Thursday, 22 October 2009
Cold
Something seemed to happen on the first of October when Autumn began. The temperature in the house dropped by about forty degrees. This shouldn't be surprising given how little double glazing there is and how the windows aren't even airtight but it's a bad sign given that it is only October and i wonder what it will be like in here come January. The central heating, such as it is, will warm the sitting room and kitchen but a chill hits you if you leave those rooms. I visualise heat coming from the radiators and flying straight through the windows onto the street. We'll stand out there if we want to warm up. At the moment we both have colds. Since we're living like squatters in a Tracey Emin exhibition we might as well break up the floorboards and make a fire.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Talk to you the more
I don't know why the email below ended up in my Junk email box. That is normally filled with emails from people wanting to tell me about an amazing electronics company they've come across that could supply me with everything I could need at low low prices. And I don't know why the young lady targeted me, although I did make a wish for a 92 year old millionairess with a heart condition when blowing out the candles on my last birthday cake.
From: Mariam Abdullah (missmariam209@info2link.biz)
Sent: 11 October 2009 03:01:52
To: pbodger@hotmail.co.uk
Dearest P Bodger
I humbly write to solicit for your partnership and assistance in the transfer and investment of my inheritance fund USD$17.5M from my late father who died mysteriously last Dec.
It was very evident that he was poisoned to death. In my culture, when a man dies, if he does not have a male child, the brothers shares his property leaving both the wife and the daughters empty handed including the house they live in. This is the exact case with me as I am the only daughter of my father. I lost my mother when I was barely a year old and my father refused to re-marry another wife because he felt solely responsible for my mother's death.
This is so because he concentrated much on his businesses that he rarely pays attention to domestic affairs. He was always travelling taking care of his businesses that he did not notice when my mother took ill. He thought it was a minor illness and was ignorant of this. My mother on her own resorted to self-medication. It was not until the illness degenerated that my father took my mother to hospital where she was diagnosed to find out that hypatitis had eaten deep into her blood stream. She didn't last long before she died.This happened when I was barely a year old. Based on this, my father could not forgive himself easily because of it and said he was responsible for her death as he could have saved her if only he had paid attention to the things at home rather than concentrating much on his businesses.
Despite all entreaties by friends and relatives, he refused to remarry but ensured that I had everything that I wanted. It was as a result of this that he made me the next of kin to his fund deposit with the bank and stated that in the event of any eventuality, I should have a direct access to the fund only when I am 25 years of age otherwise, I should have a guardian/partner intercede on my behalf for the release of the funds to me. Unfortunately, he died late last year and I am 19 years of age currently.
This is why I have contacted you to serve as a guardian to me and as my foreign partner for the transfer and investment of the fund overseas My uncles does not know about the fund because they had already taken my father's houses and other properties because I am a girl and they said I do not have rights for any property. They have requested to have my father's bank papers but I simply told them that I do not know where he kept them.The younger brother took the house in the village while the houses in the town were sold out they shared the proceed they got from the sale.
Right now i am in the hotel and do sincerely want to travel out of my country. This can only happen when I have secured the release and transfer of the funds in the bank.This why it is important that we have a plan on the type of lucrative business that we can invest the funds on.
I had at various times had discussions with the director of international remittance unit of the bank where my father deposited the funds and I was assured that once, I have someone who would be willing to receive the funds on my behalf, they shall commence all proceedings to effect the release and transfer of the funds into the person's designated account.
Now, that you have signified your interest to partner with me, it would only be very necessary if you contact the bank and request for the release and transfer of my inheritance fund into your nominated account for the purpose of investment and to further have me come over to your country to continue with my studies.I shall be giving you the bank's contact details as soon as I hear backfrom you so that you will go ahead and contact the bank,Your urgent response will be appreciated. please contact me with my Alternative email address (m1990abdullah@live.fr)
Talk to you the more.
Regard Sincerely Sister,
Mariam Abdullah
Since receiving this i end all conversations with "Talk to you the more".
From: Mariam Abdullah (missmariam209@info2link.biz)
Sent: 11 October 2009 03:01:52
To: pbodger@hotmail.co.uk
Dearest P Bodger
I humbly write to solicit for your partnership and assistance in the transfer and investment of my inheritance fund USD$17.5M from my late father who died mysteriously last Dec.
It was very evident that he was poisoned to death. In my culture, when a man dies, if he does not have a male child, the brothers shares his property leaving both the wife and the daughters empty handed including the house they live in. This is the exact case with me as I am the only daughter of my father. I lost my mother when I was barely a year old and my father refused to re-marry another wife because he felt solely responsible for my mother's death.
This is so because he concentrated much on his businesses that he rarely pays attention to domestic affairs. He was always travelling taking care of his businesses that he did not notice when my mother took ill. He thought it was a minor illness and was ignorant of this. My mother on her own resorted to self-medication. It was not until the illness degenerated that my father took my mother to hospital where she was diagnosed to find out that hypatitis had eaten deep into her blood stream. She didn't last long before she died.This happened when I was barely a year old. Based on this, my father could not forgive himself easily because of it and said he was responsible for her death as he could have saved her if only he had paid attention to the things at home rather than concentrating much on his businesses.
Despite all entreaties by friends and relatives, he refused to remarry but ensured that I had everything that I wanted. It was as a result of this that he made me the next of kin to his fund deposit with the bank and stated that in the event of any eventuality, I should have a direct access to the fund only when I am 25 years of age otherwise, I should have a guardian/partner intercede on my behalf for the release of the funds to me. Unfortunately, he died late last year and I am 19 years of age currently.
This is why I have contacted you to serve as a guardian to me and as my foreign partner for the transfer and investment of the fund overseas My uncles does not know about the fund because they had already taken my father's houses and other properties because I am a girl and they said I do not have rights for any property. They have requested to have my father's bank papers but I simply told them that I do not know where he kept them.The younger brother took the house in the village while the houses in the town were sold out they shared the proceed they got from the sale.
Right now i am in the hotel and do sincerely want to travel out of my country. This can only happen when I have secured the release and transfer of the funds in the bank.This why it is important that we have a plan on the type of lucrative business that we can invest the funds on.
I had at various times had discussions with the director of international remittance unit of the bank where my father deposited the funds and I was assured that once, I have someone who would be willing to receive the funds on my behalf, they shall commence all proceedings to effect the release and transfer of the funds into the person's designated account.
Now, that you have signified your interest to partner with me, it would only be very necessary if you contact the bank and request for the release and transfer of my inheritance fund into your nominated account for the purpose of investment and to further have me come over to your country to continue with my studies.I shall be giving you the bank's contact details as soon as I hear backfrom you so that you will go ahead and contact the bank,Your urgent response will be appreciated. please contact me with my Alternative email address (m1990abdullah@live.fr)
Talk to you the more.
Regard Sincerely Sister,
Mariam Abdullah
Since receiving this i end all conversations with "Talk to you the more".
Prail
I love that we now live in a town with its own gig/concert venues. When we lived in Hull we got to see all sorts of bands, comedians and shows but I spent many years in Wisbech and no one talented went within a hundred miles of the place. On the 7th I went to The Assembly in Leamington to see Ben Taylor (son of Carly Simon and James Taylor). Since Marianna and the car were in Leominster I walked the two miles to the venue.
I’d already done the equidistant walk to the train station and back, having worked in Birmingham earlier in the day. It had been a week of delayed trains so far. I’d been at court in St. Albans the previous day and arrived late. Our train sat at Kilburn for nearly half an hour, close to our eventual Marylebone destination. The only good thing about this was that the people who choose to leave their seats and stand by the doors ten minutes before arrival stood there for forty minutes. I never know why they do this but wondered if they were experiencing some inner turmoil over whether they should return to their seat or stick it out. So, I arrived at St. Albans magistrate’s court fifty five minutes late and soaked in rainwater despite my use of an umbrella. I wasn’t previously aware they don’t work when you’re running. I found the usher outside of the courtroom who looked me up and down, clearly struggling to comprehend how someone could become so wet. He told me they were intending to adjourn for another day because of my absence and that I should go into the courtroom and alert the defence barrister to my presence. I intended to sneak into the courtroom and cough or mime to let the barrister know I was there but she spotted me and loudly announced “Mr Bodger has arrived” (ELVIS IS IN THE BUILDING!). All was saved and the trial would go ahead. I don’t know why they were making such a fuss about my absence since I didn’t give evidence for another five and a half hours.
It must be my age or that I’m out of practice since normally if a ticket to an event says 7pm I expect something to happen shortly after seven. This was not the case at The Assembly. I got there shortly after seven and sat feeling conspicuous and lemon-like in the bar nursing my orange and lemonade and playing brain training on my phone. After a while I ventured into the auditorium to do the same, but with less bright lights. The performance area was impressive but horribly decorated. The building opened in 1926 as a dance hall and remained as such into the sixties. Then it was a bingo hall in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s and then was abandoned and derelict until being re-designed (appallingly) by Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and re-opened in August 2008.
Finally, at about 8.20, whilst I was in the toilet, a young lady called Jess Morgan came onto the stage and sang some perfectly pleasant songs whilst jiggling about as if her knees were Velcro’d together. Support acts can be a good opportunity to discover new artists. Some of my current favourites were discovered as support acts; Sarah Slean (supporting Ron Sexsmith in Calgary), Martha Tilston (Supporting Roddy Frame in Milton Keynes), Chris Sheehan (supporting Marti Pellow), Nerina Pallot (Supporting James Blunt in Dublin). However, I saw David Gray as a support act in 1994 and wasn’t at all impressed. Who knew he’d become a megastar. When Jess Morgan had finished her set I went along to buy her CD and get it autographed. This is a habit we’ve developed over recent years. I’m not sure why. I think Marianna likes me to practice conversations with people that don’t involve phrases like “For how many days after you’d killed your sister did you continue having sex with the body?”. I had a little chat and got a signature from the petite and lovely Karine Polwart last year. The strategy should be to say hello, request an autograph, say thank you and move on. Nothing more. Especially not in my case. We all have an inner dialogue, private thoughts that we keep to ourselves or share after an editing process has taken place but sometimes, at times of anxiety, I forget to edit. Last year I approached Richard John Thompson (supporting Midge Ure) with the three CD’s of his I’d just bought. When he’d signed them he handed them back to me with a wink, a smile and the word “priceless”. Unfortunately, the words “Well, only on Ebay” then left my mouth. He looked less than impressed. It was meant as a joke although I can’t see what sort right now but he clearly took it as an evaluation of how poorly his career was going at that point and that a signed or unsigned cd would be fetching bugger all on ebay. These incidents often haunt me. When I was nineteen I was introduced to someone called Laurie and the words “I’ve never met anyone named after the vehicle they were conceived in” left my mouth. I remember to edit sometimes or in appropriate situations. About a decade ago when working in a prison a disturbed and emotional (and married) prisoner disclosed that he’d had a homosexual experience with another prisoner. It occurred to me to say “One Swallow doesn’t make a Summer” but I didn’t.
I was hoping, as my normal bedtime approached, that Ben Taylor would be next on stage but there was a second support act. Why open the doors at seven and start so much later, especially with an audience of people in their forties and beyond? Support number two was called Roddy Hart and opened by saying “It’s okay, I’ve never heard of me either”. His songs were very good, memorable and he was accompanied by a very accomplished guitarist. I like people who engage with the audience rather than just play one song after another and he was very good at this. You won’t be surprised that I bought his CD later and he signed it for me. The CD is excellent, a nice mix of Dylan, Harrison and CSNY but also very unique and well produced.
Then, after a little interval, a man walked onto the stage, took off his rucksack and took two bottles from it, took off an overcoat, turned around and revealed himself to be Ben Taylor, sat down, picked up the guitar, waved at the sound man to turn off the background music and began his first song. He was worth the wait. His guitar playing was intricate and precise and his voice was as smooth as honey falling onto flesh. For every three minute song there was a five minute story about the song so we learnt about his parents, sister, his mother nagging him for a song about her, a song about finding that his live-in girlfriend had moved out when he returned home from touring and lots of other things. He had a drawling accent I wouldn’t normally associate with the area of the US he grew up in but you need that accent to use the word ‘man’ as often as he does, to call people ‘cats’ and to refer to the audience as “y’all”. He was cool. Marianna later commented that his father’s sperm was still full of heroin when he was conceived in 1977 so that may explain why he was so laid back. For most of the gig David Saw accompanied him. I didn’t take to him. This was almost purely because of the hat he was wearing. Well, it wasn’t the hat it was the jaunty angle he wore it at and the necktie and t-shirt combo. That’s just wrong and silly. Rather than be traditional and play his well known songs from his CD’s Ben played lots of new songs, since he promised three new CD releases over the next 12 to 18 months. He said he’d be around after the show to meet people and that his most recent CD was for sale at the merchandise stall and we were welcome to pay whatever we wished for it. Making his departure as unique as his arrival he ended with a poem.
I noticed that I was a little older than most of the people queuing to meet him at the end and a lot more male than all of them. Also, typically of Leamington Spa, everyone was handing over ten pounds for his CD's. When I asked for an autograph he asked for my name and then asked “Is that Patrick with a C and a K?”. With a lack of internal editing I said “Yes, but it only works if you put them at the very end”. Fortunately he laughed. I’ve no idea what he wrote on my CD. It appears t say “Thanks – Prail – Patrick – Ben”. I’ve had worse advice.
I’d already done the equidistant walk to the train station and back, having worked in Birmingham earlier in the day. It had been a week of delayed trains so far. I’d been at court in St. Albans the previous day and arrived late. Our train sat at Kilburn for nearly half an hour, close to our eventual Marylebone destination. The only good thing about this was that the people who choose to leave their seats and stand by the doors ten minutes before arrival stood there for forty minutes. I never know why they do this but wondered if they were experiencing some inner turmoil over whether they should return to their seat or stick it out. So, I arrived at St. Albans magistrate’s court fifty five minutes late and soaked in rainwater despite my use of an umbrella. I wasn’t previously aware they don’t work when you’re running. I found the usher outside of the courtroom who looked me up and down, clearly struggling to comprehend how someone could become so wet. He told me they were intending to adjourn for another day because of my absence and that I should go into the courtroom and alert the defence barrister to my presence. I intended to sneak into the courtroom and cough or mime to let the barrister know I was there but she spotted me and loudly announced “Mr Bodger has arrived” (ELVIS IS IN THE BUILDING!). All was saved and the trial would go ahead. I don’t know why they were making such a fuss about my absence since I didn’t give evidence for another five and a half hours.
It must be my age or that I’m out of practice since normally if a ticket to an event says 7pm I expect something to happen shortly after seven. This was not the case at The Assembly. I got there shortly after seven and sat feeling conspicuous and lemon-like in the bar nursing my orange and lemonade and playing brain training on my phone. After a while I ventured into the auditorium to do the same, but with less bright lights. The performance area was impressive but horribly decorated. The building opened in 1926 as a dance hall and remained as such into the sixties. Then it was a bingo hall in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s and then was abandoned and derelict until being re-designed (appallingly) by Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen and re-opened in August 2008.
Finally, at about 8.20, whilst I was in the toilet, a young lady called Jess Morgan came onto the stage and sang some perfectly pleasant songs whilst jiggling about as if her knees were Velcro’d together. Support acts can be a good opportunity to discover new artists. Some of my current favourites were discovered as support acts; Sarah Slean (supporting Ron Sexsmith in Calgary), Martha Tilston (Supporting Roddy Frame in Milton Keynes), Chris Sheehan (supporting Marti Pellow), Nerina Pallot (Supporting James Blunt in Dublin). However, I saw David Gray as a support act in 1994 and wasn’t at all impressed. Who knew he’d become a megastar. When Jess Morgan had finished her set I went along to buy her CD and get it autographed. This is a habit we’ve developed over recent years. I’m not sure why. I think Marianna likes me to practice conversations with people that don’t involve phrases like “For how many days after you’d killed your sister did you continue having sex with the body?”. I had a little chat and got a signature from the petite and lovely Karine Polwart last year. The strategy should be to say hello, request an autograph, say thank you and move on. Nothing more. Especially not in my case. We all have an inner dialogue, private thoughts that we keep to ourselves or share after an editing process has taken place but sometimes, at times of anxiety, I forget to edit. Last year I approached Richard John Thompson (supporting Midge Ure) with the three CD’s of his I’d just bought. When he’d signed them he handed them back to me with a wink, a smile and the word “priceless”. Unfortunately, the words “Well, only on Ebay” then left my mouth. He looked less than impressed. It was meant as a joke although I can’t see what sort right now but he clearly took it as an evaluation of how poorly his career was going at that point and that a signed or unsigned cd would be fetching bugger all on ebay. These incidents often haunt me. When I was nineteen I was introduced to someone called Laurie and the words “I’ve never met anyone named after the vehicle they were conceived in” left my mouth. I remember to edit sometimes or in appropriate situations. About a decade ago when working in a prison a disturbed and emotional (and married) prisoner disclosed that he’d had a homosexual experience with another prisoner. It occurred to me to say “One Swallow doesn’t make a Summer” but I didn’t.
I was hoping, as my normal bedtime approached, that Ben Taylor would be next on stage but there was a second support act. Why open the doors at seven and start so much later, especially with an audience of people in their forties and beyond? Support number two was called Roddy Hart and opened by saying “It’s okay, I’ve never heard of me either”. His songs were very good, memorable and he was accompanied by a very accomplished guitarist. I like people who engage with the audience rather than just play one song after another and he was very good at this. You won’t be surprised that I bought his CD later and he signed it for me. The CD is excellent, a nice mix of Dylan, Harrison and CSNY but also very unique and well produced.
Then, after a little interval, a man walked onto the stage, took off his rucksack and took two bottles from it, took off an overcoat, turned around and revealed himself to be Ben Taylor, sat down, picked up the guitar, waved at the sound man to turn off the background music and began his first song. He was worth the wait. His guitar playing was intricate and precise and his voice was as smooth as honey falling onto flesh. For every three minute song there was a five minute story about the song so we learnt about his parents, sister, his mother nagging him for a song about her, a song about finding that his live-in girlfriend had moved out when he returned home from touring and lots of other things. He had a drawling accent I wouldn’t normally associate with the area of the US he grew up in but you need that accent to use the word ‘man’ as often as he does, to call people ‘cats’ and to refer to the audience as “y’all”. He was cool. Marianna later commented that his father’s sperm was still full of heroin when he was conceived in 1977 so that may explain why he was so laid back. For most of the gig David Saw accompanied him. I didn’t take to him. This was almost purely because of the hat he was wearing. Well, it wasn’t the hat it was the jaunty angle he wore it at and the necktie and t-shirt combo. That’s just wrong and silly. Rather than be traditional and play his well known songs from his CD’s Ben played lots of new songs, since he promised three new CD releases over the next 12 to 18 months. He said he’d be around after the show to meet people and that his most recent CD was for sale at the merchandise stall and we were welcome to pay whatever we wished for it. Making his departure as unique as his arrival he ended with a poem.
I noticed that I was a little older than most of the people queuing to meet him at the end and a lot more male than all of them. Also, typically of Leamington Spa, everyone was handing over ten pounds for his CD's. When I asked for an autograph he asked for my name and then asked “Is that Patrick with a C and a K?”. With a lack of internal editing I said “Yes, but it only works if you put them at the very end”. Fortunately he laughed. I’ve no idea what he wrote on my CD. It appears t say “Thanks – Prail – Patrick – Ben”. I’ve had worse advice.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Addict
A few years ago I wanted to de-clutter my life and so registered on Ebay. I had comics from my childhood, concert tickets and programmes, Beatles concert tickets, A ‘Happy Days’ board game, first issues of magazines, an ADIDAS bag from 1976 and dozens and dozens of things that I’d been moving from one house to another with some nonsensical sentimental value attached to them. Things that I initially wouldn’t have dreamt of parting with were eventually listed, sold, packed and sent to all corners of the planet. It just made more sense to me that I could turn something that had been in a box unappreciated for decades into some time for me to sit on a far away beach. When selling items I occasionally made use of friends who would bid against genuine bidders just to push the price up a bit for me. This only backfired once when I bought my own set of encyclopaedias. I may have got a bit carried away, since they knew me by name in the local post office, but I loved how uncluttered the house began to look. I didn’t buy anything, only sold. It sometimes amazed me how much people would pay for things, especially when a brief internet search would reveal that they were available cheaper elsewhere. Why would anyone pay for an autographed picture of Trevor Brooking from 1978?
More recently, Marianna has been gathering together clothes, shoes and bags which she no longer wants and we had begun listing them and selling them on Ebay with some success. Still selling and not buying.
Then, a few weeks ago, we went into a bar in Kenilworth. The décor was amazing. Or rather, the chairs and sofas and tables and sideboards were wonderful. It was like being on a ‘60’s film set or inside a Matt Monro song. Characteristically, Marianna asked one of the staff where they sourced all of the furniture and the answer was Ebay. The bar’s owners bought the chairs, reupholstered them and revitalised the woodwork and put them in the bar looking as good as the day they were made fifty years previously. So, a few hours later we were searching on Ebay for retro furniture. Our first purchase was a glass topped G-plan coffee table for £26. After seeing clients in Birmingham I drove to Walsall and collected the table from a very lovely man, who was a full-time Ebayer. I met him at his home and then we walked the 150 yards to his mother’s home where he kept his stock. She seemed to be in very poor health and I’m not sure if it counts as abuse that your son fills your house with items he bought for a pound in a charity shop and is selling for many times more on Ebay.
Next, was a chair which Marianna was particularly keen on. It looked like the sort of swivelling office chair that Reggie Perrin’s boss would sit in. The seller was fairly charmless; “I’ve had this chair for forty years. It’s in my garage and is in the way. Ron” is what it said on his Ebay listing. We noticed that he only lived ten miles from my parents so I did have a little plan for how it might be collected. We were the lucky winners for this quality item for a mere £1.02. Surely, this could only be a bargain. Within 24 hours he contacted me saying “Are you going to collect this chair or do I need to re-list it?”. He was operating at a level of social skills I professionally refer to as 'Greggs employee'. Marianna spoke to my dad to ask how he would feel about collecting it but it turned out that he was collecting a brand new car that day and wasn’t sure if wrestling a chair into it was quite how he wanted to christen this new purchase. After a few emails to Ron to ascertain the chair’s dimensions dad finally agreed to go and get it. He arrived at this house in the middle of the fens to find the chair in the driveway surrounded by four rather aggressive dogs (Have you seen Deliverance?) but it turned out that Ron was perfectly pleasant and even lifted the chair into the car. Once home dad sent me a text saying that it may have been overvalued.... by a pound.
Then, on our way to Bath on the 19th we happened upon an antique warehouse which had lots of proper antiques for obscene amounts of money that were of no interest to me but there were two 1950’s Wassily Marcel Breuer chairs. Cooler than a close up of Steve McQueen but far from cheap at £365 each. Marianna made a note of the name and a few days later looked them up on Ebay. There was another pair, already with a number of bids, at £100 each and yet to reach their reserve. The auction ended at £220 and the reserve still wasn’t met. I thought about contacting the seller to see what they might accept but we noticed that there was another pair of chairs ending the next morning with a starting price of £89 for the pair. The next day I entered my first bid of £89 and a few minutes later the auction ended without another bid being made. Something I could have bought for £715 purchased for £89. That’s the beauty of Ebay. The chairs were in York so five days later, after seeing a client in Hull, I headed north to collect them. The sellers turned out to be a firm of architects. I said hello and shook hands with Matt, my contact, took the first chair and put it next to the car and returned for the second. “I thought you’d have a bigger car or a van. Will you be able to take both of them?”, he said. “Oh,yes, there’s nothing won’t fit into the back of a Peugeot 206” I said confidently although I’d already noticed how much bigger the chairs looked next to the car than they had in the antiques warehouse. As I left I just caught Matt’s colleague say “This will be interesting to watch” and felt a little bit of pressure mounting. After some seconds looking at the chairs and the space inside the car I tried various ways of putting them and had it figured out on only the third combination. There was no way I was going to carry one of them back into their offices and admit defeat. I’d have put one on the roof and pushed the car or eaten one before I did that.
When I logged onto our Ebay account on the day of my successful £89 bid I noticed that Marianna was ‘watching’ several sofas from the fifties, sixties and seventies. They all looked thoroughly lovely, well maintained and completely of their time. The auction for two two-seater sofas of orangey, cubist, stainless steel loveliness was ending in only a matter of hours. Marianna was at a meeting. I sent her a text; “Would you like me to bid on these sofas?”. An hour or so passed and there was no reply. I sent another text; “The auction closes in 30 minutes. Shall we bid?”. No reply. Ten minutes later I called her mobile but she didn’t reply and I left an anxious message. And then I began bidding. The starting price was £100 which at £12.50 per buttock seemed very reasonable. There was an intense bidding war in increments of two pounds with two others but I won for £122. I was very pleased with myself although, obviously, I’d never have parted with that amount had this been a real auction. It felt like playing a video game. Marianna was less pleased when she returned home. She explained that ‘watching’ items was like pointing out something in a shop window as you walked past. It meant that you liked it or found it interesting and perhaps wanted to show it to your other half. It didn’t mean you were going to rush into the store and write a blank cheque for it. I hung my head. She also wondered how I planned to get two two-seater sofas from central London to the midlands. My shoulders dropped. I felt that she was raining on my parade (but had a point. A very good one).
The next morning I rang around eleven courier companies and men with vans to get prices for the collection. None were less than the amount I’d paid for the sofas. Suddenly they looked a lot less bargain-like. How could even this have become stressful? Where was the excitement of “Congratulations, you’ve won this item” now? I finally found ‘Green man with van’ (Justin) who would do the job in an environmentally sound way for less than the price of the sofas. I gave the sellers details to him and his details to the seller (ignoring the “Did you tell him I’m on the fourth floor?” comment) and returned to work and earning money to pay for our expanding furniture collection. During the late evening I received a text from Marianna; “I’m still working in the library. You need to start bidding if you want that other sofa”. We hadn’t discussed this but if that’s not carte blanche I don’t know what is. I feel a little too ashamed to tell you how much I finally won this item for but it was 21 bids more than the £50 starting price. When I won I didn’t feel the excitement of the day before it was more like dread; “Oh shit, what have I done?”. Marianna came home an hour or so later and in the midst of discussing what we’d done that day she asked; “How much did that sofa sell for?”. I told her. “How much was your final bid?”. I told her and she quickly noticed how similar these figures were. She explained that I needed to set myself a limit and then not go beyond it. The thing was I had done this but like Natalie Cassidy’s calorie intake it just went higher and higher. My limit was £70 (and not a penny more) but then someone bid £75 and suddenly my limit was £75 (and not a penny more) but then someone bid £80 and I couldn’t stop myself. I told her the good news that I’d found Justin so it would be no trouble for him to collect this sofa since it was only eight miles from the other two.
I rang Justin the next day and told him about the third sofa. He, who didn’t even know me, said I was clearly finding Ebay a little addictive and wondered if there was some health reason why I needed to sit down so much. I gave him the seller’s details and contacted the seller with Justin’s details. He rang later; “That woman with the sofas lived on the fourth floor and there was no lift”. “No! Really?”. He didn’t think he’d be able to come up that afternoon but would be over with all three sofas the next day, Sunday. He called on Sunday to tell me he’d collected the third sofa but wouldn’t be with us until after eight o’clock. Since we had plans to go out I wasn’t pleased by this. I thought about leaving a key somewhere or asking Brian to let Justin put the sofas in the garage but decided that I’d just stay in and wait for him. Justin rang again at five having realised that travelling from London to Leamington Spa and then to another job in Weston-super-Mare that evening was insane. He’d be with us in the morning. So we went out after all. At 8.40am he and his colleague, Adam, appeared with their green recycled biodiesel van, their wild surfer dude hair and our sofas. The sofas looked great. My “Congratulations, you’re a bidding genius” happiness returned. Martin saw us carry them into the house and may, possibly, have wondered why we were buying furniture when we don't have carpet or many working lights or heating. Not an unreasonable thought.
The kids from Grange Hill warned you to ‘Just say No’ to drugs but no one warns you about Ebay. It’s more addictive than heroin and a damned site more expensive. I haven’t looked at the website since my last successful bid but it’s tempting. I've spent more on sofas than Marianna made from selling clothing, bags and shoes made by designers I've never heard of. That wasn't the plan. However, I notice that Ebay now make recommendations based on previous purchases. I may have another look but only with a responsible, supervising adult present.
More recently, Marianna has been gathering together clothes, shoes and bags which she no longer wants and we had begun listing them and selling them on Ebay with some success. Still selling and not buying.
Then, a few weeks ago, we went into a bar in Kenilworth. The décor was amazing. Or rather, the chairs and sofas and tables and sideboards were wonderful. It was like being on a ‘60’s film set or inside a Matt Monro song. Characteristically, Marianna asked one of the staff where they sourced all of the furniture and the answer was Ebay. The bar’s owners bought the chairs, reupholstered them and revitalised the woodwork and put them in the bar looking as good as the day they were made fifty years previously. So, a few hours later we were searching on Ebay for retro furniture. Our first purchase was a glass topped G-plan coffee table for £26. After seeing clients in Birmingham I drove to Walsall and collected the table from a very lovely man, who was a full-time Ebayer. I met him at his home and then we walked the 150 yards to his mother’s home where he kept his stock. She seemed to be in very poor health and I’m not sure if it counts as abuse that your son fills your house with items he bought for a pound in a charity shop and is selling for many times more on Ebay.
Next, was a chair which Marianna was particularly keen on. It looked like the sort of swivelling office chair that Reggie Perrin’s boss would sit in. The seller was fairly charmless; “I’ve had this chair for forty years. It’s in my garage and is in the way. Ron” is what it said on his Ebay listing. We noticed that he only lived ten miles from my parents so I did have a little plan for how it might be collected. We were the lucky winners for this quality item for a mere £1.02. Surely, this could only be a bargain. Within 24 hours he contacted me saying “Are you going to collect this chair or do I need to re-list it?”. He was operating at a level of social skills I professionally refer to as 'Greggs employee'. Marianna spoke to my dad to ask how he would feel about collecting it but it turned out that he was collecting a brand new car that day and wasn’t sure if wrestling a chair into it was quite how he wanted to christen this new purchase. After a few emails to Ron to ascertain the chair’s dimensions dad finally agreed to go and get it. He arrived at this house in the middle of the fens to find the chair in the driveway surrounded by four rather aggressive dogs (Have you seen Deliverance?) but it turned out that Ron was perfectly pleasant and even lifted the chair into the car. Once home dad sent me a text saying that it may have been overvalued.... by a pound.
Then, on our way to Bath on the 19th we happened upon an antique warehouse which had lots of proper antiques for obscene amounts of money that were of no interest to me but there were two 1950’s Wassily Marcel Breuer chairs. Cooler than a close up of Steve McQueen but far from cheap at £365 each. Marianna made a note of the name and a few days later looked them up on Ebay. There was another pair, already with a number of bids, at £100 each and yet to reach their reserve. The auction ended at £220 and the reserve still wasn’t met. I thought about contacting the seller to see what they might accept but we noticed that there was another pair of chairs ending the next morning with a starting price of £89 for the pair. The next day I entered my first bid of £89 and a few minutes later the auction ended without another bid being made. Something I could have bought for £715 purchased for £89. That’s the beauty of Ebay. The chairs were in York so five days later, after seeing a client in Hull, I headed north to collect them. The sellers turned out to be a firm of architects. I said hello and shook hands with Matt, my contact, took the first chair and put it next to the car and returned for the second. “I thought you’d have a bigger car or a van. Will you be able to take both of them?”, he said. “Oh,yes, there’s nothing won’t fit into the back of a Peugeot 206” I said confidently although I’d already noticed how much bigger the chairs looked next to the car than they had in the antiques warehouse. As I left I just caught Matt’s colleague say “This will be interesting to watch” and felt a little bit of pressure mounting. After some seconds looking at the chairs and the space inside the car I tried various ways of putting them and had it figured out on only the third combination. There was no way I was going to carry one of them back into their offices and admit defeat. I’d have put one on the roof and pushed the car or eaten one before I did that.
When I logged onto our Ebay account on the day of my successful £89 bid I noticed that Marianna was ‘watching’ several sofas from the fifties, sixties and seventies. They all looked thoroughly lovely, well maintained and completely of their time. The auction for two two-seater sofas of orangey, cubist, stainless steel loveliness was ending in only a matter of hours. Marianna was at a meeting. I sent her a text; “Would you like me to bid on these sofas?”. An hour or so passed and there was no reply. I sent another text; “The auction closes in 30 minutes. Shall we bid?”. No reply. Ten minutes later I called her mobile but she didn’t reply and I left an anxious message. And then I began bidding. The starting price was £100 which at £12.50 per buttock seemed very reasonable. There was an intense bidding war in increments of two pounds with two others but I won for £122. I was very pleased with myself although, obviously, I’d never have parted with that amount had this been a real auction. It felt like playing a video game. Marianna was less pleased when she returned home. She explained that ‘watching’ items was like pointing out something in a shop window as you walked past. It meant that you liked it or found it interesting and perhaps wanted to show it to your other half. It didn’t mean you were going to rush into the store and write a blank cheque for it. I hung my head. She also wondered how I planned to get two two-seater sofas from central London to the midlands. My shoulders dropped. I felt that she was raining on my parade (but had a point. A very good one).
The next morning I rang around eleven courier companies and men with vans to get prices for the collection. None were less than the amount I’d paid for the sofas. Suddenly they looked a lot less bargain-like. How could even this have become stressful? Where was the excitement of “Congratulations, you’ve won this item” now? I finally found ‘Green man with van’ (Justin) who would do the job in an environmentally sound way for less than the price of the sofas. I gave the sellers details to him and his details to the seller (ignoring the “Did you tell him I’m on the fourth floor?” comment) and returned to work and earning money to pay for our expanding furniture collection. During the late evening I received a text from Marianna; “I’m still working in the library. You need to start bidding if you want that other sofa”. We hadn’t discussed this but if that’s not carte blanche I don’t know what is. I feel a little too ashamed to tell you how much I finally won this item for but it was 21 bids more than the £50 starting price. When I won I didn’t feel the excitement of the day before it was more like dread; “Oh shit, what have I done?”. Marianna came home an hour or so later and in the midst of discussing what we’d done that day she asked; “How much did that sofa sell for?”. I told her. “How much was your final bid?”. I told her and she quickly noticed how similar these figures were. She explained that I needed to set myself a limit and then not go beyond it. The thing was I had done this but like Natalie Cassidy’s calorie intake it just went higher and higher. My limit was £70 (and not a penny more) but then someone bid £75 and suddenly my limit was £75 (and not a penny more) but then someone bid £80 and I couldn’t stop myself. I told her the good news that I’d found Justin so it would be no trouble for him to collect this sofa since it was only eight miles from the other two.
I rang Justin the next day and told him about the third sofa. He, who didn’t even know me, said I was clearly finding Ebay a little addictive and wondered if there was some health reason why I needed to sit down so much. I gave him the seller’s details and contacted the seller with Justin’s details. He rang later; “That woman with the sofas lived on the fourth floor and there was no lift”. “No! Really?”. He didn’t think he’d be able to come up that afternoon but would be over with all three sofas the next day, Sunday. He called on Sunday to tell me he’d collected the third sofa but wouldn’t be with us until after eight o’clock. Since we had plans to go out I wasn’t pleased by this. I thought about leaving a key somewhere or asking Brian to let Justin put the sofas in the garage but decided that I’d just stay in and wait for him. Justin rang again at five having realised that travelling from London to Leamington Spa and then to another job in Weston-super-Mare that evening was insane. He’d be with us in the morning. So we went out after all. At 8.40am he and his colleague, Adam, appeared with their green recycled biodiesel van, their wild surfer dude hair and our sofas. The sofas looked great. My “Congratulations, you’re a bidding genius” happiness returned. Martin saw us carry them into the house and may, possibly, have wondered why we were buying furniture when we don't have carpet or many working lights or heating. Not an unreasonable thought.
The kids from Grange Hill warned you to ‘Just say No’ to drugs but no one warns you about Ebay. It’s more addictive than heroin and a damned site more expensive. I haven’t looked at the website since my last successful bid but it’s tempting. I've spent more on sofas than Marianna made from selling clothing, bags and shoes made by designers I've never heard of. That wasn't the plan. However, I notice that Ebay now make recommendations based on previous purchases. I may have another look but only with a responsible, supervising adult present.
Orangey
These poor chairs had been surrounded by architects for decades. I rescued them and gave them a good home.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Simply Shady
On the sixteenth Martinfinally came over to look at the plans. I spend my life interviewing people and discussing in detail the manner in which they raped or murdered someone so it’s rare for me to classify a conversation as awkward but this one truly was. Even though he kept smiling and making positive noises about how great it would look our plans clearly disappointed him. He said that it was a bigger project than they had hoped and we would remove the view from their landing window, daylight from the kitchen and the morning sunshine from their patio. Despite this he said we should aim to have the house as we wanted it. I just didn’t want that to be achieved at their expense. As an act of appeasement we said that we’d pay for an extra window in their pitched kitchen roof to allow the maximum light in. I felt increasingly lost for words and apologetic. He asked to borrow the plans so he could get a better grasp of what we planned and explain it to Anne. He’d return them the next day. When he left I stood in the garden feeling thoroughly crestfallen and looked at where our new pitched roof would be and where their patio was and for the first time really grasped how much it would impact on them. He actually returned the plans fourteen days later, all smiles and saying he’d forgotten he still had them. Nothing else was said so maybe there isn’t an objection to our plans on the way.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Going Underground
In recent weeks we have removed ivy from the outside of the house and last week pulled it down from the interior wall and ceiling. The missing part of the process was the area between the inside ivy and the outisde ivy and this was beneath the dining room floorboards. It was quite easy to remove the boards since a small area had had been removed some decades earlier to install our largely ineffective central heating system. There was a very brief discussion about which one of us would squeeze into this tiny space. It was me. It wasn't at all roomy down there for someone of over six foot but by lying on my stomach and crawling along I got to the corner of the house and was able to pull up the remaining ivy and its roots and then spray weedkiller where it had been in case any roots were in hiding. Reversing myself out of the hole was surprisingly easy since once i'd entered this rather small space I did wonder how i'd get out. Perhaps that was why i was sweating like a paedophile in a playground when i was back on the right side of the floorboards. 
I thought we got to Narnia through the back of a wardrobe?
Under floor gardening
And he was never seen again
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
Beasts of Burden
Am I allowed to moan? Is that allowed when you’ve invited into your life the situation you find yourself in? Living in a derelict house has become quite trying. Life only seems to consist of paid work, working on destroying the house, feeling exhausted and sleeping. Apart from the whole children/grandchildren confusion you have to admire Josef Fritzl’s time management and DIY skills to build an entire apartment beneath his house.
On Tuesday the car began making a noise like a rattling bag of marbles. I asked Martin if he knew of a good garage/mechanic and he recommended a cousin of Anne’s. This is a different cousin to the builder they previously recommended. By Friday the sound coming from the car was more like it was dragging a bicycle (and its rider) behind it. I delivered it to the garage on Friday and then walked to Warwick train station and got a taxi home. I spoke to the cousin on the phone a few times during the week and he didn’t ever seem quite sure if it was a gearbox or clutch problem. He replaced both I think because he didn’t ever decide which one it was. Marianna collected it on Thursday and handed over a cheque for £1249. It now drives as if the cyclist is still hanging on to the bumper only making less noise. We could cope with being carless perfectly well if we’d known that we would be but we’d made plans requiring a car so being carless for six days was frustrating. And my lap top is increasingly temperamental. As is my mobile phone. And I never know where anything is in the house. And I wasn’t looking forward to my week away assessing a teenage rapist, a child porn downloader, an animal molester and a stalker and after working all weekend by Sunday night I was as feeling as irrationally irate as the average Daily Mail reader.
We spent the weekend finishing the demolition of the front bathroom, moving our unpacked boxes into it and the front bedroom and combining both mine and Marianna’s work spaces into the front bedroom. That may be tricky in the future since she maintains that it’s impossible to work alongside me, what with my heavy handed typing style, talking and singing to myself and listening to music on headphones at a volume that is amplified through my skull into other rooms. She’s so unreasonable.
We’ve dismantled the shower apart from one tiled wall where the plumbing was. While I was working away this week Marianna heard a sound at 2am which, after a tour of the house for an intruder, she found to be tiles falling off the shower wall. Like a self-cleaning oven ours has become a self-dismantling house. Our house certainly isn’t self-cleaning though. With all the dismantling it gets dirtier and dirtier. It wouldn’t surprise me one day to find Kim and Aggie at the door, ready to burst into action.
We then emptied the dining room, taking out one of Basil’s cabinets and putting it into the garage for storage and destroying the other and putting it into the skip and also putting his MFI 1973 drinks cabinet into the skip. Then we pulled up the carpet and the usual two layers of underlay. The more we remove the colder the house will become. My clothes had been in the dining room but they’re now split between the hallway, our bedroom and the sitting room. There’ll be lots of opportunities for dawdling pedestrians to see me semi-naked rushing around the house putting an outfit together. When the cabinet was removed we had access to the space between the two areas where ivy had come into the house. Of course, behind the wallpaper there was ivy joining those two areas together. It did appear to be dead though.
I prefer to avoid conversations with our neighbours. They’re always the same.
Them: How are you?
Me: Fine (stressed and tired and surrounded by chaos)
Them: How’s the house?
Me: Oh, getting there (but by the time it’s finished Gary Glitter’s last sexual conquest will be eighteen)
We did see Anne on Sunday afternoon and she asked about the house and the car. She was being lovely and friendly as usual and making offers of help. We mentioned that we’d visit them next weekend to show them the plans for the house and while she kept making noises about how it would all be fine a degree of rigor mortis appeared on her face. That’ll be a meeting to look forward to.
On Tuesday the car began making a noise like a rattling bag of marbles. I asked Martin if he knew of a good garage/mechanic and he recommended a cousin of Anne’s. This is a different cousin to the builder they previously recommended. By Friday the sound coming from the car was more like it was dragging a bicycle (and its rider) behind it. I delivered it to the garage on Friday and then walked to Warwick train station and got a taxi home. I spoke to the cousin on the phone a few times during the week and he didn’t ever seem quite sure if it was a gearbox or clutch problem. He replaced both I think because he didn’t ever decide which one it was. Marianna collected it on Thursday and handed over a cheque for £1249. It now drives as if the cyclist is still hanging on to the bumper only making less noise. We could cope with being carless perfectly well if we’d known that we would be but we’d made plans requiring a car so being carless for six days was frustrating. And my lap top is increasingly temperamental. As is my mobile phone. And I never know where anything is in the house. And I wasn’t looking forward to my week away assessing a teenage rapist, a child porn downloader, an animal molester and a stalker and after working all weekend by Sunday night I was as feeling as irrationally irate as the average Daily Mail reader.
We spent the weekend finishing the demolition of the front bathroom, moving our unpacked boxes into it and the front bedroom and combining both mine and Marianna’s work spaces into the front bedroom. That may be tricky in the future since she maintains that it’s impossible to work alongside me, what with my heavy handed typing style, talking and singing to myself and listening to music on headphones at a volume that is amplified through my skull into other rooms. She’s so unreasonable.
We’ve dismantled the shower apart from one tiled wall where the plumbing was. While I was working away this week Marianna heard a sound at 2am which, after a tour of the house for an intruder, she found to be tiles falling off the shower wall. Like a self-cleaning oven ours has become a self-dismantling house. Our house certainly isn’t self-cleaning though. With all the dismantling it gets dirtier and dirtier. It wouldn’t surprise me one day to find Kim and Aggie at the door, ready to burst into action.
We then emptied the dining room, taking out one of Basil’s cabinets and putting it into the garage for storage and destroying the other and putting it into the skip and also putting his MFI 1973 drinks cabinet into the skip. Then we pulled up the carpet and the usual two layers of underlay. The more we remove the colder the house will become. My clothes had been in the dining room but they’re now split between the hallway, our bedroom and the sitting room. There’ll be lots of opportunities for dawdling pedestrians to see me semi-naked rushing around the house putting an outfit together. When the cabinet was removed we had access to the space between the two areas where ivy had come into the house. Of course, behind the wallpaper there was ivy joining those two areas together. It did appear to be dead though.
I prefer to avoid conversations with our neighbours. They’re always the same.
Them: How are you?
Me: Fine (stressed and tired and surrounded by chaos)
Them: How’s the house?
Me: Oh, getting there (but by the time it’s finished Gary Glitter’s last sexual conquest will be eighteen)
We did see Anne on Sunday afternoon and she asked about the house and the car. She was being lovely and friendly as usual and making offers of help. We mentioned that we’d visit them next weekend to show them the plans for the house and while she kept making noises about how it would all be fine a degree of rigor mortis appeared on her face. That’ll be a meeting to look forward to.
Dead interior ivy
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