"DO NOT OBSTRUCT": A cashiers tale.

One of my funniest memories from working relate back to when I was cashiering at the bank. Being a cashier was a job I always enjoyed, mainly because I got to see and engage with all sorts of people from every walk of life. Shop keepers would also give you discounts or extra sized portions once they got to know you.

At one time I was working at the Barking branch of the then Midland Bank, standing in for the First Cashier. To those non banky readers, this consisted of being responsible for ordering from and sending to the bullion centre surplus cash, making sure the other cashiers were organised properly and generally be responsible for all the days cashiering activities.

In those days (early 1980's) Barking was a mainly white, working class area with various large Council Housing estates, including tower blocks. The branch was situated near the Vicarage at the end of a row of shops on Ripple Road. It consisted of a V shaped banking hall with the entrance at the apex. To the right was the Foreign and Securities desk whilst to the left was the interview room. Cashiering positions filled up the spaces in between: five if my memory serves. The door was very heavy plate glass with a powerful spring and let you have a good view of what was going on outside.

One time I recall serving a regular from the French shipping line CGM (lets call him Pete) who came in on an almost daily basis and while we were chatting away about something inconsequential I noticed a certain Mr Rao trying to get in through the front door. Mr Rao was a disabled Asian man of uncertain age who could have been anywhere between 50 and 70 years old who walked around with the aid of two crutches. His English was poor, or at least we assumed so as he rarely spoke to anyone and never, ever to a woman, preferring instead to pull a typed slip of paper from his breast pocket on which was written three simple words:

"DO NOT OBSTRUCT"

All the staff had learned to heed this cryptic warning as Mr Rao was not one to be crossed. You would get one of these little slips even if you tried to hold a door open for him. He refused to be served by or even talk to women, and if no male cashiers were available would go stand at an empty till position until we made one available. Personally I would have let him stand there all day but there were always softer souls to hand. Mr Rao would, on occasion, write in to the bank with long rambling letter written not only in lines top to bottom but all up the sides, across the top and bottom and always in strange coloured inks, normally green. We could never make head nor tail of them.

Anyway, back to the story. As nobody ever wanted to serve him, I had a quick look around to make sure no-one was trying to get out of serving him by sloping off. Pete caught me staring and turned around to see who or what I'd been looking at. He saw Mr Rao struggling with the heavy door and couldn't understand why none of the staff were going to his aid. By now Mr Rao had managed to get through and was collecting himself and his crutches inside at which point someone else walked in, swinging the door hard and sending Mr Rao flying across the room. He ended up face down on the floor with his crutches on either side. I just couldn't help myself and burst out laughing as it was one of the funniest things I'd ever seen, especially as he was such an obnoxious chap. Pete however was disgusted with all of us for laughing and told me so in no uncertain terms. Despite my warning him not to help, Pete went over to where Mr Rao was now lying and offered his hand in an effort to help him up. At this Mr Rao deliberately swung one of his crutches in an arc, right across Pete's shins. The crack was audible from the other side of the banking hall and poor Pete fell to the floor, clutching his shins in agony.

Of course, by now we were all weeing ourselves with laughter, what with Pete rolling around the floor calling Mr Rao "an ungrateful bastard" and asking "what did you do that for?" whilst Mr Rao was managing to pull himself up. Not saying a word, he took out his piece of paper and dropped it onto Pete before hobbling to the door and leaving. After a few minutes Pete was able to crawl back over to my window and haul himself up. I simply said "I did warn you Pete". Oh Happy days.

Ripple oad is all changed now, most of the shops closed and the branch would be unrecognizable. 

If still alive Mr Rao would probably be over 100 now so he probably has passed through whatever version of the Pearly Gates he subscribed to years ago, but I do pity St Peter if he tried to hold them open for him.........................

It’s all Bonkers…….

Escalators. Wonderful things, especially if your knees are as knackered as mine. Not so good if you have a pushchair or buggy, but on balance they are a good thing. For starters they make travelling on the Tube much better as you don’t need to walk up hundreds of steps and they are a Godsend for the elderly or people with bad hearts (the dodgy ticker variety, not the “nuke ‘em all” lot). But, and it’s a biggie, why is there always someone who, on stepping off the top or bottom of the escalator, decides to stand still? What is it in someone’s brain that suddenly makes the idea of standing still so attractive when there are several dozen people immediately behind you all travelling at speed and with no way of stopping? And then, after you have banged into them from behind they look at you as if it was your fault? What on earth is going through their minds? 

It’s the same again at the entrances to supermarkets where you have to go through some sort of a barrier. No sooner do some people get through then they stop and have a look around or fumble in their handbag, thereby ensuring you bash into them with your trolley. Even if you manage to stop in time its guaranteed that you will get bumped by the people behind you. Its no fun having to limp around Tescos when you have been hobbled by a trolley. Try explaining to the person behind you that it was the other persons fault when by now they will have walked off and left you standing there like a Pratt. Perhaps there should be chevrons marked on the floor and signs that say no stopping or keep two chevrons distance between trolleys?

Later, in the same supermarket, you are standing in the till lane patently waiting your turn, using the waiting time to make sure your credit or debit card is easily to hand for when its time to pay. Unfortunately the person in front of you (no doubt related to the earlier person at the entrance) decides to get their payment method ready only after their shopping has all been passed through the till. Invariably it’s somewhere hidden in the black hole like recesses of their handbag or purse and takes them an age to find.

Whilst on the subject of supermarkets, why do people insist on engaging in long conversations right by the exit? Trying to manoeuvre around half a dozen or so fully laden trolleys, especially when yours is guaranteed to be the one with the dodgy wheel, is no fun at all. Entrances should have boxed zones, like on the road, where you cant stop and can only enter when the exit is clear.

And then there’s the twit in the shop queue, normally the one at the back that hasn't been waiting as long as you have, yet decides to start complaining loudly at the only assistant serving. What’re they meant to do, magic another feckin person out of thin air? So now its your turn to be served and they are peed off so you get the full brunt of it whilst the fecker at the back with the big mouth decided it wasn't that important anyway and has f*cked off. Agggh.

Whilst out and about I’d seriously like to have the super power of seeing five seconds in advance so that I’d know whether or not the person you let go in front of you, held open the door for or let pass through in the car is going to say thank you or not. How many times has some ignorant sh*te not even said thank you or flashed their lights in recognition. How hard is it for them to simply raise a few fingers on the steering wheel or nod and smile? Double Agggh.

Yup, it’s definitely all bonkers.

Who's scared of the Dentist? Tales from the Chair.

Who’s scared of the Dentist?

Many years ago, in fact more years then I really care to remember, I woke up with a toothache. Not just any old toothache you understand, but a full blown Marks and Spencer one with all the trimmings.

I'd flown with my mother to Germany for a two week holiday, staying with her older sister Lilly who had recently moved to Wesel with her new husband Karl. In those days Wesel was a medium sized town in northern Germany, laid out on the banks of the Rhine ad near the Dutch border. It had been almost completely flattened during WW by Allied bombing and mainly consisted of early post war blocks of flats in the centre with more residential ribbon development along the major routes into town. The land was very flat and dotted with farms, perfect for farming and Russian tanks to sweep across from the East, hence the regular flights overhead of low flying Starfighters (or flying coffins as they became known due to the number of crashes) from the many NATO bases. The planes would fly six days a week, and often at roof top height, scaring everything.

Lilly's house was a large 4 bedrooms detached Swiss chalet style building sitting next to flat, open fields with dark rich flood plain soil. They kept chickens and Karl, having been previously a rich landowner before fleeing Eastern Germany in front of the advancing Russians, was a dab hand at growing vegetables. There was always a fine crop of asparagus growing at the end of the garden, guarded by that most ferocious of dogs, a German Dachshund. Woolly, as this particular sausage dog was called, was typical of the breed. Short haired and totally without fear or any sort of self preservation whatsoever. He might have been small but what he lost in stature he more then made up in bravery and a sheer disregard for the consequences.

Karl supplemented his War pension with a small part time job working for an agricultural feedstuff and supplements firm. He travelled widely around the local area visiting most of the farms, discussing with them what was new on the market or taking orders for supplies. He used to take me with him on these trips as it got me out of the ladies hair and gave me the chance to practice my German as Karl's English was mostly non existent other then the odd phrase picked up in the war such as Hande Hoch or Got Im Himmel, the sort of thing you read in Boys Weekly. He wasn't a particularly patient man and I could sense that my stammer (which was a lot worse in those days) and natural shyness used to annoy him. The language barrier didn't help either. Woolly used to sit on the rear seat, barking loudly every time we passed a tractor or farm lorry. Goodness knows why he did this: perhaps it was his in built aggression at anything bigger or louder then he was.

That bloody dog was amazing. We'd drive into a farm where several large, semi feral farm dogs were lounging around, looking suitably tough, and he'd come alive. In fact he seemed to puff up and grow in front of your eyes. Dogs that would otherwise have taken a lump out of you would beat a hasty retreat as Karl opened the car door and Woolly would shoot out before our feet could touch the ground.

I'd seen him on numerous occasions face off several much larger dogs and back them into a corner. Once, he chased a massive pair of Alsations and had them standing on the top of their kennel whilst he stood guard below. As I intimated previously, the dog was truly bonkers. He would wait in the garden for a mole hill to start appearing (the area was plagued with moles) and then pounce on it, digging furiously to try and catch it.

Anyway, back to the toothache. The morning after arriving in Germany I woke up in the early hours in terrible pain, with the left side of my face on fire. I went to the bathroom and looked at my face which was horribly swollen on the left side where it was hurting. All the upper teeth on that side were loose to the touch and I looked like Quasimodo on a bad day. The pain was something else and being only 12, wasn't sure what to do. My mum was in another bedroom so I just sat on the edge of the bed hoping the pain would go away. Unfortunately it didn't and just grew steadily worse to the point where I tried to pull my loose teeth out with my fingers in the hope of alleviating the pain and pressure in my face.

I struggled through the night and pain until mum woke up. She took one look at my face and went ballistic in the cool, calm way mothers do in an emergency. Now this was back in 1970 and Britain hadn't entered into the EEC yet (as the EU was known back then) because the French were keen to keep the "perfidious English" out of their cozy stitch up of a club with the Germans and didn't want us joining, fearing we would get on far too well with them who they envied and feared in equal measure. As a result there was no form E111 or reciprocal health care scheme and I'm sure my parents had never heard of travel insurance. Back in the late sixties, early seventies, foreign travel wasn't too common and certainly not something working class people like us did regularly. In fact, if my mother hadn't been German with family back home I doubt I would have travelled abroad until I was in my mid twenties.

So, no health cover and one very poorly son. After explaining what had happened in the night, Christine, my mum, made Karl drive us to the nearest  Zahnartz (German for Dentist) in Wesel who had a good look and rummage around in my mouth before going off for a huddled chat with my mother in the corner of the room. Mum came over to me with a worried look on her face and told me I was apparently suffering from Cotton Thread Gangrene in the upper jaw and needed immediate treatment. So far, so good. She then went on to explain that as my face was so swollen there was nowhere for the injections to go in so all the work had to be done without an anaesthetic. OK, I thought, not so good but depending on what happens next, not that bad. The treatment required was to have root canal work done on my front teeth so that antibiotic plugs could be put into the nerve canals and a hole drilled into the roof of my mouth for the infection to drain out. Ah, shit, that was obviously going to hurt a bit, but I reasoned that it couldn't be that much worse then what I was suffering anyway so what the hell. 

Unfortunately it didn't work out that way. Several years later in 1976 a film came out with Dustin Hoffman as the hero, and Laurence Olivier as the Nazi War Criminal who tortured his victims by breaking their teeth in half with pliers. Marathon Man it was called. If anyone has seen that film I expect it was similar to what happened to me except that I have never been able to bring myself to watch it, for obvious reasons. The pain was appalling, only alleviated somewhat once the nerves had been scrapped out of my teeth by long pieces of thin, roughened wire, that she inserted up and down inside the tooth. By the time the hole was made in my mouth I was past caring, living between breaths in a literal sea of pain.

I had a death grip on the chairs armrests and I vividly remember my mother standing in a corner of the room watching this all happen to me. Years later and a parent myself I can only imagine what she went through in having to watch her little boy (alright I was a big twelve year old but to a mum her son will always be a little boy) suffer the agonies of the damned.

After about an hour I was all done, totally exhausted from the experience and just wanted to go and lie down somewhere quiet and alone. By the time we were back at the house I was starting to feel a bit perkier, and with the resilience of youth was soon hungry and looking for some food. The teeth were all still loose to the touch so no steaks but soup was more then acceptable.

What was meant to only be a two week holiday unfortunately ended up as six for Christine had a massive stroke just a few days after my visit to the Dentist. Although it may have been a coincidence, she always said it was the horror of what happened that day which brought it on.

So there I was, twelve years old, in pain, staying with my Aunt and Uncle who couldn't speak English whilst my mum was in intensive care in a German hospital miles away. Talk about being thrown into the deep end. Dad was back in England still working as we didn't have the money for him to go on holiday with us. When he heard the news from my Cousin Hans (more of him later), Bert was so stressed he burst a blood vessel in his eye and went blind on that side for a while.  

On the plus side, my German steadily improved and I made friends with a lovely local girl, Eleonore, who was introduced to me as a companion. She spoke lovely English and we became firm friends, going out after her school finished in the early afternoon. Schools in Germany started early but finished at about two o'clock, giving us plenty of time to explore the surrounding countryside.

Unknown to me the Hospital require paying and as my parents were as poor as Churchmice there was no way they could do so. Step forward Hans who was married to my Cousin Margaret, daughter of Auntie Lilly. He was a very wealthy man who lived in a massive detached property in Erkrath, a suburb of Düsseldorf from where he ran his business empire. For a reason I never knew (but guessed at), during the war Christine had effectively brought up Margaret as if she was her own daughter and he was grateful to step in and pay as a way to say thank you. We never knew any of this at the time and it was only years later we found out about his kindness. Unfortunately I have no photographs of Uncle Hans (as I called him for he was a lot older then me) but I do have lots of very fond memories. There’s a picture above of me mowing the lawn with Margaret in Erkrath. Hans spoke six or seven languages fluently and was a very smart man. He collected stamps and medals and because of his influence I too collected stamps for many years. Hans always wanted me to learn a few languages so that when I left college I could go work with him. Unfortunately I wasnt that smart and not a little lazy so never made the effort.

Several years later on another holiday to Germany, but this time with Bert, we were staying with him and they both got into a heated discussion as to whether you could get drunk on fine, vintage champagne. Hans had a massive wine cellar and the two of them proceeded to put the theory to the test. Too young to join in all I could do was watch them slowly disprove the theory. Whilst not a big drinker,Bert had built up a formidable tolerance for alcohol during the war due to the prevalence of spirits in the Sergeants Mess. He told me once that they used to pool their spirits into a metal bucket, pouring in gin, whiskey, vodka and anything else they could find. They then drunk it out of their mess tins! The picture below shows them drinking a few liberated beers.

Bert’s fourth from right. Picture probably taken in Belgium somewhere, late 1944.

As the weeks went by the toothache gradually faded away to a dull ache and I was able to enjoy myself a bit more. Christine was recovering and my worst fears hadn't been realised. Problem was, Christine was a very stubborn woman who wanted to get home. Although German, she had no intention of dying there and wanted to get back to England and her Bert. The upshot of this was that she discharged herself and arranged a flight back to England without telling anyone. Whilst barely able to stand she somehow got herself to the airport and onto a plane bound for Heathrow. Halfway into the flight she had another stroke and caused a full blown emergency on the plane. You couldn't make this shit up, believe me. No sooner had we landed then we were carried off the plane, Christine on a stretcher, and taken to the hospital wing at Heathrow where poor old Bert was waiting for us having been giving the bad news whilst we were still in the air.

Fast forward several years, perhaps four, and I had a small recurrence of the problem. An abcess appeared half way between my lip and eye, next to the nose. Although only small it oozed pus and had to be treated. My regular Dentist, a lovely Australian dental surgeon called Mr Hing, discovered that it was all linked in to my original problem and decided to operate at his surgery rather then send me off to Hospital. His surgery, on Dagenham Heathway, part way down from what was the Odeon Cinema (alas no longer there) was reached at the top of a steep flight of narrow stairs and consisted of a small waiting area with a small receptionists window and plastic covered bench seats.  Everybody had to wait outside and could hear everything that went on in the treatment room. Conversations, drilling, screams, the lot. At the time the occupants were a few older people and a mother with a young daughter who was somewhat scared and was making quite a fuss about not wanting to go in. Everyone was reassuring her that it didn't hurt and she reluctantly calmed down. I'd already been in for my numbing injections, some ten or twelve if I remember correctly and by the time I was called in I couldn't feel a thing, including my tongue and lips . Why is it that Dentists insist on talking to you when you have a mouthful of steel?

Dagenham Heathway back then

Doctor Hing had to cut through into the bone above my teeth and continued to drill out the infection, seemingly drilling upwards towards the abscess. Chips of bone and blood spattered his glasses and face mask but he kept up a cheerful commentary on what he was doing to take my mind off the drill noise and gory sight reflected in his lenses. I couldn't feel a thing however. All told I was in the chair for about half an hour and after several stitches and a mouthful of cotton wool tubes, was told to get a prescription for antibiotics and pain killers and come back in two weeks time for a check up and the stitches out. Now I’d been in there an awful long time and everyone outside must have been wondering what was going on, what with the constant drilling and chipping away. As I walked though the door everyone looked at me including the little girl. In an attempt at reassurance I smiled at her only to release a load of blood out of my numbed mouth that literally flooded down the corners of my mouth onto my already sodden shirt collar. The poor girl took one look at my bloodied grimace and screamed in horror. Oops, not the smartest thing I've ever done. I also got quite a few states on the tube on the journey home.

One of the side effects of root canal work is that without a nerve the tooth becomes brittle over time and may well eventually break. That's what happened to one of my front teeth after getting bopped in Karate one night, ultimately leading to an implant. But that, along with what happened to Eleonore, Christine and Bert are perhaps a story for another time.

My son, John, is now training to be a Dentist. Perhaps there's a bit of serendipity or circularity in that, or maybe the universe is just having a laugh. At least I'll have someone to look after my teeth when he qualifies. Family and friend rates at the very least, if not the odd freebie. John? Oh all right, cost price then.

After all what happened am I scared of the Dentist or worried about going? Not one bit as I take the view that after what I've had done to my teeth, there's not much more left to do that could freak me out.

Intolerance and getting older.

Intolerance.

I’m intolerant, There, I've said it. It’s getting worse and more noticeable as I've grown older too. Whereas in my youth I had a largely laissez faire attitude to life, I find myself becoming very judgmental and intolerant of people, fashions and institutions. Whereas in the past if a had shoddy service or goods from a shop I’d simply stop using them, I now find myself asking for the manager, insisting on my legal remedies, writing to their Head Office and firing off a snotty (yet polite) rant to the Daily Telegraph (it used to be the Daily Mail, but they have become far too right wing even for me). As an aside, isn't it funny how our taste in newspapers change too. I started off reading the Daily Mirror, primarily as my Dad used to bring it home with him from work. He’d drop his backpack by the front door as he wheeled his bike through the hall to the back garden and I’d make a bee-line to get the paper first. It would always be dog eared and well thumbed but opened up a wider world only glimpsed on John Cravens Newsround.. I used to read voraciously as a child, still do to this day. If I've nothing to read at breakfast I’ll even read the labels on sauce bottles or cereal packets. The newspaper always came in handy after everyone had finished reading it as a few sheets would be laid down on the floor for me to clean my shoes ready for school the next day. This was a ritual my dad drummed into me, perhaps a hangover from his war service. Every night before I went to bed I had to make sure my shoes were cleaned and polished. Even now, the smell of Cherry Blossom shoe polish evokes so many memories. Once I’d started work I was opened up to different papers. One of my first jobs at the bank was to lay the Flying Pink (the FT as it was then called) on the managers’ desk, ready for when he came in. The articles that I could understand (remember, my dad didn't have a bank account when I started working, keeping his money in separate metal Oxo tins with holes cut in the top. One for the rates, another for Gas, Electric etc. Every Friday he’d make sure money went into them to ensure the important bills got paid) opened up the arcane and mysterious world of finance.

I finally persuaded dad to open a bank account, as it was somewhat embarrassing for me in those days that he didn't have one which in turn meant he had no credit card and had to pay for everything in cash. On the long train journey into work everyday, on the District Line from Dagenham East to Bank, via Mile End and the Central Line, I’d seen that there was a clear division in who was reading what. The blue collar types read the Sun, Racing Post or Mirror, whilst those in cheap suits went for the Express or Mail. The more expensive suit wearers read the larger broad sheets such as the Times or Telegraph, which were far too big for people to read on the train unless you had mastered the black art of newspaper origami. This was the ability to fold these large newspapers in such a way as to not annoy the people sitting next to you and be able to change pages with just a few folds. Fascinating to watch. Being in a cheap suit myself I decided to ditch reading my dad’s Mirror and trade up to the Daily Mail. Maybe I’m looking at the paper with rose tinted memories but I’m sure in those days it was far more interesting and sensible then it is now and didn't try to wind its readers up everyday with obvious lies. There also seemed to be far more actual news then adverts too.

Ah, where was I? Oh yes, intolerance and firing off snooty letters. Was this a slow, gradual build up or was there a Damascene moment one day where I changed (like Clark Kent) from a mild mannered person to a grumpy old man? I really don’t know but suspect it has several antecedents. Firstly, I’m getting older and somewhere in my subconscious there’s a part of me saying hurry up you old fool, there’s not so much time left that you can afford to waste it listening to that drivel or nodding sagely at the bollocks being sold you by the half wit in Currys who couldn't find the On/Off button if he tried and who thinks that buying an extended warranty is a good deal. Secondly, it’s because I've seen and heard all the poor excuses that pass for service so many times before. They might work on a callow twenty something, but please, do I look wet behind the ears or fresh off the teat? I've boots older then most people. Thirdly, I think working at the Banks Head Office changed me quite a bit. I went from believing that people in charge knew what they were doing to realizing that for most of the time stuff was being made up as they went along. It’s a wonder large organisations don’t explode from all the hot air and gas that’s generated in all of the interminable meetings that go on. You know, on several occasions I attended meetings where I’m sure the sole reason of the meeting was to determine when the next one should be held! Blind leading the blind. Anyhow, just as people become allergic to bee stings or peanuts from too much exposure, I’m sure HO made me develop allergies to bullshit and idiots.

But is it a given that you become intolerant as you grow older? Is it hard coded into our DNA or simply down to learned behaviour and social mores? For example, I started off as an ardent Socialist, bemoaning the lot of the working man at the hands of exploitative big business and the class system. I then started work, saw how much tax was being taken each week from me (and for what exactly?), suffered the Winter of Discontent, power cuts and the three day week, before realising that maybe Socialism and rampant union activism wasn't such a wonderful idea after all. Is that a phase most people go through as the realities of life push out the naiveté of youth or was it just me?

Maybe intolerance is an instinctive or learned response, like Pavlov’s dog, to the massive social and technological changes going on around us. Did medieval older people (there must have been some. They didn't all die off young) get grumpier and complain about the younger serfs and how much better the floggings were back in their day? Were people more content in the past and only reacted to technological changes, for example the industrial revolution or the social unrest following the world wars?

For me it’s also manifesting itself in a readiness to face up to people that are rude or get in your face. As a young man I’d always be willing to back off from a taut situation, even when at the height of my physical prowess, such as it was. Now, despite my ageing bones, assorted health problems and bad eyesight, I’m more prepared then ever to have a go if I see something wrong happening. Why is that, shouldn't the evolutionary “smart” thing to do be to back away as you become less able?

Maybe its simply a last Hurrah against the inevitable as the lights start to dim and the fires that once burnt so brightly now start to flicker and die down.

I really don’t know