Ghost Writing

I came across this in my "Things I've Written" folder on my PC just now. I really remember very little about writing it. Perhaps I've tried to forget it or perhaps I've tried to remember? Who knows? Anyway, this is another bit of me. Not the silly, funny Bertie who acts the fool and always says "No problem" but the Graham who sometimes weeps inside, just like everybody else and, just occasionally, writes seriously. I'll leave you to decide just how much of this is Me.

Once upon a time there was a boy. He had a childhood of, what he thought, normality but it was only much later that he found out that it was a stifled childhood. A childhood that didn’t have a lot of love, just a lot of being made to feel guilty if he wanted to be a child and make the mistakes that a child makes. A childhood where he was always told to put others first, to be seen and not heard and that he should be grateful for even the smallest concession to his naivety and lack of experience of life.

He was always told that his best was not good enough, that he could do more and that he was letting everyone down by his selfishness in wanting to be a person in his own right.

That set the pattern for the rest of his life. He was always able to go so far and then something else took over. Call it Fate or coincidence or whatever, but whatever it was he would get so far and then the rug would be pulled out from under him. Maybe it was self-sabotage because he knew that something would go wrong eventually and he wanted to get it over with. Maybe it was a punishment for all the things that he had done wrong in his life. Maybe it was just ……..Life? Anyway, he reached a point where he realised that he was the wrong side of the right age and that he could never get those years back again.

He started to think about those lost years and the mistakes that he had made. He started to get bitter about the way others had treated him and about how stupid that he himself had been. He had spent his adult life just like his childhood - allowing others to control it and being too much of a coward to change things. His brain was strong but his emotions were weak and he sank lower and lower.

His self-esteem disappeared and, with it, the strength to pull himself out of the pit he was in. He was told to make an effort to get himself together but he couldn’t do it on his own. Drugs didn’t help. This was more an illness of the soul than of the mind. He had people that liked him and were willing to help to some degree but, sadly, he couldn’t accept that he was worth their effort. More importantly, they were not people who could touch his soul. He was like a blind man who was being offered a helping hand by other blind people. They couldn’t lead him to where he was going because they themselves couldn’t see the destination.

There was one in particular who wanted to lead him. She was not blind but previous experience had given her a distorted view and she did not necessarily trust what she was seeing. Because she was unable to trust the evidence of her own eyes, the man was unable to trust her leadership in his time of trouble. They got to a slim cliff path on the way to his destination and she tried to pull him along with her. He doubted her motives and therefore dug in his heels. She had two choices. She could have won his trust or she could have shamed/bullied/coerced him into following her. Neither worked, he was too scared of what lay ahead and, being unable to see, made him even more so.

They battled. Because she was sighted, she did not realise the terror that blindness gave. Because she had others who could reach her soul, she did not realise his loneliness. Because she had purpose, she did not realise the effect that failure had upon him. She remembered a recent failure of her own and her reaction to it. How she had felt that her world had ended and that she was no longer able to do her job and that everyone was pointing a finger at her.

He tried to explain to her that, if she felt like that, could she not in some way understand how he felt a failure in the biggest exam of all - life. And, most importantly, there was no retake.

He had lost her. She spent her time telling him all the things that he did wrong, making him feel guilty and really reliving his childhood all over again. He didn’t blame her for all of it. He deserved some criticism but he felt that whilst he was able to admit to his mistakes and human frailty she did not. Maybe she could not. Maybe she couldn’t allow herself to admit to being human also.

Anyway, there they were on this cliff path. She couldn’t guide him so she gave up and tried to push him. Even he wasn’t that stupid! Who wants to feel their way forward knowing that one false move means the end. So there he stood. Alone, unable to move backwards, incapable of moving forward.

He is at a standstill and there we must leave him.

Perhaps one day he will find the person or the courage or the motivation to take those first tentative steps. If he does, he might still fall but at least he will have tried. But then, he had tried before ….

Pier Pressure

I guess it's fair to say that I became a grumpy old man at a very early age. Most things annoy me if I really put my mind to it and I have always been able to extract a negative from most situations and get annoyed accordingly. 

Since the move to Eastbourne however, I have become calmness and rationality personified. I smile sweetly at 93 year old invalid car drivers who seem to think they're in the Ben Hur chariot race as they race through the Arndale Centre en route to Greggs, I gaze benignly at the small children running amok through the supermarket as their mothers place their trollies exactly in the optimally inconvenient place and thus totally block the aisle as they discuss who Jordan is marrying this week. I don't even mind the noisy, indolent, rude and seemingly immovable groups of foreign students which clog up most of the larger coffee shops whilst one of their number purchases a bottle of water which therefore entitles their number to fall across every comfy seat in the aforesaid emporia! You see, my temperament has, up to now been transformed into a combination of Mother Teresa and the best bits of Roy Cropper from Corrie.

However ..................................

Tonight I went out on a photoshoot along the seafront. For once, not amidst the balmy evening airs for which our lovely town is so renowned but in a chilly, misty and damp atmosphere. Being a sort of ageing Bear Grylls type, I was stoical and had a jolly nice time trying to be creative and snapping away merrily at, amongst other things, our wonderful pier. It was then that I noticed the dome feature was featuring a distinct lack of light bulbs (click pic to enlarge).

See what I mean? A crowning glory which, if I was still in grumpy old man mode, personifies all that is wrong with Society. I am very tempted (as appears to be the current trend) to occupy the pier until such time as this deplorable state of affairs is remedied but they close at night and I'd get lonely. I am therefore entreating all of you to take to the streets until such times as this blight is corrected. It really does spoil the look of what should be a symbol of the best seaside town in Britain and is hardly that difficult to put right.

On to further matters: namely the singular lack of evening tea establishments in the town centre. I mention this as a continuation of my Bear Grylls comment earlier but there is only so much discomfort one can take before the Great Tea God calls. We walked from the pier right through the centre of town peering at all the establishments serving food and/or booze but not one could  proffer the cured aromatic leaves of the Camellia sinensis as a cure for my onset hyperthermia and raging thirst. I have drunk tea in many places in the world: from the fresh tea of the Sri Lanka plantations to the strangely unsatisfying brew that our American cousins prefer to drink but the one place I could not satisfy my craving was in my own dear, lovely , wonderful Eastbourne!!! Even the bloody French sell it!!

I fully accept that it's the wrong time of the year and I also fully accept that there are probably numerous places which fit the bill but of which I am unaware. That's Life innit .......................

........... See, I almost justified it and went back to placid mode !!!! Not this time, baby, this time it's for real. 

Whadda we want? Tea and bulbs. When do we want them? NOW!!!

Dear Mr Pier Boss, As a pier of the realm, watt do you think about some Spring bulbs? To me, this would be a fulfilament of a dream and would prove nobody could hold a candle to your ability to fix things. Yours, Bertie xxx

Optical Illusion

Sadly, as the years have passed by, my body has metamorphosed from the muscular, slim and athletic twenty something into the fifty something whose physique is akin to Buddha after a binge eating session. Bits of my body are slowly but surely degrading and this brings different fears. Once upon a time I would worry that I might not get a game of football every day: now I worry about dropping the remote as, by the time  I have managed to bend over to pick it up to change channel, I've missed half the match!

Some bits of me have always been less than perfect. "What?!!" I hear you cry, as another illusion is shattered. Yes indeed, I have worn glasses from the age of about 11 therefore they are part of me. In fact, my Chinese friends always refer to me as 'Sing an loh' which apparently means Four-eyed man although it wouldn't surprise me if it's meaning is something totally different and they've been calling me something like rancid arse face for all these years.

I, like most people, have my sight tested every 18 months or so and for some time I have been going to an independent company called Sussex Eyecare. They are based in Seaford, near where we used to live.. It's owned by a very capable and likeable chap by the name of Daeron who is also a biker and is just getting into photography (Daeron, if you're reading this, have I got a discount yet?). In fact, Daeron has been so successful there, a few years back, an elderly motorist decided to see if he liked the idea of a drive-through!

Recently, I managed to break one of my lenses so I obviously needed to go and get them sorted as well as another eye test but, for reasons which are pretty immaterial to this story, ended up going into town and visiting one of the big optician chains by the name of Vision Express.

Now Vision Express advertise a lot. They advertise cheap this, extra that, free sunglasses and are the epitome of corporate culture. Young persons in uniform smile nicely and the waiting area has such reassuring reading matter as The Times. Sadly, the said newspaper has been ripped into small bits by the bored children who sit there whilst their parents browse the designer frames, look at the price and then head for the budget section. Eventually I was examined and a young lady ophthalmologist started the proceedings by shining extremely bright lights in my eyes. How on earth was I expected to read wall charts after that?

I emerged to be told that there had been a deterioration in my vision and therefore a new prescription was issued and I would be passed to a colleague who would go through the alternatives. He started off by showing me 3 different pictures which demonstrated the difference in vision by their 3 different varifocal lenses. In other words, he started selling. I explained that I didn't want a lesson in marketing: I have been involved in marketing for a lot of my career and politely enquired if, assuming it was OK with him, we could actually focus (!) on me as the most important priority rather than his targets? He quoted a lens price (remember, I didn't need frames) of £360  and I was fairly surprised as these lenses were identical to my last ones (Seiko) and the cost was similar to lenses AND frames, some 18 months earlier. As we were there (despite my better judgement), the deal was done. Mrs B also had hers checked and the result was no change. The ophthalmologist did recommend contacts though (at £30 a month) and separate reading glasses. I might be a little cynical here but I do wonder if that was her professional opinion or yet another little bid to boost income and procure an ongoing direct debit?

As I drove back to the apartment, my phone rang. The young man at Vision Express was very sorry but he had misquoted me. He told me that, as the specs are rimless, there have to be holes drilled into the lenses for the arms and this costs a further £40. He gave me the option of cancelling the order and I told him I'd be in the next morning. So, we now have £400 and I am not a happy bunny. I had it on my mind all night. Annoyed that we had fallen into the trap of corporate advertising, annoyed that we hadn't gone back to where we knew and trusted the people and generally speaking, offering a good impression of Mr Grumpy. The following morning I made a rather embarrassed call to Sussex Eyecare and asked what they would charge me for replacement lenses? £295! Over £100 less than the big boys which totally screws any such theories as economies of scale. I rang Vision Express and told them the cheaper price and was met with a flustered person saying they would speak to the manager and where did I get this quote? I told them and then said I was coming in!

When I got there, the girl said she would fetch the manager and disappeared. Now whether the manager didn't want to speak or had something better to do I shall never know because the girl came back without her. I explained politely that, quite naturally, I wanted to get the best value for money. The girl said she had phoned Sussex Eyecare and they quoted £310. At this point I told her that I would like to cancel the order as a) I didn't like my integrity questioned and b) I was not happy about the whole thing. Her reply was "We don't do refunds, it's been company policy for about a year now."

Are you still with me or are you slumbering gently now? I'm almost done so bear with me.

I left the shop in high dudgeon after explaining that they would either get a call from Trading Standards or my solicitor only to receive a message some 30minutes later. Guess what? It appears that they COULD make a refund and would happily do so!!

The moral of this story? Stick with what you've got - size isn't everything!!! I'm not a vengeful man (much) and if I can deter one person from increasing Vison Express' profits then my job is done and I can sleep soundly in my bed at night.

Judge Not, That You be Not Judged

It's been less than 3 years since I really caught the photographic bug. I did go to evening classes when I was in my mid 20s and learned such esoteric delights as printing and developing but sadly all I really remember was a naked young lady draped over a motorcycle. Let me hasten to add, this was a model and not one of the college students trying to pull. I've still got some of the prints (none, sadly, of the girl) and I will never forget that buzz as an image took shape in the developing fluid.

Of course, nowadays one can run off a few hundred shots very easily, ditch the majority and then work on the rest. No more waiting for a pack of prints to arrive and the hope that one, just one, might be worthwhile. If you have a half-decent shot then you can merely fire up Photoshop, clone the lamp-post that appears in the wrong place, change the colour of the sky, add a few layers to adjust tone and contrast and finally emerge with a satisfactory shot. The old adage that the camera never lies has been completely turned on its head!

 I actually used graphic programmes way before I took up photography as I used to design posters for various bands as well as posters for my weekly quiz nights. I have never had any creative talent so using a computer was a fine way of satisfying that side of me. I started 'borrowing' photos off of the net and then  manipulating them, in all sorts of ways which enabled me to both practice my skills and use my imagination with works like Hippogriff, Prawn Cocktail and The Glorious Twelfth. This all culminated in my attempt to create an image incorporating several facets of myself. Now it looks fairly crude technically but at the time I was pleased with it. As usual, just click the photo for a bigger image.

Schism

Anyway, let's move on to the purpose of this particular offering. During the course of the year, my photographic society (posh name) or, (for my readers) camera club holds several competitions where members submit their shots and these are constructively criticised by a visiting judge who then awards marks out of 20. The standard ranges from the ordinary to the wonderful but it's always a joy to see work by other members. I expect you'll think Mr SuperEgo would be in straight away for these here competitions but last night was the first one for which I had submitted an entry. I've been going there for 18 months now so, you may well ask, why wait so long? Well, this is where it gets complicated.........

In a nutshell, I can never be satisfied with anything I achieve. It was the same at work; if I achieved 115% of a target then I would really beat myself up for not achieving 120%. I was the most confident extrovert, the leader, the joker, the arrogantly successful manager whilst, underneath, I had no real confidence or self-esteem. I had built a shell which lasted me for many years. Each time there was a crack I was able to repair it until one fateful day, and for reasons I still don't know, it shattered - totally, completely and pretty  irrevocably. I never worked again after that. My doctors and consultants told me I had "burned out". Who knows what it's all about but I was retired on full pension and that was that.

In a nutshell, the reasons therefore that I had never submitted a photo were because a) I didn't think my photos were good enough and b) I would destroy myself if they didn't get a perfect 20. See what I mean? A total dichotomy which goes to prove all those months and months of therapy did bugger all and I'm still as screwed up as ever!

My friends at the Club had seen my photographs on Flickr and were badgering me to submit something so, in the end I took the plunge. First problem - which shot to submit? These were a few of the contenders;

I finally decided and emailed the jpeg to the Competition Secretary (this was a digital comp. as opposed to print). I was pleasantly surprised to find that the whole process wasn't as bad as I'd imagined and as the few days passed prior to Friday I found that I wasn't worried at all. This completely changed during the course of that Friday and by the time I drove over to the meeting I was tighter than a spring. Naturally, when I got there I was, outwardly, completely blasé about the whole thing. People asked if I had entered and I casually nodded and said things like 'Oh I don't expect much from my first one'. I knew I was cracking when Steve, the guy next to me, asked me what my image was like and I answered 'Well, casual but sophisticated, I guess.

The actual competition starts with a runthrough of all the entries, followed by the judge's thoughts on each individual shot and finally, another runthrough when the marks are awarded. None of the images have anything other than a title so there can be no favouritism and they are shown in a completely random order. I was really looking forward to seeing my photo on a big projected screen and wondered just where I was in the order. The images started rolling through .......... nothing. They continued ............. nothing. Mine was second to bloody last!! This meant that I had to sit through all the others and it was a good hour before mine was shown. 

Hot Stuff!

The judge said that it was a strong image. and that it had points of interest throughout. He complimented me on the technical ability shown in actually capturing the image and that it was "very pleasing". He did make one criticism that the spark in the top right corner distracted the eye and it should be toned down. Now, of course, I see what he means. Why oh why didn't I see that? Before the final marks were announced there was a break and people were asking each other whose photos were who's? Obviously, one tends to be complimentary about each others images so I didn't really take much notice of the nice things people were saying - all I wanted to do now was get it over!

We went back and the marking began. It's traditional that the best ones are held back and commented on further at the end before their mark is given. In other words, if it's held back, you're doing OK. These top ones tend to get 18, 19 or 20 and any that receive such a mark are formally applauded when the author's name is read out. Of the 40 or so entries, marks were ranging from 12 to 'Can we hold this one back please'. I had already decided that I would settle for a 17 - any more and I would be pleased, any less and it was off to the cliff top I go. As my shot came up again, he hesitated, for what seemed an eternity, and then awarded a 17. There were about 7 or 8 that scored higher so I guess I didn't do too bad. The best part was I had actually done it and, more importantly, I have accepted it. Maybe, at long last I've become sane(ish)!

A Lesson in English

Blog writing is a strange pastime. What does one want to commit to paper (albeit virtual paper)? In my case it depends; sometimes it's deep and dark and I often bottle out of hitting the "Publish" button, sometimes it's something that I feel strongly about but predominantly it's me being me.

There are certain subjects or blog thoughts I have in the back of my mind that I know will surface eventually as a blog, a bit like trapped wind or, as our American cousins would say "trapped gas" and that, my dear old thing, hits the proverbial nail right on the head! As the great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw said; 'England and America are two countries divided by a common language'. I have some very lovely and special American internet friends, of whom I think the world but they have arbitrarily decided to change spellings, words .... and practically anything they fancy and still have the cheek to call it English!

Some I can understand, for example the wind/gas situation. I mean, when the Pilgrim Fathers toddled off to the New World (and what was wrong with the old one, may I ask?) they were aboard ship for a long time and I am sure they had their fair share of intestinal problems. Being God-fearing folk I'm sure they were far too polite (being English!) to mention this and no doubt blamed it on the ship's dog so their descendants had to invent a new word. This is fair enough but ... and this is the nub of the matter .......... when they started building cars they didn't call fuel petrol as we do. Oh no, they had to find another word and what did they choose? The same as flatulence!! Who decided to bastardise our language? Oops, sorry my colonial buddies, that should be 'bastardize'.

See what I mean? A perfectly sensible means of converting nouns and adjectives into verbs and they decide to change the spelling. The only reason I can think of is to get higher scores in Scrabble. And what about the humble 'u'? Humor, honor, color - all bereft. I can just imagine the newly colonised America, all sitting round playing Puritan games like Pin the Tail on the Devil and Hunt the Witch and then they got bored.

Pilgrim Father 1: I hungereth. Hath anybody invented MacDonalds yet?

Pilgrim Father 2: Letteth us think of a pastime to taketh away thy hunger, Jedediah

Pilgrim Father 1: I know, letteth us really pisseth of ye Brits by screwething up their language!

Pilgrim Father 2: I'd rather watcheth Baywatch but Okeyeth Dokeyeth.

I could trawl the depths and go for cheap laughs by talking about the different meaning of such words as 'fanny' and 'muff' but this whole subject is far too important to drop to such levels. I read certain things on Facebook and the net and I haven't got a clue what's going on. What in the name of all the gods is 'Woot!'? I am assuming it is similar to hooray or  some such exclamation of joy but 'Woot!'???  Have you ever in your life heard anybody go 'Woot'? I certainly never have (apart from when my friend Alan was eating and something went down the wrong way. As I hit him sharply on the back and a small but life-threatening piece of casseroled pheasant ricocheted across the room, a Woot like sound was heard.).

I am trying to be fair and impartial here but even taking into account that all Americans are mad still finds me puzzled by their attitude to lexicographical matters. I really do love my American friends dearly but you have a lot to answer for ............ Jerry Springer, country and western, Oprah Winfrey, electing George Bush (twice!) but above all, your total deconstruction of our wonderful language. My English accent has been called 'cute' ........ need I say more?! And what decent TV have you come up with? OK, I can think of a couple but when I switch on my 50" Panasonic I don't want to watch some dreadful documentary about 4 (going on 18) year olds entering pageants or programmes entitled "I was a 48 stone Cheerleader" or The O.C..  As for "Lost", never has a series been more aptly named. I gave up when some bloke got killed for the fourth time and he was still in the next series! Oh dear, I'm starting to work up a froth now so I'll try and calm down. I will not mention anything about a sport where only American teams play for the World Series or why programmes about cake decorating seem to have taken over our screens.

Have your own language by all means but call it American - not American English or English. Call your mothers 'mom' and not 'mum' but don't try and hide behind our 1600 year old linguistic roots otherwise I'll smack your bum. See, you didn't change 'bum' to 'bom', did you? "Oh no, we'll just give that as a name for vagrants because tramp isn't good enough for us". See what I mean? I won't even start on your totally carefree and lax attitude towards transitive verbs.

Right y'all, gotta go now, it's time for The Simpsons.