two... or more.  The stories are the same but the vocal variety and gestures get bigger and better with the enhancement of trodden grape juice.

It is all very well to not write but one of the main purposes of coming up to this side of the world was to spend the self-time in doing some good word to paper scribing.  However it never did occur to me at home that self-time here would be in just the same amount of shortage as self-time there.  

Self has been busy here.  As can be seen on the many Facebook updates that I have posted over the weeks.  A boat trip here, family visits, tea at the Ritz, Italy, visiting old ladies, being unwell, long dog walks, concerts, movies, dinners, Wimbledon, Tour de France, visits to London, finding a decent coffee – always there is something to do which creeps into my waking time.  It is called ‘maximising’.   The opportunities may never happen again.

And what was it that I intended writing about anyway?  Only a couple of things.  Tony, being the couple of things.  Something I need to finalise in my journey back to the future.  

I began typing up Tony’s life story six or so years ago, after he had been diagnosed with the brain tumour.  Originally in January 2008 he had been given approximately twelve weeks to live, so I did not think it timely to plonk him down in a chair at that point in time and have him quote me what I knew would be a varied and interesting, and long, story.  If the story was to be told, it was to be told without shortcuts and I was not going to have him spend his last twelve weeks on this earth sitting down and churning out his past – thereby using up his very, very short future.  However the weeks, then months passed with his determination to prove the experts wrong by well outliving their short lifespan estimation; so I realised there was an opportunity not to be missed and talked him into doing just that -  sitting down at intermittent intervals and quoting to me his life story, as he would like it told.

It was not always easy though.  Neither of us is known for having a long concentration span which meant that sitting sessions would only last about an hour or two before one or the other of us would tire or become bored.  Tony would sit, and reflect, and talk his stories and I would type verbatim. 

To me it was important his story was to be written in his words, not my interpretation of his words.  Therefore it was best I type the words as he spoke them then and there.

That exercise went over a four year period and proved to have its highs and lows; some amusing times, with some difficult times.  As his brain tumour developed more it proved harder for Tony to sit longer than twenty minutes and very often he would repeat a story he told me two years earlier.  I would not let him know he was repeating what we had already recorded for fear of hindering him or making him aware of his deterioration; so would sit for the next period typing up a story we had already worked on.

The nice thing about that though, was his repeated stories were always the same, confirming to me that he had never embellished or added facts to the story he was telling. Even when his brain was not functioning well, his facts and recollections were still the same as they had been some two or three years earlier.

The funny times were the times he would tell a story in his own way that one could never reproduce the humour in the written word. Often it would be just his facial expressions, the odd small indignant gesture or his overall body language that would have us chuckle together and digress onto other irrelevant funny stories.  And of course, there were funny stories which he felt should not be retold - there were many of them.  They were stories to be only told by him to me.  When the amusing stories came up, or the not-to-be-retold ones, it usually meant the end of a session as it is most difficult to be serious when you have just had a good chuckle.

 

Now for a segue…. (will finish the Tony story telling on another blog)

I have had a few chuckles of my own here;  sometimes the smallest, most incidental of situations has caused me to shake my head and chuckle out loud with the petty ridiculousness of it.  There have been a couple over the past two weeks.

One petty chuckle of mine was on Sunday just gone.  It had been suggested to me by my sister and brother-in-law that I may like to pop into Marks & Spencer’s that day to purchase a commodity I had been looking for.  Being a Sunday the shops did not open until 10 a.m. and as we needed to be somewhere at 11 that morning they dropped me at the Marks & Spencer’s door at five minutes before ten so I could be in the door upon opening and out with ample time to get to our 11 a.m. appointment.  Doors opened and in I went, along with the other twenty or so people who were waiting for opening time.

Within five minutes of entering the store I found what I wanted to purchase so took it straight up to the counter feeling most pleased with myself for my efficiency and ability to make a shopping decision without dithering. This meant I would be out of the shop before quarter past the hour allowing sister and brother-in-law and self to continue on to our 11 a.m. destination.

Took a while to find a counter in the store.  As anyone who has been in these UK department stores knows, counters are not always easy to find; one must traverse across, and through, and via all the merchandising hanging on rails everywhere, in their marketers attempt to capture you into buying more. 

Not for me, I had my goods and just wanted to pay the mere seven pounds and be out and on my way.

On eventually finding a counter there was a middle-aged, stockily built woman in a Marks & Spencer’s uniform behind it, next to the cash register, who was intently interested in some file book with pages of lists on.  As I approached the counter she never flinched or moved a muscle.  So intent on this file of lists was she.  She clearly showed no interest whatsoever in serving the customer, me, standing on my side of the counter with goods and money in hand.  Her entire concentration was solely on this file which obviously took great precedence.  Here was I on the other side of the counter, standing, waiting, holding my goods and holding my ten pound note, patiently waiting until she would look up and attend to me.  I stood for some time, not two feet from her - she did not bother to look up or acknowledge me in any way. I waited the cursory few awkward minute or two before I could restrain myself no more, placed the goods on the counter, under her eye and said, “Excuse me, I would like to purchase these goods.”  

                              

She slightly lifted her head and eyes to look at me over her glasses, eyebrows raised in the look that implies, “Who the hell are you!”  and said with the greatest indignation, “Sorry, what did you say?”

I repeated my statement, “I would like to purchase these goods please.” 

She paused; eye brows still raised over the top of her glasses took a deep, heaving breath with the aid of her buxom bosom and said in the haughtiest, put down tones that would send shivers down any mildly meek individual , “It’s not 10.30 yet madam! We do not serve customers in this store on a Sunday until 10.30.  You’ll have to come back then.”  And promptly went back to her book of lists.

                          

Seems (as all Brits would know) Marks & Spencer’s opens their doors at 10 o’clock in the morning, but are not interested in your money, or you as a customer, until 10.30.  

Just as Italy is a different country, a different culture, so is England.

I put my goods back on the shelf they came from and left the store. Seven pounds richer for the experience.