From being offered the position of Receptionist by Mark, and accepting of course, there were a few weeks in which I had to fulfill commitments I had already made so that it was about one month before I began to work at the shop properly.

Meanwhile I worked odd days here and there so that by the time I was full time I felt truly part of things and was keen to make my mark on the place.

One of the earliest ‘incidents’ occurred on the first day, after my trial day.

“Did you say your name was Marjory?” asked Mark, stupidly in my opinion. What woman wants to feel so forgettable that even her name can slip her employer’s memory? There was only one way to deal with that.

“No, I didn’t.” said I shortly and went about my business. Huff would hardly describe my mood. I was determined he would actually have to come right out and admit his problem. Alternatively he could continue to be embarrassed and address me with ‘Excuse me…err…err…pause…could you….’

It took him almost an hour and much whispering in the workshop with Darrel, of the ‘you ask her’, ‘no you ask her’ type but eventually it was Mark who came out into the shop area.

“I’m sorry but we really can’t remember your name. I have looked on your application letter but you only put your initials and I didn’t write it down at the interview.”

He looked quite embarrassed and through the door I could see Darrel, head bent over his work as though he was unaware of anything but the job in hand though his shoulders shaking was a bit of a give away at how amusing he found the situation.

“It’s Margaret but my friends call me Maggie.”

“Okay, thanks Margaret.” Mark said a bit sheepishly.

I let him begin walking back to his workshop before adding, “you can both call me Maggie.”

He laughed at that. I heard him pass the name on to Darrel. There was a relieved murmur, “’bout the only bloody name we haven’t tried.” muttered Darrel his shoulders shaking a bit more as he leant over his work giggling but the first sticky patch had been overcome.

At the end of my first full week I was handed my wage cheque and got the distinct impression that it was painful to Mark to be paying out this money. I think something about the way, even when I had a grip of one corner of t he cheque, he held on with an even tighter grip to the opposite one. The pain showed in his eyes.

“I have earned this you know.” said I trying to lighten the moment for him.

“I know … I know it’s just that I worry about whether you will actually be worth it in the end.” said he.

‘Charming!’ thought I as I looked around at the almost dust free shop. I had cleaned my fingers to the bone during the week, (I’m a woman I’m allowed to make statements like that!) and this man was grudging me the pittance I had agreed to for the first few months of this new employment!

Mark noticed my chagrin and added, “I know you have worked hard this week but its been very hard for Darrel and I to build this business up and I’d hate to think that we are paying someone to do something we could be doing ourselves.”

‘Hmmm.’ I thought. ‘You’ve not managed to do much cleaning or organising in your time building up the business.’ I knew I couldn’t be too hard on them though. They were both very fragile at this time and I could see that a woman barging into their close knit little working area had exacerbated their stresses. This would obviously get better I was sure but for now they both need to be treated gently, a common trait with men!

“Well, you have tried that way for a while now and from our conversations I have the impression that it was all too much for you. You and Darrel are clockmakers, let me get on with the clerical side and deal with the customers and you will be able to do so much more in the workshop. Able to do the stuff you are good at. Let’s give it a few weeks and then we’ll see if I have made things better. Improved things. Surely it is worth something just to have the pressure off a bit?”

“Yes it has been great this week not having to answer the phone and keep stopping to deal with browsers.” he agreed. “Okay we will give it a try and see how the business works with three of us.”

This man really didn’t have much idea of tact. I had reorganised my life to take this job, (okay I chose to but just at this point I was a miffed woman and under a ‘no fault of mine‘ banner); now he was making me feel about as secure as a goldfish swimming with piranhas.

I left that Friday wondering what I had got into and whether I would actually stay. (Whether I’d even be allowed to stay.)

It was apparent that both Mark and Darrel were stretched too far in fact at times I felt they were under so much stress that both of them could have done with a healthy dose of counselling. They coped with the pressure by having outbursts of outrageous hilarity behaving like schoolboys and laughing until they cried over some silly thing or another. I resigned myself to either taking offence or giving them as good as I got on the joke side of things and trying to take a business which was obviously a winner, if properly organised, to new heights. The challenge aspect swung it for me and I squared my shoulders thinking, ‘I’ll show them.’

During the early days I didn’t, to my mind, achieve very much but I did get to grips with the ‘system’ as it was called, a bit of a misnomer as it was organised only in as much as it was regularly and consistently chaotic!

I absorbed a lot and had plenty of ideas but it wasn’t until I felt myself truly settled at the clockshop that I began to apply the woman’s touch which went down like a lead balloon in a storm!

Another issue raised its head early on when I turned up for work in jeans. Mark took me to the side and explained that he did not approve of jeans at work. I told him he probably wouldn’t approve of my dry cleaning account either when I presented it to him and I was wearing jeans until the place was a whole lot cleaner. He never mentioned jeans again and within a couple of weeks I was in smarter clothes and all was well.

Well that is, in as much as things were tidier but Mark and Darrel then had to go through the inner turmoil of watching their beloved shop undergo a slow but steady transformation.

Looking back now I can understand how it must have been for then but back then I was a ‘Maggie on a mission’ and pretty near unstoppable.

For however many years, the shop seemed to have been left pretty much to its own devices. There were cobwebs thicker than the wallpaper they held to the walls. The carpet was not just well worn, it had holes in it as well as a few peculiar stains. Everything was covered in dust and any clients entering had to struggle past clocks of all sizes. It was so bad that if one couple entered the shop no-one else could come in until they left. We had people queuing up outside some days.

As I saw things my first priority was to get the workshop running more smoothly by fielding calls and keeping customers away from Mark and Darrel to allow them to actually get some work done. Then they had to be able to cut the hours they were working which were verging on the ridiculous.

The biggest problem they had was too much work and only two hands each. It was manageable but not when they were dealing with paperwork, customers and telephone too. Within a few weeks we had settled into a fairly comfortable routine and I began my onslaught on the shop’s appearance.

I began by washing windows outside and in and trying to make a more interesting display of clocks for sale. Then I began dusting, polishing and sweeping. I set up areas of work waiting to be done and work waiting to be collected. It all took time but soon the place looked and smelled a lot better.

Now potential clients came in and commented on the fact they had often thought of doing so but the place had always looked closed and abandoned. Point number one to Maggie!

My next project was to set up a proper work area for myself. I think by this point even Mark had realised that a wire tray, stapler and lop-sided chair does not an office make.

He was out one day when I inveigled Darrel into helping me make a ‘desk’. I had the idea of using a couple of two drawer metal filing cabinets with a piece of worktop laid across them. It was a struggle to fit them in and involved Darrel sawing one prop leg from the home made bench running along the back wall of the shop but it did work. He was concerned about the clocks sitting on the bench but as I explained to him, my desktop would take the place of the prop and all would be well.

 Later as I sat for the first time at my ’desk’, precariously poised on my wobbly chair I was very pleased. I had also brought in a spare phone from home, bought and installed a telephone extension line which reached my new desk and also invested in some matching box files (up until this point paperwork was ‘filed’ in old shoe boxes), so began to feel I had truly arrived. Until this point too I had been working at a high, old, probably Victorian cabinet of which only two drawers worked the rest being stuck fast due to warping so it was a novelty for me to now have my feet on the floor rather than dangling uncomfortably twelve inches above it, a truly level surface to work on and four good sized drawers to store paperwork and all the other things I was slowly gathering together.

Over the previous weeks I had been able to devote time to calling customers and reminding them that their clocks were awaiting collection. This had been, and still is on occasion, a problem at the clockshop. Space is at a premium and the clockmakers have to be paid. It doesn’t take long for a backlog of uncollected and therefore unpaid for work to accumulate and it can cause havoc with cash flow and other jobs which need bench space for testing in their turn. No clockmaker likes to set down a clock once he has spent hours repairing or restoring it so it becomes a battle to keep them all going in an ever shrinking space.

There have been times when as long as an hour has been spent in a day just winding and regulating clocks which are waiting to be collected. That is an unpaid hour for the clockmaker and an hour lost which could have been spent on another customer’s clock. This is why strict scheduling never works, as some of you may know if we have had your clock in for repair. ‘probably by the end of March’ can easily turn out to be August!

My solution to this problem of completed work hanging around, taking up space and unpaid for, had been to implement a storage charge. I let everyone know that they had fourteen days to collect from notification after which there would be a storage charge of £5 per week or part week. This was in my eyes reasonable as space was valuable and easily worth £5 and most people do not like paying more for something than they need to. In my first week I shifted two clocks which had been ready for 5 weeks and 8 weeks respectively.

This move paid off, I had managed to get a better flow of work in and out, and in a moment of financial exuberance Mark, on returning to find me installed at my new work area, went out and bought me a new, well second-hand really, (new would have been too much to expect), old but refurbished, office chair! It didn’t lean to one side and all the castors worked. Progress indeed.

This was a breakthrough. As a ‘northerner’ Mark is wary of spending money, which explains his pain at paying wages. Make do is his motto unless urgency forces him into an expenditure. I was over the moon. New chair, desk, if somewhat makeshift and the phone to hand rather than having to go into the workshop every time it rang.

I had gotten the measure of both Mark and Darrel by this time too. Mark was apt to put his foot in it on occasion but was full of fun and I could never stay angry with him for long. Darrel was very wise, a thinker and as full of fun as Mark. Together they were a lethal combination.

One of their ‘things’ was the word snib and its ‘naughty schoolboy meaning’. At first I was an innocent and totally unaware of exactly what I had said to give them so much cause for laughter. This continued for a while until one day when I was rearranging shelving to hold some work waiting to be done.

“Mark can you help me get this up please. I can’t get it up and in at the same time.” I called through to the workshop one morning.

This was met with a great loud yell of “Snib!” from Darrel followed by chortles and giggles which built up into great guffaws of laughter from the workshop.

The ‘snib’ thing had entered my consciousness some time earlier but I didn’t want to seem unworldly so ignored it to a large extent, though I continually wondered what it was all about. I tried to take note of the events preceding them but sadly couldn’t quite work it out. I got the distinct impression they both desperately wanted me to ask. They took so much pleasure in my confusion. I was not going to give them the satisfaction but I was looking for a fairly adult explanation, which in retrospect was rather naive of me.

On this particular morning I had had enough of this ‘snib’ thing and determined to get to the bottom of it. “Okay, spill the beans.” I said “I give up. Tell me what this is all about.”

Mark finally began to explain about the VIZ character and the ‘double entendre’ thing. I had to laugh too when I realised. School boy humour was rife in this place. They both chuckled like five year olds as they told me tales of ‘famous snibs’. As they lost themselves in reminiscences, giving me some examples now and then if they could stop laughing long enough, I could see that these two who were so close and had worked together for a long time used this as a release. No point in fighting it I decided and from that moment on I was as good a spotter of ‘snibs’ as they were. Though I was also often the unwitting instigator as I didn’t quite have the knack of thinking before I spoke most of the time!

We were slowly evolving into a good team and by accepting the fact that I was working with two eccentric males and not making a big issue of their amusements both Darrel and Mark were more accepting of me than they might otherwise have been.

I knew I was accepted when Mark told me one day,

“You are as good as any man, most of the time!” This came across as a compliment and I took it as such, though I did go home and apply a face pack that evening, just in case!

It was around this time that Mark told me of a previous attempt to hire a receptionist. The lady in question had turned up for her first day and worked until it was time for lunch. She picked up her bag and left for her break. 10 minutes later Mark had a phone call from her telling him that she wouldn’t be coming back as she had changed her mind about working there. Poor woman! I could understand. It was daunting, not just the need for a major spring clean but coping with the tight knit group of Mark and Darrel. I guess I’m just lucky in that I have more balls than most men and like a challenge.

As most of the clients, mainly male, got to know me they too accepted me. Usually their first comment when being introduced was along the lines of,

“We’ll have to watch our P’s and Q’s now.”

They soon realised that I was not going to be that kind of a woman and some real friendships have developed from those early days when I was a threat to the equilibrium of the whole ‘clockshop experience’.

As I have already said, Mark has a knack of putting his foot in it and a prime example of his tactlessness occurred during my first few months at the clockshop.

We were having coffee in the workshop when he asked me, “Didn’t you ever want to have children then?”

I was a forty year old, single (divorced) woman on my own and he was obviously curious.

“How unfeeling of you to bring that up!” I snarled at him. “For all you know that could be the saddest and most tragic thing in my life? How do you know that I haven’t wanted to have a child but been unable to? How do you know that I don’t live with the scars of that failure hurting me every minute of every day? Did you even think about whether that question may have been painful to me?”

He turned white, Darrel gave a distraught gasp and as usual buried his head in his work.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I don’t think. What a bastard I am. Really I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” said Mark.

I got up, emptied the slops of my coffee into the sink, placed my mug down carefully and walked back into the shop throwing over my shoulder as I went,

“That’s okay I don’t have kids ‘cos I can’t stand the little buggers. No way I was ever going to have one!”

I left a stunned silence in the workshop then there was what could almost have passed for a snigger as Darrel said,

“I think you have met your match there.”

“Bloody hell.” said Mark. “I think perhaps I have.”

Sitting by my desk I grinned to myself,

‘Bloody hell! I know you have, both of you!’ I thought.

I am Devil Dog but my human calls me PIPPIN! I mean come one WTF!

PIPPIN like I’m some sort of little pipsqueak or something. I ain’t no pipsqueak I am the BOSS!

Pippin 'the devil dog'

I live with the human and my brother Douglas, spaced out or what? He is so laid back his paws get sunburned! Here he is, just look at the vacant expression

Douglas (I am a hippy at heart)

Our human is pretty well trained so we have a damn good life, a bit light on the venison sausages (always room for those) but other than that I don’t have much to complain about, name aside.

Anyway I just thought I’d introduce me and bro Douglas (to be honest his name is even more stupid than mine who thought these up?). I have said hello and now I need to get on because bro has left his lovely ham bone unattended and I am sure I could snatch it and get it hidden before he even manages to raise one eyelid…………………

This book writing stuff isn’t as easy as you might imagine. I think I’m experiencing my first bout of ‘writer’s block’ and it is quite scary believe me.

I often find things scary, it’s a favourite word of mine. A pile of ironing can be scary, especially when it contains every article of clothing I own. Dentist’s are scary too, really scary. Running out of coffee can be hideously scary, especially first thing in the morning when my body doesn’t work and my hair resembles the haystack a troop of soldiers have searched for a pin in.

One of the most scary things however, is a job interview and that is where I shall start. So let’s go to a few days prior to the interview first. It was an ad in the local paper which caught my eye.

‘Receptionist wanted. Mature lady. Hours negotiable. Apply in writing to……’

That was it, ten words and an address. No indication of what sort of business was involved. I decided it must either be a funeral parlour being discreet, or perhaps a brothel of some sort which obviously couldn’t announce itself as such. Either way, I applied.

A few days later I had a telephone call from a very harassed sounding man called Mark who told me my application had only just arrived in time as he was interviewing that day. Could I be there later that afternoon for an interview?

It was all a bit of a rush for me and it wasn’t until I was sitting on the train from Poole to Boscombe that I realised I hadn’t asked anything about the business so was approaching my interview somewhat blind and did I really want a train journey every morning to get to work? I also pondered on the height of my heels as I didn’t know exactly how far I’d have to walk when I got off the train at Pokesdown and as all ladies will know heels look great in the mirror or in a photograph but walking in them is only for the desperate or the stupid.

The journey was actually quite short and within about 20 minutes I found myself walking along checking numbers to find the address I was heading for and telling myself I fell into the stupid category (ref the above observations on heels).

It turned out to be a fairly short walk from the station going slightly downhill alongside a busy main road. As I approached it became apparent that the number I wanted, 995 Christchurch Road, was on the opposite side and so my very first glimpse, of what was to become my place of employment and home to one of the best periods of my life, was from across the road and glimpsed through traffic. Dusty and a bit woebegone but with character. I swear the windows winked at me. Just visible were a few round white shapes, the dials of clocks all facing the pavement. Looking out like little puppies in a pet shop hoping someone would take them home.

I was glad to see it wasn’t a brothel or a funeral parlour, it was actually an antique clock shop. As I was to discover in the coming months it wasn’t just any old antique clock shop it was THE antique clock shop.

I crossed the road, gripped the handle on the door, took a deep breath, entered and felt at home straight away. There was a narrow passageway, covered by a worn and faded carpet which had probably been of a deep wine colour in its heyday, as I edged along, my shoulders brushed against the towering Grandfather clocks on either side. It was reminiscent of walking in a dense forest. Everywhere I looked there were clocks. On the walls, on the floor. They were stacked on top of each other. They were in boxes. Every available surface had clocks on it. Wonderland indeed.

As I reached the last tall clock on my left a head appeared at its side. My first thought was, ‘poor man‘. A red rimmed, swollen, pinkish left eye partnered by a more normal, though still pinkish right eye stared at me. I learned later that the eyeglass which clockmakers wear for most of their working day leaves a mark and strains the eye.

“I have come for an interview.” I said trying hard not to stare at this fiery eye.

“Oh right well just a minute.” he replied as he turned to thank a much older lady than I who was emerging from a room at the back. We all had to shuffle round a bit so that she could exit and I found myself looking into a room, smaller than the shop area but just as crammed full of clocks. The walls were lined with shelves holding all sorts of clocks and bits of clocks.

“Come through.” said the man with the eye as he preceded me into what was obviously a workshop.

“This is Darrel, that’s Hubert in the corner and you can sit here.” He indicated in turn a pleasant man with an open, friendly face, nobody whatsoever in the corner behind the doorway and a scruffy swivel chair on wheels which I felt were a pretty useless accoutrement in this cramped space.

Just as I prepared to sit he stopped me to pat the seat a bit, raising a cloud of dust, I mean of course the chair seat not my seat which has never been prone to releasing clouds of dust on being patted!

“There that’s better, sit down.” I had by now shaken hands with Darrel who had vacated the very seat I was now to sit upon. Gingerly I settled myself wishing I hadn’t worn a black skirt which was now going to be pretty grubby if the dust was anything to go by and trying hard not to sneeze in the cloud of stuff drifting around my head.

I tried frantically to spot Hubert but could see no-one else in the room except we three. ‘Probably left because of the lack of space I decided’ and settled myself for what I expected to be the usual interview type conversation.

“I am Mark Taylor, the owner of the business.” stated the man with the eye, which was still fascinating me as at last we progressed into the interview.

It was one of the strangest I have ever had. I think I did most of the talking except when Mark was telling me about his previous career as a ‘boot neck’, which meant nothing to me at the time so I just nodded wisely and when he got in full flow describing how harassed he and Darrel were, coping with all aspects of the business on their own. I got the distinct impression that here we had two men on the edge.

It was explained that they were working from 0700 to 1900 each day and on occasion even longer with Saturdays included! Even so the money wasn’t coming in as it should because they were so busy keeping up with the work they had no time to chase up customers who took forever to collect their clocks. The phone rang incessantly Mark told me and it had reached the point where they were even arguing over who’s turn it was to answer because it was invariably someone asking when if ever, their clock would be ready.

I listened to all this sympathetically. They both looked really worn out and I felt my heart go out to them.

“What about Hubert doesn’t he help much?“ I asked.

“Well yes,“ replied Mark, “he is the rock of the business. We couldn’t do half what we do without Hubert.“

“Okay so there are the three of you all working all the hours but not getting anywhere very fast.” I mused.

“Only into an early grave at this rate.” chipped in Darrel.

“What exactly are you looking for in your receptionist then.” I asked trying to steer the conversation away from such morbid things and find out how they felt a woman in the shop would help them. I could see what they needed but I wanted to find out what they thought was required.

“We just want someone to answer the phone really.” said Mark.

“And do the post and shopping.” chimed in Darrel.

“Make us a cup of coffee now and then too.” added Mark with a helpless, male grin.

‘Hmmm’, thought I, ‘no ice with me matey‘.

“Maybe tidy the place up a bit.“ Darrel contributed.

“Deal with the customers and keep the paperwork in order.”

“Perhaps help out with the odd light job in here. Like if I asked you to take the little hammer while I held something and when I nodded my head you could hit it.” Mark came up with this one and then looked at me inquisitively. Too late I got the joke. ‘Schoolboy humour’ I thought but obligingly said, “Ha ha very good.” adding a touch sarcastically, “I haven’t heard that one before, very clever.”

He laughed contentedly, happy with himself. Darrel just grinned.

“So what exactly do you do here?” I asked.

“Well I do all the big clocks and Darrel does all the small ones.”

“What does Hubert do, is he a sort of general help then?”

“Er, well yes I suppose you could say that.” said Darrel looking over to the corner behind the doorway again. I looked but there was definitely no one there, unless he was very small and very thin Hubert was invisible to me.

“Come and look at him.” said Mark closing the door over and indicating a dark, dingy and very empty, to my eyes, corner. All I could see was a great ugly looking machine of some sort which was covered in a gold coloured glitter and a lot of dirt and dust.

“Meet Hubert.” said Mark proudly. “This lathe has seen us through everything. It is an ancient model but as reliable as any we could buy today.”

“Ah!” I sighed. These two men were taking on a weirder complexion with every minute that passed. We sat down again and the conversation continued.

On a couple of occasions Mark would say,

“Just a minute.” as he leant forward to adjust the pendulum of a clock which was fitted to a bracket in front of me.

“I’m regulating this and need to get it right before I finish tonight.” he explained as he watched the modern clock above the door, looking back to the one he was fiddling with.

“Oh,” said I in all innocence, “I always thought that bit of a clock was for decoration. Just a nice thing swinging back and forward.”

“See,” he practically yelled at Darrel in triumph, “uneducated!”

‘Wait a bloody minute,’ thought I indignantly. My face must have reflected the thought as he quickly smiled and said, “No, I just mean people, customers, they don’t understand about clocks.”

“The pendulum is an important part of a clock.” added Darrel quite gently.

“Right.” said I thinking, ‘Gosh he’s a bit passionate about clocks this Mark Taylor.’ He was obviously the headstrong one of this pair with Darrel being much quieter, laid back and probably a steadying influence.

As Mark continued to fiddle with his pendulum I took the opportunity to glance around the cluttered workroom. It was in a state of reasonably organised chaos. Scribbled notes pinned to the walls which in places still showed themselves to have been painted at some point in the past with a magnolia wash though now they had a grey, grubby overcoat. There were messages written on the walls themselves.

Some photographs were pinned up along the end wall near the sink with titles such as ‘Shipwreck’. This particular photo intrigued me because it was of a man not a ship.

To the side of Mark’s bench I saw a pretty arrangement of what were obviously school photographs of a pretty, young girl. They were arranged in such a way as to show her age as the row progressed. Next to this sweet expression of fatherly affection and pride was one of the rudest cartoons I have ever seen in my life. Hand drawn in black felt pen it brought a heat to my cheeks!

Opposite me where I sat and to the left slightly, was the clock Mark was fiddling with and in front of me a bench which looked as though it was constructed out of old wardrobes and tea-chests. It held evil looking cut down plastic tubs of foul greasy mixtures, with by various ‘Heath Robinson’ means, wire baskets of differing sizes submerged within. There was newspaper spread around these tubs, obviously to catch drips and they looked as though they had served their purpose for months! Horrible black stains fading to greenish/yellow at the edges spotted them. There were fresh, wet stains on old dried up stains. In some places the gruesome mixture had overflowed the newsprint and made its escape down the side of the bench to stain the floor below.

Above this bench on what appeared to once have been a fireplace wall were some heavily loaded shelves. One box in particular caught my eye. Labelled MUSEGIT. ‘Must be some clock thing’ I thought, as I continued my ‘inspection’.

Everything in the room, except those on the two immaculate workbenches, had a layer of dust. I was also fascinated to see, as I looked over to the corner where Darrel was poised leaning against a bench with his ankles nonchalantly crossed and a whimsical little smile playing about his mouth as he studiously avoided my eye, an overflowing black bin sack attached, I could see not how, to a door which obviously led outside.

In the furthest corner by this door and directly behind Darrel I saw what looked very much like smoke damage to woodwork and wall. A thick, sooty coating which had lost its freshness and shone with age. This was strange enough but then my eye caught the dirty, golden turning to brown with a slight greenish tinge smears, runs of something which for all the world looked like mustard! Thick as the runs one gets with gloss paint.

Darrel must have noticed something in my expression as he slowly looked over his shoulder behind him, made a sort of ‘Harrumph’ sound and quickly examined his feet. I moved my head a bit more to the side trying to see past him in an attempt to confirm that my eyes were not playing tricks and he moved slightly to block my view. I caught his eye and with a resigned little shrug and a grin he changed position again; yes, I would have put money on that sickly mess being aged, rancid mustard! Even stranger the runs seemed, if I screwed my eyes up slightly to blur the vision, yes definitely did become, the outline of a human shape. Rather like someone had stood in the corner and had mustard sprayed at them then moved away. The outline was definitely there! I was perplexed.

However, the most fascinating thing I discovered amongst all these pots, boxes, clock cases and movements, was even more disturbing! The ceiling was randomly decorated with slices of cucumber! They were in various stages of decay, some were curling downwards slightly at the edges and others were flatly adhering to the grubby ceiling; no question, definitely cucumber slices and no matter how I tried I couldn’t come up with a logical reason for this. I expect you too are now confounded and confused. Never fear, all will be revealed further in and I give no clue as to the page so you’ll have to keep reading won’t you? Anyway I have no idea where the explanation will fall within the coming pages so I couldn’t tell you now even if I wanted to.

As I mused on the mustard enigma and tried to construct in my a head a reasonably worded question to find out why there was cucumber on the ceiling, without appearing too nosy of course, I realised Mark was once again giving me his attention as with an expansive wave of his hand towards the shop area he said,

“You’d have your own office space out there. That would be your area.” He indicated a chair in slightly worse condition than the one I presently sat upon and which at that moment was home to a rather ugly great clock.

“There is a filing tray too.” he said drawing my attention to something out of the 1920’s. An old, bent, wire filing tray.

“There is a stapler as well.” he announced proudly. “Er somewhere.” This a little less confidently as his brows drew together thoughtfully and his hand dropped back into his lap.

“Whoopee Doo.” thought I.

He looked quite eager to please and impress so I showed pleasure and appreciation as much as I was able. I knew then, if I hadn’t been convinced before, that I wanted the job. I wanted to work with these two weird and somehow needy men and spend my days in this friendly, strangely comforting environment.

“We only have one toilet.” Mark suddenly threw at me. “No bunny burner or anything and its, …er outside but there wont be any spiders in it by the time a receptionist joins us!”

“Oh.” said I a bit stunned.

“The lock will be repaired by then too and it does have a toilet roll holder. The business provides the toilet paper you don‘t need to bring your own.” he added hurriedly. His eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge my reaction. I felt at that moment that my response to his outside loo was much more important than any qualifications I may have but whatever he saw in my expression he seemed reassured as I fought to keep my face blank, oh! how I wanted to laugh or at least have a giggle.

“We have a kettle for tea too or if you prefer you can have coffee. There is a percolator, just over there, see?” He was getting that eager look in his eye again. This man was proud of his percolator!

I looked over obligingly to the sink which was pretty old and pretty grubby but sure enough in pride of place was a percolator. Surprisingly clean at that.

I caught Darrel’s eye as I swivelled my head back to Mark on my left, he smiled encouragingly, his eyes twinkling.

“The toilet isn’t a problem.” I said, “as long as there are no spiders of course.” I added hurriedly, “and I do drink a lot of coffee.”

“You may want to bring in your own mug, or cup, or something. We have some spare ones but you would probably want your own.” said Mark.

I looked back to the sink area. Alongside the percolator were a nice, clean looking, dumpy, brown mug, a shiny, taller, navy blue mug, a once white, chipped and stained mug containing a paintbrush, an old fashioned white, enamelled mug with so many chips it looked to have a polka dot pattern and a thin also grubby, stained mug with no handle.

“Yes, I can easily bring in something.” answered I decisively.

“Now … what about swearing?” asked Mark suddenly, his reddest eye almost coming out of its socket as he stared at me.

The sudden change of subject threw me for a second,

“Well I do sometimes but not often.” I muttered.

“No I mean we sometimes swear here.” he replied with exaggerated patience.

“We will try to keep a lid on it but circumstances can …” began Darrel and trailed into silence.

“Look I’m not a baby I can ignore it, though I would be upset if I heard the F or C words bandied about willy nilly.”

“Oh I agree there’s no need for that sort of crudity.” Mark exclaimed, drawing his head back, like a tortoise which has just walked into a rock. He glanced over at Darrel for confirmation of their joint abhorrence of such foul words. Darrel responded with a quiet but firm,

“No, no, no need for that at all.”

Fool and innocent that I was I thought they meant it!

The ‘interview’ was turning into more of a chat than anything when Mark drew it to a sudden close,

“Well, I’ve seen a lot of people today and will give it some thought. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have decided.”

Darrel and I shook hands again and Mark led me out into the shop area.

“Thank you for coming and I’ll let you know.”

I left feeling quite sure I wanted to get this job and a sneaky suspicion that I would get it.

Working with Mark, Darrel and Hubert of course would definitely be interesting and the actual potential of the job as outlined could prove to be just the challenge I needed

The following week I got the call I was sort of expecting, though of course I was not going to let them know that so my initial reaction was to give the impression that I couldn’t just place someone called Mark immediately.

“From the clockshop.” he said in rather hushed tones, “you came for an interview last week.”

“Oh, yes the clockshop, sorry.” said I, bitch that I am. “I remember now.”

After a bit of discussion I agreed to a day’s trial. Mr Mark Taylor appeared to be labouring under the mistaken belief that I was the one to be on trial that day, I knew better.

It turned out to be a good day, for all concerned. I had been there about 5 minutes when the phone rang. Mark just looked at me and I looked at him. It was obvious he was not going to take the call so I picked it up.

“Good morning Mark Taylor’s.” said I, all bright and breezy. The caller asked me who I was and why was I answering the clockshop phone. I explained that I was new but if I could help him? He gave his name which I repeated for the benefit of Mark who flapped his arms in a way I took to mean ‘aaarghhhhhh, no I’m not here!’.

“I’m afraid Mr Taylor is not available at the moment can I take a message?” said I, little knowing that this would become my stock phrase for a while as I found my feet and Mark and Darrel were able to settle down to what they do best, restoring and repairing clocks.

On leaving I presented a list of things with which I felt Mark might consider equipping the shop. Simple things really like a broom with bristles intact, some polish and dusters other than the ‘jumble‘ assortment of torn t-shirts and old ladies knickers currently in use, a squeegee mop and bucket and most importantly, a job lot of air fresheners!

He took this in good part and with a casual,

“Well I’ll think about it and let you know.” he smilingly escorted me to the door.

The rest, as they say is history and bloody humorous that history is too, as I hope you will agree in the coming chapters.

One of my favourite places.

I worked there for many years and still have close links to the shop. Many years ago I began to write some short stories centred around it, the staff and the customers. I intend to post snippets here over time and hope you will enjoy the humourous little anecdotes.

Here is a taster to be going on with:-

“However, the most fascinating thing I discovered amongst all these pots, boxes, clock cases and movements, was even more disturbing! The ceiling was randomly decorated with slices of cucumber! They were in various stages of decay, some were curling downwards slightly at the edges and others were flatly adhering to the grubby ceiling; no question, definitely cucumber slices and no matter how I tried I couldn’t come up with a logical reason for this. I expect you too are now confounded and confused.”

If you want to read more watch out for the Tick Talk Tales which will show up in ‘Categories’ and I would love feedback on the ‘story’ as it progresses.

I spend a fair share of my waking hours investigating and researching these crimes. A great online resource is www.casebook.org and I’d highly recommend the site to anyone interested in the murders or even the Late Victorian period as a subject of its own. The information to be found there is second to none and the subscribers are all very well informed. They don’t all agree on many specific points which leads to some lively discussions.

I will post more on these crimes as time permits but if you are interested or want to know more visit the casebook site and wallow in all the information, photographs and theories you could wish for.

I have to say I think it is a fiasco, obviously thought up by some overpaid, twat in a government office somewhere.

The whole idea, so ‘they’ tell us is that benefit claimants should a) learn to budget and b) have the same choices as everyone else to spend their income as they see fit.

Well yes that is great, on paper! Don’t get me wrong many, many claimants pay up regularly every month and a lot of people in low paid jobs need a bit of help to put a roof over their heads. I thank them all for working and wish them well.

This diatribe is aimed more at the idiots in power who inflict this sort of crap on the rest of us and the long term, never worked – never will, I’m entitled to screw as much as I can out of the system brigade.

No I am not a Daily Mail reader before any of you hide behind this favourite shield which you will pick up when you know deep down inside that every word I say is true and you can come up with no reasonable justification for the injustices of life in Britain today. So much easier to put a person and their opinion down than actually accept any responsibility for the shit this country is in today.

I speak from experience when I say LHA which, unlike housing benefit, is paid direct to the tenant is facilitated fraud, the government/local authorities being the facilitator and the scum tenants the fraudsters.

These long term claimants know every way to work the system and it is a system which is specifically set up to make it easy for them to be dishonest. They know they will pay no rent even as they sign on the dotted line of the lease. They know that eviction processes are involved and costly to the landlord and they know they will be living elsewhere before any court papers ever wing their brown enveloped way towards them.

Rents should be paid direct to the landlord end of story. Everyone would know where they are then. These scrots are claiming their income support, job seekers allowance, disability allowance, council tax allowance and any other allowance you can think of plus they get a substantial sum as ‘rent’ which they can add to their income every four weeks.

You add it all together and they are on a good monthly ‘wage’ for sitting on their arses, smoking weed and drinking lager as they watch their 45″ flat screen telly and eat take away food wearing their labelled track suit and expensive trainers.

Laugh, they must be pissing themselves , if not through all the lager they have consumed – definitely with laughter at all the cash we are chucking at them every week.

The ordinary man in the street, that much quoted and extremely maligned person, is not actually aware of the fact that his hard earned money is given out by his local authority in regular chunks as an addition to the spending money the scrots already collect. The ordinary man in the street finds it hard to believe that ‘rent money’ is not given to the landlord. I know I have had a hard job convincing a lot of people that the scrots get the money.

Sadly  I cannot name and shame the thieving b*stards but I can give you a taste of some of their answers to a civilised request for rent money.

“F*ck off yer no gettin it!”

“Av spent it I needed a wee motor to go visit ma dochter (daughter)”

“Yer huffin a laff!”

“Whatever.”

“The bank took it before I could get it.”

“I had to pay my gas bill they were going to cut me off.”

The best one for me personally was the woman who rang from the airport to say she wouldn’t be in with her rent that afternoon as she was ‘just away on a short holiday’…..

So be aware that all these people who claim ‘rent’ from your Local authority and never hand it on to their landlord are doing better each month than you are and it is all tax free.

If you have ever wondered why your neighbour who has never worked has a car parked up outside, all the latest techno stuff and has a holiday at the drop of a hat check out the average rents for the area and you will see how much more disposable income he/she has compared to yourself. What is the rent in your area? £350 – £450 – £600 – £700 nice little earner eh?

So come on what are your views on your tax money being shared out in such great chunks to the unemployed / unemployable of our society?

I know it can be frustrating sometimes but logically it is the best way to get things moving effectively so why have the great British public taken against it?

People push in front of you at bus queues and don’t even get me started on supermarket queues but the latest ‘queuing thing’ has really got me fuming.

The local, central post office has brought in a system where you have to collect a ticket on entering depending on the service you require. Having watched this in action and waiting 43 minutes to be served, yes 43 minutes! I can tell you it is a shambles.

People who had a parcel to post were in and out in no time, foreign currency transactions were basically instant, things like Road tax and TV licensing were fairly fast but if you wanted to buy some stamps you had to wait, in my case as I have said, 43 minutes!!! I had to do that because I needed the letter weighed to make sure I had the right postage. Basically the customer who was likely to  spend more got better service.

First come first served is the best way to deal with a lot of people. What is it going to be next? Will Tesco make you line up depending on how much stuff you are buying? Trolleys go through before baskets? Fresh food before frozen or tinned? ? Will Debenhams deal with those buying a coat before someone buying a t-shirt and the person buying the coat can just wait while they see to the chap buying a sofa…?

Q

Next step will be you can only buy stamps on a Monday, bread on a Thursday etc.

What do you think? Do you wait when there is a queue like a good and responsible citizen???

Taken on way to Southend

What a wonderful place! 

Well worth the incredibly long journey it needs to actually reach it. I travelled there in the spring to meet up with my very good friend Heather who was over on one of her regular visits from Colorado USA. The coach trip from Glasgow is long but the scenery keeps you distracted and you have a much needed break at Inverary by Loch Fyne. 

Campbeltown is not large but it is large enough, has everything you could need as far as shopping is concerned, schools, medical services and it is within some of the most beautiful countryside imaginable. It really does have everything  going for it except I think perhaps employment opportunities. It is famous for once having over around 30 distilleries, and as many churches. This probably is where the famous song comes from. 

Chorus:
Campbeltown Loch I wish you were whiskey,
Campbeltown Loch och-aye!
Campbeltown Loch I wish you were whiskey,
I would drink you dry.

Now Campbeltown Loch is a beautiful place,
But the price of the whiskey is grim.
How nice it would be if the whiskey was free
And the Loch was filled up to the brim.I’d buy a yacht with the money I’ve got
And I’d anchor it out in the bay.
If I wanted a sip I’d go in for a dip
I’d be swimmin’ by night and by day.We’d have a gathering of the clans
They’d come from near and far
I can see them grin as they’re wading in
And shouting “Slainte mhor!”.But what if the boat should overturn
And drowned in the Loch was I?
You’d hear me shout, you’d hear me call out
“What a wonderful way to die !”

But what’s this I see, ochone for me
It’s a vision to make your blood freeze.
It’s the police afloat in a dirty big boat
And they’re shouting: “Time, gentlemen, please!” 

Right there in the middle of Campbeltown loch sits Davaar Island. I have always had some sort of affinity with this island, I don’t really know why, it may be as simple as the fact it was my House when I was in High School, but I knew about Davaar in my head before I ever went to the school so I can’t be sure. 

I had a glorious weekend there with Heather and her family. It is one of those places where people still actually stop in the street to chat to each other and as it is Heather’s home town everyone knows her so stopping to chat happened pretty frequently. The people are incredibly friendly, or maybe they are just ‘normally’ friendly and it is the rest of the country which has become so insular and private. There are few places I can think of where life is lived at the same pace as in Campbeltown. 

In some ways it is a bare little place but in others it has great charm. You will even find, much to your shock I think (I know I was amazed), palm trees! Yes there are palm trees in Campbeltown. Then of course the harbour area and the view to Davaar. The little shops where assistants actually acknowledge you, even chat with you as you browse amongst novelties and necessities. 

We got the most delicious Wheaton rolls and Barm cakes from McIlchere’s baker shop and I bought a couple of books in a little second hand bookshop off Main street then some of my favourite Yankee candles in a tiny place on the Main Street and some wonderful sweeties in a great sweet shop which had everything you could imagine on sale. 

We had a wonderful lunch in the Ardshiel Hotel on Kilkerran Road. Fresh Haddock which was delicious and the portion more than satisfying. The hotel itself was really nice with an intimate bar area and recently refurbished dining area which was that rarity these days, spacious, each table had space around it and conversations were therefore private. Outside, just off the dining area was a peaceful sun trap of a garden where we had our coffee. Definitely to be recommended. 

Then I was taken on a lovely drive down as far as Southend through some beautiful countryside each isolated property we passed becoming my favourite. I think we all have dreams of a little cottage in some lovely setting. I would settle for any in and around Campbeltown. 

Some of the views are stunning and entering into Southend I saw interesting ruins and caves. I promised myself I would get to explore them properly someday. 

Campbeltown is one of very few places in the UK that I would say I could seriously consider settling in. Definitely a 5 star place in my books and I will certainly return when the opportunity presents. 

If you are in Burnley and want to take a taxi be warned the driver will not understand what you say so you could end up anywhere and you wont know what he is saying so I suppose in theory you could pay him anything…

There are a lot of scruffy areas (I suppose there are a lot of scruffy areas everywhere) but these areas are more than scruffy – let’s just say you wouldn’t want to walk through some of them without a troop of Royal Marines as protection. In these areas the accessory of choice is a ferocious dog and spitting is something done as regularly and as often as breathing. They don’t always aim at the pavement either!

As for politeness it hasn’t totally reached this corner of Lancashire yet. Obviously there are normal, nice people but Burnley has more than its fair share of the other sort.

E.G. In the pedestrian alley down the side of what used to be Woolworths is a shoe shop, it is on the left and last in the row before the walkway turns left. Not a cheap place (where the assistant’s behaviour may have been excusable) but middle of the road I would say, where I once bought a pair of shoes with not one single word passing the lips of the ‘assistant’. She had to concentrate so hard on keeping her gum chewing at a steady rate she could not possibly have spoken. I selected the shoe I wanted to try the partner to and took it to the counter. “Can I try the other one please” I said as I handed it to her. Her eyes rolled ceiling ward. She disappeared behind the counter into another area and returning gave me both shoes. I checked them and decided yes I’d have them so back to the counter, “I’ll take these please.” She took them from me did her bit with the till and popped them in a carrier bag which she literally dumped on the counter in front of me. She then held out her hand. I showed her I was using my plastic so she passed me the hand unit where I inserted my card and went through the PIN bit. I removed my card as she tore off my receipt and chucked it in the bag. I said “Thank you.” and she blew a bubble with her gum letting it snap and using her tongue to gather the bits back into her ever moving mouth. As I left the shop she was chewing away and looking at the ceiling again. That is par for the course in many Burnley shops.

There is a good market though, above the main shopping area. Friendly and always busy. I used to like having a snack and a coffee in the cafe area in the centre of the market. The staff there are lovely and the food is great and reasonably priced.

Another great place to grab a coffee and a quick bite is the cafe in the bus station. Their scrambled eggs are to die for and their chip rolls are so well filled with chips three people could share them. It is always clean and the staff are very nice. It also gets points because it has an outdoor area too which is great on a fine day as you can sit and watch the world stroll by.

One of my favourite Burnley shops has to be ‘the chicken shop’ I don’t know its true name. Wonderful cooked chickens and a great variety of cooked meats. They also do sandwiches and usually have a small selection of cakes. It is in a short alley called I believe ‘Boot Way’. Just across from the bus station, over the crossing and there is the alley.

For fish and chips you have to go to Frydays. Lovely. Another good chippie is Bellfields but it is a bit out of Burnley in an area called Burnley Wood (in Parliament Street) which is sadly one of those places where you may want that troop mentioned earlier to accompany you, though they are working hard at sorting the area, neighbourhood groups etc. They have their own website/forum at www.burnleywood.com where you can read about the efforts of the residents and they are desperately collecting Tesco for school vouchers if anyone has any to spare.

Burnley is also blessed with some lovely park areas. Townley being probably the best and well worth a visit. As it is on the edge of the Burnley Wood area you could add in a trip to Bellfields afterwards and if you need some ironmongery you could pop into Ron’s place nearby also on Parliament Street. Ron is a lovely helpful chap and I always preferred to go there than one of the bigger stores.

Parliament Street starts just off the canal bridge at Finsley Gate and has a few local shops strung out along it including an old fashioned fruit, veg and flowers business. I imagine that the whole Burnley Wood area in its heyday was a great place to live. A plot of land filled with two ups, two downs and bordered by Townley Park and the canal. Like many areas it has gone through a very bad patch and has for a few years been undergoing regeneration. I often feel that these plans to revitalise an area are all well and good when the end result is finally achieved but the hell it puts the present day residents through it is hard to describe.

All over the UK, and I expect other places too, work of this sort is carried out as the people living in the midst of it try to go on with their everyday lives, work, school, shopping. Sometimes I have to wonder at what colour the sky is on the planet inhabited by local authority planning staff.

My mum lived in Burnley Wood for a time, until her death so I feel a bit more affinity with the place and that is why Burnley in the categories section will have its own heading as I intend to update this blog on how Burnley Wood is progressing as they drag it back from literally the jaws of hell for residents and it becomes the decent area everyone wants.

Lovely walks along the towpath

Burnley as a whole does try very hard to be a nice place to visit and it has some charms. Nice old buildings mostly used by the council I think. A great library. The best thing about it though is the canal. It goes right through the town, you can walk for miles along it. Though you have to be careful of broken glass as it is used by kids who are usually getting up to things they shouldn’t including drinking and smashing bottles. In the summer you are almost guaranteed to see a narrowboat sailing majestically along and at all times of the year there are the ducks, sometimes swans, the geese at Finsley Gate and for a few years now the solitary and very beautiful Mandarin duck which seems quite happy to spend its time with the more prosaic quack quacks.

Posh duck hanging out with the more lowly ones

I would go back to Burnley as I think it has more for than against and it is trying hard to be a nice place. Just have to know the areas to stay away from.

I worked there for a few years and I can easily count people I’d like to see again on one finger. There are beggars everywhere. So much litter I think perhaps they class it as street art. Drugs well if you don’t take drugs you wont fit in. Egging houses is the normal pasttime for the local kids (say age group 5-8) older kids are more into putting cats in wheelie bins and setting them on fire (8-11) and once they hit 11 or 12 sex, booze, ciggies and possibly drugs is the only way to go. All age groups will participate in smashing things up and general vandalism.

Many of the houses there are what are known as tenements with a central staircase and usually two apartments on each floor. Strangely the people who live in them tend to dislike stairs, (I am guessing here because if that is not the reason they are simply filthy, dirty scrots), as rather than take their rubbish down to the bins they just open a window and chuck the rubbish bags out into the communal yard. Take note if for some God forsaken reason you ever have to live in a flat in Dundee do not select a ground floor one – your back windows will overlook a rubbish tip, well for a while anyway until it is piled so high you wont know if it is day or night outside. Sometimes it is not even a bag of rubbish. I have seen a dirty nappy which has obviously just been removed from some poor scrap of humanity hurtled from the third floor to land on top of a bin, excrement flying in all directions. So if you know of any homeless rats tell them about Dundee it would be a Utopian paradise to them.

Often the inside of their homes aren’t much better than the landfills outside. This is a property ‘staged’ for sale 2007…

Crumbs colour co-ordinated with lino...

You will be surprised to hear I didn’t put in an offer…

The only good things I can say about Dundee is that there is a great mix of shops, though some even the ‘big names’ are very shabby, there are good bookshops, a good bus service and just along the coast is Broughty Ferry which is a charming place with pleasant people - you can escape Dundee be there in 15 mins.

Dundee has some beautiful architecture but it is disappearing fast as the council carry out their program of ‘modernising’. The council also have been known to have the pigeons shot which I think is disgusting.

All in all I have been to Dundee and I have crossed it off my list of places to return to – no way will I ever go there again.