Woodwork class 1974

Don't I wish I had paid more attention to the instructions of my Form Two woodwork teacher, Mr. Pingstone. Known to us as "Chisel", his acerbic wit, axe-shaped face and ability to wield a set square as an offensive weapon caused in me a permanent phobic reaction to all forms of manual labour. Especially that class of activity, so popular in England, known as "D.I.Y.". Because, now that I am in the final stages of purchasing an 1890's Victorian terraced house in Norwich, I find myself faced with a bewildering array of tasks that need doing before the house is habitable.

The magpie habits of the previous owner, and the weak sphincter control of her charming dog Ruffles, as well as a general lack of maintenance over the last quarter century or so mean that once all the pictures, crucifixes, ornamental plates, mirrors and the like are removed from the plastered walls and the Rorschach-stained carpets are prised from the floorboards, I will be left with a whole lot of renovation to do.

The fireplaces need to be unblocked, the kitchen, utility room and downstairs bathroom need to be retiled, in fact the kitchen needs to be completely replaced, various walls need painting, ceilings need skimming (and this has to be done carefully otherwise the ancient lath and plaster will come tumbling down), woodworm need to be admonished, rising damp needs to be averted, a positively dangerous light fitting in the hallway needs to be raised another foot on its pendant chain (the current owner is somewhat wizened and bowed by years and manages to scoot undamaged underneath the dangling ironmongery - which, needless to say, has caught me between the eyes more than once already on my inspection visits). Oh and a whole lot more besides.

As to the back garden, it does have a lovely rosemary bush - if not much else. The garage is not in great nick, and also has an asbestos roof which will require people in space suits to remove (English Health and Safety laws, somewhat bemusing to those of us who grew up on an asbestos mine in Rhodesia).

















Ah well, at least the little conservatory will be a perfect place for my Rhodesian teak bar counter. I can set up a small pub, decorate it with militaria (and I'm planning to acquire some new stuff, more on that later) and invite friends round to sample Southern African wines and beers.


Should be fun. Once, that is, I have flattened my meagre savings paying other people to do the work needed. If only I'd paid more attention in class.

Facts, legless lizards and anoraks

It occurred to me last week that I am a bit of an anorak when it comes to certain facts. This is not a new discovery - in fact the confidential report on me when I completed the combat medic's course in 1980 in Rhodesia said " A cheerful, enthusiastic and capable medic - if a trifle pedantic". Being described as a pedant at the age of 18 does not bode well for one's forties... how did I get to read this report you ask? I burgled the Sergeant-Major's safe and read it is how - we started out with about 130 people on the 4-month course and some 22 of us passed (the rest being returned to unit or put onto a more junior course). I came third overall - (top national serviceman though, with regular soldiers filling the top two places) and I wanted to know where I had gone wrong.

So what caused this moment of anorakish revelation? Well, last week I was on a management breakaway in a lovely little seaside North Norfolk town called Holkham and as usual was exercising my storytelling and drama queen abilities for the delight and edification of my colleagues. I recounted the story of finding a slow worm, or legless lizard, in the Swinley Forest near Bracknell and was met with a barrage of denial and cries of "Nonsense" from my colleagues. They of course neither knew nor cared whether such a creature existed, but were merely winding me up and bringing a welcome end to my apparently inexhaustible store of anecdotes. What amazed me was the way I reacted to being told I was talking rubbish.

Just for the record, of course, I was right. http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/wildfacts/factfiles/281.shtml will bear me out as will these following pictures, although they are not clear enough to reveal the distinguishing characteristic of the little herpetiform creature - its eyelids. Which doubtless the wee creature had tightly shut when I picked it up, my then wife having executed a vertical leap of some three feet on seeing it cross the path by her feet as we walked. An interesting set of natural phenomena ensued that day; firstly the appearance of the aforementioned Anguis fragilis, secondly the astounding leap executed in defiance of her somewhat squat and simian physiology by the former Mrs. Hodgson and thirdly the presence of mind that had me seizing the little wriggler by what would have been the nape of its neck, if it had a neck, because I realised it was not an adder and thus non-venomous in the context of English snake lore.

All of which is mildly interesting, but not the point of this discourse. I guess for a very long time I have depended on my knowledge of facts as being my unique differentiator. Given that I have always been in a newly-created role during my work life, and usually as a specialist in one or other discipline, a head full of arcane knowledge has been my foundation and the one point of stability in a very chaotic career. So how profoundly (and hilariously) discombobulated I became on having such a simple point of fact challenged by my colleagues. Thanks friends - a valuable bit of insight gained. And when you arise shrieking from your conference accommodation beds next time, having discovered one or another reptile amongst your duvets, I know you will take it in good spirit.