Since moving into this house we have had a few visitors, mainly direct family but some of Alison's and Claire's friends too. Just over a week ago I was out on my bike, struggling up a small hill from the next village, and frankly looking for an excuse to pull up, when I felt what appeared to be a restless humming hamster in my rucksack. For a moment I was confused by this noisy fidgeting and stopped to investigate. As I removed the bag from my back it finally dawned on me what the disturbance was and I unzipped the offending pocket of the rucksack and answered the phone.
Despite the slightly crackly line I recognised the voice immediately as that of one of my old colleagues, Richard, with whom I had worked in several stores in our past lives as Managers in the hairy scary Supermarket world. For the most part the only environment that I and Richard used to converse in was always one of constant noise, pressure, and an ambiance of hub-bub and hullabaloo. However here I was in a small lane in the quietest of North Norfolk's countryside, in the sunshine with not a single cloud in the sky and the only noise to disturb this idyll was the sounds of the swifts as they darted above my head, so it took a second or two to place the voice that I instantly recognised and I was then delighted to hear from my old friend.
Richard is the ONLY Manager in my 33 years of working in Supermarkets that actually retired from the business. I have worked, in that time, in 40 different stores and knew many more Managers than that but can only remember one Manager that retired a 'normal' albeit, I believe, an early retirement (carefully planned by him in all fairness).
I know of several managers that retired through ill health and quite a lot that were 'retired' and one or two that God retired, but Richard was the only one that played the game and survived to retirement and that makes him a legend as far as I am concerned.
"Hi, Mike, we're coming up to Norfolk for a few days, any chance of meeting up?" "Absolutely" I welcomed the chance to catch up with such a legend in my own bath time!
And so it was a week later Richard and Deborah (his wife) came to visit me. Now to some degree this was quite big of Richard as by his own admission he feels that I can half talk and that I could talk the back legs off a Donkey, which is undeniable but I only do that with people that I am relaxed around and so really he should take it as a compliment that I gabble on for hours.
After tea & coffee in the garden I then insisted that they had the obligatory tour of the house with the tour guide explaining all the future plans for the place. Then we went to The Kings Head in Reepham and had some pub grub, catching up on old friends and about each other. Returning back to the Old Bakery we sat in the garden and reflected upon our past years in the Supermarketing fraternity. Our careers bumped into each other every now and again and both of us worked at many of the same stores but at different times and so we knew many of the same people.
We worked the longest together at the Tunbridge Wells store which sits in the centre of the town, now as a white elephant, its former glory unrecognised by all who walk past it's shuttered doors. This sad store is akin to the life of a silent movie star a few years after the talkies arrived or one of those massive Cruise Liners in the wake of the arrival of the aeroplane. In her hay day she was the QE2 and now lies redundant, her past glories counting for nothing in this ever more savage commercial world in which we live. When Richard and I worked there, in the late 80's it was the busiest store in Safeway and took the equivalent of what the massive superstores take now but it was just a quarter of the size of the large stores of today.
He jogged many memories from the dusty shelf in my mind upon which they have sat over the years. We recalled the countless numbers of Hop pickers that came in and stole from us. I can remember one guy that the Manager and I stopped and we had seen him stuff a can of Special Brew and a multi-pack of crisps down his trousers. He adamantly denied everything and made it clear that he hadn't even touched any crisps let alone stuff them down his trousers. How dare we accuse him of being a thief and did he look the kind of guy that needed to steal? "Yes" we answered in unison, "You do and you have!"
At this point he tried to move around us and ........ with a damning CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH noise coming from the man's crotch as the crisps were crushed by each and every step he had to admit his guilt. He then unzipped his fly and opened his trousers up to reveal a can of Special Brew a big pack of crisps and his man parts for he had no underpants on. ewww...
We then used our standard method of ejecting such reprobates which was to push open the nearest fire exit, shove him out, down a few steps and slam it shut again just as they started to attempt to come back in again climbing the steps like a reawakened Zombie.
Life was full of such incidents and I really don't know how we got anything else done each day!
We sat for several hours in my garden soaking up the sun and reminiscing whilst I didn't place a single tile or pick up one paint brush, it was simply a very enjoyable day.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Sunday, 22 May 2011
“Think big thoughts but relish small pleasures.” H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
Following on from Mike's last post in which he talked about the differences in the life he's leading now we're in Norfolk, I've been enjoying the simple things in life too.
Today has been a rarity since moving here. It is now six months since we moved in but with long working hours and almost all of my spare time spent sorting the house out or setting up the business, today has been the longest time I've had the house to myself. And just occasionally, what bliss that is. My 'small pleasures' that I have relished today have included:
* just being in the house with no other noise than being able to hear the birds singing outside the windows, (no idea what birds they are but there's a mixture of tunes and it sounds relaxing)
* an afternoon spent sewing and listening to the conclusion of the Premiership and the ever-changing fortunes of the teams threatened with relegation
* making 5 cushions, from start to finish in a few hours, (so good to be able to complete something in one go)
* being able to listen to the football without fear that my team would be relegated (that's an uncommon luxury)
* tidying a room and coming back into it an hour or two later and finding it's still tidy
* sole use of the tv remote control (except that absent people have left things recording which means I can't watch anything other than their choices and I've never been able to work out how to switch the DVD on - still I like the peace and quiet!)
* sitting in the garden watching the pair of Blue Tits, which have nested in the bird box Claire bought Mike, bringing back grubs and worms to the chicks that must be inside (the bird house has a balcony but no windows, so it's anyone's guess how many are in there). I've never been a bird-watcher but it goes with the territory up here.
* making the most of a blustery day and getting loads of washing done and getting the linen room organised with all the freshly washed and ironed sheets on their labelled shelves, ready for opening for business
* raspberry cheesecake for pudding (puddings are an occasional treat and there are spare fresh raspberries to go on tomorrow's breakfast cereal)
* and finally, time to read.
There's loads more I wish I had time to do today but once in a while it's nice to slow down and savour life and peace and quiet and not try and cram too much in.
Today has been a rarity since moving here. It is now six months since we moved in but with long working hours and almost all of my spare time spent sorting the house out or setting up the business, today has been the longest time I've had the house to myself. And just occasionally, what bliss that is. My 'small pleasures' that I have relished today have included:
* just being in the house with no other noise than being able to hear the birds singing outside the windows, (no idea what birds they are but there's a mixture of tunes and it sounds relaxing)
* an afternoon spent sewing and listening to the conclusion of the Premiership and the ever-changing fortunes of the teams threatened with relegation
* making 5 cushions, from start to finish in a few hours, (so good to be able to complete something in one go)
* being able to listen to the football without fear that my team would be relegated (that's an uncommon luxury)
* tidying a room and coming back into it an hour or two later and finding it's still tidy
* sole use of the tv remote control (except that absent people have left things recording which means I can't watch anything other than their choices and I've never been able to work out how to switch the DVD on - still I like the peace and quiet!)
* sitting in the garden watching the pair of Blue Tits, which have nested in the bird box Claire bought Mike, bringing back grubs and worms to the chicks that must be inside (the bird house has a balcony but no windows, so it's anyone's guess how many are in there). I've never been a bird-watcher but it goes with the territory up here.
* making the most of a blustery day and getting loads of washing done and getting the linen room organised with all the freshly washed and ironed sheets on their labelled shelves, ready for opening for business
* raspberry cheesecake for pudding (puddings are an occasional treat and there are spare fresh raspberries to go on tomorrow's breakfast cereal)
* and finally, time to read.
There's loads more I wish I had time to do today but once in a while it's nice to slow down and savour life and peace and quiet and not try and cram too much in.
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." ..............................................Samuel Johnson
Hello again,
I'm sorry for the lapse in updates which has been as a result of me being totally engrossed in the refurbishment of the bathroom. Whilst I could blame the delay on unforeseen structural difficulties this would be disingenuous as in the main it is just the sheer amount of tasks required to get the room up to standard.
Having gutted the room I have had to re-build it using just about every DIY skill I have ever had and quite a few that, frankly, I don't have. My Carpentry skills have been stretched to the very limits, but day by day the room has developed, step by step towards the end result.
I have fought with a shower screen, re-enforced the bath frame with some old pine bed legs (don't ask!), made good the floor after the sink leaked, tackled the fitting of a precision made bath panel to a floor that drops some 3 inches in just one metre, painted the wall of the hall outside the bathroom with the thickest roller ever invented as it is the most uneven plaster ever in the world and now I'm struggling with boxing in pipes that straddle the walls.
I will hold back on the photos until it is all completed but I hope that will be no later than Monday.
We have, for the last few weeks, had lodgers, a bunch of Tits. I'm not being derogatory towards our lodgers, no what I mean is that we have had a family of Tits staying with us in one of the bird boxes that I had for Christmas.
Claire and I noticed a couple of Blue Tits checking out the box several weeks ago and watched them as they prepared the nest inside. This week has seen a frenzy of comings and goings as they bring juicy grubs to an undisclosed quantity of chicks.
We have lived in The Old Bakery now for nearly 6 months and I for one have acclimatised to the Norfolk pace.
Actually I did not realise how use to the tranquillity of the place I had become until today when I spoke to my son on the phone. He was in London, near to his flat, looking to buy something for his evening meal. As he updated me with what is going on in his life at the moment he was wandering through Haringay popping into different shops to see what they might tempt him with in the nosh department.
The contrast between our separate ambiances was overpowering as our conversation had quite different background noises. I could hear a constant hub-bub of people and traffic with both Police and Ambulance sirens interrupting us by deafening his voice to my ears.
And as I sat in my back garden talking to him in this way off metropolis I was watching the Blue Tits bringing in their grubs and all that I could hear was the tiny voices of the Blue Tit chicks calling for more. Stephen loves London and I love living here and that is just dandy. They say if you're tired of London then you are tired of life as London has everything that life can afford.
The problem is that it has all that and more, I don't need to have the constant crying of Ambulances, Fire Engines, Police cars, beeping noises of lorries reversing, the deep rumbling rattling noise of a London bus stuck in the bus lane behind 12 other buses pouring that black acrid stench into my face whilst I dodge the dog shit, put up with standing cheek to jowl next to someone whom, by all accounts, doesn't own a bath or shower whilst I trundle along in the underground being thrown from side to side and 'kettled' by the railings on any street that has a few shops on it.
I promise you Samuel Johnson would have moved to the home counties by now if he were still alive.
No, Normal for Norfolk is not the quirky label of a dysfunctional odd ball County. Far from it actually. I would suggest that the dysfunctional people are the ones that put up with all of the above (those that have a choice of course) and that normality is lived out in Norfolk, where you say hello to everyone you meet in your community, where you can smell fresh, clean air and see the stars at night and where you are not mollycoddled by a barrage of metal railings on the kerb preventing you from being run over.
Every one of my direct neighbours has either lived or worked in London and found salvation in this unassuming backwater. London is absolutely an interesting place to visit, but I still wouldn't want to live there...... again.
For the twitchers of you out there here are a few photos that I took on one of my cycle rides just outside our village, starting with our bug sharing Tits ......................
Whitethroat
Singing Yellow Hammer
.1,484
I'm sorry for the lapse in updates which has been as a result of me being totally engrossed in the refurbishment of the bathroom. Whilst I could blame the delay on unforeseen structural difficulties this would be disingenuous as in the main it is just the sheer amount of tasks required to get the room up to standard.
Having gutted the room I have had to re-build it using just about every DIY skill I have ever had and quite a few that, frankly, I don't have. My Carpentry skills have been stretched to the very limits, but day by day the room has developed, step by step towards the end result.
I have fought with a shower screen, re-enforced the bath frame with some old pine bed legs (don't ask!), made good the floor after the sink leaked, tackled the fitting of a precision made bath panel to a floor that drops some 3 inches in just one metre, painted the wall of the hall outside the bathroom with the thickest roller ever invented as it is the most uneven plaster ever in the world and now I'm struggling with boxing in pipes that straddle the walls.
I will hold back on the photos until it is all completed but I hope that will be no later than Monday.
We have, for the last few weeks, had lodgers, a bunch of Tits. I'm not being derogatory towards our lodgers, no what I mean is that we have had a family of Tits staying with us in one of the bird boxes that I had for Christmas.
Claire and I noticed a couple of Blue Tits checking out the box several weeks ago and watched them as they prepared the nest inside. This week has seen a frenzy of comings and goings as they bring juicy grubs to an undisclosed quantity of chicks.
Actually I did not realise how use to the tranquillity of the place I had become until today when I spoke to my son on the phone. He was in London, near to his flat, looking to buy something for his evening meal. As he updated me with what is going on in his life at the moment he was wandering through Haringay popping into different shops to see what they might tempt him with in the nosh department.
The contrast between our separate ambiances was overpowering as our conversation had quite different background noises. I could hear a constant hub-bub of people and traffic with both Police and Ambulance sirens interrupting us by deafening his voice to my ears.
And as I sat in my back garden talking to him in this way off metropolis I was watching the Blue Tits bringing in their grubs and all that I could hear was the tiny voices of the Blue Tit chicks calling for more. Stephen loves London and I love living here and that is just dandy. They say if you're tired of London then you are tired of life as London has everything that life can afford.
The problem is that it has all that and more, I don't need to have the constant crying of Ambulances, Fire Engines, Police cars, beeping noises of lorries reversing, the deep rumbling rattling noise of a London bus stuck in the bus lane behind 12 other buses pouring that black acrid stench into my face whilst I dodge the dog shit, put up with standing cheek to jowl next to someone whom, by all accounts, doesn't own a bath or shower whilst I trundle along in the underground being thrown from side to side and 'kettled' by the railings on any street that has a few shops on it.
I promise you Samuel Johnson would have moved to the home counties by now if he were still alive.
No, Normal for Norfolk is not the quirky label of a dysfunctional odd ball County. Far from it actually. I would suggest that the dysfunctional people are the ones that put up with all of the above (those that have a choice of course) and that normality is lived out in Norfolk, where you say hello to everyone you meet in your community, where you can smell fresh, clean air and see the stars at night and where you are not mollycoddled by a barrage of metal railings on the kerb preventing you from being run over.
Every one of my direct neighbours has either lived or worked in London and found salvation in this unassuming backwater. London is absolutely an interesting place to visit, but I still wouldn't want to live there...... again.
For the twitchers of you out there here are a few photos that I took on one of my cycle rides just outside our village, starting with our bug sharing Tits ......................
Singing Yellow Hammer
.1,484
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Miss and Mrs Mike have their say on the division of labour...
There is clearly SOME truth in the previous blog but we'd like to state, for the record, that Claire has in the last few days helped construct the new Greenhouse with her Grandfather (without even chipping her nail-varnish or breaking a nail) AND she mowed the lawn several times last summer.
However, we concede completely on the observations made about preparation (or lack of) when painting or varnishing. It was very frustrating that when I painted the living room wall shortly after we moved in it look extremely patchy when it dried, not due to poor quality paint but the fact that I'd not stirred it first. Once Mike had pointed out the error of my ways, I had to go over everything I'd just done (and it did look much better). You'd think I would have remembered this when I came to paint the bathroom a few months later but got caught out when Mike inspected what I'd done and then asked whether I'd stirred it - and wanted to know where the stirring stick was (there was no way I could claim I'd stirred it when there was no stick anywhere in the room!). Anyway I did remember to stir the red paint when doing a second coat in the living room, pity the newspaper I had put down didn't go quite far enough. Still the carpet has only a slight tinge of pink in that corner now, after much scrubbing with soapy water.
Put the speed we start a task down to enthusiasm (or impatience) to get things done or indeed to get a number of things done at the same time. Claire and I work from comprehensive 'to do' lists and multi-task to maximise the number of things we can achieve but that does mean that sometimes we have a number of things still in progress or as quilters describe their piles of sewing, UFOs (unfinished objects).
I was 'on holiday' last week and created a massive 'to-do' list and a shopping list for all the remaining items we need to do or to buy before we can open for business. We're not quite there on either count but a lot closer than we were, thanks to additional help from my parents over the last few days. We're now the proud owners of a fully planted greenhouse, a spider-free summer-house and weed-free flower borders. Also a fully painted living room, a linen store with fully labelled shelves and a door on the bathroom!
But it's back to the paying job tomorrow and leaving Mr Mike in charge again, with his own 'to-do' list. (I'll make sure that Claire is monitoring progress in my absence). Maybe if he reads the quote below, then this time next week we'll be set to go......
“Multi-tasking is dead. It never worked and it never will. Intelligent people love to sing its praises because it gives them permission to avoid the much more challenging alternative: focusing on one thing.” – Timothy Ferriss
PS I think that what Karl Marx really meant to say is that it's just as well we all like different things, life would be far more complicated if we were all alike (and no-one would clean the loo either!)
However, we concede completely on the observations made about preparation (or lack of) when painting or varnishing. It was very frustrating that when I painted the living room wall shortly after we moved in it look extremely patchy when it dried, not due to poor quality paint but the fact that I'd not stirred it first. Once Mike had pointed out the error of my ways, I had to go over everything I'd just done (and it did look much better). You'd think I would have remembered this when I came to paint the bathroom a few months later but got caught out when Mike inspected what I'd done and then asked whether I'd stirred it - and wanted to know where the stirring stick was (there was no way I could claim I'd stirred it when there was no stick anywhere in the room!). Anyway I did remember to stir the red paint when doing a second coat in the living room, pity the newspaper I had put down didn't go quite far enough. Still the carpet has only a slight tinge of pink in that corner now, after much scrubbing with soapy water.
Put the speed we start a task down to enthusiasm (or impatience) to get things done or indeed to get a number of things done at the same time. Claire and I work from comprehensive 'to do' lists and multi-task to maximise the number of things we can achieve but that does mean that sometimes we have a number of things still in progress or as quilters describe their piles of sewing, UFOs (unfinished objects).
I was 'on holiday' last week and created a massive 'to-do' list and a shopping list for all the remaining items we need to do or to buy before we can open for business. We're not quite there on either count but a lot closer than we were, thanks to additional help from my parents over the last few days. We're now the proud owners of a fully planted greenhouse, a spider-free summer-house and weed-free flower borders. Also a fully painted living room, a linen store with fully labelled shelves and a door on the bathroom!
But it's back to the paying job tomorrow and leaving Mr Mike in charge again, with his own 'to-do' list. (I'll make sure that Claire is monitoring progress in my absence). Maybe if he reads the quote below, then this time next week we'll be set to go......
“Multi-tasking is dead. It never worked and it never will. Intelligent people love to sing its praises because it gives them permission to avoid the much more challenging alternative: focusing on one thing.” – Timothy Ferriss
PS I think that what Karl Marx really meant to say is that it's just as well we all like different things, life would be far more complicated if we were all alike (and no-one would clean the loo either!)
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Marx's most important theoretical contribution is his sharp distinction between the social division and the technical or economic division of labour. That is, some forms of labor co-operation are due purely to technical necessity, but others are purely a result of a social control function related to a class and status hierarchy. If these two divisions are conflated, it might appear as though the existing division of labour is technically inevitable and immutable, rather than (in good part) socially constructed and influenced by power relationships.
It may be, for example, that it is technically necessary that both pleasant and unpleasant jobs must be done by a group of people. But from that fact alone, it does not follow that any particular person must do any particular (pleasant or unpleasant) job. If particular people get to do the unpleasant jobs and others the pleasant jobs, this cannot be explained by technical necessity; it is a socially made decision, which could be made using a variety of different criteria.
Basically Girls knit, sew and cook and boys drill, build and cook (if it necessitates using cool gadgets).
At least that's how I interpret Karl Marx's theory of the division of labour. Oooo, this is going to get me in so much trouble with Mrs Mike!
You see what Karl's theorem doesn't take into account, and God knows that I am no Sociologist (I can't even spell it with out Spellcheck despite having an 'Ology in the subject), is the definition of pleasant and unpleasant jobs. For this is where his theorem completely breaks down. You only then need to add in the emotive issue of the differences between the sexes in their out look to life and frankly my dear you can flush his whole theorem down the pointless toilet of over analytical reasoning.
WHAT am I wittering on about? Not sure really. It's just that, well women seem to enjoy different things to guys, or put another way a job that a Guy finds boring (ergo unpleasant) a woman will enjoy and vis~versa.
I have been doing the tiling in the new bathroom. I've been smashing the old tiles off the wall, carefully measuring and screwing batons of wood to the wall so as to make a spirit level base for the positioning of the new tiles. Then getting my 'manly' power tool, a diamond wet tile cutter, out to grind the tiles with much noise and spitting of water (from the machine, not me), then the laying of the, hopefully, precision cut tiles to the wall. Ending up with a neat vertical sheet of shiny, glossy wall tiles, ahhhhhh bliss.
Alison, however, has no aspiration, need or urge to do any such thing. That's not to say she doesn't do tiling, nor do I suggest that she cannot do tiling, simply that it doesn't light her fire. In short she does not find pleasure in the task and is therefore far more happy to leave it to me. So in the division of labour, I get the tiling.
On the other side of the coin whilst I admire and totally understand the skill and work that goes into making curtains, the operation of doing so would bore me to death. I would find the whole task wearingly dull, so much so that I would never get to finish it as my mind would wander and cause me to put the task in hand down and go find some wall to drill into.
Men, in general, are driven deep down inside by an urge to use power tools. Sure there are sewing machines and food processors, but blokes need something more to keep our poor concentration engaged. The plumber and I had a long conversation about a sonic saw that he had with him and I'm sorry but that conversation was not one that most women would have been interested in. Of my friends and relations, there are some of you out there (and you know who you are) that are the exception to the rule but for the most part having to use a sonic saw to cut a groove into a floor board, would have no interest other than "Oh, we have to use one of these do we? How do I do it?" And that would be it.
I am often accused by the women in this house (in which I am out numbered) of not listening and forgetting things when having been told once or twice already, or sometimes thrice! But that is somewhat not my fault as it seems just boring trivia at the time, well up to the point that I miss the appointment that has now fallen out of the boring trivia and dropped with a 'plonk' into the "rather a matter of urgency" category. And closely followed by "Why the hell didn't you remind me???" status.
You see the Sexes are more a different species than simply a different gender. We, guys, generally view life with a 'what's in it for me' out-look, whilst Women have a far more pragmatic approach with a mothering instinct 'He's got to get to the appointment so how am I going to plan his schedule for him'.
You'd never see a guy nag a woman about her missing an appointment, he just couldn't give a toss, UNLESS there was something in it for him.
Painting, to most men, is to be taken in stages. We like to start by preparing the surface, rubbing down the old paint, cleaning off the dust that the sandpaper has created then hoovering it totally clean and filling the small cracks and holes, giving the filler time to dry. Then meticulously laying masking tape to protect and to give an utterly straight edge, getting the paint opened we ensure that the paint is thoroughly stirred to within an ounce of it's life, then choosing the most appropriate brush (having covered the floor against drips we commence at a slow and cautious pace.
Females (well the ones in this house anyway) tend to make an instant decision, right we'll paint this next, grab a brush open the paint and slap it on, wondering why the carpet gets stained and the paint ends up with an edge to it like an old woman's lips after she put on her make up whilst on a 747 in turbulence.
Then they have completed the job and it is clear up time. So the lid is rested on top of the paint pot, there is a reluctance to push it fully down because of the amount of paint that has been continually scrapped from the brushes which had been heavily overloaded and as a consequence even the handles of the brushes have been liberally covered in the paint. So the lid cannot be pushed fully down without getting paint all over their hands and the paint is left to form an unwelcome scum which we [the guys] can look forward to discovering at a later stage.
The brushes are washed appropriately (white spirit or water) and left to dry, only they're not, it is too boring to thoroughly wash them and a layer of paint (or varnish, er-hem Claire) is left to dry ensuring that the brush is as stiff as a bog brush when it is next required. Don't get me wrong guys are lazy and would do the same if it wasn't for the 'what's in it for me' syndrome because the odds are that the next time that paint pot is opened or the brush required for painting, it will be the guy that needs to use it.
Now you may read into today's blog some anti-woman agenda and this is so definitely NOT the point. I am frankly and candidly demonstrating that women are from Venice and men are from Manchester.
Men are appalling at planning and frequently drive our women to distraction that they will be late because the guys are just finishing a task that they should never have started, clearly would not be able to finish and then get huffy as if they never knew that they had to be leaving home at that time.
Men only go to the supermarket at weekends, never plan to have a pound for the trolley, take control of the trolley throughout the journey around the store and select all the items that the supermarket has used psychology to encourage idiots and children to buy! We become like kids at the fair, spinning the trolley around on it's own axis simply because it is a challenge and even better if we have a small child in the seat AND it is just after lunch.
There are clearly many exceptions to these many stereotypes, but be honest, you know that the basic principle is true. How many men out there (singles not included) can honestly say, as part of Marx's division of labour of unpleasant jobs, that THEY fairly share the cleaning of the toilet pan, indeed when they have ever actually cleaned it.
AND....
How many women out there (singles not included) can honestly say when they last mowed the lawn.
There seems to me to be a very clear division of labour between the genders and I offer no conclusion to this observation only the hope that the tolerance each side has for the foybles of the opposite sex is long lived or else we are all doomed and the very fabric of society itself will implode.
Mikes thought for the day..............
References:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Division_of_labour
1,435
Basically Girls knit, sew and cook and boys drill, build and cook (if it necessitates using cool gadgets).
At least that's how I interpret Karl Marx's theory of the division of labour. Oooo, this is going to get me in so much trouble with Mrs Mike!
You see what Karl's theorem doesn't take into account, and God knows that I am no Sociologist (I can't even spell it with out Spellcheck despite having an 'Ology in the subject), is the definition of pleasant and unpleasant jobs. For this is where his theorem completely breaks down. You only then need to add in the emotive issue of the differences between the sexes in their out look to life and frankly my dear you can flush his whole theorem down the pointless toilet of over analytical reasoning.
WHAT am I wittering on about? Not sure really. It's just that, well women seem to enjoy different things to guys, or put another way a job that a Guy finds boring (ergo unpleasant) a woman will enjoy and vis~versa.
I have been doing the tiling in the new bathroom. I've been smashing the old tiles off the wall, carefully measuring and screwing batons of wood to the wall so as to make a spirit level base for the positioning of the new tiles. Then getting my 'manly' power tool, a diamond wet tile cutter, out to grind the tiles with much noise and spitting of water (from the machine, not me), then the laying of the, hopefully, precision cut tiles to the wall. Ending up with a neat vertical sheet of shiny, glossy wall tiles, ahhhhhh bliss.
Alison, however, has no aspiration, need or urge to do any such thing. That's not to say she doesn't do tiling, nor do I suggest that she cannot do tiling, simply that it doesn't light her fire. In short she does not find pleasure in the task and is therefore far more happy to leave it to me. So in the division of labour, I get the tiling.
On the other side of the coin whilst I admire and totally understand the skill and work that goes into making curtains, the operation of doing so would bore me to death. I would find the whole task wearingly dull, so much so that I would never get to finish it as my mind would wander and cause me to put the task in hand down and go find some wall to drill into.
Men, in general, are driven deep down inside by an urge to use power tools. Sure there are sewing machines and food processors, but blokes need something more to keep our poor concentration engaged. The plumber and I had a long conversation about a sonic saw that he had with him and I'm sorry but that conversation was not one that most women would have been interested in. Of my friends and relations, there are some of you out there (and you know who you are) that are the exception to the rule but for the most part having to use a sonic saw to cut a groove into a floor board, would have no interest other than "Oh, we have to use one of these do we? How do I do it?" And that would be it.
I am often accused by the women in this house (in which I am out numbered) of not listening and forgetting things when having been told once or twice already, or sometimes thrice! But that is somewhat not my fault as it seems just boring trivia at the time, well up to the point that I miss the appointment that has now fallen out of the boring trivia and dropped with a 'plonk' into the "rather a matter of urgency" category. And closely followed by "Why the hell didn't you remind me???" status.
You see the Sexes are more a different species than simply a different gender. We, guys, generally view life with a 'what's in it for me' out-look, whilst Women have a far more pragmatic approach with a mothering instinct 'He's got to get to the appointment so how am I going to plan his schedule for him'.
You'd never see a guy nag a woman about her missing an appointment, he just couldn't give a toss, UNLESS there was something in it for him.
Painting, to most men, is to be taken in stages. We like to start by preparing the surface, rubbing down the old paint, cleaning off the dust that the sandpaper has created then hoovering it totally clean and filling the small cracks and holes, giving the filler time to dry. Then meticulously laying masking tape to protect and to give an utterly straight edge, getting the paint opened we ensure that the paint is thoroughly stirred to within an ounce of it's life, then choosing the most appropriate brush (having covered the floor against drips we commence at a slow and cautious pace.
Females (well the ones in this house anyway) tend to make an instant decision, right we'll paint this next, grab a brush open the paint and slap it on, wondering why the carpet gets stained and the paint ends up with an edge to it like an old woman's lips after she put on her make up whilst on a 747 in turbulence.
Then they have completed the job and it is clear up time. So the lid is rested on top of the paint pot, there is a reluctance to push it fully down because of the amount of paint that has been continually scrapped from the brushes which had been heavily overloaded and as a consequence even the handles of the brushes have been liberally covered in the paint. So the lid cannot be pushed fully down without getting paint all over their hands and the paint is left to form an unwelcome scum which we [the guys] can look forward to discovering at a later stage.
The brushes are washed appropriately (white spirit or water) and left to dry, only they're not, it is too boring to thoroughly wash them and a layer of paint (or varnish, er-hem Claire) is left to dry ensuring that the brush is as stiff as a bog brush when it is next required. Don't get me wrong guys are lazy and would do the same if it wasn't for the 'what's in it for me' syndrome because the odds are that the next time that paint pot is opened or the brush required for painting, it will be the guy that needs to use it.
Now you may read into today's blog some anti-woman agenda and this is so definitely NOT the point. I am frankly and candidly demonstrating that women are from Venice and men are from Manchester.
Men are appalling at planning and frequently drive our women to distraction that they will be late because the guys are just finishing a task that they should never have started, clearly would not be able to finish and then get huffy as if they never knew that they had to be leaving home at that time.
Men only go to the supermarket at weekends, never plan to have a pound for the trolley, take control of the trolley throughout the journey around the store and select all the items that the supermarket has used psychology to encourage idiots and children to buy! We become like kids at the fair, spinning the trolley around on it's own axis simply because it is a challenge and even better if we have a small child in the seat AND it is just after lunch.
There are clearly many exceptions to these many stereotypes, but be honest, you know that the basic principle is true. How many men out there (singles not included) can honestly say, as part of Marx's division of labour of unpleasant jobs, that THEY fairly share the cleaning of the toilet pan, indeed when they have ever actually cleaned it.
AND....
How many women out there (singles not included) can honestly say when they last mowed the lawn.
There seems to me to be a very clear division of labour between the genders and I offer no conclusion to this observation only the hope that the tolerance each side has for the foybles of the opposite sex is long lived or else we are all doomed and the very fabric of society itself will implode.
Mikes thought for the day..............
References:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Division_of_labour
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Sunday, 1 May 2011
If at frst you don't succeed ........................GIVE UP!
It has been a hard week of decorating, 140 large bathroom tiles bought, the majority of which I've slapped on the walls. Floorboards replaced, a hard board floor on top of that with a lino finish on top of that. Everyone mucked in on the grouting and eventually we were ready for the plumber who returned to re-furnish our bathroom with new appliances.
I have, in this time, found the constant trips up and down the stairs and the kneeling down & standing back up has caused my bad knee to flare up again. My doctor seems to believe that it will need time to settle down and not to rush into an operation but as a concession I have managed to get a course with the physiotherapist. For myself I prefer Physiotherapists to the more evil of the manipulators, The Osteopath, whom I believe really enjoy (in a very sadistic way) the sound of snapping cartilage.
My experience of Osteopaths is that they have a compulsion to always demonstrate to you their party piece which is to wrap an arm around your neck and with the second arm firmly around the head twist violently as a commando may do to end your lot. As your head suddenly jerks to the side you hear (and feel) an almighty CRACK at the base of the neck and they drop their hold with a smug warm feeling inside themselves. You can almost hear them say "Ha, bet you can't do that then", and they'd be right, you both can't and also do not wish to be able to do that. I have never felt any the better after one of these assaults and actually spend the rest of the day holding my head, rocking it side to side, just to make sure it isn't going to fall off.
FURTHERMORE..... They seem to do this 'trick' for what ever ails you, I have been to an Osteopath for leg problems, bad backs and arms but nothing even near the head and yet I have had this done to me by three different Osteopaths.
"A bad foot is it Sir, ok I'll get started just as soon as I've snapped the vertebrae in your neck".
"A wrist problem you say, well I'm just going to wrap my arms around your neck and head like so and ..... 'CRACK', Hey presto".
The time to get really scared is when they want to do an encore!
So I was only too pleased to go to the Physiotherapist for which the worst I can say of them is that they have an area called Occupational Therapy, which just sounds like Work Therapy. Well my objection to that is that WORK was normally where I picked up the injury. However I popped along for my session and not to stereo type the Therapist but SHE was MID TO LATE TWENTIES and was wearing TRACK SUIT BOTTOMS and a WHITE DENTIST STYLE TOP. If I gave a description of ALL of my previous Physios or Osteopaths (or Psychopaths) then frankly you could use this for the lot of them. She had a clipboard and pen.
I told her my life storey, she didn't ask for it nor solicited it in any way but I find it puts them ill at ease thus giving me the upper hand and in the Osteopaths case I just do it out of spite. All salient points are recorded on the said clip board followed be 5 minutes of prodding and much pulling (and pushing) of limbs until you wince. They like a good wince, it gives them something to get their teeth into. "Ah-ha, so that hurts does it?" Too bloody right it does you've just put my body into a position that a 'rubber man' in a circus would even find a challenge!
Condition diagnosed, in their opinion, they then move on to the next step (The Osteopath normally slip in their party piece here) and the list of exercises to do before your next appointment is given out. Now I've had sit ups, sit downs, step ups, step downs, roll-overs, lay down this way or that, Turn around, lift the right leg up, put the left leg down, up down, in out, in out and shake it all about you do the Hokey Cokey and apparently that's what it's all about.
Well this time I was given a 5 foot length of rubber ribbon approximately 6 inches wide, blue for a boy. She went on to explain the exercise which was to lay on the bed, face down, and with the rubber band around the ankle with the two ends firmly in the grip of each hand and "You should work the calf muscle by trying to push that leg away from your body". I was given a helpful demonstration during the appointment, the only difference being that she assisted me in the placing of the ribbon around my ankle.
Well, back at home and in the privacy of my bedroom, just after waking up in the morning, I thought I shall have a bash at this and started to unravel the rubber ribbon. I lay flat on my face, leg folded up into the air ready to receive this ribbon around the ankle. I couldn't reach. I twisted my back and tried a sort of lasso method of getting this thing around my ankle which just got caught on my heel then slowly slipped off and fell to the bed. I tried hooking it on the ankle before I lay on my face only to find that as soon as I was in the right position it had already slipped and fallen to the bed again.
I writhed to the left and to the right to try to hook this ribbon around my ankle but each and every time as I got into the final position it just slid down my rather smooth, lady like, hairless leg. Now I was getting frustrated with the thing. I then had the brainwave of tying it around the ankle twice, whilst I stood up so it wouldn't slip down, then I climbed onto the bed (face down) and reached for the left end of the ribbon. I couldn't reach it, so I tried to get a grab on the right end of the rubber ribbon and..... I couldn't reach it! Alison was at work and I was blowed if I was going to ask the children to help me, I just couldn't take the ridicule that would ensue.
Now I was getting a tad tetchy, right I will tie the rubber ribbon around the ankle first then grab BOTH ENDS of it and clamber on to the bed getting into position, face down, whilst keeping a firm hold of the ends. Well it had the effect of making me walk some what like a Thunderbird puppet, you know how their legs start to move in an exaggerated way towards their faces, except I think I had less control on the situation than Gerry Anderson had on his puppets. I more or less fell flat on my face on to the bed as my hands were behind my back with the rubber twisted around the wrists and the clenched fists holding on for dear life to the two ends of the rubber band.
I lay for a while, exhausted, contemplating what Alison would say if she walked in on me now. Both hands and wrists smelt of rubber. Both ankles smelt of rubber and for all the world I appeared to be into something that only Tory MP's and Cynthia Payne would really understand.
None the less, I was finally ready to commence the exercise, although I was losing the will to live by now, and I pulled the leg away from my torso, fighting the elasticity of this giant rubber band, and release. I then pulled the leg back again, this time a little further to get more tension on the rubber band and I could feel that calf muscle work, and release. Then a third time, getting into my stride now I pushed the leg a little further when suddenly my hand let go of the end and TWANG! The thing whipped around my leg and sped towards my other hand snapping at my bottom with a sharp sting on route!
So now my ankles smelt of rubber, My wrists smelt of rubber and my bottom was reddened. Oh and my leg shot backwards stumping my foot on the end of the bedstead. Frankly things were beginning to look suspect and even I would doubt the story given if I had to attend hospital with further injuries. So I chucked the bloody rubber band in the corner of the room and when asked at the next appointment how I got on with the exercise I simply lied.
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I have, in this time, found the constant trips up and down the stairs and the kneeling down & standing back up has caused my bad knee to flare up again. My doctor seems to believe that it will need time to settle down and not to rush into an operation but as a concession I have managed to get a course with the physiotherapist. For myself I prefer Physiotherapists to the more evil of the manipulators, The Osteopath, whom I believe really enjoy (in a very sadistic way) the sound of snapping cartilage.
My experience of Osteopaths is that they have a compulsion to always demonstrate to you their party piece which is to wrap an arm around your neck and with the second arm firmly around the head twist violently as a commando may do to end your lot. As your head suddenly jerks to the side you hear (and feel) an almighty CRACK at the base of the neck and they drop their hold with a smug warm feeling inside themselves. You can almost hear them say "Ha, bet you can't do that then", and they'd be right, you both can't and also do not wish to be able to do that. I have never felt any the better after one of these assaults and actually spend the rest of the day holding my head, rocking it side to side, just to make sure it isn't going to fall off.
FURTHERMORE..... They seem to do this 'trick' for what ever ails you, I have been to an Osteopath for leg problems, bad backs and arms but nothing even near the head and yet I have had this done to me by three different Osteopaths.
"A bad foot is it Sir, ok I'll get started just as soon as I've snapped the vertebrae in your neck".
"A wrist problem you say, well I'm just going to wrap my arms around your neck and head like so and ..... 'CRACK', Hey presto".
The time to get really scared is when they want to do an encore!
So I was only too pleased to go to the Physiotherapist for which the worst I can say of them is that they have an area called Occupational Therapy, which just sounds like Work Therapy. Well my objection to that is that WORK was normally where I picked up the injury. However I popped along for my session and not to stereo type the Therapist but SHE was MID TO LATE TWENTIES and was wearing TRACK SUIT BOTTOMS and a WHITE DENTIST STYLE TOP. If I gave a description of ALL of my previous Physios or Osteopaths (or Psychopaths) then frankly you could use this for the lot of them. She had a clipboard and pen.
I told her my life storey, she didn't ask for it nor solicited it in any way but I find it puts them ill at ease thus giving me the upper hand and in the Osteopaths case I just do it out of spite. All salient points are recorded on the said clip board followed be 5 minutes of prodding and much pulling (and pushing) of limbs until you wince. They like a good wince, it gives them something to get their teeth into. "Ah-ha, so that hurts does it?" Too bloody right it does you've just put my body into a position that a 'rubber man' in a circus would even find a challenge!
Condition diagnosed, in their opinion, they then move on to the next step (The Osteopath normally slip in their party piece here) and the list of exercises to do before your next appointment is given out. Now I've had sit ups, sit downs, step ups, step downs, roll-overs, lay down this way or that, Turn around, lift the right leg up, put the left leg down, up down, in out, in out and shake it all about you do the Hokey Cokey and apparently that's what it's all about.
Well this time I was given a 5 foot length of rubber ribbon approximately 6 inches wide, blue for a boy. She went on to explain the exercise which was to lay on the bed, face down, and with the rubber band around the ankle with the two ends firmly in the grip of each hand and "You should work the calf muscle by trying to push that leg away from your body". I was given a helpful demonstration during the appointment, the only difference being that she assisted me in the placing of the ribbon around my ankle.
Well, back at home and in the privacy of my bedroom, just after waking up in the morning, I thought I shall have a bash at this and started to unravel the rubber ribbon. I lay flat on my face, leg folded up into the air ready to receive this ribbon around the ankle. I couldn't reach. I twisted my back and tried a sort of lasso method of getting this thing around my ankle which just got caught on my heel then slowly slipped off and fell to the bed. I tried hooking it on the ankle before I lay on my face only to find that as soon as I was in the right position it had already slipped and fallen to the bed again.
I writhed to the left and to the right to try to hook this ribbon around my ankle but each and every time as I got into the final position it just slid down my rather smooth, lady like, hairless leg. Now I was getting frustrated with the thing. I then had the brainwave of tying it around the ankle twice, whilst I stood up so it wouldn't slip down, then I climbed onto the bed (face down) and reached for the left end of the ribbon. I couldn't reach it, so I tried to get a grab on the right end of the rubber ribbon and..... I couldn't reach it! Alison was at work and I was blowed if I was going to ask the children to help me, I just couldn't take the ridicule that would ensue.
Now I was getting a tad tetchy, right I will tie the rubber ribbon around the ankle first then grab BOTH ENDS of it and clamber on to the bed getting into position, face down, whilst keeping a firm hold of the ends. Well it had the effect of making me walk some what like a Thunderbird puppet, you know how their legs start to move in an exaggerated way towards their faces, except I think I had less control on the situation than Gerry Anderson had on his puppets. I more or less fell flat on my face on to the bed as my hands were behind my back with the rubber twisted around the wrists and the clenched fists holding on for dear life to the two ends of the rubber band.
I lay for a while, exhausted, contemplating what Alison would say if she walked in on me now. Both hands and wrists smelt of rubber. Both ankles smelt of rubber and for all the world I appeared to be into something that only Tory MP's and Cynthia Payne would really understand.
None the less, I was finally ready to commence the exercise, although I was losing the will to live by now, and I pulled the leg away from my torso, fighting the elasticity of this giant rubber band, and release. I then pulled the leg back again, this time a little further to get more tension on the rubber band and I could feel that calf muscle work, and release. Then a third time, getting into my stride now I pushed the leg a little further when suddenly my hand let go of the end and TWANG! The thing whipped around my leg and sped towards my other hand snapping at my bottom with a sharp sting on route!
So now my ankles smelt of rubber, My wrists smelt of rubber and my bottom was reddened. Oh and my leg shot backwards stumping my foot on the end of the bedstead. Frankly things were beginning to look suspect and even I would doubt the story given if I had to attend hospital with further injuries. So I chucked the bloody rubber band in the corner of the room and when asked at the next appointment how I got on with the exercise I simply lied.
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