Resentment in early!

Parking

 

I wonder how many sociological studies there have been written taking as their subject matter how people park in car parks?  There must be many.  The subject is inexhaustibly interesting.

            Just take, as a simple example the differences between the ways that people park in supermarket car parks and how they park on the streets.  I have often felt that if you want to see the human species at its most selfish worst, all you have to do is take yourself down to your local Tesco’s and watch.

            God knows I hate walking, but I do not share the seemingly pathological hatred that supermarket drivers seem to have towards the activity.

            I have been in supermarket car parks where there have been plenty of spaces, spaces clearly visible when entering the car park.  No more than a short walk, no a simple hop, skip and jump from the front door of the supermarket.  But do (some) drivers see these spaces?  No, they obviously do not because they feel the need to park in disabled spaces, on hatched yellow lines, on double yellow lines – anywhere as long as it gets them a few feet nearer the door and bugger anyone else.

            I write this now because I have noticed that, in the Great Works that are still going on to transform a leafy, gravel covered patch of ground in my local leisure centre into a smooth, unobstructed area for many more cars – there are two disabled spaces.

            Now I happen to be one of those who believes deeply in the sentiment expressed in a French supermarket that had a sign by the disabled space saying (in French) “Share my space, share my disability.”  When I first heard of this, I must admit, that pictures of sledgehammer wielding gentlemen seeking out the able bodied who had parked in the disabled spaces and smashing their knees to smithereens, did pass through my mind.  A pleasurable thought, to be sure.  Unfortunately the words were there merely to reinforce a moral message and there was no more directed violence intended.

            In supermarket parking areas I always, or at least usually, check the vehicles in the disabled parking spaces to check that they are displaying the symbol.  If they are not (at least in Britain) I go to the information desk and tell the people there that someone is parked illegally in a space and will they please do something about it.

            Usually they do nothing.  They respond to my suggestion that they go out and slash the people’s tyres with a weary smile and inform me that they are constrained by the fact that this is on private property and other rubbish like that I do not for a moment believe.

            I have also suggested that they put notices on the windscreen of these cars (my suggestion was with superglue) informing the drivers that they are parked illegally – or at least tuck something under the wipers appealing to the driver’s sense of what is right.  One assistant said that they had done that and she had had one of the notices thrown back in her face by an unrepentant (fit) driver!

            One only have to have one friend or relative who is disabled to realize that the petty acts of selfishness of hearty drivers who can’t be bothered to walk a few extra feet have real consequences for those who find every foot an effort.

            So, my question to myself is, “What are my fellow members of the leisure centre going to be like when the only space left in the car park is a disabled one?”  And my second question is, “What am I going to do about it?”

            I have already started looking up the words to express my disgust to my friends behind the counter.  Our leisure centre is private and relatively expensive, so there are no poor people using the place.  You only have to look at the cars to realize that!  They are rich and used to getting their own way.  So, I will be watching when the car park becomes operational.  And by that time I will have reinforced my Spanish vocabulary to express the pained, astonished, outrage that I have honed to a fine performance from my time in Britain.  I wonder if it transfers to Spain, and I further wonder if my words will be necessary.

            Time will tell.

Simple is sometimes all you want

Lunch today was in a restaurant we know that doesn’t hike its prices at the weekend.  The food is basic and unfussy and excellent value for money.

            My first course was that butterfly-like pasta with chopped tomatoes and onions laced with olive oil.  Simple, and more importantly, delicious.

            I do enjoy pretentious food, served elegantly with ironic touches with unexpected flavours tantalizing the taste buds – but there are other times when what you see is what you get is exactly what you want.

            And the second course was Spanish ham, egg and chips.  Comfort food at its best.  And with a carafe of wine too.  At a decent price.  And the sun was shining.  Who can ask for more?

A landmark

Today saw the thousandth person visit my poetry blog at http://smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.es and that must be some sort of milestone!  Given the minority status of poetry in the literary world nowadays, certainly in popular culture (apart from pop songs, of course) to have a thousand pairs of eyes look at what you have written is, well, the exact word is hard to find, but it must be a combination of exhilarating, intimidating, encouraging, stimulating, daunting and lots of other –ing words that are not going to fill up the rest of this blog!

            It is an audience.  A quiet audience, I have to admit.  The number of comments is still low.  Sandy has written one comment and others have emailed me, but the number is still low.  Who knows who they all are?  I know that some people have visited more than once – and in case the more cynical of you are wondering there is a way that you can discount your own visits!  But there might be people that I do not know who have stumbled by chance on the poems and read them.  At least I hope that there are strangers as well as friends, as it would be sad if the power of the Internet did not trawl around and find some unexpected visitors to liven things up!

            Anyway I am delighted to think that I am now in four figures and I am working on a car park poem (see above) to add to the Clocks of Dust sequence that is on the blog in its entirety.

            Having said that I now feel duty bound to produce it.  Added to which Toni has just responded to the noise of clacking keys by asking if I was writing poems!  I should go with the flow and start writing!

And why does today feel like Sunday?

Life is difficult

It gets you down!

I have discovered that reams of paper are the new CDs.  And by that I mean, in terms of packaging.

            I know that CDs are rapidly becoming the things of the past, bought only by poor sods like me who reasons that buying all the expensive recordings that I couldn’t afford when in University at bargain prices on reissued CDs is, well, a bargain.

            And yes, more than one person has looked at me with condescending pity as I relay my excitement at owning Archiv recordings at a fraction of the price of the original LPs, by saying, “You only buy them because you do not know where to look on the Web to get them for nothing!”

            Perhaps, but I am still the sort of person who wants the physical evidence that I own something and I cannot be doing with music in the cloud.  Though, of course, I do have most of my music somewhere there.  Don’t blame me for being paradoxical, it comes with the personality!

            Anyway.  Packaging.  Anyone who remembers CDs (look them up on Google) will also remember the physical impossibility of removing the cellophane covering of the discs.  An especially cruel feature of the packaging was some sort of numinous ghostly line around the outside which was allegedly an ‘easy opening’ feature.  I spurn such inhumanity and remember my tears of frustration as I broke nails trying to gain access.

            Eventually, of course, one took to the knife or the scissors and then gouged chunks of the plastic cover in increasingly frenzied attempts to get the blood plastic off.

            What, I remember, was especially galling was getting a ‘bit’ of the plastic to give.  This ‘bit’ gave you a completely false expectation that the rest would peel away like thick rind from a juicy orange.  Not a bit of it!  All you would have is a finger scratching area of the inside case to feel and the rest of the plastic covering would preserve its doughty integrity.  Until the knife.  And it was always the knife in the end.  Apart from really cheap discs which had no covering.

            Ah, happy days!  And now those memories have returned with a vengeance at you attempt to gain access to 500 sheets of paper.

            One of our local supermarkets has the packaging of paper down to a fine art of infuriating, teeth chattering futility.

            Ironically, the paper is wrapped in plastic.  This plastic is snugly wrapped and the seams of the packaging are, I assume heat-sealed.  This means that you can feel the edge of the packaging, but no nail is thin enough or sharp enough to gain entry.

            The knife!  I hear you cry.  The knife indeed comes into play.  But, if you only cut a bit, it only gives a bit – and certainly not enough to allow you to remove any paper.

            I would have thought that only Zen Buddhists would be able to open (or indeed ‘not open’) reams of paper and still have the equanimity to smile at humanity afterwards.

            Whatever happened to the ‘sensible packaging for humans’ campaign, and why has it been suspended for paper?

Poetic dispersion

I have sent off a few copies of Clocks of Dust to a very few selected readers with an injunction to comment.  If they look at the postage on the outside of the envelope then they should feel duty bound to repay the postage with at least a few well-chosen words!

            So far, three people have given me feedback of varying complexity and length.  I am not proud, I will take comments from where I can get them and I truly welcome any and all responses.  Please, visit smrnewpoems.blogspot.es and, more importantly, leave a message/comments on what you read there.  I promise to reply to each and every one!

Food

 

To my leisure centre for the €10.90 lunch.  Excellent!  We were tempted to go there by one of the starters which was the Catalan take on bubble and squeak.  In this version it is served with black pudding and laced (if you are sensible) with olive oil.

            I never thought that the day would come where I would have defeated my childhood detestation of cooked cabbage (I ate raw cabbage with relish) and actually go out of my way to choose a starter like the above!

            As far as I can tell, it is only callos (tripe) which still defeats my omnivorous appetite.  The Spanish version of this odious dish (which is also the signature dish of Madrid, say no more!) is no better than the truly disgusting version cooked with milky water that my mother enjoyed.  Neither my father nor I joined her in this uncharacteristic faux pas of taste!

Weather

 

Although you can kid yourself that summer is really here during the day, the sunless evening and night soon dispels this idea – then it is cool to cold.  But we are counting the days.

            Already the minions of the powers that be are busily painting the different coloured parking lines ready for the summer season when the colour of lines between which you are parked will determine the amount you have to pay to stay there.  We residents of the beach side of Castelldefels have special passes which allow us to park free of charge between green lines, but even we have to pay if we go one street nearer to the sea and find ourselves between blue lines!

            Parking will soon assume its official summer status of “nightmare” and we will be increasingly grateful that, if we bother to open the gates we do actually have a couple of parking spaces in front of the house!

Essay

The OU essay is now becoming something of a Dark Cloud as I am writing more poetry than thinking about body art.  Although I do not technically have to complete this essay, I would be stupid indeed to allow the rest of the work I have done to go for nothing.  So, this weekend is the Big Push to get the rest of the reading done and the start of the cobbling together of half understood artistic pronouncements to get the academic ball rolling!

Tragedy!

 

The robot hoover has given up the ghost.  It first developed a sort of limp and then it descended into a state of melancholy madness by pirouetting on the spot and going nowhere.

            The brush on one side has disintegrated, the ‘bumper’ on the front has cracked; the treat has come off one wheel and the wiring is beginning to spill out form the insides.  It is knackered.  And I want my (not a lot of) money back.  This was, supposedly, a bargain and I was delighted at how it was working but it is yet another example of paying for what you get.

            I have not given up on the concept.  I will however go for a more sophisticated example of the genre the next time I throw money in a cleaning direction.