GOLDEN TOUCH!

There is supposed to be a photo' here of a big pile of treasure - but it wouldn't upload or download or whatever it's supposed to do..... (oh well, back to the drawing board).


Anyway, as witnessed in the very first posting on AU, my horror and anxiety when faced with a vending machine is almost phobic(!). But I wouldn't mind having a go at this one!!

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/money/investment/article6521486.ece

RAG 'N BONE!

This post was inspired by 'Coffee Helps'. A fascinating blog written by an Irish lass, depicting her frustrating and often comical struggle for 'survival' (and understanding!) in the S. Korean teaching world.

It was whilst reading Hail's latest South Korean adventure (i.e., predicament!) on Coffee Helps this morning, that I was jolted back in time, to the noisy street vendors of long ago British childhood.

Where did he go to? That deliciously scary, scruffy looking fellow - the Rag 'n Bone man! Attired in miss-matched, ill fitting, worn out clothes and (most confusing of all to little girl me) a pair of grey woollen gloves, with the fingers cut off (?!) (What was that all about...?).
Stopping at regular intervals he would cup his weirdly gloved hands to his mouth and yell his time worn mantra:

"Rag 'n Bone! Rag 'n Bone!"

His gigantic old cart-horse, with dinner plate sized hairy hooves, would be pulling a cart filled high with old clothes and metal; and if you were lucky enough, your 'Mam' would give you a broken clock or a few old garments to dispose of, along with a carrot or slice of bread for the horse - and the 'Rag 'n Bone' man would as often as not, give you a tiny goldfish in return! Sadly though, these poor little creatures would almost always die within a week or two. So after about the fourth 'fish burial', complete with dandelion wreath and 'cross' made out of clothes pegs and usual floods of childish tears - Mam's word was law. 'No more goldfish!'

But the comfort of sweetmeats was never far away! I refer of course to that bain of parental life; the 'Ice Cream' van!
What a "*!#@^!" nuisance that was! (And I speak from adult experience too, since it was still around after I grew up and had my own first child). At least four times a day during the Summer months, along our street he would cruise; chiming his wares and sending kids mad with disappointment (and tantrums) if Mam said 'No'! Which was often.

Best of all though, was that one occasion when the 'Gypsies' (can I still say that?) and their ponies came a-calling! Twopence, for a ride down the street; where you would then be yanked off and another child dumped on - and you had to walk back. But who cared! You'd dared to ride a 'Gypsy Pony' in front of everyone. However..... on second thoughts....
Up until this point, as I relive the ride, I had always thought I'd enjoyed it.... I remember being allowed a 'go', because I was three years old and considered big enough to stay on - but even as I think about it, I am wriggling on my stool! The discomfort of tiny legs stretched wide across the pony's neck, small hands clutching in desperation to a flying mane and the actual pain in my rear as the pony's owner (a laughing young woman with gold earrings) thwacked the animal on its rump, making it break into a trot and bumping me mercilessly up and down. Ow! Ow! Ow! And come to think of it, as memory clears, I now remember feeling great panic and being lifted off after just a few trots. Huh! Have never wanted to ride any kind of Equine since - and that's probably why.

And of course, there was the good old Coal Man...!

"Sack-a-coal! Sack-a-coal!"

Trudging from house-to-house with his horse drawn cart loaded with heavy, grimy sacks, which he would lift onto his back and carry up the garden paths to dump into the coal 'holes' or sheds. So delightfully filthy, with his teeth shining white through all the black dust. We kids loved him and Grandad loved his horse, sending us regularly out with bucket and spade to collect manure for the roses! (2008 post).

But on final reflection, perhaps the best Street Vendor of all - was the Indian Peddler. No noisy shouting; no pain; no dead animals; just a gentle tap on the door and there he would be - resplendent in suit and tie and all topped off with a wondrously mystic silk turban. Whilst at his feet, a huge, battered old suitcase would be opened invitingly, to display a myriad of Eastern treasures!
Oh what wonders that suitcase contained (!) and Mam could rarely resist buying just a little something. A brightly coloured, jewelled butterfly hair slide for me and/or some trimming ribbon or nylons for herself.

All things considered, I do prefer the modernity and labour saving devices of contemporary life - but if it ever came to a competition between today's Vending Machines and the Street Vendors of yesteryear - I know which I would vote for! And it would not be the kind that swallow your money and don't give change and then try to snap your hand off whilst you attempt to retrieve your wares from behind a too tightly sprung hatchway door or window!
Well at least they are not noisy, I hear you say.

All right then. What about those street corner Yobs on motorbikes and mopeds, roaring past the house at midnight...grrr...!

P.S. I forgot to mention the Milkman!

.....Empty bottles on the front doorstep, along with an assortment of equally empty jam jars, intended to cover the tops of the full bottles and protect the cream topping from the tom-tits!! Happy days!
(Do they still have door-to-door milkmen in Britain? I've been gone so long..............).

TICKET TO RIDE

Skulking behind a pillar, in the main hall of Central Station, is not something I normally do - but this was a matter of: ‘Do it now or pay surcharge on train tickets for the rest of your miserable life’. So I had no choice.

The object of my scrutiny mocked me from just a little way off and how I loathed it. That latest in train station technology and bane of my life - the large, ugly, blue and yellow, ticket vending machine! They are always in demand. So if you are not as quick thinking as you used to be, you can forget about learning how to use them. At least not without causing a riot in the queue. I have tried a few times but always chickened out at the hissing and booing stage, which in my case is just after I have located my specs and put them on. Hence the skulking - to try and see how other folk work the bl*ody things!

Unfortunately two nearby security guards were pretending not to watch me, so I faked a look at the wristwatch I’d forgotten to put on and wandered off to buy my ticket at a ticket hatch. The few hatches still open these days are used mainly by tourists - and doddering old wretches like me. Not only that, but the hatch people charge an extra 50cents a ticket (!) although their disapproving sniffs are free.

It might have gone on like that forever, had I not needed to travel out of the city one day via a small, local train station I had not used before. It was a revelation! Two ticket vending machines outside the station door and nobody else in sight... With thudding heart I donned my specs – and took my first long look at the enemy.

Ugh! Has anybody realized how nasty those screens are? This one was a filthy mess of smudged fingerprints and spit and probably teeming with E. coli or worse. The other machine was only slightly better, so I found a stick on the ground to touch it with. Despite visions of the plague and many false starts, I took my time and grew more and more cocky, till at last with a triumphant flourish the deed was done!

The only jarring note was that after all the adrenalin and perspiration, no ticket inspector came aboard the train (either way) to clip my self-made ticket…. But hey, what the heck - there's another technology notch on my broomstick and I can finally spurn those blue and yellow abominations for what they really are – mindless crud!

VENDING MACHINES AND OTHER GREMLINS

There I was then. An elderly lady, shuffling forward in acute embarrassment in a supermarket queue, with a large box of condoms in my hands!
Try as I might to hide the object, there was no way it would fit into my handbag or coat pocket, so I pretended not to notice it.
Lord... why do things like this always happen to me? I only went in for a bus card!
There were just two people in front of me, a mother and her small fed up son.
'Wannago!' He yelled and kicked backwards, narrowly missing my shins.
Disapproving eyes were turned upon him and I was grateful for the distraction but his flustered parent soon yanked him away and it was suddenly my turn.
'Er...er...'
I try again. 'Err..errr'. This was no good.
It was happening again. Whenever I am nervous, I can't get the Dutch words into the right order - which is back-to-front to English. My brain was synapsing into overdrive, while the sixteen-year-old, gum-chewing cashier, stared through me in bored silence. I could read her thoughts.
'Goh, not another demented old lady searching for the lav'...'
Sighing deeply and with a quasi-nonchalant air, I put the huge box of condoms on the counter.
The girl swallowed her gum.
'Er, I was trying to buy a bus card from the vending machine by the doors and accidentally pressed the wrong code in,' I explained.
The girl's body language was wary and her gaze unblinking but she didn't answer and I fought off frustration.
Oh bother! Had I said it right? Was she confused by my English accent? I was about to start again when she suddenly gave voice:
'Hans! Bring the key!'
An instant lull in the supermarket buzz led to necks straining and heads bobbing, as other customers sought to locate the reason for the hold up. They looked at the girl; at me; at the box on the counter - which to my despairing eyes appeared to have doubled in size.
Teenage girls giggled and young boys smirked, while two middle-aged women observed my flushing face and grinned wryly.
'Heb je shance schat?' Asked one of them in the Dutch equivalent of: 'Got lucky 'ave yer luv?'
Meanwhile the girl was handing the box of condoms to the newly arrived Hans, a gangling youth, all of seventeen-years-old and whose jacket and tie indicated a position of authority.
Dithering after Hans in the direction of the vending machine, I felt the urgent need to convince him of my irreproachable character.
'I just wanted a bus card and pressed the four and the seven but the seven didn't take and so there was just the four, so then I pressed the six, because you can get bus cards with forty-six as well. But then something went wrong because the four disappeared and then there was the seven and six on the screen and apparently seventy-six is the code number for the er... the box of ...er... 'things', because they fell down into the drawer... And oh yes, I paid with a ten euro note which would have been enough for the bus card plus change - but the er... 'things' obviously cost more because I didn't get any change either.'
To give him credit, Hans did stay calm. He just ignored me. By now even more customers were noticing my plight and from their disdainful glances, I was sure that they were not convinced of my piety either. Not only was I a promiscuous old woman but judging from my stuttering word-waterfall, a promiscuous old English woman to boot! Ha!
Hans emerged at last from the depths of the vending machine with my bus card and change and looked briefly into my miserable eyes. A quick amused smile - perhaps I reminded him of his Gran - and he was gone.
Then suddenly out of the blue, a chorus of commiseration! It was all in Dutch but for once the guttural sounds were music to my red tipped ears.
'Always happens to me too,' grumbled an old man beside me.
'Yer either lose yer change or almost get yer fingers sliced off by that drawer flap thingy.'
'That's right!' A woman this time.
'Yeah, ought to be a law against them things.' Another man.
'It's always the same,' The first man again. 'Tried to get postage stamps out of that infernal contraption last week and ended up with bloody Fisherman's Friend!'
Then just as suddenly as they had appeared, these good people were gone, perhaps never to cross my path again - but leaving me feeling much better! I even felt ready to tackle the dreaded doors.
Oh those murderous, sliding doors... An electronic arrangement imbued with an errant computer system that causes the doors to snap shut on you while you are still only halfway through. Once they have extricated themselves, people often find that their bag, trolley or precious small child is still on the other side(!) Much energetic leaping up and down is then required to get the doors to open again but luckily for me, someone was already leaping. The air was blue with frustrated cries of: Joh! Hup hup! Rot deuren! (Rotten doors) and Potverdommer! (Uninterpretable). People outside were leaping too but nothing was happening and I wondered if the unsynchronized jumps were canceling each other out?
Hup! Hup! Men, women kids and a barking dog tied up near the door leaped for Holland.
'Hup Holland hup!'
Enter Hans with another key and after a bit of fiddling somewhere near the top of the doors, they slid stiffly apart, allowing the hoards to bang into each other in their efforts to get in and out without being sliced in two.
Unbelievably, I made it safely to the street and turned for home. A watery sun was smiling down and the thought of a pot of tea and a packet of chocy biccys brought renewed vigour to my step!
It was touch and go for a while there - and all very undignified - but tomorrow is another day and I am determined that it will take more than a bunch of vending machines and door gremlins to bring me down!