A few days ago, while walking our dog Millie, I was approached by a disconsolate looking couple who, against the noise of passing traffic, asked politely if I had seen a "Bed & Breakfast" sign. "I'm afraid not," I replied. But knowing as I do, that "Bed & Breakfast" can be an important source of income for rural Norfolk, I was instinctively on their side. So I did my best to keep their spirits up. I told them of how, some way back, I had noticed an abandoned "FOR SALE" sign lying on the verge. A reason I suggested, why they should keep looking.
The following morning as I passed the house in question, though the post was there, the "Bed & Breakfast" sign was still missing. And I hadn't gone much past the spot, when the elderly gentleman that I had spoken to the day before, suddenly appeared from somewhere in among his shrubs. He was keen to talk, and wanting to know if I remembered him from the day before.
Well I quickly established that the "Bed & Breakfast" sign hadn't been recovered, before moving on to talk about other changes that I had noticed in the vicinity of his house. A few days previously I had noticed that a conspicuous double portable toilet, that recently had been delivered to the disused garage forecourt,was missing. But as we were quickly agreed that its disappearance was unlikely to be connected to the missing "Bed & Breakfast" sign, we turned instead, to talking about what was actually happening on the site. But before I share this snippet of conversation with you, a little bit of history.
When it ceased to be a filling station a few years ago, the owner turned to dealing in second hand cars. Each morning, and looking as new, (something that has always perplexed me about second hand cars), he would drive them from the secure overnight compound and park them casually under the old filling-station canopy. But with remnants of the old filling station still so visible, it seemed to me that this was a far too lackadaisical approach to a new business venture; and one that was destined to fail. Had it been me, I told myself, and as a minimum, I would have taken down the canopy, spread a thick layer of tarmac over the old concrete forecourt, and, I would have given the dreary looking shop-front, a lick of paint. So it came as no surprise when I began to notice the first signs of decay: a thinning out of cars on the forecourt, followed soon after, by the demise of this half-hearted business venture.
Within days of the site being sold it it had been transformed. The canopy had gone, and the decrepit old shop: digested and regurgitated as a heap of hardcore. I was so impressed by this: by the speed, energy and absence of waste, that I mentioned it to my hairdresser Louise. And though my conversations with Louise are only as long as my hair is short, she had enough time to mention something that had escaped me. That this mound of hardcore would be used on site to fill the trenches from which the petrol storage tanks had been removed.
Now I wanted to ask what was happening on the site, even though I knew that the answer was nothing, for I felt certain that my new found friend would know the reason why. And I was right. Not only did he have, as they say, "the knowledge," but he had both the time and inclination to share it.
In their enthusiasm, I was told, the demolition team had dislodged some vital cables, an action that left the neighbours without electricity for the best part of a week. After which, in the follow-up operation, it was discovered that the site had not been decontaminated; which was why, everything was now at a standstill.
Now though it was clear that this was not likely to be a short conversation; and I had concern for Millie, (who isn't used to such a break in her stride,) I was resolved that we would carry on talking, speculating as to how this problem might be resolved. But on this, I'm afraid, I was nothing like as helpful as I had been over the missing "Bed & Breakfast" sign. All to clearly I could see the scenario unfold: The former owner blaming his legal team, whose responsibility it was to ensure that the correct procedures had been followed. And they in turn, blaming the buyers lawyers, whose job it was to ensure that all the issues prior to purchase, had been settled. And somewhere in the middle, "Health and Safety," unable to act, until liability has been established.
How we got from there, to perils facing the English language, and threats to regional accents, I can't recall, though I suspect, that against the ever present noise of passing traffic, my erstwhile friend concluded, (mistakenly), that I am Scottish.
Be that as it may, in the face of his concern about the effect of text messaging, I was optimistic, suggesting that in time, people will see the limitations of this new technology, and return to a more orthodox use of language. And I reminded him of how, with the arrival of the Internet, the death of books had confidently been predicted. As for the demise of regional accents and dialects, (a serious issue in rural Norfolk), here too I was full of confidence for the future. I explained that I knew of a second generation black girl, who, having grown up in Scotland, had the most beautiful Scottish accent. Unexpectedly, this little tale proved a spur to my new friends better nature. And though he wasn't sure if it was true, and he didn't want to give offence, he wanted to tell me a story. But before I tell you what was on his mind, I think I should say a little more about why I was so empathetic over the missing "Bed & Breakfast" sign.
A few weeks ago, I came out of the house to go shopping with Jenny, and found her on the drive, agitated, and wanting me to notice something about the house. With the noise from passing traffic, I couldn't hear her properly, but thinking I had got the idea, I started to scan the rooftop and the dormo windows. As it turned out, she was directing my attention towards the high leylandii hedge, where, perched on top, and right on the corner by the junction, were two notices, telling everyone in the village that we were up sticks and moving out. One read, "Home is where the heart is," and declared that the house was "FOR SALE," while the other informed passesr by that it had been, "SOLD."
Now I should have been able to see and enjoy the funny side of this situation, but, at the time I did not. In part, perhaps, because it wasn't an especially funny experience when it came to yanking the notices, (and the five foot poles to which they were attached), out from the centre of a high hedge, and from the top of a less than certain step-ladder. But it was this particular experience that allowed me to appreciate the predicament of these good people. Like us and minding their own business, they were getting on with life, when suddenly they were confronted with the brutal truth, that something that they had always taken for granted in their lives, had changed.
Well, given that this elderly gentleman prefaced his tale by telling me that he wasn't sure if it was true, and that he didn't want to give offence, he had been going with his story just a few seconds, when it occurred to me, that he was up to mischief. Here it is:
A Scotsman by the name of Angus had three sons, all of whom were called after their father. And they had their birthday on the same day. And as you do, (my friend explained), he had them standing with their back to the fire, while he enquired as to what each would like for his birthday:
"Och da," he said, "a think I'd leek a kilt."
"A kilt!"
"Yes da, I'd leek a kilt, but in the clan tart'n."
"Och weel," says Angus, "that should'na be a problem."
And turning to the second son he asked,
"And you Angus, wha' weed you leek fa your birth d'.?"
"Da," says Angus, "a think I'd leek a tie."
"A tie!" exclaimed Angus. "Are you sure?"
"Och I da, I'd leek a tie, but in the clan tart'n."
Satisfied, and turning to his third son, Angus couldn't help noticing that he looked a bit sheepish.
"An you, Angus. wha' would you leek fa your birth d'."
"Och da," says Angus. "I be thinkin' o' it, and I'd leek five hun'red poun'."
"Five hun'red poun!'" exclaimed Angus. "Wha' for?"
"Och am sorry da," says Angus shifting uneasily. "But I got a wee tart'n trouble."
_____
© Cormac McCloskey
Apologise to everyone in Scotland for my poor attempt at dialect. And for those of you from far away places, tart in Scotland, is an affectionate word for girl. Hence the play on the word (tartan) "tart'n," a witty substitute for tart, or, (girl (girl in trouble)). What Angus is telling his da is, that he has got a girl - pregnant.
Note: This blog, "Something Unexpected", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 20th April 2007
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