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ow here’s a story. Karen and and I jump in the car to go to Tideswell for the BMC apres-meeting slide-tape show, and two minutes up the road there’s a loud clanking coming from the underside of the car.
Karen and I look at each other in disbelief, both of us have had a busy and stressful day, both ready for a right royal clocking off from the old stress treadmill immediatamento. “Nooooo” says Karen in her beautiful Texan drawl. “Yup Karen. Yer car’s fucked luv.” She pulls up and we get out and the exhaust pipe is dangling in the road. “The goddamn MUFFLER’S falling off” says Karen.
“Don’t look at me Karen. I know sod all about cars.” Then this elegant gentleman in a suit crosses the road and says “Would you like some help ladies? What’s the problem?”
“The exhaust’s coming off”. I smile sheepishly, looking as weak and feeble as possible. “I think you just need to completely remove it” he says, “Would you like me to try?” and he gives the exhaust a kick with his patent leather shoes. It doesn’t budge an inch.
“This could get rid of some of my pent-up aggression at the burbling boiling cauldron of toil and trouble that is my teenage daughter” I think and say, grinning, “Here, let me” and I start kicking the shit out of this exhaust with my best shiny pink italian track shoes. The exhaust shifts a bit in a grudgingly clunky kind of way.
The gentleman looks at me with raised eyebrows then bends down to peer underneath the chassis. “Oh, the exhaust is attached. It can’t be kicked off”. I see his suit getting dirty so I say that I think we can manage, and he stands aside. I get on my back (not usually a problem of mine) and slide underneath the car. First time I have ever done this in my life. I have a quick rummage round.
“Karen. The saw” and Karen quickly produces a saw from her toolkit.
I then remove the exhaust with a hefty yet nifty sawing job, and emerge from under the chassis filthy with tattered knuckles, exhaust in hand, smirking “I love getting my hands dirty”.
The gentleman is standing there with his mouth open and Karen starts jumping up and down squealing “You did it! You did it! My hero!”
And we roar off noisily into Derbyshire.
By the time we get to the Anchor Pub it is 9.30.
We walk in and the first thing I notice is this old bloke sitting in a corner by the bar, alongside a bronze plaque which says “Norton’s Corner”. He is scruffily dressed in a dapper kind of way, with flowing grey locks of hair spilling from under an aussie leather rancher’s hat that is so worn-in and worn-out it looks as though it is a part of his anatomy.
His face is grizzled and has been weathered into dunes and valleys with experience. His small blue eyes are twinkling and gleaming in an all-seeing way. His whole demeanour smacks of “I don’t give a goddamn shit. And I know a heck of a lot more than you and I’ve seen a heck of a lot more than you.” But it is not said, this statement, by his demeanour. No, it is whispered softly, so inaudibly that only the most sensitive and finely tuned aural threads can pick up the vibration.
I clock this in one and we walk past him and into the BMC meeting room. Where we have missed the lot. We slot ourselves next to a few people at the back for a couple of minutes before realising our misfortune, then when it’s obvious it’s all over we hit the bar. I sit on a stool and order a drink. Some guy appears behind me from within the meeting room and says to his mate in a whisper “I didn’t realise that was Jude standing next to me” “Damn. Yet another Jude. I really thought it was an unusual name” I am thinking.
Karen and I get our drinks and within seconds the old guy appears at our sides as if by magic. “May I introduce myself “ he says “I am Norton. I like your hat.” (I’m wearing the usual skiers grey fleece cowboy hat with cream fake fur on top and skiing logos on the front). “Alright Norton” I say “Hey, I like your hat too. How old is that then?”
“Forty years” he says “Was nearly white when it was new, like an ivory colour. Been all over the world this hat. Seen some things. Was with me when I drove a whole herd of sheep from Southern Australia right up to the Northern Territories. No roads in them days. Just dirt.”
Well f*&k me over a hedge backwards. This guy is super, super cool. He must be 80 if he’s a day. “Bloody hell Norton” I say, “you’ve seen some action then?” “certainly have” says Norton in a low voice. “Served with the Merchant Navy. Served with the Army in Australia”. “What, Gallipoli?” I say, “Soz Norton, my history’s up the Swanee, was Gallipoli like ages ago? “Before my time” says Norton “Those Aussie boys were slaughtered. Terrible thing. Fine race, the Australians” “So were the Aboriginis whose country they stole” I say. He nods in sad agreement. “You’re right. Sad state they’re in now.”
We start talking about God, as you do, and he says “Them American Indians got it just about right. Worshipping the trees and the wind” “Spot on Norton.” I agree. (blimee, is this guy tops or what?) Anyway, after a suitable time I say I’d better talk to Karen, and he bids me farewell, says goodbye to the bar staff, and leaves the pub.
Amazing.
Meanwhile the lad who was talking about his mate Jude sits down at a table with other people coming out of the meeting and starts talking about Rocktalk. I lean over and say, “You’re not from Rocktalk are you?” (“Shit, Jude must be me” I think, “freaky” ) and he says “Yes! I’m Ian! Hi Jude!” and we proceed to have a good old banter. Cool! Then I get talking to some bloke and we’re explaining how we just missed everything and he says he did too, and then he says, “Anyway, my name’s Dave”. “Hi Dave, I’m Jude, this is Karen”. He pauses. “Dave Garnett”. AWLRIGHT!!! And then this other guy leans over and says “Hi Jude, I’m Mike.” “CHAUVI!” “the very one”. By now Karen is looking very bemused, but before long we are all having a complete gas, talking about lots of things, but not exclusively about Rocktalk or Climbing, funnily enough! Then Neil Foster saunters into the pub (his local) and chuckles to see us all, being one of the Rocktalk audience who occasionally takes the mike but should do more often IMHO, him being such a top bloke ‘n’ all.
Well the evening is great, lovely to meet everyone, and near the end I go up to the bar to get us a drink.
An attractive woman full of joie de vivre in a classy little french –looking stripey T-Shirt sitting at the bar, smiles and leans over “Do you know what happened over there earlier on?” she says “Nope, what?” I ask. “Norton came over and introduced himself. He’s been coming here years, and he very rarely goes over and speaks to people. They come and speak to him, but he doesn’t want to know. He wants to go and speak to the few people he chooses to speak to. You should be honoured.” Blimee. “Well, must be my hat! ” I laugh.
And the attractive woman full of joie de vivre, who is called Nicky, tells me all about Norton, with the chef, Bill The Grill, leaning over and chucking his thruppence ha’penny worth every few minutes.
“Norton’s been coming here years. He had his licence taken off him for drink driving, so this Dutch friend of his, Yop, made him a special bike to get around in. It’s a mountain bike with a steel trailer on the bike right ? But Yop puts a lawnmower engine in the trailer. So now Norton does three laps of the car park drunk as a lord before working out where the road is, and the boys in blue can’t do a thing. So off he goes, careering up the road, his leather hat held on by a bit of black elastic under his chin, and his grey locks flowing in the wind”
Karen and I are now the ones standing there with our mouths open in awe. “Way to gooooo” says Karen. “Cool. Far out.”
“Anyway” says Nikki, “He ended up with a story about him in the papers. Which paper was it Bill? The Sun or The News Of The World?” “The Sun” says Bill
“The Spanish Sun”.
“Anywa[...]
Karen and I look at each other in disbelief, both of us have had a busy and stressful day, both ready for a right royal clocking off from the old stress treadmill immediatamento. “Nooooo” says Karen in her beautiful Texan drawl. “Yup Karen. Yer car’s fucked luv.” She pulls up and we get out and the exhaust pipe is dangling in the road. “The goddamn MUFFLER’S falling off” says Karen.
“Don’t look at me Karen. I know sod all about cars.” Then this elegant gentleman in a suit crosses the road and says “Would you like some help ladies? What’s the problem?”
“The exhaust’s coming off”. I smile sheepishly, looking as weak and feeble as possible. “I think you just need to completely remove it” he says, “Would you like me to try?” and he gives the exhaust a kick with his patent leather shoes. It doesn’t budge an inch.
“This could get rid of some of my pent-up aggression at the burbling boiling cauldron of toil and trouble that is my teenage daughter” I think and say, grinning, “Here, let me” and I start kicking the shit out of this exhaust with my best shiny pink italian track shoes. The exhaust shifts a bit in a grudgingly clunky kind of way.
The gentleman looks at me with raised eyebrows then bends down to peer underneath the chassis. “Oh, the exhaust is attached. It can’t be kicked off”. I see his suit getting dirty so I say that I think we can manage, and he stands aside. I get on my back (not usually a problem of mine) and slide underneath the car. First time I have ever done this in my life. I have a quick rummage round.
“Karen. The saw” and Karen quickly produces a saw from her toolkit.
I then remove the exhaust with a hefty yet nifty sawing job, and emerge from under the chassis filthy with tattered knuckles, exhaust in hand, smirking “I love getting my hands dirty”.
The gentleman is standing there with his mouth open and Karen starts jumping up and down squealing “You did it! You did it! My hero!”
And we roar off noisily into Derbyshire.
By the time we get to the Anchor Pub it is 9.30.
We walk in and the first thing I notice is this old bloke sitting in a corner by the bar, alongside a bronze plaque which says “Norton’s Corner”. He is scruffily dressed in a dapper kind of way, with flowing grey locks of hair spilling from under an aussie leather rancher’s hat that is so worn-in and worn-out it looks as though it is a part of his anatomy.
His face is grizzled and has been weathered into dunes and valleys with experience. His small blue eyes are twinkling and gleaming in an all-seeing way. His whole demeanour smacks of “I don’t give a goddamn shit. And I know a heck of a lot more than you and I’ve seen a heck of a lot more than you.” But it is not said, this statement, by his demeanour. No, it is whispered softly, so inaudibly that only the most sensitive and finely tuned aural threads can pick up the vibration.
I clock this in one and we walk past him and into the BMC meeting room. Where we have missed the lot. We slot ourselves next to a few people at the back for a couple of minutes before realising our misfortune, then when it’s obvious it’s all over we hit the bar. I sit on a stool and order a drink. Some guy appears behind me from within the meeting room and says to his mate in a whisper “I didn’t realise that was Jude standing next to me” “Damn. Yet another Jude. I really thought it was an unusual name” I am thinking.
Karen and I get our drinks and within seconds the old guy appears at our sides as if by magic. “May I introduce myself “ he says “I am Norton. I like your hat.” (I’m wearing the usual skiers grey fleece cowboy hat with cream fake fur on top and skiing logos on the front). “Alright Norton” I say “Hey, I like your hat too. How old is that then?”
“Forty years” he says “Was nearly white when it was new, like an ivory colour. Been all over the world this hat. Seen some things. Was with me when I drove a whole herd of sheep from Southern Australia right up to the Northern Territories. No roads in them days. Just dirt.”
Well f*&k me over a hedge backwards. This guy is super, super cool. He must be 80 if he’s a day. “Bloody hell Norton” I say, “you’ve seen some action then?” “certainly have” says Norton in a low voice. “Served with the Merchant Navy. Served with the Army in Australia”. “What, Gallipoli?” I say, “Soz Norton, my history’s up the Swanee, was Gallipoli like ages ago? “Before my time” says Norton “Those Aussie boys were slaughtered. Terrible thing. Fine race, the Australians” “So were the Aboriginis whose country they stole” I say. He nods in sad agreement. “You’re right. Sad state they’re in now.”
We start talking about God, as you do, and he says “Them American Indians got it just about right. Worshipping the trees and the wind” “Spot on Norton.” I agree. (blimee, is this guy tops or what?) Anyway, after a suitable time I say I’d better talk to Karen, and he bids me farewell, says goodbye to the bar staff, and leaves the pub.
Amazing.
Meanwhile the lad who was talking about his mate Jude sits down at a table with other people coming out of the meeting and starts talking about Rocktalk. I lean over and say, “You’re not from Rocktalk are you?” (“Shit, Jude must be me” I think, “freaky” ) and he says “Yes! I’m Ian! Hi Jude!” and we proceed to have a good old banter. Cool! Then I get talking to some bloke and we’re explaining how we just missed everything and he says he did too, and then he says, “Anyway, my name’s Dave”. “Hi Dave, I’m Jude, this is Karen”. He pauses. “Dave Garnett”. AWLRIGHT!!! And then this other guy leans over and says “Hi Jude, I’m Mike.” “CHAUVI!” “the very one”. By now Karen is looking very bemused, but before long we are all having a complete gas, talking about lots of things, but not exclusively about Rocktalk or Climbing, funnily enough! Then Neil Foster saunters into the pub (his local) and chuckles to see us all, being one of the Rocktalk audience who occasionally takes the mike but should do more often IMHO, him being such a top bloke ‘n’ all.
Well the evening is great, lovely to meet everyone, and near the end I go up to the bar to get us a drink.
An attractive woman full of joie de vivre in a classy little french –looking stripey T-Shirt sitting at the bar, smiles and leans over “Do you know what happened over there earlier on?” she says “Nope, what?” I ask. “Norton came over and introduced himself. He’s been coming here years, and he very rarely goes over and speaks to people. They come and speak to him, but he doesn’t want to know. He wants to go and speak to the few people he chooses to speak to. You should be honoured.” Blimee. “Well, must be my hat! ” I laugh.
And the attractive woman full of joie de vivre, who is called Nicky, tells me all about Norton, with the chef, Bill The Grill, leaning over and chucking his thruppence ha’penny worth every few minutes.
“Norton’s been coming here years. He had his licence taken off him for drink driving, so this Dutch friend of his, Yop, made him a special bike to get around in. It’s a mountain bike with a steel trailer on the bike right ? But Yop puts a lawnmower engine in the trailer. So now Norton does three laps of the car park drunk as a lord before working out where the road is, and the boys in blue can’t do a thing. So off he goes, careering up the road, his leather hat held on by a bit of black elastic under his chin, and his grey locks flowing in the wind”
Karen and I are now the ones standing there with our mouths open in awe. “Way to gooooo” says Karen. “Cool. Far out.”
“Anyway” says Nikki, “He ended up with a story about him in the papers. Which paper was it Bill? The Sun or The News Of The World?” “The Sun” says Bill
“The Spanish Sun”.
“Anywa[...]
“Anyway, everyone loves him round here, but this couple came into the pub once, right pair of toffs, and they walk straight over to Norton and the woman says “Are you in fancy dress for the carnival you queer little man? Where is Yarm “
“Yarm?” I ask. “Eyam” explains Nicki.
“So Norton points at the door without a muscle in his face moving, and says “It’s out there”. And they can’t wait to get out of the door, shown up completely by Norton. He does dry-stone walling you know. He’s got a mate called Black Bob.”
Bill The Grill leans over and says “My mates from Stockport United FC call him “Green Fields”. Every time I see them. “How’s that Green Fields then?” they ask. They love ‘im”
“Anyway” says Nikki, who’s parents used to run The Anchor “We’re having a party here tomorrow if you fancy coming, Norton’ll be here”
“We’d love to” I say “But we’re booked up. Drat. We’ll be back though.”
At this point Neil Foster gives up the hope of my ever remembering the pint I bought him and comes over and fetches it myself. “Sorry Niel. Gabbing”
The Anchor Inn is the furthest inland pub named The Anchor in Britain. All the ex-landlords still drink there. It’s the best pub I’ve been to for yonks. Top night out!
and please, please, this is not a thread really. It doesn't require streams of abuse in reply. Go on a climbing thread. I just wanted to share a top night out with the people in here who might enjoy reading it.
In reply to jude calvert-toulmin:
Great story Jude. I especially liked the "grey fleece cowboy hat with cream fake fur on top and skiing logos on the front" bit.
Reading it makes me envious of people being involved in an actual climbing community, outside of cyberspace.
Location, location, location.
Cheers
R
Great story Jude. I especially liked the "grey fleece cowboy hat with cream fake fur on top and skiing logos on the front" bit.
Reading it makes me envious of people being involved in an actual climbing community, outside of cyberspace.
Location, location, location.
Cheers
R
In reply to jude calvert-toulmin:
Please mister Zap man, there is no relevance to climbing here. Henceforth i shall not bother reading this thread or look see if anyone else does. I am upset with myself for even reading this, let alone posting this. Damn, where's that undo button gone.....
Please mister Zap man, there is no relevance to climbing here. Henceforth i shall not bother reading this thread or look see if anyone else does. I am upset with myself for even reading this, let alone posting this. Damn, where's that undo button gone.....
In reply to jude calvert-toulmin: You forgot the highly comic moment when you finally had the joke (about chauvi's name)explained to you!
In reply to willyb: As usual JCT requires to hear the sound of her own voice. I only scanned it to see if was worth while. .5 sec later answer no.
Set phasers to kill.
Set phasers to kill.
In reply to Tom O:
It does say Entertainment only in the title so I think we can forgive her. Maybe phazers set to stun instead..
D'oh
I wasn't going to read this 'cos it's not climbing related.
It does say Entertainment only in the title so I think we can forgive her. Maybe phazers set to stun instead..
D'oh
I wasn't going to read this 'cos it's not climbing related.
In reply to jude calvert-toulmin:
This sounds like a story thread.
One summers evening in the early nineties, Myself and four or five mates decided we would head out to the Lakes for the weekend. We opted for Stickle Tarn below Pavey Ark, because its really easy to get to, there is loads of good camping ground, and the climbing isn't bad either!
We got up there late evening - and although still just about light, we couldn't really make out anything other than shapes. Out came the beer, the smokes and the stereo and the festivities began.
About two hours later when things were beginning to get a little messy we heard shouts from the other side of the tarn.
"Bugger," we thought. "That's the last thing we need, bloody campers telling us to be quiet this far away from civilisation."
Still, we turned down Jimmy Page, and settled down into a quiet chat for a while when we heard another shout.
"Oy," came floating across the water.
"What," we cried in return. (a bit peeved that despite quietening down we were still upsetting people).
"We said turn the bloody thing up," someone shouted at the top of their voices.
Ha haaa, Jimmy was back on - this time at full volume - and the party goers on the other side of the tarn proceeded to entertain us with an amateur light show using head torches, bivvy bags and matches.
Next day we didn't see them, but had a brilliant day climbing on Pavey ark and swimming in the Tarn....
happy days
This sounds like a story thread.
One summers evening in the early nineties, Myself and four or five mates decided we would head out to the Lakes for the weekend. We opted for Stickle Tarn below Pavey Ark, because its really easy to get to, there is loads of good camping ground, and the climbing isn't bad either!
We got up there late evening - and although still just about light, we couldn't really make out anything other than shapes. Out came the beer, the smokes and the stereo and the festivities began.
About two hours later when things were beginning to get a little messy we heard shouts from the other side of the tarn.
"Bugger," we thought. "That's the last thing we need, bloody campers telling us to be quiet this far away from civilisation."
Still, we turned down Jimmy Page, and settled down into a quiet chat for a while when we heard another shout.
"Oy," came floating across the water.
"What," we cried in return. (a bit peeved that despite quietening down we were still upsetting people).
"We said turn the bloody thing up," someone shouted at the top of their voices.
Ha haaa, Jimmy was back on - this time at full volume - and the party goers on the other side of the tarn proceeded to entertain us with an amateur light show using head torches, bivvy bags and matches.
Next day we didn't see them, but had a brilliant day climbing on Pavey ark and swimming in the Tarn....
happy days
Somebody starts a thread saying "entertainment only."
Somebody else reads this thread entitled "entertainment only" and then posts "this thread has nothing to do with climbing."
And then someone else does the same thing less than 10 minutes later.
Then they talk to each other about how this thread isn't about climbing.
This all keeps this gossipy thread at the top of the list, cluttering up all the "proper" climbing threads.
For once, I can think of no comment, sane or otherwise.
Somebody else reads this thread entitled "entertainment only" and then posts "this thread has nothing to do with climbing."
And then someone else does the same thing less than 10 minutes later.
Then they talk to each other about how this thread isn't about climbing.
This all keeps this gossipy thread at the top of the list, cluttering up all the "proper" climbing threads.
For once, I can think of no comment, sane or otherwise.
In reply to willyb:
"That's entertainment."
Respect due for that answer, willyb.
Respect.
"That's entertainment."
Respect due for that answer, willyb.
Respect.
In reply to jude calvert-toulmin:
Sorry, sorry....but this is the last one I promise
A work colleague came in today with her arm in a sling.
"What happened to you," I asked.
"Dislocated shoulder," she replied.
"How'd that happen," said I.
"My cat did it," she said without flinching.
Apparently she was holding her cat when it got frightened and bolted. The force from it dislocated said shoulder.
LOL - images of a ninja cat wandering around wearing a bandana and carrying a pair of nunchaka
Sorry, sorry....but this is the last one I promise
A work colleague came in today with her arm in a sling.
"What happened to you," I asked.
"Dislocated shoulder," she replied.
"How'd that happen," said I.
"My cat did it," she said without flinching.
Apparently she was holding her cat when it got frightened and bolted. The force from it dislocated said shoulder.
LOL - images of a ninja cat wandering around wearing a bandana and carrying a pair of nunchaka
In reply to Daver:
Two mid afternoon corkers there Daver, good effort.
Sure the cat wasn't that Panther from North Lees campsite.
Two mid afternoon corkers there Daver, good effort.
Sure the cat wasn't that Panther from North Lees campsite.
In reply to Ian: er er er. i was trying to forget the way i totally blew any notion that i might be cool in front of everyone and that i unveiled the true contents of my brain - fluff. go on ian, you can tell them. what is chauvi's name? doh!
In reply to jude calvert-toulmin: Too late! See the Climbing Quips thread.
a story:
When I was a student, I shared a flat with some other students. Two bedrooms, four students, so I shared a room with Dave Fisher.
(Dave, if you read this, give us an e-mail and tell me how you are doing).
Dave was a hard-core climber. For example., the rest of us were in the living room one evening and heard a very loud thump, then a groan. We asked “What happened?” Dave answered “I fell off the ceiling.”
It turns out he was trying to traverse round the hallway on the door lintels. I had never come across such behaviour before. And he was forever doing one-handed pull-ups.
So there is the climbing connection.
Anyway, back to the story.
Dave and I repeatedly re-arranged our room. We kept pushing our beds further towards the wall to make more floor space for our clothes.
Eventually, we ended up with beds against opposite walls of the room. And Dave’s bed was next to a wall-mounted 2-bar electric fire (remember them?).
One morning Dave woke me with a cry of “My bed’s on fire! My bed’s on fire!”
I opened an eye and looked at the clock. It was five past seven. I said “Its too early. Wake me later.” And I turned over and went back to sleep.
Later that morning, after I got up at 8 and joined the rest of the guys for breakfast, I completely failed to understand why Dave was cross with me.
Then I found out he had somehow knocked the switch, turned the fire on, and had burnt a hole in his down jacket (it was a cold flat, and he wanted the extra insulation). Well, I thought his anger at me was just displaced rage at his own stupidity.
Only now do I realise what a callous brute I was. Dave, if you read this, I am sorry. And I am glad you managed to extinguish the fire without my help.
When I was a student, I shared a flat with some other students. Two bedrooms, four students, so I shared a room with Dave Fisher.
(Dave, if you read this, give us an e-mail and tell me how you are doing).
Dave was a hard-core climber. For example., the rest of us were in the living room one evening and heard a very loud thump, then a groan. We asked “What happened?” Dave answered “I fell off the ceiling.”
It turns out he was trying to traverse round the hallway on the door lintels. I had never come across such behaviour before. And he was forever doing one-handed pull-ups.
So there is the climbing connection.
Anyway, back to the story.
Dave and I repeatedly re-arranged our room. We kept pushing our beds further towards the wall to make more floor space for our clothes.
Eventually, we ended up with beds against opposite walls of the room. And Dave’s bed was next to a wall-mounted 2-bar electric fire (remember them?).
One morning Dave woke me with a cry of “My bed’s on fire! My bed’s on fire!”
I opened an eye and looked at the clock. It was five past seven. I said “Its too early. Wake me later.” And I turned over and went back to sleep.
Later that morning, after I got up at 8 and joined the rest of the guys for breakfast, I completely failed to understand why Dave was cross with me.
Then I found out he had somehow knocked the switch, turned the fire on, and had burnt a hole in his down jacket (it was a cold flat, and he wanted the extra insulation). Well, I thought his anger at me was just displaced rage at his own stupidity.
Only now do I realise what a callous brute I was. Dave, if you read this, I am sorry. And I am glad you managed to extinguish the fire without my help.
In reply to almost sane: You mean you really lived "The Young Ones" for real? Respect is due Almost Sane. I like the callous brutishness of your actions, it did make me laugh.
Good story Jude. It's a shame we had to miss the event.
Good story Jude. It's a shame we had to miss the event.
In reply to almost sane: What proper climbing threads/ Oh yeah, like how how to oil your Friends. I thuoght for a minute i might be on to something kinky ....
In reply to Ian Jones: actually ian, good call! "how to oil your friends k(l)inky style would be a great thread!"
cheers max. you always say such nice things. can't you ditch scarlett and marry me instead? (woops......)
cheers max. you always say such nice things. can't you ditch scarlett and marry me instead? (woops......)
Another good Dave Fisher story.
Our flat was on the first floor of a tenement in Edinburgh.
For those who don't know, I shall explain. A tenement in Scotland is a block of flats, usually built in a rectangular block like an oversized quadrangle.
Access to the flats is via a common stair with access to the street at the front and a common garden at the back. This stair+corridor is called a "close". The area within the quadrangle was usually divided up into one common garden for each close, often called the "back".
Kids living "up the close" would play "round the back", and often the games would range from one end of the quadrangle to another, climbing over the palings or walls that divided the area into individual backs.
Anyway, back to the story.
There were some kids playing round the back, and Dave leaned out of the kitchen and shouted to them: "Can you see my watch? I dropped it out the window? Can you find it?"
So the kids came to that bit of the "back" below Dave's window and started looking through the grass for Dave's watch. While they were thus engaged, Dave emptied a bucket of water over them from the kitchen window. Dave and I then each grabbed a Sqeezy bottle filled with water and dove downstairs. The kids, being of good Scottish stock, ran away. Then came right back with their own weapons.
We then had the best waterfight I have ever had.
Ab-so-lutely MAGIC fun.
Our flat was on the first floor of a tenement in Edinburgh.
For those who don't know, I shall explain. A tenement in Scotland is a block of flats, usually built in a rectangular block like an oversized quadrangle.
Access to the flats is via a common stair with access to the street at the front and a common garden at the back. This stair+corridor is called a "close". The area within the quadrangle was usually divided up into one common garden for each close, often called the "back".
Kids living "up the close" would play "round the back", and often the games would range from one end of the quadrangle to another, climbing over the palings or walls that divided the area into individual backs.
Anyway, back to the story.
There were some kids playing round the back, and Dave leaned out of the kitchen and shouted to them: "Can you see my watch? I dropped it out the window? Can you find it?"
So the kids came to that bit of the "back" below Dave's window and started looking through the grass for Dave's watch. While they were thus engaged, Dave emptied a bucket of water over them from the kitchen window. Dave and I then each grabbed a Sqeezy bottle filled with water and dove downstairs. The kids, being of good Scottish stock, ran away. Then came right back with their own weapons.
We then had the best waterfight I have ever had.
Ab-so-lutely MAGIC fun.
In reply to almost sane: corker! reminds me of one my ex-husband told me. when Richard was about 10, him and his younger brother Paul 8, dressed up older sister Patricia's life-sized baby doll in the clothes of their baby brother Mark about 9 months, crawling and climbing everything)
Mum was downstairs doing the washing up at the kitchen window, looking out over the garden. The boys' bedroom window was directly above. Baby Mark was ostensibly asleep in his room upstairs.
Richard and Paul threw the life-sized baby doll dressed in Mark's clothes out of their open bedroom window so that it's trajectory would directly pass Mum's line of vision, whilst screaming "Arrrggghggghghgh!!!! MARK!!!!!!!!!!"
Their Mum dashed into the garden thinking the worst only to look up and see them laughing their heads off. They got a right hiding for that apparently, little sods. Always cracks me up though.
Mum was downstairs doing the washing up at the kitchen window, looking out over the garden. The boys' bedroom window was directly above. Baby Mark was ostensibly asleep in his room upstairs.
Richard and Paul threw the life-sized baby doll dressed in Mark's clothes out of their open bedroom window so that it's trajectory would directly pass Mum's line of vision, whilst screaming "Arrrggghggghghgh!!!! MARK!!!!!!!!!!"
Their Mum dashed into the garden thinking the worst only to look up and see them laughing their heads off. They got a right hiding for that apparently, little sods. Always cracks me up though.
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