Miscellaneous Things

I started the day at my doctor’s office. Not an auspicious start to His Excellency George Washington’s birthday; but there it is. At this point you are probably anticipating palpitations in the night and other sagas, but you would be wrong. The visit was entirely undramatic and entailed nothing more than a routine blood test.  This simple clinical exercise holds no terrors for me, as I am very experienced. However, I think Dracula’s daughter carried out the last one, as I left the office with blood streaming down my arm. She must have missed her breakfast.

During my brief wait, I pondered the other event that shares the 22^nd with Washington. On this day in 1972 the IRA (remember them?), detonated a bomb at a barracks at Aldershot in the South of England. It killed five women and an army priest. There was no suggestion of a suicide bombing. The Irish heroes were well away before the blood was spilt. Yesterday nine more innocent young Americans died in Iraq. We haven’t come very far in 35 years have we? I apologise for injecting a moment’s reality into what is otherwise a light hearted missive, but I served as an infantry officer in Northern Island and like keep the memory alive – lest we forget. 

After I had been punctured and drained I nursed my half empty arm back home. Adobe has introduced some new software which I wanted to buy. The purchasing procedure was simple enough to start with, but when I reach the paying bit things got complicated. You cannot buy anything from Adobe unless you join their club. Apparently getting your email and home address is more important than getting your money. I went through the motions of completing their forms but failed to check a box. When I was in business my company mantra was “make it easy for customer to buy.’ Insisting that customers complete dumb forms, no matter how much it helps market research, is not making it easy. My failure to complete the form as required wiped out all the detailed information I had given them. It also flagged up a sign that an idiot was on the line because I was then confronted with an ‘Instant Messaging’ window with a suggestion of help from a formless being. I didn’t need ‘It’s’ help, I was able to complete the form again without assistance despite their inference to the contrary.  I did however have a question, which I asked. ‘It’ came back with a wild generality for an answer. I responded with “That is not what I asked you”. ‘It’ then produced a link which answered my question perfectly. I offered my thanks and goodbyes and was about to sign off when ‘It’ enquired about my order. I was bemused by this as I didn’t need any input from ‘It’ to complete my order, but still ‘It’ wanted the order number. I complied, concluding that there may be an element of commission somewhere along the line. I thought that would put an end to it; but oh no. I was then asked to complete a survey. You gotta be kidding me. With a hint of guilt I clicked ‘It’s’ survey into cyberspace oblivion.

Next stop Borders. The day wouldn’t be the same without a brief stop at a book shop, and today it is Borders. I am a compulsive book buyer, and seem to enjoy ‘Personal Shopping Days’ at Borders most weeks. Today was no exception and clutching my purchases I waited in line at their Starbucks franchise. I was second in line. Before me was a very tall German. He had long, crinkly hair kept in place by a pigtail. His clothes were large, loose and rumpled. His green shorts were long and large, aka British Forces Western Desert 1942.  He had a female partner that human kindness prevents me from describing. He ordered a complicated drink for both of them details of which I forget. What I do remember is his comic opera accent. What is it about the German language that makes their English sound like an English comedian pretending to be a German? Will the Germans ever be able to speak again beyond their borders without the rest of us thinking they are about to invade Poland? 

Florida is back. Upper seventies, blue skies, puffy white clouds the whole deal. Can it be that less than a week ago the mercury was heading for the upper thirties? I don’t want to even think about that – bring on the summer and the low nineties – that’s where I live.

As part of my ‘classics revisited’ diligence, I finished Moll Flanders – the book I mean, on the lanai this morning.  Unlike most readers of this Daniel Defoe classic, I could not warm to his 17^th century lovable rogue. There are a number of reasons for this, but primarily its because I cannot confuse lovable rogue, with consummate liar and thief.

About a year ago I was the victim of such a one. Those who have read Moll Flanders will immediately jump to the erroneous conclusion that I had been robbed by a whore. No, though that would have been preferable to what actually happened. I was due to sit in court in London during the afternoon of 29^th November, a Monday. As quite often happens in the court system the day collapsed and I was free until court the following day.

I was born and bred in London, and nothing gives me greater pleasure than the opportunity to walk it’s ancient streets. The day was bitter cold and every few yards I stopped off at a book-shop to top-up my ever burgeoning library. Just as I reached Trafalgar Square, I decided on a coffee at Café Nero. Can there be a greater pleasure than perusing new books while enjoying excellent coffee?

Evening was approaching, and it was time to return to my hotel. I gathered up my overcoat and briefcase – only there was no briefcase! While I was engrossed in my purchases, a sneak-thief had stolen it. Not a big deal I hear you say. Petty theft is a reality in big cities, and London is certainly a big city. But that briefcase held everything. My money, credit cards and driving license. My phone, PDA, car keys, essential medication for a chronic condition, everything.  I stood in Trafalgar Square on a bitter cold evening in November with not a penny in my pocket or keys to my car in the knowledge that the felon not only had my car and house keys, but also the parking ticket. All I had was the key to my hotel room. As I had been widowed five years before after a 35 year marriage; I really was alone.

How this was resolved is another story in itself, but suffice to say that people who lie, cheat and steal enjoy little sympathy from me. But then Moll Flanders is fiction – right? But this was real.

Today is President’s day. By definition we should conclude that this is a holiday and celebration. But what and who are we celebrating? Can there be a soul living who will celebrate the present incumbent? There are a few plutocratic businessmen who will cherish his person, but few I suspect would celebrate it.

The original holiday was plain enough: it celebrated
Washington’s February birthday – and quite right too. Then President Lincoln; who was also born during February, came to a sticky end, so he was tagged on to the occasion. Then the government got involved (don’t they always), and all holidays had to be streamlined so Washington/Lincoln Day became a day to salute all Presidents – even Bush 43.

Had Mr Gore been elected (some say he was), in 2000 instead of Mr Bush, would we be dancing in the streets in celebration of President’s Day today? Or in his turn would Mr Kerry have earned our approbation? Wiser heads than mine must find the answer.  What few will dispute however, is that more than 3000 American families would be celebrating birthdays this year had wiser council prevailed at the White House.

I shall remember this particular President’s Day for the good fortune I had this lunch time. I normally eat lunch at an excellent bakery restaurant called Calistoga. Everything about it is excellent, except the parking. The restaurant is so popular that it is often difficult to find an empty space in the parking lot. Today was no exception and I drove around a couple of times searching for a spot. At the opposite end of the lot from where I was, a space became vacant. I jumped on the gas and headed for it. I arrived at it almost simultaneously with another car. I say almost as I was just ahead and throwing caution to the wind drove into it. My urgent desire to park my new car blinded me to the fact that a red Mercedes was backing out of an adjacent spot. I was half in the space and the Merc was backing right into me. I helplessly waited for the crunch. I didn’t come. The Merc drove away leaving me in the place and the other guy seething.

An everyday event you may think. But no – I do not do this. This is not me. I never try and ace people out for parking or any other type of driving. It is just plain dumb. To have bent my three month old car for the sake of a parking space when I have all the time in the world to find another one, is slap-bang-down-the-road STUPID! But it was a good lesson.

After this I needed some shopping therapy to calm me down. A quick visit to Best Buy to pick-up some gadgets started the calm-down. I completed the treatment at Barns & Noble. When all else fails, buy some books.   

It always rains on Sunday … well, actually it doesn’t; not here anyway, but it did today.

Back in the dim and distant past – 1947 to be precise, there was a movie by that name. It was based on an Arthur La Bern novel and was set in a very dreary East London. This was a time of stark austerity in
England, made all the more apparent in London. Few things are improved by wetness, except perhaps bronze nubile maidens at the beach. A grey old city ravaged by the best Herman Goring’s Luftwaffe could do, is made all the uglier by mist and rain.

How different that image is from the one I am used to here in
SW Florida. But is this SW Florida? My window reveals a sodden windswept landscape reminiscent of the Yorkshire Moors. Could it be that in the dark of night, aliens entered my bedroom and made me a victim of their loathsome technology and ‘matter transferred’ me to another place? There was one way I could find out. There is a place known only to me (I think), or perhaps a couple of others; where alligators lurk and leer locally. Arriving there, I was relieved to see them: as before, lurking and leering. But this time they seemed to be enjoying the rain. I guess life for an alligator is pretty boring, so the change from getting wet without slithering into the water comes as a pleasant change.

Rain and wind not-with-standing, I headed off to church. Religion is very popular here. My church doesn’t attract the vast congregations enjoyed by some churches, but it does average 300 per service on a Sunday; and there are three of them. If St James the Great, in my little Worcestershire village could attract that many for one service, they would hale it as a coming of the Messiah. On a good day we used to get nineteen: and that included the choir.

The Baptist Church is just up the road from here. Its not so much a church, its more like a stadium. I’ve lost count of how many services they have, but never less than 3000 cram into each one. In architecture it has no pretensions of looking like a church. It emulates a Toyota manufacturing plant in Kentucky. The nave is replaced by a massive auditorium that seats thousands. In the winter the congregation spills over into an adjacent auditorium with enormous load-speakers and video links to delude people into thinking they are part of the service.The service is essentially a large choir singing happy-clappy songs pretissimo as a prelude to the Pastor sharing an enlightening moment with us. This diatribe is punctuated with demands for money – for very good causes I have no doubt. As his rhetoric bombards us, the Christian cardinal virtue of humility seems to be lost on the good pastor dressed in $4000 suits, gold Rolexes and topped off with designer hair and spray that would support a ship.To me, living a Christian life is more than seeing how many times I can include the noun God in a given sentence. It is all about God being the father and we being the family. This influences me as I leave the crowded parking lot. It doesn’t seem very Christian to me to bang my door into the car next to me. Or spin my wheels so the manicured grass is ripped up, while I ace out the other drivers to get to the exit first. But I guess one can do all that and still be a Christian; only not a very good one.

The rain has stopped. It’s Florida again. The wind is still blowing but the brilliant sunshine masks the discomfort. The benefit of Florida is that it always defaults to sunshine. Even when it rains, you know that it really wants to be sunny – and it doesn’t always rain on Sunday. In fact it rarely ever does.

Pulling on my gloves and with my head well down, I headed into the

biting north wind on my usual morning constitutional. Just like any other February morning I hear you say. And there you would be wrong. This is
Naples,
SW Florida, and its supposed to be hot. I am not alone in this expectation. More than a million snow-birds have been disabused of this notion too.

Apparently, the temperature dropped below freezing last night.

Fortunately, a multitude of Mexicans covered our native plants to out-wit the weather. In my experience this has happened once before with equal success.

When the weather turns chilly, it is easy to separate the locals from

the visitors. Normally one only has their poor driving habits to distinguish them. But when its cold, they insist in wearing thin tee shirts and shorts while Floridians can be seen emulating Nanook of the North.

There are other interesting little telltale signs of the northern invasion.

Shop keepers find the living easy and are reluctant to offer the small kindness’ experienced during the summer. For example today I bought myself a special gift of a Bosca leather desk accessory. The one on display had some scuffing on one side of it, so I requested a ‘new one’. Such a thing was not to be found so I quite expected to be offered a modest discount of the damaged one. The fact that it is ‘the season’ quite slipped my mind until I was advised that I could have the display one at full price or nothing.

A cappuccino – you know in the opaque cups, is lighter now. A lot more froth and a lot less coffee. How often my heart sinks as I lift the cup off the end counter and notice the lightness of the cup. Of course one can ask for more, and some frequently do, but they are made of sterner stuff than I. When, in the early eighties Howard Schultz stole the idea of a coffee shop come meeting place from the Italians – from the Italians? Samuel Johnson was habituating such an establishment in
London in the 1750s. Whatever; Schults’s idea was a good one and he became very rich. Don’t take my word for it. He has nearly 4000 stores in 25 countries serving 25 million people a week.

Now we need someone to come up with a way to make the damn things more quickly, and they would be even richer.

The internet has statistics on what percentage of our life we spend sleeping, working, driving, waiting at traffic lights etc. Not to mention other things too delicate to mention here. Now we need one on how long we wait at Starbucks for our soy milk latté with an extra shot minus too much froth.

SW Florida is not very well served with coffee shops. Starbucks has the market, with precious few competing. In the small town of
Worcester in the Midlands of England there are at least five major coffee shop franchises chasing Starbucks for our soy milk latté with an extra shot minus too much froth. But then Mr. Schultz believes that Starbucks is just getting started, and with only 6% of market share of coffee consumption, he may be right.

With temperatures just above 60, one would expect the beaches to be empty. Not a bit of it. Hardy souls in scanty garb litter every approach, safe in the knowledge that whilst hacking coughs and streaming colds are uncomfortable, they beat skin cancer every time. Regrettably this may not be factually accurate as ultra violet rays have little to do with temperature. Or so I believe.

At last I am at home, and even this is a strange experience. It is the norm here it be assailed with a cold blast as one enters one’s home.

This is not as weird as it sounds. The average summer temperature is around the low 90s, and homes are kept at the mid 70s so that 20 degree difference impacts on entry. Today, temperatures were reversed and I was welcomed home by a waft of warm air. For most of the year one goes into cold air and out into warm. The opposite is the case today. These variations in temperature would kill a frog.