Adventures during the Age Of Aquarius - Part III

Part I and Part II


Fish 'n' Chips is one of Great Britain's towering successes; 'chippies' are everywhere, not only in the UK but, by virtue of empire and tourism, in far-flung places all over the globe. The first fish-and-chip shop in London was opened in 1860. Nowadays there are chippies who sell you a curry or a 'Chinese', and always saveloys, a highly spiced, reddish brown sausage;  the fried fish shop will probably be the last kind of eatery to go out of business. Fish has become expensive, the seas around the British Isles are overfished and supplies are shrinking, but if you want a cheap and nutritious meal, and lots of it, you can hardly do better than visit the chippy.  The fish comes wrapped in a thick coating of batter, adding weight and a lot of calories to the dish. When it leaves its bath of sizzling oil the portions glisten with grease, the batter now mid-brown, crinkly and blistery. When you break the crust with your fork it comes away with a chunk of hard baked batter, while the fish inside remains pallid and soft. If you eat it quickly enough, before your portion cools, it's edible, even tasty, but once the batter has gone cold and soggy, each mouthful tastes of congealed grease. You need a lot of beer to neutralise the taste of cold fish-and-chips. The true aficionado adds  a side of pickled onion or a 'wally' (a pickled gherkin), and always a generous sprinkling of salt and brown vinegar. Although I have not mentioned chips separately (a thicker kind of French fries), they are an integral part of the dish. The only vegetable allowed in the vicinity of fish-and-chips is a lump of mushy peas, bright green and squashed to a thick pulp, a kind of edible glue.

Take-away fish-and-chips were wrapped in a small sheet of greaseproof white paper and then newspaper. I believe, because I was told by knowledgeable and enthusiastic worshippers of the institution, that fried fish simply never tasted the same once white paper replaced plain newspaper. Apparently, newsprint on oil added the final, indispensable piquancy. These days newspaper has been done away with altogether.

I first came into contact with a fish-and-chip shop by working in one. When I was sacked from the laundry I urgently needed another job. My situation in England remained precarious, I only had permission to stay if I worked in one of the menial jobs foreigners were allowed to take away from the indigenous workers, who didn't want them. I even needed a permit to work in the laundry. My student status had expired and the immigration authorities were always on the look-out for those of us who outstayed our welcome. We made no contribution to the economy and paid no taxes. People were as paranoid about the menace of the foreign worker taking jobs away from the honest British labourer as they are now. Except that the fear of said foreigner scrounging off the Benefits System didn't exist then, because 'illegals' were not registered and therefore unable to make claims.

The laundry was situated off the Holloway Road in North London. The chippy was in Moorgate, in a dingy side street near the famous Moorfield's Eye Hospital in the City of London.  It was owned by a Greek Cypriot couple. I had met their nephew, Lucas, in one of the many coffee bars in Soho; you could sit over coffee or a coke for an hour or more, talking to friends and listening to the music provided by some half-starved young man with a guitar. Lucas fancied me; I didn't particularly like him, but I was willing to consider the job he was offering with his uncle and aunt. He was helping them out himself, but keen to leave again. He'd squared it with them, he said; they weren't bothered about my illegal alien status and just wanted a waitress. "Start on Friday", they said, "that's when we are busiest. Come at 11 am and we'll show you the ropes". Apart from waitressing there were a few light duties like cleaning the tables and helping with the washing up.

I presented myself at 11 am. The place was a narrow rectangle, with three stainless steel  deep fryers ranged along part of the wall  opposite the entrance door, and three rows of  tables, a dozen altogether, each table seating four. It was very basic, it had no washroom other than a little cubbyhole for the staff, the tables were formica topped and the chairs plain, a job lot from the cheapest catering furnishers."Nothing to it", I thought. I had never done any waitressing, but how difficult can it be to take an order, have it filled and carry the plate back to the customer.

Lucas, who spoke good English, explained the menu. Cod and chips, haddock and chips, plaice and chips, saveloys and chips or plain chips. Wallies and onions. Vinegar, salt and pepper stood on each table. No  fancy extras like mushy peas, no tartare sauce, no ketchup; this was before the regular British palate went adventurous and began to trust such luxuries as beer batter or parsley garnishes. "You have to be quick", Lucas said, our customers work shifts and they have a thirty minute dinner break. Take their order as they come in, pass it on to me and uncle; we'll be ready with the first portions by the time they sit down."

"I can do that," I said; I knew that I was naturally quick on my feet and a fast learner to boot. "No problem."

At exactly four minutes past twelve the shop door sprang open and a tsunami of bodies swept into the cafe. "cod and chips, plaice and chips, chips twice, cod and chips . . . . . . . " Each of these bodies shouted at me on the way in, rushed past me to a table and sat down. A blur of men in grey or blue overalls, indistinguishable from each other. I stood by the counter, pad and pencil at the ready, and stared, my welcome smile a frozen grimace. Behind me, the counter was filling up with plates, Lucas and his uncle were shovelling fish and chips as fast as they could.The aunt was filling mugs with tea, several trays of them, and shouting at me too. "Come on, come on," she screeched. Her command of English was limited. I came out of my trance and moved.

Tea trays first, at least they had all demanded tea, there was no problem sorting out who wanted a mug. I simply plonked four of them on each table. The plates of food presented a problem; there was no chance that I'd serve the men in the order in which they had arrived or that they'd get what they wanted.  I dithered for a second and then grabbed two plates at random, slapping them down on the nearest table. Back to the counter and the same again. And again. There was one chance in four or five that at least one customer at each table would be satisfied.  "I ordered cod and chips and you've given me . . ". "Hey, we were first and you've already served that table . . . . ."  "I want a double portion of chips.. " The plates on the counter were piling up and needed shifting. I had no time to worry about correct service etiquette. "Terribly sorry", I said, continuing to work my way back and forth along the two rows between the tables. "Sort it out, can't you." Some of them did, hindering my progress by handing plates to other tables, others switched them round at their own. Lucas came out from behind the counter to placate those most aggrieved. "She's new", he said, unnecessarily. The men settled down to eat fast and furiously, having to make up for the valuable minutes' eating time which my inefficiency had cost them.

Just before twelve thirty the first workers left and were quickly replaced by the next shift, equally undistinguished. We replayed the first sitting, except that Lucas stayed out with me to serve and auntie helped with the frying and shovelling. Had I thought at all what the job might entail, I would have expected concentrated work, a lot of grease and the smell of burning oil, steamed up windows and the odd linguistic misunderstanding; I would also have expected good-natured banter, maybe a flirtatious remark, and, above all, a tip.  I got none of the latter but all of the former. By two o'clock "dinner time" was over, all the men were back at work and the cafe closed.

Lucas was counting the takings.  "You would get used to it",  he said, a question mark in his voice. "Do you feel like coming back on Tuesday? We could go and have a coffee when I'm finished here. Talk it over." He peeled off a couple of pound notes from the wad of cash in his hand. "Here you are, your pay for today," he said. "Enough to buy a fish dinner." He thought it was funny.

This job was worse than ironing shirts. At least there had been music-while-you-work at the laundry and I didn't reek of stale grease at the end of the day. The pay was lousy and Lucas might become a problem. Even if I learned to tell the robots who came to the cafe apart, would serving them fish and chips for half an hour several times a week enhance my knowledge of literary English? Hardly. No, this job was a dead end. But waitressing itself could be fun, couldn't it? Perhaps in one of the coffee bars I spent so much time in? I could always ask.

Homegrown Pearl of Wisdom - Our World

There are times

when following the evidence of your own eyes

is not only much less costly,

but also helps you to avoid

getting stuck.

This is my contribution to Our World. 

Go and have a look at the others.

Social Life in Valley's End

Helleborus opening

With January nearly over and the days ever so slowly brightening, social life in Valley's End is revving up a notch. On a sunny day like today people stop in the street for a chat, others call out greetings and remarks about the weather to each other across the roadway; January is dreary and dark, and nobody feels much like entertaining. Perhaps the bright social whirl that is December has also depleted energy reserves and we all use the silence of January to recover. Invitations issued now are tentative rather than full-steam-ahead, "come and have a coffee", "come to afternoon tea", or "come to Sunday lunch"; it's almost as if we have had enough of solitude and would like to try and find out what it feels like to be sociable again.

The events themselves are more like practice runs than confident performances; one elderly couple treated us to a wonderful display of bickering. Being the only guests, we took full advantage and listened avidly, not even pretending that we were occupied admiring the furnishings, paintings or other absent-minded distractions employed by the well-mannered guest. "Where is the salt?" "Why would you want salt, the food is already salted". "I like salt with my food. Anyway, you should always put it on the table". "I used it to cook, I can't remember where I left it". There was the vinaigrette, which was not added to the salad starter, but served by the side, also a cause for lengthy regret. Or a book needed to be fetched to illustrate a point about a play nobody had heard of. "Why would you need to do this now, the food is getting cold." The question of coffee arose before the pudding arrived at the table. "Do we have any decaf?" "Of course, we do, it's in the larder". An exhaustive hunt for decaf coffee remained unsuccessful. "Why didn't you get some?" " I meant to but it slipped my mind". You really need to write things down, you know". "Why didn't you get it when you went to the shop?" "Could you try this drink?" handing me a bottle. "I think it might be a dessert wine, somebody gave it to us, I can't remember who". I tried it."This is grappa, not dessert wine". Oh, that'll be lovely with coffee. Would anyone like some apple pie?" "How about the cheese, we still haven't finished the red."

This is a couple who entertain frequently and elegantly.

Then there was the "come for coffee" invitation. Lorna's house was freezing. She was wearing several layers of winter woollies, fingerless mittens and fur-lined boots. Indoors. "Hasn't it turned warm", she said. The wood burner threw out a feeble heat, having been fed very reluctantly. We nodded politely. When the one log in the burner was reduced to no more than an ashen shadow of its former self, she asked again "Is anybody else really hot?" before selecting another log. Nobody answered. Her cats were huddled on a cushion in front of the burner while the guests shivered. Beloved went into the hall and fetched his thick, icelandic scarf, draping it round his neck. Lorna smiled. "That's the ticket", she said.

I wouldn't want you to think that I don't invite people to our house. Only yesterday we had a delightful elderly lady and her lurcher to tea. They came for the first time and she was very complimentary about house and garden. Mona is a real lady, much more so than me, a writer and poet, with old-school impeccable manners. I wish I could say the same for the dog. Anybody who reads this blog regularly knows that I tolerate well-behaved pets and children happily, I am kind and don't banish them to the scullery. Archie was not well-behaved. He stole a piece of cake which I had left on the kitchen table, and when I lifted the cake plate up onto a freezer, he jumped up, nearly pulling the plate down. I told him off and he went to his mistress who was sitting on the sofa in the sitting room and promptly jumped up to sit beside her. Pets and children are not allowed to sit on the furniture in my house (well, maybe I'd let a well-behaved child sit down), Archie was not pleased when I told him to get down. It took him three attempts before he understood that I'm the pack leader and that my word is law. Benno didn't lift a paw to help me and Mona smiled sweetly. Mona is a dear, vague and wispy, scattering belongings wherever she goes. I thought I had made absolutely sure I had collected every item she dropped during her visit, the dog's coat, her coat, her bag, her stick, the dog's lead, a book, some papers, and her boots. After she'd gone I found her scarf and gloves.

We need a lot of practice before we all get back into the swing of social life.

All about Bravery

There are no children in the playground on this bright and sunny, but bracing, day.

Perhaps the wind is too cold for them?
Or, more than likely, for their minders?
Children don't feel the cold when they are running around, but adults idly sitting on benches do.

But aconites and snowdrops are willing to brave the sharp winds and stick their heads above ground.

Even the daffodils are fattening and showing colour.

I've never before seen a January like this in the Valley.

I sincerely hope we are not going to have a  severe shock to the system. There is plenty of time left for winter to punish us.

These are traditionally the coldest days of winter.

Keep good watchdogs about you these dark nights!!!

Benno as painted by my friend Jay Diamond,
a pet portraitist.

The watchdog ought to be horrible, fierce, strange and unacquainted with all except his master, so that he be always at daggers-drawing, and ready to fight with all who shall but lay hands on him. For which cause he ought to be instructed from his littering: let him often be provoked by boys; and as he groweth, let some stranger set on him with weapon, with whom let him combat; and then let him tear some piece of the provoker's garment, that so he may depart with the conceit of victory. These dogs ought to be black-coloured, and great mouthed for barking bigly, so that he may terrify the thief both night and day.

Edward Topsell - The History of Four-Footed Beasts - 1607.

Dear me, really?  Benno is big and black and he has a loud and full-throated bark, but he's a bit short in the ferocious and bravery departments. But he'd be quite willing to slobber a thief to death, if that's any good?

A Sunny January Day In The Shropshire Hills and The Sun Enters The House Of Aquarius

We rarely get a sunny and dry day in January.

 Benno and I took a camera out to see if there had been any changes since we last

ventured forth.

Sheep are still grazing in the Lower Pastures.

The river is back in his bed.

The meadows are  dry enough for rubber boots;

we no longer sink in above the ankles.

 The castle ruin is still standing;

What do you think, should it be rebuilt,

perhaps as an apartment block?

The views from up here are spectacular.

The silver birch on the bailey shows its true colours.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The Sun enters the House Of Aquarius

The man born under Aquarius shall be lonely and ireful; he shall have silver at thirty-two years, he shall win wherever he goeth, or he shall be sore sick. He shall have fear on the water and afterwards have good fortune, and shall go into diverse strange countries. He shall live to be seventy-five years after nature.

The woman shall be delicious and have many noises for her children; she shall be in great peril at twenty-four years, and thereafter in felicity. She shall have damage by beasts with four feet: and shall live seventy-seven years after nature.

The Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

This post is offered as a contribution to

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The Present

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales

Mag 101

You could at least have ironed the wrapping paper!

And where's the bow?

Adventures During the Age Of Aquarius - Part II

"What!?"

Dumbfounded, I stared at her.

The Nigerians too were rooted to the spot, frozen in mid-movement. Faces of other workers turned to us expectantly.  Lightyears separated hearing the words and grasping their meaning; my face creased with concentration, I repeated "What?"

The concept of whores was fairly new to me; I had an idea that women who sold sex for money were called 'whores' or 'Huren' in German; there were women being called 'whores' in novels, particularly French and Russian ones. I rather enjoyed reading about their usually tragic fate, and was mildly excited by accounts of what went on in French boudoirs and on wild sleigh rides across the frozen Russian tundra, but I had never come across a live practitioner of the profession.  And what had the Nigerians to do with it?

I genuinely wanted her to explain what she meant. I was, even then, a reasonable sort of person, but pretty unlikely to be overly concerned with anyone's opinion of me. I blame my father for that attitude, having inherited his conviction that survival is not only the prerogative of the fittest but also those with impermeable skin. "Pay your way, my girl," he used to say, "stay true to yourself, and hold your head up. You're the equal of anyone". He had survived a lot more than name calling.

What she had said made no sense; I was puzzled, why would she say that? Gradually, the paralysing effect of her words evaporated inside the steamy atmosphere of the 'greasy spoon'. There would be no drama. Blondie herself seemed to be in shock, she literally shook, her face a livid mask of shame, anger and accusation. I observed the phenomenon closely. She looked past me to the open door of the cafe, grabbed her bag and left. I followed, the Nigerians on my heels.

Blondie started to run; so we left her to it. The Nigerians knew what they had had to do with Blondie's outburst. They stopped me at the entrance to the factory and the man who had invited me to the party unsmilingly asked "Will you come?". "No", I said, "thank you very much, but I don't think I will".  "We are black, is that what it is? You whites are all the same, no matter where you come from. We thought you were different"; the man spat out the words angrily. One of the girls said she was sorry they had befriended me and she would never trust me again.  I was angry too, "It's nothing to do with being black," I said, "I have a boyfriend and I can't just go out without him". But, of course, my initial attraction to this close knit group of Nigerians, in their sober black and white outfits so much more neatly and smartly dressed than any of my white fellow workers, was due to their very 'otherness', they were  so very different from anyone I'd ever met.  No black people lived in my home town and although I was seeing every race on earth represented in the streets of London, these people were the first with whom I'd had direct contact. They left me standing on the steps to the laundry's entrance, confused and possibly a little ashamed, without knowing the reason why.

One of the other German girls caught up with me. "Don't let her get to you", she said, "she is very unhappy. Her boyfriend is a nasty brute who knocks her about". Blondie had met him in Germany where he was serving in the British Army, fallen in love, followed him to the UK and now they were engaged to be married. All her hard work and thriftiness came about because of the pressure he put on her. He forced her to hand over her wages and was given a meagre allowance in return. "I have never heard this rumour in the factory", my little German friend said, "she's probably just jealous". She smiled endearingly, then clapped her hands over her mouth and blushed. She was missing her two front teeth and was waiting for new ones to be inserted. Was she too being knocked about? I didn't know, but hoped not. She was a sweet little thing, who attached herself to me for the few weeks of slave labour left before I was sent packing from the factory.

The works doctor had found nothing wrong with my chest or any other ailments. I was as fit as anyone to work wherever it pleased them to put me. The supervisor gave me no peace, her quota needed filling, or else she herself would be in trouble. "Idle cow", she called me. She probably believed the rumour about my second profession, which had now actually spread on the floor. Blondie no longer looked me in the eye, but I couldn't be bothered to challenge her. The only thing that made work at all bearable was the Music-While-You-Work drizzling down on us from the speakers on the ceiling - we were allowed to sing along -  and my new German friend, who came out for lunch with me. She had her new teeth before I left and looked pretty and happy.

Two weeks after the incident at the cafe the supervisor came over and told me to present myself at 'the office' half an hour before the end of the working day. It was Friday, I had my pay packet in my pocket. The Personnel Manager was a grey-haired, friendly man, quite handsome; about the same age as my father. He told me to sit on the chair in front of his desk; I put my heavy library book bag and my much lighter handbag down and waited.

He looked at the bag. "Do you enjoy reading?", he asked. "What have you got there?" For the next twenty minutes we discussed books, with particular emphasis on Dickens, whom I was devouring in great chunks. But I also had a couple of thrillers in the bag, Dorothy L. Sayers was my favourite. Mr. Personnel Manager became interested in me and asked me a number of personal questions. "Where do you come from? What have you done so far? What are you doing in England?" Finally, he came to the point. Very gently, with an apologetic smile, he said "Works Doctor has found nothing wrong with you, there's no reason why you shouldn't be able to perform as well as your colleagues, unless it's your attitude to the work. I am sorry, but we can no longer employ you". He was giving me the sack. He then said, "You could be my daughter and I would really ask you to consider going home. You don't belong here". I had lasted for exactly six weeks. He had a point.

But grimy, smelly, noisy, shabby, seedy, vibrant London, with its music, street theatre, coffee bars, and flower power was calling to me. I stayed. A friend got me a job in a fish and chip cafe.





to be continued