Dear John Lewis, Leicester

No apologies but I can't hold back any longer ... I'm missing you John Lewis.  There I said it! Since you closed the shutters over twelve whole weeks ago now, I've been pining for your jaunty kitchen utensil displays, bright and airy sales floors and the massively-out-of-my-price-range rug emporium.  I know it sounds crazy but just touching them is bliss.  Obviously I've been stuck in The Nest too long and I'm going a bit feather-brained but I'm drawn like a moth to the buzzing candle flame of the Tech section and adore the way it morphs into the baby wear department as if they were an odd couple. I've wasted whole afternoons people-watching and writing in the cafe with it's obscured glass surround, presumably deployed to mask the panoramic view over a spectacularly dull car park facade.  Please come back and I promise to social distance daily in the blissful calm of the fabric and knitting area and not breathe on the beautiful shoes.  I'll even smile when being inappropriately greeted four or five times before I've ambled ten feet through the door and submit to interrogation by the iPad Chap stationed at the front door asking about my 'shopping experience' - yes, it's dreadful occasionally - but I'm still missing you.

I ventured into Leicester on Monday before they locked us down again and those shutters of yours remained resolutely shut.  Inside, I felt like Cathy calling to Heathcliff but there'll be no crashing through your doors yet I fear.  Times are hard for all of us but it doesn't take a retail analyst to see the picture for the whole UK is gloomy.  And yes, I do know Leicester is a hard place to make a profit.  My maternal grandmother was from well-heeled Suffolk dynasty who described the people as 'penny-pinching'.  Not true of course, it's high-end-motor and personalised number plate heaven here.
"They would skin a flea for a farthing..." was her favourite phrase but that only means we like a bargain.  Who doesn't?

Remember me?  I was there when you opened the Highcross Bridge for the first time in September 2008, shivering in my Body Shop uniform, earning 90% of national minimum wage with no hope of an annual bonus, and considering that I should have applied to you instead John. And now I'm imploring you to re-open when Boris finally allows us out of lockdown.  With your doors flung wide, we stand a chance of keeping an element of quality in our retail cathedral.  Leicester and the Shire will still be able to buy all those gorgeous things we didn't know we wanted until your store brought them to us.  While I'm wallowing in nostalgia, think fondly on all those grooms who bought wedding suits on the second floor, and mothers-of-the-bride panicking over which outfits and matching shoes would work on the Big Day; where will they go?  Although you could do with a specialist hat section and the underwear's a bit mumsy too, sorry.

It would be awful if Leicester fell from retail grace in the same way Northampton has been wrecked.  There, the closure of M&S and Debenham's has left them with a market and very little else except charity shops, essentially driving paying customers to bland old Milton Keynes.  Even you have to admit that retail has become homogenised lately but you could go on that diet and reinvent yourselves, come back to us as a "John Lewis Lite" in the style of the New Street Station store in Birmingham which has all the brands, just with less confusing mountains of stock.  It would also be lovely to refresh the cosmetics department with a Charlotte Tilbury boutique and a MAC outlet for us more forward-thinking clientele.  Don't throw a bucket of cold water on my ideas just yet.  Better still, put a Waitrose on the ground floor to add spice to the store, then I wouldn't have to drive to Market Harborough (not at the moment obviously) to buy harissa paste and your excellent Essentials brown sauce for Alphonse, who has been complaining bitterly about his lacklustre beans on toast.  You see John, no other sauce will do.

If you're in any way unsure that I mean all of the above, just take a look at your own Christmas advert for 2019.  Edgar is a small, misunderstood dragon with a huge need to be loved and accepted by the people around him - well I think that's what it was about - and Dan Smith of Bastille singing the evocative words of REO Speed Wagon's "Can't Fight This Feeling" brought tears to my eyes.  I can't fight it John ... I want you to stay with Leicester and fight too, and we will come back with a flaming Christmas pudding for the end of 2020.

With Love

Tip of the Beak:  I've never written a 'Dear John' letter, fax or text before because I've never dated a 'John'.  But I'm moved to write this one before I'm left bereft by the sight of our sad and still closed John Lewis store.  Yes, the City of Leicester has scored another spectacular own goal with a spike in our Covid-19 figures but it doesn't mean we're bad people.  It means that no-one will visit our fair city without wearing a mask, apron and gloves for a while longer.  Just a word to the wise post-coronavirus, I wouldn't come without booking a parking space outside of your own house and carrying some extra toilet rolls either.  We can't leave temporarily but just in case you're unsure of where we are, here's a helpful map.



Stay safe

Raven

Lockdown Fever

It's been a while hasn't it?  I had no real reason to stop sharing tall tales from The Nest except I'd run out of cheery struggles to write about, especially as I don't work in retail any more and for the past year I'd relaxed into a state of mental torpor about the work situation reasoning that 'it's not long until retirement.'  Except all those plans have been dumped in the face of a global pandemic and since March 2020 I've learned to love queuing for food just as they did in the old Soviet Union.  Yesterday, I queued for half an hour in the midday sun for a hot water bottle at everyone's favourite hardware store, Wilko.  Everything which was wonky in The Nest has been fixed or painted and I've bottomed my sock drawer.  It's official, I've got cabin fever.

Locked down at work and at home; personally I feel it takes real skill to get stuffed on both levels.  Deep inside though, the lid came off my creative writing reserves and I woke up with a start as if from a long sleep in a ditch.  Suddenly I wanted to be an author again, a 'proper writer' of dark dystopian science fiction.  Obviously I'd already started considering a future with no water, precious few resources and heroes battling to save the world from an evil villain.  Oops! If I'd consulted the family crystal ball - we do have a cheap one but it's not exactly reliable - then I might have foreseen the reality which was burgeoning in our direction.   Now we're right in it  ... temporarily, of course.  The perfect time to start writing again.

You won't have seen the first chapter of my novel which I posted over a year ago because I deleted it last week.  It only had two page views, both of which were mine.  It was sad because I'd thrashed out the original idea over a bucket of coffee in the patisserie opposite Victoria's Secrets in the Bull Ring.  At any time if overwhelmed by creativity I could nip over the way for a quick browse and a cunning purchase of scanties.  Soon after the initial thrill of starting to write the great tome, I made the writer's classic mistake of telling someone else the story.

We have two new staff in my wing of the hospital since the departure of the dreadful Valkyrie. Champion, who is a funny, very smart woman who needs help seeking a new partner, and Frosty who hails from Essex and who regularly calls a spade an 'effing shovel'.  I love them both.  Keen to show off over lunch of a light salad and chips in the staff restaurant, I gave Frosty a quick outline of the story.  She fixed me with a stare and pronounced with absolute certainty ...
"That's Kiss of the Spider Woman set in a dystopian future instead of Argentina with a manga comic twist!"  Everyone's a critic.
"Is it?"  I've never read the book but I'm sure the film hasn't been shown on the Horror channel recently.  But I didn't want to diss her obvious love of literature and asked if she was sure.
"Positive," she barked back "I only gave the book to charity last week."  Damn!  That'll teach me not to ask questions of an Essex girl.  In creative circles, talent can only take you so far but with a bucket of perseverance and connections, a writer can make progress so I ploughed on.  'There could still be a book in this' I reasoned but after a period of drifting and reworking, I decided to do the kind thing and abandon The Order of Sanctity  at the 35,000 word point.  You see, I was thrashing away at the keyboard when I had a gin and tonic moment.
"I have become a Typewriter Monkey!" I felt like shouting but it was 2.00 am.
This revelation finally plucked my flight feathers right back to the quick.  As in my work life I'd also become a typewriter monkey - day in, day out, typing clinics of 20-30 letters about patients afflicted with bad hips and/or knees was stifling the last few bubbles of originality.

Currently I am classed as a key worker and have a letter to gain entry to supermarkets in the early hours but I won't use it.  I'm far away from patient care despite having to wear a mask to visit the facilities.  One of our consultants is very lofty in the Infectious Diseases department and I've been working on his reports for a change.  I'm sure he dreads heading out in public as everywhere he goes, he is interrogated by the nearest hypochondriac.  Last week, I observed a strange encounter between him and one of my male co-workers, VJ, who was crabbing down the main corridor with his back to the wall.  He was doing a good job of social distancing except he'd tied his mask under his nose so he could breathe properly.  The two men faced each other at about five feet eleven inches apart.
"Prof ... I think I've had corona virus."  Bless him, the good professor's face suggested he is a grand master of bluffing at the poker table.
"Were you ill before or after Christmas 2019?"  VJ had to think about the answer without counting on his fingers.
"Before."
"Then you haven't had it.  You've had the ghastly seasonal virus we all got between November and New Year."
"But I lost my sense of smell and taste and everything."
"Really?  Everything you ate tasted like wallpaper did it?"  The light which illuminated VJ's face was stellar.  The professor was now backing away towards the door of his consulting room possibly to shed tears of frustration.
"Oh yeah ... how did you know?"
"Because it's a symptom of the common cold but also of corona in some cases."
VJ felt his wish for two weeks off sick was about to be granted.  "So I have had it then?" he asked.
"No.  What you've had is a stinking head cold."

So it's nearly June and Summer is bursting out in all directions but whilst many tears have been shed over the last few months, we still need answers:
Who got corona first?  Someone has to be 'Patient Zero' whether it originated from eating bat shit or the result of a ghastly experiment, pinpointing it will make us all feel better to wag the finger of fate in a specific direction.
What precautions, if any, did they take to avoid spreading it to their nearest and dearest?
When they realised this was a right cock-up and that it couldn't be contained, did they think to mention it to the authorities?
Where exactly was this cooked up?  Conspiracy theories abound and books will be written but I want the accurate location to avoid it at all costs possibly into the next reincarnation.
Why aren't the surviving perpetrators in stocks being pelted by chunks of banana loaf?
How do they think the world is coming back from this?  I think the deficit in the global economy should be on the shoulders of those responsible ... except we'll never know who they are, will we?

On the upside, the shops are preparing to open in two weeks' time and I'm taking time off to handcraft a jolly mask which will actually fit my beak, unlike the flimsy blue one I've been given.  I won't be visiting Zara or touching lovely fabrics in John Lewis either but will stay away from the crowds who will be barrelling into shopping centres attempting to gain a scant grip on a new reality.

Tip of the Beak:  I'm loving the whole new world of orderly shopping with a special mention to Sainsbury's on Melton Road.  The social distancing zone is very clearly outlined but if you need Argos then the queue  is massive. I'm heading there now to fill up and return to The Nest in blissful isolation.  Alphonse is here of course using regular hand sanitiser and sporting a wavy mullet but he's been in isolation since he retired, so no worries there.  Stay safe everyone.

Raven

Stephen Loveless_Writer

"It's an unusual surname, Loveless," Stephen advised me as we shook hands, adding "and it's confined to a small area of the South West of England." A broad grin appeared like sunshine from behind a boiling cloud, his mop of unruly hair shaking with laughter.  "Doesn't explain how I was born in Leeds does it?"  Indeed it didn't and I couldn't explain why I was being interviewed for a part-time college course in August 2008.  I'd sort of pitched up and met this chap with an unhappy name. I'd written something before; surely this was enough?  Stephen sipped his black coffee from a polystyrene cup.
"Tell me what you've done so far ..."
"Weelll ...." I slopped tea over the leaflets covering his table and delivered my entire writer's CV in one garbled sentence starting with the immortal words "I've been writing since I could hold a pencil ..." and ending with "I want to get published!" I stared back at him waiting for enlightenment.  Except he waved his hand like Merlin the Wizard preparing to reveal a great secret.
"You've never finished anything, have you?"  Damn!  Stephen had seen straight through my bluff and, put on the spot, I signed up for two years of part-time study and a decade of friendship, mentoring and inspiration from my great friend, Stephen Loveless.

From the off, it was obvious that 26 fresh-out-the-box newbies knew bugger all writing.  Stephen soon filled in the gaps.
"Get it written ... then get it right!" he exclaimed waving his long expressive hands as if directing an orchestra.  Every writing tutor world-wide will tell you this and so it has become my mantra, especially when I'm about to weep tears of frustration.
"Embrace your dark side ... give it more gore." His voice was never deep enough for a full Darth Vader impersonation but it made me laugh.  His Bella Lugosi vampire impersonation was legend. "And keep going on the character, dialogue and plot ..." he insisted, "then you'll finish it."  Believe me, I never imagined I'd be writing about his ending.

Obituaries, I'm told, are what we know of the dearly departed.  I know his tall frame suited the jeans and colourful shirts he loved to wear with a battered leather jacket.  Stephen was easy to spot on his travels around the East Midlands, mainly because of the bulging shoulder bag he lugged everywhere with him; I always suspected it lived at the bottom of his bed like a beloved labrador.  It weighed as much as a black lab.  Stephen was great company wherever we met to chat and he loved combing the best charity shops for rare science fiction DVDs having vowed never to own a television set.  He favoured the Edwardian Tea Rooms in Birmingham's Museum for its comfy chairs and Dippy the Dinosaur resident in the basement.  Treating him to lunch was my pleasure; always chips and a bacon sandwich.
"Because I don't own a grill." he confessed, then laughed like a drain.  In truth, he didn't own much.

Fuelled by undrinkable, American-style coffee, I know he could write up a storm and did just that every time he picked up a pen.  Stephen John Sidney Loveless won the first ever Daphne du Maurier prize for dark writings in the Mystery & Suspense category, and penned the exquisite one-man play 'I am John Clare' which was turned down by the great poet's own society.  No sense of irony there then?  Stephen never said but I'm sure the rejection cut him very deeply as his friend and actor, Robin Hillman, recounted at the funeral service.
"I defy anyone to tell me where John Clare stops and Stephen's exquisite writing takes over." Such a heartbreaking moment reduced us all to tears once more because Stephen's love for writing never waned even after he'd been transferred to a Leicester hospital last September.  Despite the obvious distress of his situation, he'd written another play by channelling his remaining energy, passion and experience into his writing.
"My best writing ever!" he assured me and I believed him.  Whether it will see the lights of any theatre in the UK, only the Gods know.

No-one will know the reasons why Stephen Loveless didn't rise to the dizzy heights.  He was a very successful writer and brilliant theatre director except the material trappings just didn't arrive on cue.  Personally, I blame it on Northampton; he hated the place but it's best not to dwell as it's become his lasting legacy.  On a soggy Thursday afternoon, most of his friends yet precious few of his family gathered to drink tea in the Jesus Centre just over the way from St Giles' Church.  We started the day as strangers, united to remember a wonderful man who loved to help those less fortunate than himself and, bonding over tea and mini rolls, we told outstanding stories of a great writer who had departed far too soon.  We agreed that he had left each of us with a gem; something priceless, a train of thought, some kind words or a selfless deed to carry us forward through this life.  Loveless? He most certainly wasn't.

The Chinese believe that when we are born red streams of light connect us to the special people who are key to our lives and on 28th February 2019 one of my red streamers was slowly but gently disconnected to the music of George Harrison's 'Here Comes the Sun'.  Stephen Loveless followed the Ides of March and walked a path which chimed with the natural cycle of our Earth.  He celebrated Losar and was fiercely proud to have met the Dalai Lama; another man who loves to wear bright colours.  Stephen chose a green burial site possibly facing his ancestral South West and wholly appropriate with his love of John Clare who wrote,

'Untroubling and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.'

Born:     23rd October 1950
Passed:  5th February 2019

Au Revoir Stephen John Sidney Loveless

Raven

Last But Not Least _ Star Wars Edit

As the last embers of the Harry Potter octet of movies faded into the night, I'd planned to share a late supper of leftovers with Alphonse.  We needed a welcome antidote to the post-apocalyptic rubbish on tele and some decent music in the shape of Jools Holland et al would do the job.  As with last year, I'd hoped to slide gently into the New Year by shouting "Hootenanny" just a bit too loudly out of the front door but before Jools had uttered a word, I'd actioned a sudden change of plan the nano-second I spotted Ed Sheeran gear up to play 'Shape of You.'  Noooo! Not again please!!!  Nothing personal against the Ginger One but I've been listening to Gem FM Live to dull the tedium at work since the beginning of December.  They clumsily mixed his music with endless festive classics, and I was ready to run amok in the racking if I heard that tune one more time.  In the nick of time, Alphonse flipped back to Nile Rogers and Chic as they finished off their fabulous set.  Face it folks, disco is back and is The New Black!  I'm not a disco purist though and love his stuff with John Newman, Daft Punk and Laura Mvula too.  Sometime later, I staggered up to bed leaving Alphonse hoovering up a curried selection of meats which were gifted from the party at No36.

Music has definitely played a part in this year's festivities and as I waltzed around the living room, I felt 2017 drift away with the final few bars of the Blue Danube so elegantly broadcast from Vienna.  Definitely I felt that more coffee with a touch of Remy Martin would improve my spirits and extra Nutella on toast had added greatly to the vibe.  Still, it was hard to tear my blingometer away from the lady piccolo player and her spectacular diamond earrings.  These couldn't be purchased from anyone's High Street store as only real diamonds glisten like that when shaken.  Dazzled, I looked away from the screen for a moment attempting to recreate my Grade 5 ballet exams, slipped on a memory foam slipper and twisted my already bruised black'un'blue left knee again.

For a welcome change, this was not a shopping injury but one I'd sustained in the Betwixtmas days.  Sick of hacking ice off the car, I decided to use public transport for a change and head for Market Harborough.  The whole Shire had been afflicted with invisible black ice and I stepped on a sheet of it taking off in the direction of the A47. Instinct told me to 'make a snow plough' with my boots but without tread and with 20/20 hindsight, I should have let go of the umbrella I was gripping onto to keep me dry.  At least it's only one knee and a lorry driver heading East had a good laugh.   When I finally got to Harborough and met my friend-cum-editor under the Grammar School clock, he pointed out the legend engraved on the sundial of St Dionysius's Church. "Improve The Time" it says, which has been adopted as my only New Year's Resolution because I'm a serial waster of the most valuable resource we all take for granted.

Bruises aside I've made two short trips to the Sales; first to buy a much wanted glitzy frock from Debenham's. 'Yay! sorted for 2018' I thought.  Except when I got it home I had Part 1 and was missing Part 2, the underdress, which made it decent to wear in public?  I wondered why the personal shopper in the fitting room gave me a weird sideways look but omitted to say "don't you think it's a bit draughty for this time of year?"  So I returned for a second time in the vain hope they'd found the slip dress.  Not a chance but I've kept Part 1 anyway as the  refund was very welcome and I found a decent substitute in Primani.

On the way back to the carpark, I blew the remains of my refund in Paperchase on more Christmas decorations.  Then, my bird brain having stalled in Crimbo Limbo, I decided to pop into Zara.  Once past the security staff, I bumbled my way to the back in the one-way browsing system and, horrified, found myself humming along to Winds of Change by Scorpion.  Unforgettable as a prog-rock classic, I can remember all the words as it formed a defining moment in my broadcasting career.  I'd chosen this track for a demo tape made for a BBC presenters' course in 1990.  My first choice was Addicted to Love by Robert Palmer, the video so joyously ripped off in Love Actually; I actually missed it this year.  Out in the fresh air, I vowed there'll be no more shopping until I've bought a TARDIS because I'd wasted two hours getting all hot, bothered and buying nothing.

I also wasted an hour with Dr Who and the departure of Peter Capaldi.  Please don't ask me to explain the backstory or nice little touches from past regenerations, not until I've watched the entire back catalogue again from 1963.  Seriously, I've no idea what happened in the Christmas Special but I know it made me sad.  Unlike Star Wars, The Last Jedi.  The critics have been harsh but it was way better than the previous offering; it's funny for a start.  Later, sharing a full-fat cappuccino with Frangipani, we compiled a list of questions which remain unanswered:
- Why doesn't Ben Solo look like either of his parents, at all?
- No-one stops to eat so how do they cope burning 5K calories an hour fighting the baddies?
- Remind me again, who says Benicio del Toro can act?  He was just weirdly playing himself.
- Where did the speeders come from on the salt flats?
- 'Spoiler alert' how did Rose die saving Finn then end up in the rebel base (alive) a bit later?
- Who, unless utterly insane, believes they can "Rule The Galaxy"?  I've spent the whole festive holiday season in a more 'pass the Galaxy' mood so it's not a career choice for me anytime soon.

Tip of the Blog:  Each new year is an open book and already 2018 feels lighter than last year.  And, like my hero Mr Charles Dickens, I have been gifted with limited time to finish two novels.  The story goes that Mr Dickens gave himself six weeks to write a best-seller and his eventual creation was The Christmas Carol and thus I've enjoyed every version, especially with the Muppets and Michael Caine because it is a work of sheer genius.  So, if you don't hear from me for at least six weeks or until the Chinese New Year of the Dog cocks its leg up, I'm aiming exceptionally high in 2018 believe me.

I wish you all the very best for a Happy New Year.

Raven .x.

My Grammar School Reunion

“Bloody hell Kathryn … " I heard a vibrant shout coming from behind me.  "You look EXACTLY the same …!!!”  Being greeted by my first name is so unusual, I flinched.  Kathryn, there I said it.  It means ‘pure’.  Of heart, soul or mind who knows what Dad was thinking?  I always thought it made me sound like an extra wife-let of Henry VIII as in ‘Kathryn of Arrogant’, waiting for the executioner’s axe.  And as I embraced Dr Gillian, I felt the years melt away.  Along with Glee-style choirs, prom dresses and box sets of Game of Thrones, the High School Reunion seems to have nudged its way across the Atlantic and swum ashore in the UK. Except they’re not a new phenomenon are they?  Like knicker elastic, it all depends on the strength of your old school ties.  A brilliant example of the HSR genre is the film Grosse Pointe Blank, mainly for its pitch-black humour, cutting-edge dialogue and Joan Cusack; strangely not John.  She convinces her boss, a professional hitman, to attend his High School Reunion and predictably it goes downhill in a hail of bullets. I also adore Minnie Driver’s gold necklace and am still searching for a copy; one I can afford anyway.

Life, like my feathers, has been a bit flat lately until I was accosted in M&S by an old school chum.  Shirley cornered me in Per Una and ordered me to attend our 50th school reunion.  I remember being 11, it was painful.  Imagine the burgeoning energy our 11 year old selves possessed?  You could power a city with it.  Back then I believed we would all become doctors, lawyers, dentists or artists; ready to save the world from itself. Yet I didn’t feel worthy somehow; it was the era of Apollo 11 and Neil Armstrong and I wanted to be ‘out there’.  Instead, I left in the Summer of ’72 with a Fenwick’s perm and a secretarial course and today I’m in here, writing not saving.  Still, with my curiosity ignited, I felt I had to give this reunion thing a go and ignoring my usual top-to-toe black option, I wore high-vis yellow last Saturday afternoon ultimately regretting this as I was temporarily swept along in the Gay Pride festivities.  Eventually, I broke away from the crowd and ran for Silver Street and as I followed familiar faces through the door, I desperately wanted to hear tales of where the last half century had taken us all.

I had stories to tell too; trainee retail manager at 19, so bored with Leicester I ran away to Benidorm after a boy (best gloss over that one). Cabin crew (best not mention my liver needed two years to recover).  Bit of this, bit of that, BBC.  I started to bore myself as I glossed over the Body Shop era and dismissed the present.  Would my stellar classmates understand my current dead-end job and the struggle to make ends meet while I write my magnum opus? I needn’t have worried; dentists had a particularly poor showing amongst the familiar faces.  London and Oxbridge had called to many, those gifted with strong, passionate names so long fallen out of fashion.  Judith, Teresa, Claire, Gillian, Helen, Angela and Elizabeth although I’ve missed a few for anonymity’s sake.

Together, we marvelled at our School Magazine with it’s 1970’s graphic front cover, funky style and chatty news of past, present and future great deeds. Gillian had pages in there, as did Julia and Anne; actually all the Annes featured regularly. I would have killed to get a piece of writing in this hallowed publication and it only happened once.  Memo to my 11 year old self, smile on all photos, write better poetry and avoid gooey Aztek bars.  In a sea of familiar faces now all wearing specs with varifocals, at last I found Debra.  Her brilliance still shone through after half a century.

“Aren’t you a Consultant Gynaecologist?” I’d heard it through the grapevine.

“Nah!  I’ve retired now.  Never could stand Gynae.”  

I bleated “But I googled you.” Crestfallen, I wanted to burn my IT management certificates.

“Must have been another doctor.”  She said “if you google me, you get nothing.  I’m quite proud of that.”  If you google Raven + Leicester, all you get is a chippie in LE3 unless you want to buy my first book; please search the Kindle store for ‘A New Way to Fly.’

A group of us had attached ourselves to the bar, where Helen produced a colourful sheet of paper from her handbag.

“Remember these?” she asked.  They were ticket stubs from gigs she’d been to with Gillian; a list of Prog-Rock heaven.  “You liked Emerson Lake & Palmer, didn’t you?”

“Liked?”  I drooled over them and cried at Keith Emerson's demise recently. “I had all the vinyl.”  But there was one gig missing.  “We went to the Birmingham Odeon to see them.”  Helen shook her head, having forgotten a defining moment when we three were finally free of parental ties.  Memory’s a funny thing isn’t it?  I shiver at the memory of my tiny black velvet jacket which wouldn’t keep a kitten warm on a freezing night.

“Didn’t we do country dancing in the gym.”  

“I remember the Gay Gordons, Spangles and the Miners baby-pink lippy that made my teeth look yellow.”  I only wear red these days but can’t remember my 30’s much or the country dancing?  Neither of us went on the specially selected cruises or school trips and honestly, we didn’t miss much.  I didn’t hang on to much school memorabilia either. Besides, Alphonse is such a hoarder of sheet music, we’d need to extend into next door’s attic to accommodate any more stuff.  Don’t tell him but his next birthday gift is an industrial strength paper shredder.

Standing over a bowl of fallen apples yesterday, I remembered the Domestic Science lessons with Miss Leech who could easily out-stare Mary Berry.  We made apple tart from scratch as tinned pie fillings and soggy bottoms were forbidden.  I’d brought in fresh Lord Derby whoppers from our tree; one of four planted by my Dad who nothing about pomology.  As I set about peeling them with a fairly basic kitchen knife Miss Leech was on me in a flash, exuding fury and admonishing me as a ‘waster of fine produce’.  She demanded I change utensils to a potato peeler. 

“I can’t hold it properly.” I stuttered and chin up, defiant as ever said “besides it doesn’t matter … we have trees full of apples at home.”  I thought she was going to gut me with the dreaded peeler as she showed the whole class how much I’d squandered.  I’ve never forgotten that lesson.  Today, I don’t use a potato peeler for anything; I use a razor sharp tomato saw instead.  Although I regret not doing Domestic Science up to my 5th year and quizzed Helen for some background.

“Why didn’t we get to choose?”

“We did Latin instead.”  Yes, that makes real sense.

Still at the bar, I shared secretarial tales with Barbara when Bindu joined the throng, seemingly unchanged by early marriage and family, she asked us straight out.

“What would you change?” 

“Nothing.”  I chirped up.  

“You know you’re the only one today who said that.”  What use is fifty years of regret? My parents must have worked their socks off to buy that uniform with its velour hat for winter and a beret for summer.  I was frog-marched by Mum into Rowbotham’s in Belvoir Street, which in1967 was Leicester’s answer to Diagon Alley, equally magical and expensive.  I learned patience whilst waiting in line to be kitted out with Clarke’s indoor and outdoor shoes.  They measured my width on a special gadget. I was EEE then and I still am.  Soddit, I’ll never wear Louboutin’s. 

Sadly I missed a chance to have a long natter with Viv who organised this amazing day.  And Julie who had recently retired.  I waved a sad farewell to Gillian and Helen, and so wanted to chat to Teresa and the others all afternoon.  Of course, I’ve omitted some recognisable names to protect the innocent but if you want to know what 61 looks like, we are stronger and more beautiful than ever.  Like an injection of high octane rocket fuel, I’m energised and ready to start again.  So why am I standing sullen and silent in the Huddle Board session this morning?  Ten excruciating minutes of quantifying our existence by numbers; files we filed, clinics we’ve prepared and things we’ve located which should never have been lost in the first place.  I felt a roar of ruthless determination surge up from below and wondered who would attempt to push around someone with a peer group featuring so many incredible women?  No-one.

Tip of the Beak:  Only one of our number became a nurse despite the relentless nagging of the careers advice lady.  I didn’t fancy the uniform and am so glad my life followed a different path. Last week, while I was helping one of our younger nurses get to grips with the relentless paperwork, we got chatting about the books she loves most.  Mainly Harry Potter and chick lit, although I suggested she might like Robert Galbraith.

She confessed.  “I don’t rate that Tolkien much though.”

“Really?” I have the books but no time to read them.  “Why not?”

“Well that Lord of the Rings story just went on and on, and The Hobbit stuff with the spiders … ”  I had a horrible premonition of her next words.  “He just stole it from the Harry Potter books, didn’t he?”

“Not really.  He died in 1973.”  The year after I left school.

“Oh so he’s not alive then?”  I didn’t to ask where she went to school but I knew it wasn’t mine.

Raven

The All Day Interview

In these enlightened times interviews have to be endured, don't they?  In my youth it was a short chat about the job, the salary and if you were made of the 'right stuff' then a quick hand shake sealed the deal and 'see you on Monday' followed.  Now it's like an all-day-breakfast and I've had to set up a ghastly profile on something called Linkbin.  Lately I've surfed the tsunami of job sites, refined my searches because being offered jobs in Milton Keynes is not a 'short commute' and eventually, my phone went 'Ping!'  A missed call alerted me to a telephone interview the following morning at 10.15am.  Lucky I wasn't on shift so I called a nice lady from Human Remains and 15 long minutes later had passed Stage 1 of the process with ease.  This catapulted me and five other women to a huge car dealership at the junction of the M1, M69 and Fosse Park on the hottest day since records began.  Perfect timing for an interview; Friday afternoon when all the schools and mosques pitch out and the inside of the car was like molten lava.  When I arrived, I had been in a roasting tin for an hour.

I'd had the Peugeot valeted but I needn't have worried.  I found a space and parked under a shady tree before a helpful lady in corporate uniform arrived and suggested I move to the customer car park.

"Quick before it's too late!" she pleaded.

"Traffic wardens?"  History tells us they were invented in Leicester.  Where else?

"Them too ... but it's the birds."  Those pigeons are so rude and now my pristine red paint was streaked with fried egg guano from bumper to bonnet.  With hunched resignation, I moved the 106 into a line of Mini excellence, all immaculate and streak free, and raced to Reception before my shoes caught fire.  Six candidates were greeted and seated, given a cold drink and tried not to catch the eye of an upwardly-mobile couple who had strayed into our waiting area hoping to discuss finance on their new 3 series motor.  My fellow interviewees were a mixed bag in the clothing department but I needn't have worried here either.  It seems 6" heels with skinny jeans and a Primark top are just the ticket these days.  Shame I'm as old-fashioned as Ben Miller's character in Death in Paradise.  I'd forgotten to shave my armpits and, not wanting to expose my pastry coloured skin to fresh air, had unexpectedly buoyed up Next's share price by buying a suit for the occasion. I was hanging onto my jacket like a life raft, not wanting them to put a tick against a box marked 'poor hygiene'.  Nuts!

Precisely on time, we were shown upstairs through a pokey office with no windows, similar to the medical records Bunker, and into a glass-sided office with a view of the showroom downstairs.  It had Arctic air-con on full blast.  Seated around a table, Stage II commenced with a very expensive corporate video but I wasn't exactly concentrating due to the lure of the showroom and the intoxicating aroma of at least a million pounds of German uber engineering.  I hope I wasn't drooling.  Certainly there was an interview going on around me and we were being watched, so imagine my horror when the head Corporate Sales dude chirped up.

"Now I know you ladies don't like doing this but let's go round the table ... give us your name and tell us a bit about yourselves.  Married?  Children?"  All the illegal stuff that agencies warn you about in a helpful email before you go for an interview.  He ploughed on.  "Tell us what you're up to when you're not at work eh?  Let's start with ..."  He pointed to the girl in the skinny jeans who promptly gushed out her entire life history adding,

"I'm having a few health issues with my youngest at the moment.  Kids eh?"  She wanted support from the group but the girl opposite dropped her best poker face for a second and muttered.

"Well you won't get this job, will you?"

Stage III was the group exercise.  Fifteen long minutes to assess a completely insane scenario about a coach crash in the Andes; you know the one don't you?  A list of 40 items and you have to decide between you which 10 items to take to safety.  It is a test of negotiation skills but my chums will tell you that I've qualified from a better course which means I am not negotiable, ever.  I scored 7/10 but I'll still stick my beak up for the plastic cups as they're light, practical, essential for divvying out water and in the jungle when you're carrying a life raft, £10,000 in cash and your passports, you can use them to protect against massive spiders.  Then came a simple addition, subtraction and percentages maths test without the use of a calculator.  At last my Body Shop discount card experience came up trumps as I can work out percentages in a flash, although I don't know if you remember Wonky the white faced witch with no discernible talent except for petulance and sending Tweets from the toilet?  She works for Hayes Recruitment now and last week rejected me for an interview despite trying to 'friend' me on Linkbin for a couple of years.  Oh the irony!  Five of us finished together.  Skinny jeans bailed out, unable to cope without her mobile and clearly upset that we couldn't help her complete the test; with hindsight she probably got the job.

On the way downstairs to Stage IV, one of the ladies in their Bunker grabbed my hand in both of hers and shook it saying "Thank you for coming."  This is a lifetime first and very odd.  After another short interview I understood that all over the above was a preamble to The Formal Interview.  They explained there would be no face-to-face customer contact, work would be all done on the phone from 0830-1800, five days a week with no leeway.  If you add the hour-each-way commute and no staff parking into the mix, it's a 47.5 hour working week for less than I get now.  The HR lady did say they could up the salary a bit but I suggested that would put me at the top of their range, just like the gleaming Tropical Turquoise 5 series with full leather interior which purred into life outside the office window.  It was nearly 6.00 pm.

I ran for the Peugeot and even with a trip to Aldi for provisions, it took an hour to get home for my first Burleigh's and pink grapefruit tonic of the weekend, and as I talked it through with Alphonse, my beak went down into the glass at the close of an endless, tedious and probably unnecessary process.

"Do I really think I could sit there day in day out just out of reach of those beautiful cars and concentrate on a corporate finance deal?" With milk and mobile phones, it was easy.  Alphonse agreed.

"No Raven, you couldn't."  Spoken just as an email arrived to inform me that I hadn't got to Stage V.  Cheers!!

Tip of the Beak:  "Don't buy a black car ..." Chum Eliza warned me through the window of her beige Ford.  "It'll show every mark!"  So did the red 106 but I loved it.  With a heavy heart, I raised a glass last weekend bidding farewell to 17 years of fun and eye-watering bills for three replacement head gaskets.  With Alphonse's help, my new motor has alloy wheels and glistening black bodywork, and I parked him under the trees to stay cool throughout another concrete-blistering day.  When I set off for work this morning the ghastly birds had decorated the back end as only roosting wood pigeons can.  Now where's my shotgun!

Raven 

Devious Car Dealerships

Pulling into the hospital car park roared the unmistakable silhouette of an Aston Martin recovery vehicle.  They’re as rare as ravens in this neck of the woods so I stopped to stare at the racing green and gold-trimmed truck.  My morning had been tedious and repetitive, so I felt much uplifted when the driver hopped out of the carriage and asked the way to Reception.  I resisted the temptation to say ‘Oi! you can’t park that there here chum’ and asked the question we usually ask of ambulance drivers.

“Picking up or dropping off?”  It had to be one or the other.

“All sorted.  Service time for some lucky chap.” Sensing I might be envious of his cargo rather than nosey, he completely misread my body language and carried on talking just as the Hospital Director trotted towards us jangling the keys to his red thing.

“Everyone wants one of these” the driver confided. “How about you?” 

“Sorry … it’s not for me.  I’d prefer something younger.”  Like the compact Mercedes AMG hiding in a sea of Mini Coopers on the staff car park.  I can’t afford one of those either.  Well, not this month.

My old Peugeot is due it’s 15th MOT imminently and not looking or sounding great either.  Against my better judgement, I’ve set about touring car dealerships hoping for a cheap, barely-driven replacement with mixed results.  Alphonse solemnly volunteered to accompany me but I’ve decided to fly solo on this one.  Experience tells me they would ask him all the tech stuff and interesting questions and I’d only be consulted when it came to colour choices.  Besides, we wouldn’t get far in one day because he starts to drool at the sight of a Toyota GT86 brochure and frankly, it’s undignified.

Aware of the pitfalls?  Indeed I do and sure in the knowledge that sales people use all sorts of psychology to size up the weight of your wallet, I parked the Peugeot at Morrison’s.  I’m 5’3” tall in Primani ballet pumps, so would automatically be shunted into Ka, Micra, Aygo, Adam, Twingo, 500 and Up! territory. You know the mindset - one size fits all!  I landed in the bottom section of the car lot amongst the unpriced, mainly abandoned wrecks, and quickly spied an 03 plate Yaris with a very low mileage.  This would be perfect for my seven minute commute to work which has ultimately wrecked the Peugeot’s engine.  The main dealer alerted me of this a while back so I queried whether I should drive via Carlisle three days a week just to blow out the engine?  Humourless to a fault, the bloke didn’t crack his face.

For a chunk of the last decade I made a weekly round trip up the M6 to Manchester which was made bearable only by a German touring car.  The only flat bit is the Toll Road, the outside lane is filled with brake-happy morons who tail-gate and Stoke on Trent is better on an empty stomach.  None of this compares to driving in Leicester; up here we've changed the rules:

• The Highway Code is forgotten once you’ve passed your test.

• Traffic lights are an advisory measure only.

• Stopping at roundabouts?  Why?

• Clarkson Parking in the centre of two usable spaces is de rigeur.

• Women are to be driven over if you’re late for Friday prayers.

Don’t believe me?  Last week I spied a city-blue Citroen which had broken down on the grass verge opposite a huge branch of Sainsbury’s.  In less than 24 hours the tyres had gone although it had been thoughtfully left on bricks.  Another 48 hours passed until I next drove by and some wag had graffitied it with ‘Welcome to Leicester’.  Quite.

Car salesmen should come with a Haynes Manual.  Fans of “The Fast Show” will remember the genius creation of Swiss Tony with his pale grey suit and immaculately groomed quiff, who insisted cars should be treated ‘like a beautiful woman’.  Not this morning it wasn’t as I received a teeth-chattering greeting from his counterpart Swiss Tariq.  Oddly, he seemed to know less about his cars than I did and as he escorted me back to the showroom he made the stupidest mistake in the book.

“So Raven …” they get your name first “what’s your favourite car on the lot?”  I replied with my characteristic, savage honesty.

“The compact Mercedes.”  Well he asked!  Poor Tariq wanted me to choose the titchy Noddy cars I’d been inspecting but somehow they didn’t make me drool.  Ever keen, I was gently ushered inside past a woman who sits on a plinth and reads the paper; it’s her job apparently.  I declined a machine coffee and listened patiently while he dismissed the cheaper cars on the list because of their poorer resale value in five years time.  I didn’t care about five years from now when the Peugeot’s MOT is due in five weeks’ time.  Tariq wanted me to buy a new shape box with 13K miles on the clock costing three times the amount I’d declared as top of my budget.  He mentioned it’s major selling point.

“It has parking sensors.”  Did this idiot come fitted with earplugs or what?  Enough now.

“I’ve been driving for forty years …” longer than he’d been alive by the look of it  “…and I don’t need parking sensors to put an OXO cube on wheels between two other vehicles.”  Undeterred, he leaned back and sighed, then tapped extra information into the computer.

“So, let’s have a plan.”  I had a plan and it was to go somewhere else but I’m too polite.  Tariq was still talking.  “So … we’ll put a thousand pounds down and finance the rest on the pretty white one say over five years and you should be paying around a hundred pounds a month and before you make the final payment, it’ll be worth … scrap value.”

“…”  I’m good at maths particularly when I’m being robbed.

“So let’s have a look shall we?”  The printer spewed out a piece of paper that came up with a number I was unhappy with.

“What happened to my deposit?” 

“Oh that’s in necessary charges.”

“Well make them unnecessary!  If I pay this every month for five years and haven't driven the cube off the cliff in the meantime, I’ll be paying somewhere nearer ten grand for a car you’re telling me is only close to six which is well over my budget.”  Deep breath Raven, deep breath.  “And I don’t like WHITE cars.”  Tariq remained unfazed and delivered his coup de brass neck.

“So when can we get it ready for a test drive?”

Talons firmly fixed into my palms and drawing blood, I fled from the dealership and for a moment took a fleeting glance at the Ford Dealership over the dual carriageway.  No.  Not them again either.  Clutching my redundancy in 2007 I dropped in for a chat about a new motor and was told “when madam has decided what car she’d like and how much she’d like to spend, perhaps she’d like to come back.”  I believe car dealerships are one of life’s little tests. Like on-line dating sites and chia seeds.

Tip of the Beak:  One of our auditors is having problems finding true love in London.  She’s tapped countless apps and finally hit on a dream date only a few weeks ago.  I understand he was gorgeous, clever, funny, beardless and obviously quite well-healed, and they hit it off up to the point where he offered to drive her home.  She accepted gratefully but on jumping into the front seat she experienced a moment of true horror on discovering he had Batman-themed car mats.  She was gutted.  Her perfect man was flawed.

“Is that it?”  I exclaimed at the brevity of her short list.

“Those car mats sound great … where can I get some?” asked Alibone.

Even Lucinda was interested.  “What’s his number?”  But the poor bloke had been rejected purely on his inappropriate choice of car mats and our lovelorn auditor had failed another one of life’s little tests.

Raven