Being Knocked up in Durham, and Other English Cities
In this posting, I am going back to the 1960-1966 period when I was working for Canadian Immigration in England. (See Posting #63 for other stories from this period.
One of the best parts of conducting film shows in England was staying at small, historic inns.
My favourite was The Three Tuns in Durham, which I am happy to say is still in business. It dates from the 1500s, is in the centre of the city close to the remarkable Durham Cathedral with its Norman architecture and to Durham Castle, which is now part of the University of Durham.
After my first film show in Durham and the usual pub session with the travel representatives I returned to the hotel.
The night clerk asked, "What time would you like to be knocked up?"
The North American slang expression, 'being knocked up' hadn't made its way across the Atlantic at that time. Other officials at the Immigration office had warned me about the expression so I was able to keep a reasonably straight face. As time went by, I didn't react at all to the expression but I don't think I ever used it---I just couldn't bring myself to ask to be knocked up.
As a digression, I've been told that Australian visitors to Canada often buy sweatshirts with Roots emblazoned across them because the word 'root' is, according to a dictionary, "coarse slang for sexual intercourse". It makes me wonder how Australian teachers of botany discuss the parts of a plant without sending high school students into a storm of titters and guffaws.
Anyway, back to The Three Tuns.
I told the night clerk that I would like to be wakened at 6.30 with tea and the Times.
Then I climbed upstairs for a sound sleep in a soft and comfortable bed.
Promptly at 6.30, a maid knocked. opened the unlocked door (a different time and place!) and brought in a tray with a tea pot, an attractive cup and saucer, fresh rich milk and a copy of the Times. She pulled the curtains and disappeared.
I always asked for an early 'knock up' so that I could lie in bed, propped up on several pillows, sip the best tea I've ever had (only the North of England folk know how to make tea) and digest the Times.
And then after a leisurely soak in a deep, claw-foot tub, I went down for an English breakfast with grilled tomatoes, rashers of bacon, eggs, blood pudding (which I always left) and stone-cold toast (I learned that it didn't really matter that it wasn't warm---the sweet butter and strong Scottish marmalade made up for that). And of course, lots more excellent tea.
I travelled back to the Leeds office about as happy and comfortable as a person could be.
000
On another film show occasion (in the North of England but not in Durham), the five travel representatives, who always came to our shows, and I had checked into a small inn. After the film show, the reps and I adjourned as usual to a pub.
As we sipped our beer, I looked at the reps. Four of them were clearly from working class or lower middle class backgrounds.
They were personable, hard-working, competent representatives for their companies, but their backgrounds showed. Their suits were off-the-rack, their body language showed a lack of confidence, their faces had a tense look of someone trying to get ahead, or at least trying to hang on to what they had.
Above all were the pronounced regional accents---of Lancashire, Yorkshire or Northumberland or other counties. (I thought about a secretary in our office who was spending money the family really couldn't afford to send their daughter for costly elocution lessons so she would grow up without a Yorkshire accent.)
At that time, accent was so very important. There were no regional accents on the BBC---all the presenters and newsreaders spoke 'proper English'.
The fifth travel rep, Reg Fairbottom (not his real name), was different.
He was in his 50s, not short and not tall, a little stout but his weight was concealed by a well-cut, three piece dark suit. He wore a school tie indicating that he had gone to a public (private) school.
The school had done a fine job. Reg spoke with what was called 'a posh accent'. That combined with his relaxed posture and confident manner marked him as a person who 'belonged', a person who had 'arrived'.
He could have worked for the BBC, any time.
Reg had a lot going for him but unfortunately he had a problem.
He drank too much---his favourite drink was the boiler maker, a shot of whisky (Scotch of course and spelled without the 'e')) with beer as a chaser.
Some drinkers become angry and obnoxious.
Not Reg.
As the evening wore on, he told stories, sang songs, played pranks---became more and more the life of the party.
Finally, I said good night to the group and went back to the inn.
The inn had only twenty or so rooms and no night clerk to take early morning calls. Instead, there was a chalk board on which guests were to jot down their 'knock up' details.
I wrote down "#7 6.30 T&T", which translated into: Room 7 wants tea and a Times at 6.30. And went off to bed.
I woke up with the sun coming in through the gap in the curtains. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was 7.15. I looked around for a tray with tea.
No tray. No tea. No Times.
There were no phones in the rooms to find out what had happened. So I rushed to get washed and dressed---I had a train to catch.
In the lobby, it looked like a scene from the BBC classic TV comedy Fawlty Towers. Guests were standing at the desk berating a harassed clerk who kept repeating that someone had erased the blackboard. The inn was sorry but what could it do. It couldn't make 'knock up calls' without the blackboard.
The mood in the dining room was bitter, as grumbling guests had to bolt their breakfasts in order to get to their business appointments or catch their trains.
A few weeks later, one of the travel reps called to say that the inn had decided that Reg was the culprit who had erased the blackboard and had banned him for life from the inn. The rep and I agreed that it was the kind of prank that Reg---after a night of boiler makers---might well have played
At the next film show in that city, I checked into the same inn and went down to the hall for the show.
Reg was there, big as life.
I asked him where he was staying.
"At the ------", naming the hotel that had banned him.
"But I thought...."
"Oh, there was some bother after the last show but I managed to get a room."
"How?"
Reg smiled, "You have to understand the British. I phoned and said 'This is Sir Reginald brumpf-brumpf. Would you have a room for me this evening."
Apparently, the clerk had said, "Of course, Sir Reginald, we would be delighted to have you stay with us."
"But", I asked, "what happened when you showed up?"
"Oh, they recognized me, but what could they do. For all they know I might have a 'K' (slang for a knighthood). We British still respect titles, don't you know."
And they were also deferential to someone with a 'posh' accent.
When I got back to the hotel, there was a night clerk to take the 'knock up' orders. They obviously weren't going to trust a blackboard when 'Sir Reginald' was around.
The next morning I got my tea and Times at 6.30.
Stop the Press News!!
On March 25th we saw our first boat of the season in the Welland Canal---the Rt. Hon. Paul J. Martin (Canada Steamship Lines).
It somehow seemed appropriate that in a week that the US President signed a major health care bill into law, the first ship through the Canal should be named after a politician who played a key role in bringing health care to Canada.
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See you next Sunday for Posting #66 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
POSTING #64
A Rainy Day in London---Ontario, That Is; Some London Highlights
Pat and I went for a mini-holiday in London last weekend.
The weather forecasters were right. They said it would be wet and it was.
But we had a good time.
The rain reminded me of another rainy trip to London, on Saturday, October 16, 1954.
I was in Grade 13 at the Arthur District High School and leader of the school's drum and bugle band. The band was made up of fellows in army cadet uniforms and young women in white blouses and pleated skirts, with saddle shoes (and white socks) along with a blue and white cape with a blue pill box hat, held on by an elastic band under the chin. (It will not surprise you if I say that the school colours were blue and white.)
Over the years the band had done well in a school band competition held each autumn as part of the Western Ontario Athletic Association meet that took place in London on the campus of the University of Western Ontario. Fairly often the band came home with the top prize.
But as with bands from other small high schools, the quality of the Arthur band ebbed and flowed, as experienced drummers and buglers left and new ones were brought in.
The 1954 edition of the band was not one of the strongest, musically, but we worked hard on our drill, which was quite intricate.
The high school principal watched our last practice on Friday, the day before the competition. Clearly unimpressed by what he saw, he wished us well and told us that we shouldn't be disappointed if we didn't win. The important thing was to be good sports.
A lukewarm send off!
The next day, Saturday, we left Arthur very early in a school bus for the two hour trip to London. It was overcast and drizzling.
Bothered by the principal's negative attitude, I decided to stand up as we drove along and give the band members a pep talk.
"The principal has told us how to lose", I said, "I'm going to tell you how to win."
I told them that we should play and march our best and we should show lots of energy. It was important to pick our feet up high and put them down smartly.
By the time we got to London there was a light but steady rain. I was wondering how we could perform---snare drums don't like rain.
The event organizers came up to the bus to tell us that the forecast wasn't good and they had decided to hold the band competition in a gym instead of on the usual large field.
We got out of the bus, leaving our instruments in it so they would stay dry, and went to check out the gym.
I tried to imagine how we could change our drill---with its marching, counter-marching, elaborate pivots and so on--- that was designed for a space the size of a soccer field so that it would fit onto a basket ball court.
We would have to compress things a lot.
As I was trying to figure this out, an organizer came over to us.
"Of course, you can't wear them", pointing to our army boots and saddle shoes, "on the hardwood floor."
How could we pick-them-up-and-put-them down in our sock feet on a slippery floor?
But, I told myself, the other bands would have to cope with the same problems of the size of the floor and the no-shoes rule.
At that point, our bass drummer came up to me, "I'm afraid there's a problem. I had to leave in a hurry this morning and one of my socks has a huge hole. My big toe is going to show."
He unlaced one of his boots, and there indeed was his big toe.
My strategy for compensating for weaknesses in our music by energy, and spit and polish was collapsing.
We all met and agreed on some changes to our drill to fit the smaller space.
When it was our turn, things didn't augur well.
The music sounded tinny, bouncing off the hard walls and ceiling of the gym.
And marching was next to impossible---we were reduced to something like a sock-hop shuffle.
Then there was the bass drummer. Tall, good looking and a virtuoso, he always attracted a great deal of attention as he pounded the drum, twirled the beaters and added extra beats to jazz up the marches.
But I felt sure that when the London judges looked at him they focused not on his playing but on that big white toe.
Finally it was over, and we marched (shuffled?) off the floor.
As we got back on the bus, the rain was pelting down and the wind was strengthening. We had a great driver and although it took him far longer than usual we got home to Arthur safely.
And how do I remember the day and date?
That was the weekend that Hurricane Hazel chose to visit Ontario. The storm brought massive flooding especially around Toronto, the death of some 80 people and enormous property damage.
(Officially, Hurricane Hazel arrived on Friday, October 15, but the full brunt of the storm was not felt until the next day.)
Oh, you ask, 'How did the band do?'
I'm sorry, I thought I'd told you.
Turned out that the principal was right. We were beaten by--- I think---an all-female band from a high school near London.
I should make it clear that the loss wasn't the fault of the bass drummer and his big, bare toe. He played superbly, and managed somehow to maneuver the big drum in the tight turns in the drill without knocking over any buglers. If more of us had had his talent, we would have won.
In the end, we were good losers, congratulating the winning band.
But it was hard.
Some London Highlights
Last weekend , Pat and I visited the London's Maggie's Supper and Jazz Club and were very impressed with the food, service and the jazz (but less impressed by some clods who talked, during the performances).
Our waiter, an engaging university student (psychology and philosophy), looked after us well.
Too well, at one point.
I don't know about you, but I always know when there is a bit of coffee left in the cup, or a bit of dessert left on the plate. And I don't want the waiter walking off with that last bit.
At Maggie's our waiter, took my beer glass which contained, well, perhaps not a full swallow but at least half a one.
When I protested he gave back the glass and told us that reminded him of a story.
First he wanted to find out whether we were Irish, and if so whether we were easily offended. Pat said she was about as Irish as it comes, but not easily offended.
The story:
There were three men in a pub, an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman. A fly flew into the beer of the Englishman, and he sent the beer back to the bar.
Another fly flew into the beer of the Scotsman. He picked it out, threw it on the floor and continued drinking the beer.
The Irishman picked up the fly and squeezing it over the glass said, "Now, spit it out, will ya".
000
We've been visiting London for years and often drop into the Museum which is both an museum and an art gallery (with many splendid paintings by Paul Peel. who was born in London in 1860 and died in Paris in 1892).
At the Museum there are notices about Eldon House, a few blocks from the Museum, that is also situated above the Thames River. I had thought of visiting it but never got around to it---until last weekend.
What a jewel it is!
The house was started by John and Amelia Harris in 1834 and expanded until it was nearly 10,000 sqft. Descendants of John and Amelia lived in the house until around 1960, when they donated it to the City of London.
Pat and I love old houses and have brought back to life two, one from 1911 and the other from 1840. And Pat worked on heritage preservation committees when we lived in Ottawa.
Eldon House took our breath away. The house, the furnishings and the stories about the house and the family---stories that live on partly because of diaries maintained by Amelia and the other Harris women---are treasures.
Tara Wittmann, the Heritage Site Coordinator for Eldon House, loves the House and is extraordinarily knowledgeable about it and about the historical context into which it fits.
Go and see it if you are in London.
And don't forget to see the kitchen with its 1920-1930s Moffat electric stove and Westinghouse refrigerator, (the fridge still works---the staff keep their sandwiches and milk in it). My family had a Moffat stove and a Westinghouse fridge of about the same vintage---talk about nostalgia!
As with the other rooms in the house, the kitchen has a 'lived-in', not a 'museum' look. It doesn't take much imagination to see an Irish maid working at the long kitchen table making scones for breakfast.
The London Museum and the folks of London have every reason to be proud of this wonderful house.
000
As she does every trip to London, Pat visited the Cotton-by-Post II Quilt Shoppe in nearby Arva, to stock up on fabrics.
While there she learned that the Shoppe is organizing an exhibition of quilts made by a tiny African-American community in Alabama, called Gee's Bend. The exhibition which will be held at the London Convention Centre from August 9-14 will display a hundred of these spectacular and sought-after quilts. Click here for some images of the famous quilts
We plan to attend the exhibition.
And while in London, we will make return visits to Maggie's and to Eldon House.
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See you next Sunday for Posting #65 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Pat and I went for a mini-holiday in London last weekend.
The weather forecasters were right. They said it would be wet and it was.
But we had a good time.
The rain reminded me of another rainy trip to London, on Saturday, October 16, 1954.
I was in Grade 13 at the Arthur District High School and leader of the school's drum and bugle band. The band was made up of fellows in army cadet uniforms and young women in white blouses and pleated skirts, with saddle shoes (and white socks) along with a blue and white cape with a blue pill box hat, held on by an elastic band under the chin. (It will not surprise you if I say that the school colours were blue and white.)
Over the years the band had done well in a school band competition held each autumn as part of the Western Ontario Athletic Association meet that took place in London on the campus of the University of Western Ontario. Fairly often the band came home with the top prize.
But as with bands from other small high schools, the quality of the Arthur band ebbed and flowed, as experienced drummers and buglers left and new ones were brought in.
The 1954 edition of the band was not one of the strongest, musically, but we worked hard on our drill, which was quite intricate.
The high school principal watched our last practice on Friday, the day before the competition. Clearly unimpressed by what he saw, he wished us well and told us that we shouldn't be disappointed if we didn't win. The important thing was to be good sports.
A lukewarm send off!
The next day, Saturday, we left Arthur very early in a school bus for the two hour trip to London. It was overcast and drizzling.
Bothered by the principal's negative attitude, I decided to stand up as we drove along and give the band members a pep talk.
"The principal has told us how to lose", I said, "I'm going to tell you how to win."
I told them that we should play and march our best and we should show lots of energy. It was important to pick our feet up high and put them down smartly.
By the time we got to London there was a light but steady rain. I was wondering how we could perform---snare drums don't like rain.
The event organizers came up to the bus to tell us that the forecast wasn't good and they had decided to hold the band competition in a gym instead of on the usual large field.
We got out of the bus, leaving our instruments in it so they would stay dry, and went to check out the gym.
I tried to imagine how we could change our drill---with its marching, counter-marching, elaborate pivots and so on--- that was designed for a space the size of a soccer field so that it would fit onto a basket ball court.
We would have to compress things a lot.
As I was trying to figure this out, an organizer came over to us.
"Of course, you can't wear them", pointing to our army boots and saddle shoes, "on the hardwood floor."
How could we pick-them-up-and-put-them down in our sock feet on a slippery floor?
But, I told myself, the other bands would have to cope with the same problems of the size of the floor and the no-shoes rule.
At that point, our bass drummer came up to me, "I'm afraid there's a problem. I had to leave in a hurry this morning and one of my socks has a huge hole. My big toe is going to show."
He unlaced one of his boots, and there indeed was his big toe.
My strategy for compensating for weaknesses in our music by energy, and spit and polish was collapsing.
We all met and agreed on some changes to our drill to fit the smaller space.
When it was our turn, things didn't augur well.
The music sounded tinny, bouncing off the hard walls and ceiling of the gym.
And marching was next to impossible---we were reduced to something like a sock-hop shuffle.
Then there was the bass drummer. Tall, good looking and a virtuoso, he always attracted a great deal of attention as he pounded the drum, twirled the beaters and added extra beats to jazz up the marches.
But I felt sure that when the London judges looked at him they focused not on his playing but on that big white toe.
Finally it was over, and we marched (shuffled?) off the floor.
As we got back on the bus, the rain was pelting down and the wind was strengthening. We had a great driver and although it took him far longer than usual we got home to Arthur safely.
And how do I remember the day and date?
That was the weekend that Hurricane Hazel chose to visit Ontario. The storm brought massive flooding especially around Toronto, the death of some 80 people and enormous property damage.
(Officially, Hurricane Hazel arrived on Friday, October 15, but the full brunt of the storm was not felt until the next day.)
Oh, you ask, 'How did the band do?'
I'm sorry, I thought I'd told you.
Turned out that the principal was right. We were beaten by--- I think---an all-female band from a high school near London.
I should make it clear that the loss wasn't the fault of the bass drummer and his big, bare toe. He played superbly, and managed somehow to maneuver the big drum in the tight turns in the drill without knocking over any buglers. If more of us had had his talent, we would have won.
In the end, we were good losers, congratulating the winning band.
But it was hard.
Some London Highlights
Last weekend , Pat and I visited the London's Maggie's Supper and Jazz Club and were very impressed with the food, service and the jazz (but less impressed by some clods who talked, during the performances).
Our waiter, an engaging university student (psychology and philosophy), looked after us well.
Too well, at one point.
I don't know about you, but I always know when there is a bit of coffee left in the cup, or a bit of dessert left on the plate. And I don't want the waiter walking off with that last bit.
At Maggie's our waiter, took my beer glass which contained, well, perhaps not a full swallow but at least half a one.
When I protested he gave back the glass and told us that reminded him of a story.
First he wanted to find out whether we were Irish, and if so whether we were easily offended. Pat said she was about as Irish as it comes, but not easily offended.
The story:
There were three men in a pub, an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman. A fly flew into the beer of the Englishman, and he sent the beer back to the bar.
Another fly flew into the beer of the Scotsman. He picked it out, threw it on the floor and continued drinking the beer.
The Irishman picked up the fly and squeezing it over the glass said, "Now, spit it out, will ya".
000
We've been visiting London for years and often drop into the Museum which is both an museum and an art gallery (with many splendid paintings by Paul Peel. who was born in London in 1860 and died in Paris in 1892).
At the Museum there are notices about Eldon House, a few blocks from the Museum, that is also situated above the Thames River. I had thought of visiting it but never got around to it---until last weekend.
What a jewel it is!
The house was started by John and Amelia Harris in 1834 and expanded until it was nearly 10,000 sqft. Descendants of John and Amelia lived in the house until around 1960, when they donated it to the City of London.
Pat and I love old houses and have brought back to life two, one from 1911 and the other from 1840. And Pat worked on heritage preservation committees when we lived in Ottawa.
Eldon House took our breath away. The house, the furnishings and the stories about the house and the family---stories that live on partly because of diaries maintained by Amelia and the other Harris women---are treasures.
Tara Wittmann, the Heritage Site Coordinator for Eldon House, loves the House and is extraordinarily knowledgeable about it and about the historical context into which it fits.
Go and see it if you are in London.
And don't forget to see the kitchen with its 1920-1930s Moffat electric stove and Westinghouse refrigerator, (the fridge still works---the staff keep their sandwiches and milk in it). My family had a Moffat stove and a Westinghouse fridge of about the same vintage---talk about nostalgia!
As with the other rooms in the house, the kitchen has a 'lived-in', not a 'museum' look. It doesn't take much imagination to see an Irish maid working at the long kitchen table making scones for breakfast.
The London Museum and the folks of London have every reason to be proud of this wonderful house.
000
As she does every trip to London, Pat visited the Cotton-by-Post II Quilt Shoppe in nearby Arva, to stock up on fabrics.
While there she learned that the Shoppe is organizing an exhibition of quilts made by a tiny African-American community in Alabama, called Gee's Bend. The exhibition which will be held at the London Convention Centre from August 9-14 will display a hundred of these spectacular and sought-after quilts. Click here for some images of the famous quilts
We plan to attend the exhibition.
And while in London, we will make return visits to Maggie's and to Eldon House.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #65 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
POSTING #63
No Joking Matter; Attracting British Immigrants to Canada: Grandpa's Cell phone
No Joking Matter
I went to the local Toyota dealer the other day to get replacement batteries for the key fob control that locks, unlocks and starts the Prius---after nearly 5 years the batteries were getting weak.
As I approached the Parts Desk, three fellows were checking invoices or something. One of them looked up and asked if he could help me.
I guess the devil was in me that day and I said, "I understand there is a recall for key fob batteries."
As soon as I said the word 'recall', the three men started as though someone had jabbed them with a cattle prod.
"I'm just joking", I said.
The three men started to breath again.
The moral is that one shouldn't joke about recalls anywhere near a Toyota dealership.
Attracting British Immigrants to Canada
Here are some stories from the years 1960 to 1966 when I was working with the Canadian Immigration Service attracting skilled British workers to Canada, based first in Leeds, Yorkshire and then in London.
First a little background.
The Service had a limited budget and the main promotion method was the relatively inexpensive film show. We would rent a hall, hire a projectionist and place a modest advertisement in a local newspaper. Companies interested in carrying immigrants across the Atlantic, and in Canada like Cunard, Canadian Pacific, Trans-Canada Airline (as Air Canada was then called), British Overseas Airways Company (now British Air) and Canadian National Railways would join us with advertisements and would send representatives to the film shows to distribute literature.
If it were my turn to do a show, I would drive to the city, check in at a small hotel and go over to the hall to give the projectionist a couple of short films about Canada and make sure everything was ready.
After introducing myself, we would show the films and I would speak about job opportunities and living conditions in Canada. The talk was followed by a question and answer period.
Canada was in a fairly deep recession from roughly 1960 to 1963 and we had to be careful to stress that the job market was not rosy, except for certain occupations. The question sessions could sometimes be contentious, especially if there were people who had started a new life in Canada and decided to return after being laid off (for example, many British immigrants were displaced after the cancellation of the Avro Arrow aircraft program in 1959 and returned very disgruntled to the UK).
After the film show, the four or five travel reps and I would go to a pub, and then after a few drinks go back to the hotel where we were staying.
000
At one of my first shows, I was getting ready to go on the stage to introduce the first film when a man pushed through a group of people I was talking to, shook hands, gave me his name and said he was with The Times, and then withdrew.
Whoa! Stop the presses!
The Times, as in The Times of London, or as "The Thunderer". The paper that could bring down a government.
Why in the world had they sent a reporter to our show?
Were they planning a negative article, prompted perhaps by complaints from immigrants who had returned to Britain?
What would our headquarters in Ottawa think?
Years later, a senior bureaucrat mused that in all his years in the government, he couldn't recall a single public servant whose career had been advanced by talking to the press.
I think that I understood his point---instinctively---that evening at the film show. My career with the government was only two years old, and if I put a foot wrong it might be over sooner rather than later.
These thoughts kept running through my head as I conducted the show. I tried to weigh every word in the talk and in the question period.
Despite my concerns---or perhaps because of them---things went well. The questions were mainly straightforward requests for information and I didn't have trouble answering them.
After the formal part of the show ended, I stayed at the front and responded to some specific questions about opportunities in particular occupations.
Afterwards, exhausted by all this self-censoring, I wandered to the back of the hall and seeing The Times fellow went up to him.
"Well, what did you think?"
"It was good. I sold twenty-five", he said.
"Twenty-five what?"
"Copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail. The Times prints and distributes it for them."
(The Globe and Mail started the weekly paper for ex-patriates and business people with interests in Canada. It folded after a year or two.)
So, he wasn't a reporter after all, he was just flogging copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail.
After the public had gone, the travel company reps and I adjourned to a nearby pub and I ordered a pint of strong bitter (brewed with extra alcohol for Yorkshire coal miners). I felt as though I had just spent a long day of slogging at the coal face.
000
One of the matters that often came up at these after-film-show pub sessions was whether sea or air travel to Canada led to higher success among immigrants. The reps from the shipping companies argued that the four or five days on the Atlantic let the immigrants rest and get psychologically prepared for the new life, helped them to adjust gradually to the time difference and also let them take more belongings.
The reps from the airlines conceded that there were some advantages to sea travel but they were over-ridden by the importance to eventual success of getting to Canada quickly and getting started---to strike while the iron was hot.
I have never seen any study that reviewed the impact of the mode of transport on the ultimate success of the immigrants. Intuitively, I would side with sea travel.
However, there was one immigrant who chose to go by sea, who after the fact might have opted for air travel.
In 1965, when I was running the London Canadian Immigration office, my secretary announced that a Scotland Yard detective wanted to see me about an immigrant who had been approved and had sailed for Canada two days before.
The detective started by saying that the immigrant was suspected of having been involved in fraud involving travellers cheques.
I assumed, since Scotland Yard was involved, that our immigrant was part of a gang of crooks in a scam involving huge amounts of money, perhaps millions of dollars.
The case was a bit more prosaic than that.
The detective said that the immigrant had borrowed 500 pounds sterling from a contact to start his new life in Canada. He was a skilled bricklayer, bricklayers were in high demand in Canada, and he would be able to repay the loan in short order.
As the sailing date came closer, the lender began to worry that he would never see his money again. He went to the immigrant and asked for it back.
The immigrant said he couldn't do that and showed him the travellers cheques that he had purchased with the 500 pounds.
The two had an argument and the lender apparently threatened some violence if he didn't get his money back.
Then, the detective continued, the two had hatched a little illegal plot.
The immigrant would give the travellers cheques to the lender and, claiming he had lost them, get replacement cheques from the travel cheque company before the ship left.
To make reasonably sure that each was able to cash his cheques, they agreed that the lender would not try to cash the cheques until the immigrant had arrived in Canada and disappeared into the vast new country. If there were any questions, the lender would argue that the immigrant had owed him money and given him the cheques in payment.
Meanwhile, the immigrant once in Canada would cash the cheques and without the speed-of-light clearing of financial instruments that we have today it would be weeks before a problem was discovered.
The lender and the immigrants felt that once the deception was discovered the travel cheque people would probably not bother to call the police over only 500 pounds. If they did it would be hard for the police to find him in Canada.
The detective acknowledged that the plan had a certain elegance to it.
Unfortunately, greed intervened and the lender tried to cash the original cheques the day after the immigrant had sailed. Moving within un-British speed the bank passed the cheques to the travel cheque company the same day. The company spotted the problem and called the police.
Under questioning, the lender admitted the scam and was now being held.
The detective asked if we would detain the immigrant when he arrived in Montreal and send him back.
A telex went off to Ottawa and the immigrant was held on the ship. He sailed back on the same ship to Southampton, where British police were waiting for him.
Now there was a case where it would have been better to have flown to Canada.
Grandpa's Cell phone
Pat and I bought new cell phones this week and we identify so very much with the following poem written by George Parsons of Ottawa for his grand-daughter.
The poem was passed on by his wife Ann, and George has kindly agreed to let me share it with you.
000
""Recently I bought a cell phone, just to have in the car, mainly for emergencies.
As the following explains, little did I know .....
Grandpa's Cell Phone
I have a little cell phone
That goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of it
Is more than I can see.
It's larger than a postage stamp,
Though not by very much,
With twenty little buttons
That I'm required to touch
To activate its functions,
That number near a score --
From E-mail to photography,
Computer games, and more.
There's a "world clock" and a calendar,
(I'm not pulling any legs)
It converts foreign currency
And will even time your eggs.
And did I mention Voice-mail?
And FM radio?
But this is just a partial list
(As far as I will go).
Amid the many choices
One question stands alone:
With all those tiny buttons,
HOW TO USE THE BLOODY PHONE?"
George Parsons
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #64 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
No Joking Matter
I went to the local Toyota dealer the other day to get replacement batteries for the key fob control that locks, unlocks and starts the Prius---after nearly 5 years the batteries were getting weak.
As I approached the Parts Desk, three fellows were checking invoices or something. One of them looked up and asked if he could help me.
I guess the devil was in me that day and I said, "I understand there is a recall for key fob batteries."
As soon as I said the word 'recall', the three men started as though someone had jabbed them with a cattle prod.
"I'm just joking", I said.
The three men started to breath again.
The moral is that one shouldn't joke about recalls anywhere near a Toyota dealership.
Attracting British Immigrants to Canada
Here are some stories from the years 1960 to 1966 when I was working with the Canadian Immigration Service attracting skilled British workers to Canada, based first in Leeds, Yorkshire and then in London.
First a little background.
The Service had a limited budget and the main promotion method was the relatively inexpensive film show. We would rent a hall, hire a projectionist and place a modest advertisement in a local newspaper. Companies interested in carrying immigrants across the Atlantic, and in Canada like Cunard, Canadian Pacific, Trans-Canada Airline (as Air Canada was then called), British Overseas Airways Company (now British Air) and Canadian National Railways would join us with advertisements and would send representatives to the film shows to distribute literature.
If it were my turn to do a show, I would drive to the city, check in at a small hotel and go over to the hall to give the projectionist a couple of short films about Canada and make sure everything was ready.
After introducing myself, we would show the films and I would speak about job opportunities and living conditions in Canada. The talk was followed by a question and answer period.
Canada was in a fairly deep recession from roughly 1960 to 1963 and we had to be careful to stress that the job market was not rosy, except for certain occupations. The question sessions could sometimes be contentious, especially if there were people who had started a new life in Canada and decided to return after being laid off (for example, many British immigrants were displaced after the cancellation of the Avro Arrow aircraft program in 1959 and returned very disgruntled to the UK).
After the film show, the four or five travel reps and I would go to a pub, and then after a few drinks go back to the hotel where we were staying.
000
At one of my first shows, I was getting ready to go on the stage to introduce the first film when a man pushed through a group of people I was talking to, shook hands, gave me his name and said he was with The Times, and then withdrew.
Whoa! Stop the presses!
The Times, as in The Times of London, or as "The Thunderer". The paper that could bring down a government.
Why in the world had they sent a reporter to our show?
Were they planning a negative article, prompted perhaps by complaints from immigrants who had returned to Britain?
What would our headquarters in Ottawa think?
Years later, a senior bureaucrat mused that in all his years in the government, he couldn't recall a single public servant whose career had been advanced by talking to the press.
I think that I understood his point---instinctively---that evening at the film show. My career with the government was only two years old, and if I put a foot wrong it might be over sooner rather than later.
These thoughts kept running through my head as I conducted the show. I tried to weigh every word in the talk and in the question period.
Despite my concerns---or perhaps because of them---things went well. The questions were mainly straightforward requests for information and I didn't have trouble answering them.
After the formal part of the show ended, I stayed at the front and responded to some specific questions about opportunities in particular occupations.
Afterwards, exhausted by all this self-censoring, I wandered to the back of the hall and seeing The Times fellow went up to him.
"Well, what did you think?"
"It was good. I sold twenty-five", he said.
"Twenty-five what?"
"Copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail. The Times prints and distributes it for them."
(The Globe and Mail started the weekly paper for ex-patriates and business people with interests in Canada. It folded after a year or two.)
So, he wasn't a reporter after all, he was just flogging copies of the Weekly Globe and Mail.
After the public had gone, the travel company reps and I adjourned to a nearby pub and I ordered a pint of strong bitter (brewed with extra alcohol for Yorkshire coal miners). I felt as though I had just spent a long day of slogging at the coal face.
000
One of the matters that often came up at these after-film-show pub sessions was whether sea or air travel to Canada led to higher success among immigrants. The reps from the shipping companies argued that the four or five days on the Atlantic let the immigrants rest and get psychologically prepared for the new life, helped them to adjust gradually to the time difference and also let them take more belongings.
The reps from the airlines conceded that there were some advantages to sea travel but they were over-ridden by the importance to eventual success of getting to Canada quickly and getting started---to strike while the iron was hot.
I have never seen any study that reviewed the impact of the mode of transport on the ultimate success of the immigrants. Intuitively, I would side with sea travel.
However, there was one immigrant who chose to go by sea, who after the fact might have opted for air travel.
In 1965, when I was running the London Canadian Immigration office, my secretary announced that a Scotland Yard detective wanted to see me about an immigrant who had been approved and had sailed for Canada two days before.
The detective started by saying that the immigrant was suspected of having been involved in fraud involving travellers cheques.
I assumed, since Scotland Yard was involved, that our immigrant was part of a gang of crooks in a scam involving huge amounts of money, perhaps millions of dollars.
The case was a bit more prosaic than that.
The detective said that the immigrant had borrowed 500 pounds sterling from a contact to start his new life in Canada. He was a skilled bricklayer, bricklayers were in high demand in Canada, and he would be able to repay the loan in short order.
As the sailing date came closer, the lender began to worry that he would never see his money again. He went to the immigrant and asked for it back.
The immigrant said he couldn't do that and showed him the travellers cheques that he had purchased with the 500 pounds.
The two had an argument and the lender apparently threatened some violence if he didn't get his money back.
Then, the detective continued, the two had hatched a little illegal plot.
The immigrant would give the travellers cheques to the lender and, claiming he had lost them, get replacement cheques from the travel cheque company before the ship left.
To make reasonably sure that each was able to cash his cheques, they agreed that the lender would not try to cash the cheques until the immigrant had arrived in Canada and disappeared into the vast new country. If there were any questions, the lender would argue that the immigrant had owed him money and given him the cheques in payment.
Meanwhile, the immigrant once in Canada would cash the cheques and without the speed-of-light clearing of financial instruments that we have today it would be weeks before a problem was discovered.
The lender and the immigrants felt that once the deception was discovered the travel cheque people would probably not bother to call the police over only 500 pounds. If they did it would be hard for the police to find him in Canada.
The detective acknowledged that the plan had a certain elegance to it.
Unfortunately, greed intervened and the lender tried to cash the original cheques the day after the immigrant had sailed. Moving within un-British speed the bank passed the cheques to the travel cheque company the same day. The company spotted the problem and called the police.
Under questioning, the lender admitted the scam and was now being held.
The detective asked if we would detain the immigrant when he arrived in Montreal and send him back.
A telex went off to Ottawa and the immigrant was held on the ship. He sailed back on the same ship to Southampton, where British police were waiting for him.
Now there was a case where it would have been better to have flown to Canada.
Grandpa's Cell phone
Pat and I bought new cell phones this week and we identify so very much with the following poem written by George Parsons of Ottawa for his grand-daughter.
The poem was passed on by his wife Ann, and George has kindly agreed to let me share it with you.
000
""Recently I bought a cell phone, just to have in the car, mainly for emergencies.
As the following explains, little did I know .....
Grandpa's Cell Phone
I have a little cell phone
That goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of it
Is more than I can see.
It's larger than a postage stamp,
Though not by very much,
With twenty little buttons
That I'm required to touch
To activate its functions,
That number near a score --
From E-mail to photography,
Computer games, and more.
There's a "world clock" and a calendar,
(I'm not pulling any legs)
It converts foreign currency
And will even time your eggs.
And did I mention Voice-mail?
And FM radio?
But this is just a partial list
(As far as I will go).
Amid the many choices
One question stands alone:
With all those tiny buttons,
HOW TO USE THE BLOODY PHONE?"
George Parsons
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #64 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
POSTING #62
Urinals I Have Known
Why a posting about urinals?
I can hear someone saying that half of the people have no personal experience with urinals.
But that doesn't necessarily mean that they don't wonder from time-to-time about what goes on behind the doors marked Men.
However, the main reason for the subject of this posting is that I have a handful of stories about urinals that keep jumping up and down, demanding to be told. They are blocking the sober, serious stories that I would really like to tell.
It will be so good to get those stories out of the way
So here goes.
000
The pressure for a posting about urinals came to a climax recently when I was visiting the washroom in an elegant restaurant in Hilton Head (Note to American Readers: I will be using the Canadian 'washroom' rather than the American 'restroom'---after all it is a Canadian blog, eh).
There were two urinals side-by-side, separated by a modesty barrier. Mounted on a little dais, they stretched from the floor to chest-height and were broad. And unlike normal urinals made from cold, antiseptic white porcelain, these were made from a warm cream porcelain.
They cried out 'Class'. They reminded me of urinals in the washrooms of high-end private clubs. You know, the kind of washroom where there is an attendant to turn on the warm water in the basin, hand you a linen towel, and brush the dandruff off your shoulders.
Most urinals are mean, small items, about the size of a wash basin---but shaped somewhat differently---hung on a wall. Water comes in at the top and leaves through a drain at the bottom.
They are not pretty.
It is clear that no woman was ever involved in their design or manufacture.
000
There are three main issues about urinals, in my experience.
One is the height at which they are hung on a wall.
A few years ago, fathers had to lift their sons and hold them while they did their business---as any child will tell you it is not easy to void your bladder when you are being held under the arms.
Now, most washrooms have boy-height urinals.
But the height of men's urinals can vary considerably.
When we first moved to Grimsby from Ottawa to open Denwycke House at Grimsby Bed and Breakfast, my brother, Jim, and I tested various local restaurants to see which ones we would recommend to our guests. One of Jim's jobs was to check out the cleanliness and over all adequacy of the washrooms.
He came back from one washroom, smiling broadly.
"How was it?", I asked.
"That plumber must have been a Texan. You should go and see."
The urinal was hung just below the ceiling.
OK, I exaggerate a bit, but I am not short and I had to stand on tiptoe to use it.
000
The second issue with urinals is what someone delicately called 'human spillage'.
I remember seeing this sign in several restaurant washrooms when I was young:
We aim to please.
You aim too, please.
You would think that people of the male persuasion who can write their name in the snow when they are young, would not have any problem in using a urinal.
Unfortunately, that is not the case.
Which brings me to a visit to Holland in 2002.
As I stood in front of a restaurant urinal I noticed that there was an image of a house fly---enlarged many times---on the back of the urinal, just above the drain.
When it was wet, the image had a shiny, almost 3D quality.
When I asked some Dutch friends about the picture of the fly, they laughed and told me the following story.
Some years ago, a cleaner on a Dutch army base became annoyed at all the human spillage around the urinals, In one of those Eureka moments, he had an idea, "Why not give the soldiers something to aim at?'
He improvised a target and then affixed it to the urinal wall.
Lo and behold, the human spillage was dramatically reduced.
As one would expect with a great idea, it was soon picked up by others. It was adopted by non-military organizations in Holland and is now being used in a number of other countries.
I haven't spotted any 'fly' urinals on this side of the Atlantic but I am sure it is only a matter of time.
000
The third issue about urinals is the flushing of them---or rather the non-flushing of them.
Traditionally, there is a chrome lever above the urinal that one is supposed to push down after one is finished.
Many people (OK, men) don't flush. They may forget because they are worrying about the latest balance of trade figures.
Or, they may not want to touch a lever that is sure to be covered with germs, viruses and other unpleasant critters.
Or, they may just be lazy.
In preparation for a 1991 visit to Singapore, I read in a tourist guide that the local government in addition to having fearsome penalties for the importation or use of illegal drugs and chewing gum, had instituted a must-flush policy for both urinals and toilets. To enforce this policy, they had created a plain-clothed toilet police force that wandered through public facilities fining people who didn't flush.
The hotel where Pat and I were staying had found a way to protect its guests---most of them foreign---from being embarrassed if they forgot to flush when they used the ground floor public washrooms.
As people approached the urinals, they broke a beam from an electric eye, and that flushed the three urinals. As they moved away from the urinals after finishing, the beam was broken again, and all the urinals flushed once again.
It was a waste of water, which at that time was imported in huge pipelines from Malaysia, but the hotel obviously felt it was money well spent so that its clients wouldn't be harassed by the toilet police.
000
Finally, a story from Russia about urinals.
In Moscow in 1996, I took a Russian friend for his first visit to a Western-style restaurant. As we sat down at our table, I noticed my friend was looking around the restaurant for something.
When I asked, he said he wanted to wash his hands and was looking for the sinks that were common in Russian restaurants at that time.
I explained that we went to the washroom to wash our hands.
This horrified him. In the 1990s, Russian washrooms were very unpleasant places. The thought of washing one's hands in a washroom before eating was unthinkable.
Anyway, he went to the washroom and when he came back I asked him how the washroom was.
"Very clean', he said, "but I have a question."
"OK, what is it?"
"Why do you put ice in the urinals?"
When I looked puzzled, he explained that there were small balls of ice in the urinals.
Later on, I went off to the washroom and the 'ice' was of course crystalline deodorizing balls of some kind.
When I came back to the table I explained about the balls,
His look said that he expected that it would take him a long time to understand these crazy westerners.
000
So, those are my urinal stories.
Thank you for bearing with me.
Hopefully, now that they have been aired I can return next week to more edifying stories.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #63 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
Why a posting about urinals?
I can hear someone saying that half of the people have no personal experience with urinals.
But that doesn't necessarily mean that they don't wonder from time-to-time about what goes on behind the doors marked Men.
However, the main reason for the subject of this posting is that I have a handful of stories about urinals that keep jumping up and down, demanding to be told. They are blocking the sober, serious stories that I would really like to tell.
It will be so good to get those stories out of the way
So here goes.
000
The pressure for a posting about urinals came to a climax recently when I was visiting the washroom in an elegant restaurant in Hilton Head (Note to American Readers: I will be using the Canadian 'washroom' rather than the American 'restroom'---after all it is a Canadian blog, eh).
There were two urinals side-by-side, separated by a modesty barrier. Mounted on a little dais, they stretched from the floor to chest-height and were broad. And unlike normal urinals made from cold, antiseptic white porcelain, these were made from a warm cream porcelain.
They cried out 'Class'. They reminded me of urinals in the washrooms of high-end private clubs. You know, the kind of washroom where there is an attendant to turn on the warm water in the basin, hand you a linen towel, and brush the dandruff off your shoulders.
Most urinals are mean, small items, about the size of a wash basin---but shaped somewhat differently---hung on a wall. Water comes in at the top and leaves through a drain at the bottom.
They are not pretty.
It is clear that no woman was ever involved in their design or manufacture.
000
There are three main issues about urinals, in my experience.
One is the height at which they are hung on a wall.
A few years ago, fathers had to lift their sons and hold them while they did their business---as any child will tell you it is not easy to void your bladder when you are being held under the arms.
Now, most washrooms have boy-height urinals.
But the height of men's urinals can vary considerably.
When we first moved to Grimsby from Ottawa to open Denwycke House at Grimsby Bed and Breakfast, my brother, Jim, and I tested various local restaurants to see which ones we would recommend to our guests. One of Jim's jobs was to check out the cleanliness and over all adequacy of the washrooms.
He came back from one washroom, smiling broadly.
"How was it?", I asked.
"That plumber must have been a Texan. You should go and see."
The urinal was hung just below the ceiling.
OK, I exaggerate a bit, but I am not short and I had to stand on tiptoe to use it.
000
The second issue with urinals is what someone delicately called 'human spillage'.
I remember seeing this sign in several restaurant washrooms when I was young:
We aim to please.
You aim too, please.
You would think that people of the male persuasion who can write their name in the snow when they are young, would not have any problem in using a urinal.
Unfortunately, that is not the case.
Which brings me to a visit to Holland in 2002.
As I stood in front of a restaurant urinal I noticed that there was an image of a house fly---enlarged many times---on the back of the urinal, just above the drain.
When it was wet, the image had a shiny, almost 3D quality.
When I asked some Dutch friends about the picture of the fly, they laughed and told me the following story.
Some years ago, a cleaner on a Dutch army base became annoyed at all the human spillage around the urinals, In one of those Eureka moments, he had an idea, "Why not give the soldiers something to aim at?'
He improvised a target and then affixed it to the urinal wall.
Lo and behold, the human spillage was dramatically reduced.
As one would expect with a great idea, it was soon picked up by others. It was adopted by non-military organizations in Holland and is now being used in a number of other countries.
I haven't spotted any 'fly' urinals on this side of the Atlantic but I am sure it is only a matter of time.
000
The third issue about urinals is the flushing of them---or rather the non-flushing of them.
Traditionally, there is a chrome lever above the urinal that one is supposed to push down after one is finished.
Many people (OK, men) don't flush. They may forget because they are worrying about the latest balance of trade figures.
Or, they may not want to touch a lever that is sure to be covered with germs, viruses and other unpleasant critters.
Or, they may just be lazy.
In preparation for a 1991 visit to Singapore, I read in a tourist guide that the local government in addition to having fearsome penalties for the importation or use of illegal drugs and chewing gum, had instituted a must-flush policy for both urinals and toilets. To enforce this policy, they had created a plain-clothed toilet police force that wandered through public facilities fining people who didn't flush.
The hotel where Pat and I were staying had found a way to protect its guests---most of them foreign---from being embarrassed if they forgot to flush when they used the ground floor public washrooms.
As people approached the urinals, they broke a beam from an electric eye, and that flushed the three urinals. As they moved away from the urinals after finishing, the beam was broken again, and all the urinals flushed once again.
It was a waste of water, which at that time was imported in huge pipelines from Malaysia, but the hotel obviously felt it was money well spent so that its clients wouldn't be harassed by the toilet police.
000
Finally, a story from Russia about urinals.
In Moscow in 1996, I took a Russian friend for his first visit to a Western-style restaurant. As we sat down at our table, I noticed my friend was looking around the restaurant for something.
When I asked, he said he wanted to wash his hands and was looking for the sinks that were common in Russian restaurants at that time.
I explained that we went to the washroom to wash our hands.
This horrified him. In the 1990s, Russian washrooms were very unpleasant places. The thought of washing one's hands in a washroom before eating was unthinkable.
Anyway, he went to the washroom and when he came back I asked him how the washroom was.
"Very clean', he said, "but I have a question."
"OK, what is it?"
"Why do you put ice in the urinals?"
When I looked puzzled, he explained that there were small balls of ice in the urinals.
Later on, I went off to the washroom and the 'ice' was of course crystalline deodorizing balls of some kind.
When I came back to the table I explained about the balls,
His look said that he expected that it would take him a long time to understand these crazy westerners.
000
So, those are my urinal stories.
Thank you for bearing with me.
Hopefully, now that they have been aired I can return next week to more edifying stories.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
See you next Sunday for Posting #63 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.
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