Authorities to the Scene!!

March 12, 2010

Growing up one of the family friends was a deputy sheriff. He said one of his favorite things about being a sheriff was when they got a call being able to turn the siren on and driving like a bat out of hell to get whereever they needed to go. This sheriff is now retired, but he assured me more than once, there wasn't any emergency but he just wanted to drive fast. Lights on, siren on and pedal to the medal. Reading the newspaper on my way to work last week, I came across two articles which could only make me shake my head. Two seperate stories involving the authorities and the responses they each had to seperate crisises.
We complained about how long it sometimes took for the police or even sheriff to get anywhere in the county. I mean goodness, the sheriff should be able to cover the entire distance from Walker to Pine River in under five minutes. It is only thirty miles! Here, apparently this feat can not even be guaranteed across town.
One of the local towns received a call. A shop owner was holding two people under the cover of his shotgun as they were trying to break into his house and his children's steal bicycles. He stuck his head out of the first floor window and told them to freeze he had them under the cover of a shotgun. The would be thieves replied they thought the house was empty and proceeded to put the bicycles back. When the owner ducked back into the house to grab the phone to call the emergency number the theives fled. The owner chased them on foot for a couple of blocks. The police showed up forty five minutes later.
The second article told how a local ambulance driver was under arrest. It seems in trying to hurry to a call for help, the ambulance crew encountered a herd of cattle in the middle of the road. The story got muddled at this point as the ambulance turned off their siren. The owner of the cattle got in front of the herd because he was afraid the cattle were getting spooked. They are not sure if the ambulance turned its siren back on to try to get the cattle out of the way or the herd simply was spooked. The owner of the herd was trampled. Not to be mean, but I grew up near cattle and know if they are spooked, ain't no way in hell I am standing in front of them. I can't figure out why the owner thought it was a good idea. The driver of the ambulance remains under suspension and faces a charge negligence and the equivalent of a manslaughter charge.
Just goes to prove the mentality of some people. The one trying to hurry to help someone else here gets stuck and gets into trouble. The thieves hurrying to steal and run away get off scot free. And the police can't make it to the scene of either.
One final bit from the shotgun owner and the theives. When he told the police he had them under the cover of his shotgun and he had two children in the house with him, the police dispatcher replied he should put the gun away for his own safety. After, the newspaper called and asked for a comment. Summing up the mentality of certain police forces here, they replied. "Once the suspects had fled, the caller should have informed us so we could have called off the officers." Yup, makes one wonder doesn't it.

Package Control????

March 10, 2010

Another red card is dropped into my little black mail box telling me I of course missed the mailman and he has a package for me. Of course not being able to deliver the package, they send it to the depot on the edge of the city where I can pick it up for the next seven days. I must admit, I am not sure if this means seven working days or just seven days and I do not feel the need to test this theory. So logging onto the internet and the Royal Mail system, I request my parcel to be delivered to the local post office. This package has went from the main depot to my apartment back out to a depot a few miles away and now is being delivered to the post office six blocks from my apartment. Yup, the English and saving the environment. Anyway, I am sorry to say the package was not my delivery of Reece's peanut butter cups and peanut butter M&M's. Something much more important to a person living abroad.
Leaving work early and catching the train home to pick up my package, I am greatly pleased. I have escaped work, the train is on time and I will make it to the Post Office before it closes. Ok, one more rant. Does the USPS and Royal Mail share ideas? If you are a normal office worker, how do you ever make it to the post office? It opens after you go to work, closes as you are leaving and they always seem to have a holiday to be closed on. But I made it to join the line of twenty to thirty people being served by two cashiers. Holding my red "Sorry we missed you" card and making sure I have my one pound fifty to pay to get the parcel delivered back to anywhere near my apartment, I have time to watch the comings and going of the working English. I count the number of people now in front of me and try to guess which happy cashier I will get to talk to. I watch as the cashier who is dealing with currency exchange get up from her booth because nobody is doing any business with her and go and stand drinking tea. Not my job to help customers unless they want currency exchange. I watch as the supervisor deals with a rowdy customer in the "payment" line who can't understand why if he is from another town twenty miles away with no ID they won't cash a personal check for him made out to his mother. I watch as the supervisor disappears somewhere behind never to be seen again. I watch as another cashier finally opens another window. I see a person walk up to a window in which the cashier had finished with the previous customer but wouldn't talk to the next customer until she had hit her button saying, "Window number 4" over the speaker.
I stood in line until the speaker would call out again at my turn. "Window number 4." Smiling I hand over my card to Sheila.
"Do you have any ID?"
I take out my Minnesota driver's license. Complete with photo, holographic loon reflection and signature.
Sheila looks at my license. She slides it back across the counter under the rabbit hole.
"I am sorry, but that is not acceptable. Do you have any other form of id?"
Now at this point I am thinking this is kid of funny. I have my canceled driver's license which I then hand over to her.
Sheila looks at my second photo id. "I am sorry, this isn't a valid id. Do you have a British driver's license? Passport or bank card (Atm card)?"
I and her my ATM card which has my name printed on the front of it like normal ATM cards.
Sheila looks at the card and hands it back. "I am sorry this isn't signed. I can't accept this. Do you have any other id?"
Now I must admit that I am started to get a little annoyed. I hand her my credit card which has ask for id written on the signature line like most smart people do. Nope, no good. I hand her my book card which is actually signed. Nope, it isn't an acceptable form.
Now I pride myself on the fact I am polite. At this point wen she asked if I have any other form of id, I started to loose my good humor.
"I just gave you two driver's licenses with photos and my signature."
"I am sorry sir, but they are not valid. They are not acceptable as English driver's licenses. They are not even EU standard." Well, duh. I am American with an American driver's license. "Do you have a passport?"
I replied to her. "Yes, I sent it off to be renewed and that is what I am trying to pick up right now." I can't decide whether I should scream, laugh or cry at this point.
"I am sorry sir, but without a valid id, I can't give you the package."
"So none of my ids are good enough, but the id I need to use is in the package I am trying to pick up."
"I am sorry sir, but we need to maintain the security of your parcels. What if we gave them out to just anybody."
Yup, I know this is a big problem in this country. I have the receipt of the package when I mailed it. I have the card with my address and name on it which you left telling me I was out. I have two forms of picture id from another country. I have a wallet full of cards with my matching signature issued in this country. I am telling you what is in the package and I can open it in front of you which will have my passport in it. Yup, big problem with package security here. Obviously, the criminals are much more sophisticated than back in the states. They sure as heck go through a lot of trouble to attempt to steal a package from the local post office.
Sheila gives me a glimmer of hope. "If your bank card was signed, then you could pick up your package."
"So you want me to sign my bank card and then you will give me my package?" Laughter is starting to win the struggle as to what I should do.
"I am sorry, but you will have to leave before you can sign it."
"What? You mean you want me to step out of the line, walk over to the counter where you can see me, sign my card, stand in the line and come back so you can give me my package."
"If you want sir, but I won't be able to serve you. You will have to go to a different window."
"WHAT?" At this point I am actually laughing. I step four feet away, sign my card and step back into line. Back to the watching game. As I progress to the windows again, I count the people in front. I should get window two. Too bad, a lady with a screaming child messed it up. My turn. "Window number 4" announces over the speaker. I really can't stop giggling.
The nice little old lady behind me thought I was one of the most polite people as I let her go in front of me to go to Sheila in window four. I got window two.
The lady asked for my id. I handed her the now signed ATM card. Five minutes later she had to apologize as the package had not been delivered from the depot yet. She must have thought I had lost my marbles as I walked away laughing.
The next day I returned to the post office. I counted the people in line. I counted the cashiers. When it was my turn, the speaker announced, "Window number 4." Laughing as I walked up to the window and slid the "Sorry to have missed you" card through the rabbit hole. "Do you have id?" Sheila took my signed ATM card which I should mention has absolutely no picture on it and got my package from the shelf. Security?? Maybe if she would have asked me to sign for the silly thing once she handed it to me, I might have felt a little better. But then again, she had seen enough of my signatures the previous day she probably could do it as well as I can.

Network Rail. . . . .Brilliance and on time repair work

March 06, 2010

Standing at Sunningdale Station in beautiful Berkshire, one station stop from Ascot and only a half an hour from home normally fills me with a joy. If I am standing on the platform, it means normally I am on my way home. I have seen rainstorms, snow, sleet, wind whipped leaves occasionally sunshine, airplanes from Heathrow going and coming, a few sunsets and even the moon and stars as I await the train home.
My friends at Network Rail are one of the simple joys which add to the joy of traveling by train. This is the company which is tasked with the maintenance of the rail lines. A private company not quite owned, but fully subsidized by the British government in order to hide its debts from the accounts of the British nation. No, I do not make this stuff up. If in doubt, check on Wikipedia.

Of course, all of the works of man should need to be maintained and I will not claim the rail lines carrying thousands of people daily should be neglected. I can only question how any group of people can be so inept at scheduling and their ability to carry out the repairs on time for the people who actually use the lines.

Network rail had scheduled repairs for the Reading to London Waterloo line for a Sunday morning. The repair works are between Ascot and Feltham. Makes little difference, but it is about fifteen miles of rail they closed to repair a few hundred feet of track. Well, these are the stations where they have the easiest time to turn the trains around supposedly. Network Rail figured the repair works should run until 3 pm and normal train service should be restored by 3:30 pm at the latest. During this period and up until 4 p.m., they wold operate a bus replacement service for the effected stations.

I arrived at the station at 5p.m. to the station to see the signs still flashing that there were engineering works until 4 and the buses would operate until that time. This is not construed as a good sign.

The guy across the platform was already on the phone to the helpline and hearing his side of the conversation, I was filled with even less good feelings. Here follows his part of the conversation. . .

It seems the repair works were overrunning(as usual) and the help line had lost the buses. They could not tell if any buses were in operation. I know they are supposed to be running until 4p.m. Wait, it is already 5 so are they still running? So can you tell me if there is one or isn't there? He hangs up for some strange reason. Shortly after, a bus going towards London shows up. When those of us waiting for the Reading train ask, the driver can only reply. "I don't know, but you can wait by the side of the road to see if they are going to turn up."

At this point, I decide to try my luck with the help line. Boiled down conversation from their side went something like,

"We are sorry, but the engineering works have overrun. I am afraid there are no buses running. Yes, the next trains are cancelled because they can't get through Feltham. No, I am sorry, but the train crews running the trains from Reading to Ascot have all been stood down, so there is no trains from Ascot until the train from Feltham come through. Well, the next train will coming at 8:29 through Sunningdale. Well, you could go to Ascot and the next train will leave from there at 8:34. Oh, yes, you are right, that is the same as the 8:29. No sir, I can only apologize for your delay." I will leave it to your imagination, but believe it or not, I remained very nice throughout the conversation. She ended very nicely with, "Have a nice evening."

Yes of course I will. I like spending three and a half hours in 28 degree F temperatures waiting for a train that may never actually come because nobody with Network Rail management uses anything aside from their backsides to think with. Yes, I know, I am being bitter.

The train did turn up at 8:33. They were not sure if the next train would be on time or not. "Due to a fault, no real time information can be displayed." Luckily, that message came up around 8p.m. replacing the message that there was going to be engineering works and buses would replace trains until 16:00.

Windsor Castle Fire

February 19, 2010

Sitting in my bar today, I came upon one of my regular customers telling a story about how she was partially to blame for the fire which wrecked a large chunk of Windsor Castle. Being the touristy type of person I am, I have actually visited the spot where the fire started in the castle. There is a small plaque in the room in the now rebuilt part of Windsor.
Little Sylvia as we call her is sitting down and telling her story of ow she was one of a few seamstresses who actually worked for the Royals and was in charge of making the set of silk curtains which were to hang in the small chapel. These beasts were twenty-eight feet tall and all hand sown. Sylvia explains how not a stitch can be seen and how they had to join four tables together. "You simply couldn't have this beautiful silk dragging on the floor now could we?" The silk was sown onto the wooden pieces so the curtains would hang correctly. The gold trimmings were measured every stitch they put in so as not to be off the slightest bit. Sylvia explains all of this with a sense of humor of how much work she and her team put into the curtains. Made simply because the Queen wanted to be able to close the Chapel off when she entertained guests as they walked from the Dining Room down to the receiving room and nobody had thought to put a door there.
After the fire, Sylvia asked one of the Royals if he would tell her what exactly happened.
The Royal replied, "We should throw you in the dungeon as it was your curtains which caused the fire."
In truth, a workman had left a set of high powered lights on in the room. The window had been left open because of it being such a nice day. A breeze or a gust of wind blew Sylvia's curtains onto the lights where they caught fire.
Two years ago, Sylvia was invited to attend a ceremony in honor of one of the service medals she had earned. Taking place not at the Castle, but in the large church, Sylvia was seated next to Lady A's lady in waiting. Sylvia, being Sylvia was curious as to what color the Queen would be wearing for the day. Sylvia explains it as being a womanly thing to do. Try to catch a peek of what the Queen is wearing. The lady in waiting took Sylvia behind the scenes to catch a glance. The Queen was apparently talking to three gentlemen when she caught a glance of Sylvia. Abandoning the gentlemen, the Queen walked over to Sylvia and talked to her for a moment. Sylvia said, "She has a great memory. She told me it was a shame about the curtains, as they were the most beautiful curtains she had seen." Sylvia was pleased beyond measure.
"I left working for the Royals when I was sixty-six years old."
Sitting and listening to the story, it reminds you of how something so small and seemingly forgotten can cause so much joy and even anguish to the people involved. The little stories found most amusing also seem to crop up at the funniest places and times.
Sylvia unfortunately had to give up dancing about two years ago when her partner dropped her during a move. She damaged her hip and broke her wrist. She still likes her ice cream after lunch when she comes by and flirts with the guys. Did I happen to mention Sylvia will be celebrating her ninety-ninth birthday this year.

Frying pans and melting pots

February 11, 2010

I am struck by the difference between two seemingly close cultures. One of course being at least in the main deriving from the other. In less than two hundred and fifty years these cultures seem to have drifted farther apart than I am sure any of our fore fathers would have guessed. Yes, I realize we were forcibly seperated by a war and then another about thirty years later. However, you might think we would retain some semblence of each other.
No, I do not speak to the difference between the US direct representative democracy versus a proportional representation which resides in the UK. I personally like to vote for my candidate, not for the party. Maybe iot is the grassroots feeling I enjoyed of all levels of American political process for better or worse.
I will only broadly hint at my running battle with English versus American language. How do you pronounce queen as queen and quay as key? Wait, why do you add extra bits to aluminum with your spelling and pronunciation? Why is a vacation a holiday and when did a cell phone become a mobile phone? Finally, if trousers are pants, pants are underwear and ladies underwear are knickers, why do you refer to "pants" and "knickers" as underwear? These minor irritations prove amusing to me. Especially when standing in front of a large group of English asking two guys if they have any black pants to work in. Social blunders. . .
One of the striking things which most would not even bother noticing is the idea of society as found in the young. How many Americans know and can recite the Pledge of Allegiance? I would bet most. We are taught about our melting pot culture where everybody is American and supports America. We sing the National Anthem in school from when we are little children. We are taught patriotic songs about our country. I bet if I mention, "This Land is Our Land . . ." again most of us Americans will start humming along. Heck, I can even fold the American Flag properly thanks to Mr. Norlin my third grade teacher.
Here, it seems they lack the certainty of identity. While we consider ourselves a melting pot where once you are there you are American, here it is a selection of which country you are from. I state proudly, I am an American from Minnesota of German descent as do most others I know with variations. Here I find most will claim they are Pakistani, Indian even Scottish and Welsh before even thinking of themselves as English or British. They speak no pledge to a common flag. They rarely sing the national anthem at school. They insulate themselves in a nanny culture to protect from offending each other and become isolated pockets.
Maybe one of the main reasons they have a hard time understanding us is we admit our country is not perfect, but we try hard to keep the "melting pot" alive in our schools and make it better. Here, it is more like eggs in a hot frying pan. No chance to get together before becoming set in an isolated shape.

The art of chugger avoidance

February 09, 2010

Walking down the high street in the pedestrian zone of most any English town, you will quickly discover the people who have lived in the town for more than a few months. There are blindingly obvious signs you are an outsider in Reading if you can't avoid the most common norms of walking downtown.
I am not talking about the signal lights crossing into and out of the pedestrian zone that only seem to work every ten or fifteen minutes. Don't worry as this is only a major road used by buses, taxis, delivery vehicles, other automobiles and even the homicidal bike rider intent on mowing down as many walkers as possible. Simply look down the street, judge the distance and calmly walk across the street. You are known as an out of towner if you actually wait for the crossing light to turn green with its accompanying screeching noise before you cross. Well, you might be someone from Warsaw, but you can't ever really explain people from Warsaw.
You will be used to the guy who might be homeless sitting on the corner by the drug store nightly playing his guitar and singing with his gravel rough voice most likely caused by years of hard living. They are the out of towners and normally heavily intoxicated who try to stop and talk to the local "blues" man. He calmly ignores them as we walk by chuckling to ourselves about those silly tourists who try to request songs. He is now doing afternoon shows on the other corner. I think the matinee crowd is not quite as good as he seems to do these infrequently.
No, I can pick out the "others" by their inability to spot and use the natural cover to avoid the English institution of chuggers. Most people would ask, "What is a chugger?" Well, I must confess, I picked the term up from one of the locals.
The term is a cute combination of "charity & muggers." The chuggers are the charity workers who will lie in wait from one end of the high street to the other in groups of five to ten who will attempt to stop random people to explain their causes and solicit card donations conveniently withdrawn monthly from your account. They are very clever, because they can not accept standard donations, but now take your details and credit card or bank card details which as I said "will automatically debit from your account the set amount of only X number of pounds a month. This is less than a couple of cups of coffee."
They see the "fresh meat" coming a mile away. Any eye contact and they will close in. The cry of "Do you have a moment?" echoes across the street. "I am working for . . . . " Now you are trapped and they have you pinned with pictures of something horrible to pile on guilt. Now don't get me wrong, I am American. I tip, I give to charity all the time and I volunteer to help out when I can. Apparently England is proud of the fact it donates so much to charity. It ranks within the top twenty of the EU. Now ask yourself how may countries are in the EU. Not a ringing endorsement. Besides, they get ahead a little because of the strong pound. . .
So those who have been here a little while will walk slightly behind and off to one side of the person in front of them upon seeing the pack of chuggers working the street. If the chugger moves, they will first try and pick off the person in the front. Yes, you will see us old hands using the trees as blocking agents, other walkers and mail boxes as cover and even those homicidal cyclists as screeners for us. If all else fails, a hard turn into one of the shops can spring the trap.
On a Saturday a few weeks ago, I saw chuggers from three children's charities, one for homeless shelters, one for cruelty to animals, one for homes in third world countries, one for affordable housing, one for developing infrastructure in third world countries and one working for the liberation of Palestine. It almost made me feel sorry for the poor Socialists trying to rail against the evils of all capitalism. Almost. . .
So I am now an old hand at these quirks of this town. Just a word of warning. If you have to take a hard turn into one of the stores make sure you choose a correct store to go into and realize they may wait for you. . .

Bar etiquette . . .

February 04, 2010

Working in the hospitality industry, I always have plenty of stories to tell about funny circumstances which happen. It seems if you work in this business long enough, you will see all sorts of normal people behaving in ways they generally would never consider when they are at home. At most points, alcohol has a large influence upon their actions.
How many times have you ever seen a thirty-five year old woman pick up a small storm drain cover about four inches square and throw it through an eight inch window trying to get into the building at three am because she thought she left her purse inside. Yes, she actually tried to get in through the eight inch window. Did she make it? Nope. Only a leg and part of her arm. The purse? She had set it down in her room then left to find it leading to the drain cover in hand instead. We compare many of the do you remember or did you hear about stories. Yes, us human beings who are sober and are working do see you when you try to hang from the lights and tear them out of the ceiling. Pretending it magically fell down doesn't work either and no, I don't care if it is your birthday. Yup, watched it happen.
English seem to take the ideas of revelry to new lows in bars. They are notorious for being huge binge drinkers who's sole purpose at a bar is to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. It starts in the early years and I see it continue through until they are damn near crawling into their grave. It is considered by most as the in thing to do. Imagine a country full of people who behave as though their are twenty one at university. Yikes is all I can say.
The funny thing about it is, English people love to stand in lines and crowd around. If there is a line of three people, other English will join the line. Here they call it "queueing." So two English guys or gals (in this sex doesn't matter) are standing at a bar ordering a drink. A few more will come in and stand next to the first few. Soon, as the bar gets busier, they will form into a pack at the bar. Having their drinks in hand, they will stay with the others because there is now a line and to leave the line is an unforgivable and un-English. As the twenty people with drinks stand at the bar, the twenty behind who can't actually get to the bar grumble about slow service. The barman meanwhile has nothing to do because everybody has been served who is next to the bar. If someone has to leave to go to the bathroom, it will open a small hole into the next person will crowd, of course not moving once their drink has been ordered. Thankfully, a few innocent souls actually order and do leave the bar on an infrequent basis.
I walked into one of my bars a few nights ago. The room is forty feet by thirty feet with a twenty foot bar including the service hatch. Note: Service hatch is where the servers come and go from the bar. Stay out of the way, they are most likely trying to get you drinks at some point. Huge leather sofa, squishy arm chairs again in leather tables galor are all arranged in the room neatly. Sixty plus English occupied a three foot space in front of the bar crammed like sardines. Luckily, it was only a half an hour before they wanted to sit down for dinner. Just in time for the next group of "normal adults" to come in for their pre-dinner drinks.

Rules and why

January 21, 2010

It is an easy a way distinguish a midwestern American from an English person. Ask a simple question about whether something can be accomplished and even if you can't hear the difference between the accents, the reply will always give away the answer. Maybe it is the rules the English surround themselves with resulting in the term of "nanny state." I was reading a newspaper article and came across a story about following the letter of the law over common sense. Where I feel most midwesterners would simply understand the intent of the law and move beyond the letter of the law, here as is common, the letter of the law is important.
Just before Christmas, a mother called in to report an abscence for her young son from school. Giving the reason, the mother felt it would be a reasonable request that her nine year old son be given time off. The son returns to school the following week without comment. The next week, the mother again phones into the school explaining her son's abscence from school for the next week. All seems to be all right with the school.
The week before the Christmas break the school holds its party for the students who have had perfect attendence. The mother is told her son is not allowed to attend the school function because of his poor attendence record. The boy obviously is distraught, his mother is upset. Mother calls school to repeat the reasons for the boy's abscence. The lady from the school explains the school has set the policy to cut down on abscences and no exceptions could be made. The boy can't go to the party.
Ask most English people if a task is do-able and they will give you a list of why you can't do it or accomplish it. This I think generally comes down to an aversion to change. Ask most midwesterners about a task and the response I always got was "Why can't you do it?" A question versus a statement. Seems funny such a little thing.
Oh, the mother and her boy. The first abscence was on account of his father dying and the mother trying to deal with the boy's grief. The second week of abscence? That was for the funeral. When the school was contacted about it, the head of the school explained the abscences had been cut down because of the idea of a party for students who hadn't missed any school. In this case, the mother had talked to the wrong person apparently. Makes one wonder if the mother was talking to the school secretary and assistant to the head of the school and it was the wrong person, who should she have talked to. The boy didn't get to go to the party and the school kept its reasons why he couldn't.