Barbara Spencer's Blog: Two sides to Every Story, page 5

EARTH HAS FROZEN OVER - OFFICIAL

Born into the generation that still believes banks - sadly now called financial institutions - remain dedicated to the well-being of their customers (OK, I believe in fairy tales too) and are the originators of the phrase, 'customer-service', I had rather a rude awakening, the other day, when I went into my local branch.'I want to transfer some funds from my current account into my ISA.' I said 'Here is the account number.' 'Sorry, I am unable to do that,' said the nice girl behind the counter.'Why?' I said'We no longer carry that service. You can take money out though.'        'I don't want to take money out. I want to put it in.'She shook her head. 'Sorry, we don't offer that service. I’m afraid we no longer manage these accounts in branch. You need to telephone our savings department. I can give you a phone number, if you like, and you can use our phone. Just dial 9 for an outside line.''But I thought banks believed in security. Isn't over the counter more secure than a phone call?'‘Not really, you will be asked security questions in a phone call.’ (Are you beginning to get that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach – you know the one you get when you go into the supermarket and find you can no longer identify the joints of meat on sale there.)I dialled the number. An automated voice replied, launching into a long-winded explanation of my 4 options plus button 5 if you have forgotten what 1 – 4 were.I press 1.  An automated voice replied, launching into a long-winded explanation of my 4 options plus button 5 if you have forgotten what 1 – 4 were.Hastily I press 2.Great, a voice. Gobbledegook and a mumbled name – but hey, that doesn't matter, I'm of an age when I don't remember names anyway.I identify myself with my full name and my account number.
'I want to make a deposit into my ISA,' I said.'I need to ask you some questions. Your full name? Account number?' I take a deep breath! 'Sort Code?' the voice continues relentlessly. 'Address? Post Code? Mother's maiden name? Date of Birth?' '1.5.46' I said.'Age?' Age! My grandchildren think I'm 45. I hastily crunch a few numbers on my calculator.'64' I said at last.
(Come on – be reasonable. I didn't sign up for a maths exam when I opened my ISA.)
'Now some questions about your dependents?'What? Now some questions about my dependents! Haven't I made it clear that all I want to do is put my money into my account? What the hell do they want the name of my aunt, my uncle and all my 22 children for?(You can see that I am becoming somewhat unhinged – quite normal after being forced to confess my real age.)It was then I got this most horrific thought. What if I begin to suffer from senile dementia and can only remember the names of 21 of my 22 children? Is there an option to phone a friend or ask the audience?
And then I thought – I don’t want this. I want a bank that I can walk into, who will handle all my business over the counter, face to face with a nice girl (or boy), who has my identity (plain as plain) right in front of her.So I said: 'I don't want this,' and put the phone down.
In the old days (and they’re not that old) the bank manager visited you in your place of business and sent you a card for Christmas, all because you had taken out a loan with them. Loyalty: that's what our generation believed in.That's gone too.I sighed. Perhaps it really is time for a change.I walked down the street to a Building Society and went inside. 'If I open an account,' I said. 'Can I handle all my business over the counter, face to face with a nice girl (or boy), who has my identity (plain as plain) right in front of her?''Yes,' said the nice lady and produced a form. 

Tips for would-be writers

In my view, the creation of ebooks has become a Pandora’s Box. There’s no clue as to what you are going to get out and how scary it will be.  And people, who should never put pen to paper, are suddenly writing books that are frankly awful.
That’s not saying I write any better but at least I have gone through the agony of learning the craft – and still I get shouted at by editors and my consultancy for making infantile mistakes.The secret of a good book is in the planning. When I began I kept everything in my head. Now, more and more, I plan each chapter and each character.In the earliest stages of my career, the literary consultancy, Cornerstones, gave me two pieces of advice. "Never be in a hurry." and "When you have finished the draft, put it away for a month." That is super advice. Coming back fresh, you see all glitches that daily viewing has obscured. I add a piece of advice to that: "Print it out and read it aloud."

And I don’t use friends to read my work. I did: the first rang me up and said there was a spelling mistake on page 13; the second said she always liked to know what the main character looked like on page 1. (This book was written in the first person by a boy and I wasn’t sure if boys spent their time even bothering about their appearance, never mind looking in the mirror. I hastily add this was before Justin Bieber came on the scene and boys became more vain than girls.) The third, said how wonderful my book was, and then I discovered she hadn’t even bothered to finish it!  

Almost a Sticky End

I smelled gas last night. I dived off the kitchen checking all the burners and sniffing - loudly.No – nothing there, all off.I went to bed and then I smelled gas.Diving down stairs, I went to check that I really had turned off the burners or perhaps it wasn’t gas at all but another strange substance – like fish.I’d had fish for supper.I went back to bed and tried to settle and then my heart started pounding.Is this the end? I thought, leaping out of bed. Will I wake up stiff as a corpse?Downstairs again. I ran into the kitchen … sniff …sniff …sniff.
Perhaps it’s the second sign of dementia, imagining smells where there are none?So I checked.
No, the first sign of dementia is leaving the gas on.The second sign of dementia is not noticing that it's on!
So then I go back to bed and wonder if there is an explosion which of my possession should I rescue. That took me perhaps fifteen minutes of thought but it was an interesting exercise, trying to decide what was valuable and what was not.Still unable to sleep, I climbed and peered out of the window, wondering if I would break my neck or my leg jumping out. That’s when I settled on taking just my Memory Stick
Then I thought, that’s rather a good position to be in – uncaring about material things But even then I couldn’t get to sleep because I still smelled gas.In bare feet and wearing only a nightdress, I went into the street, still sniffing, and saw my neighbour’s light on.‘Can you smell gas,’ I said, phoning him. (and probably waking him up)‘Yes, it was me. I turned the wrong burner on. My gas bill will be enormous.'
My neighbour’s a hell of a lot younger than me and can’t possibly quote the forgetfulness of old age as an excuse. It’s common knowledge (at least his and mine) that all his delicious cooking smells float straight through the kitchen wall, so wouldn't it be reasonable to assume that gas would too?
I went to bed, but left my window open, just in case.

Turning Point - the new young adult thriller

This time the enemies are making sure no one survives in Barbara Spencer’s Turning Point, the explosive sequel to Running 

When fans demanded a sequel to Running, Barbara Spencer was happy to oblige. Set in the 21st century, Turning Point portrays a world which we may very easily come to inherit. One dominated by money and greed, with Europe a major world power and England reduced to an island status, in which the little guy stands no chance.
The action-packed, Turning Point follows Scott Anderson and Bill, one of the scientists that created Styrus, as they head for Geneva – where Bill is to address the United Nations and formally hand over control of the computer programme. Meanwhile Mr Smith, despite a massive manhunt by the American Secret Service, continues his meteoric rise to power, driving global corporations into bankruptcy.
When Scott accidentally overhears a secret conversation, the mirage of calm and safety that his family and friends have tried so hard to create is shattered forever. Within forty-eight hours, Scott has become a wanted criminal, accused of gunning down an innocent bystander; his bodyguard, his home, and his father – all gone. With only his school friends believing in his innocence, Scott heads for Exeter on his motorbike to the headquarters of the American Secret Service – only to find that destroyed too. Publication ebook - August 16 2013

eISBN: 9781783067978      Price: £3.99ISBN: 9781783060511        Price: £7.99

Excessively dim or complicated!

I have to confess that websites are not for the faint hearted. It took me three goes to order a new ink cartridge from Amazon - I nearly ended up with 5. Fortunately the polite  messenger - I like to think of him as a gorgeous male. Ok, don't rush to tell me that it's automatic, that will spoil my daydream.
Anyway, up the message comes. Are you seriously ordering 5 cartridges? So I cancelled it and after a suitable amount of time, tried again.

And take Goodreads site. Apologies all round but I still can't work out how to put on a recommendation. I promise you I have read far more than 4 books this year. And I've clicked every single button - but I still can't add books and review them.

The next generation of websites need to be far more user friendly. If they start from the premise that we are all idiots - we just might get a usable website.
A Few exceptions: renewing your tax disc on line - now that's simple. But I still phone First Great Western when I want a train ticket. Why - because that's even simpler!

Government investigation into missing rolling stock?

This is getting serious!
First … it was coach B that went missing.
Yesterday, it was coach C that bit the dust.
Same station, same line, same number of coaches, 8,  A through H all identical, same operating company, same day of the week – Saturday ... different train.An hour earlier this time, as if the thieves are getting bolder and smarter perhaps believing the theft won't be so noticeable if it's the crack of dawn when people are half asleep.
And guess what I was in coach C!Clutching coffee, 2 bags and a one of those 2m high displays that fold down into a long, awkward tube that weights 5 kgs. I struggled for a seat, eventually collapsing down in a spare seat in Coach B.
Where did the theft take place? The train only comes from Western Super Mare. Did it get held up by masked gunmen as it pulled out of the shed? Or stopped at a signal and disconnected by Starsky and Hutch or Sundance and his gang? If so, why did no one notice the dastardly act?
And is this only the tip of the iceberg, the ones we know about? What about all the coaches that go missing on other lines. Somewhere there has to be a mastermind who is amassing hundreds of coaches. I can only think it’s a US led plot - Machiavellian in its cleverness - to replace all those scruffy tea sheds on wheels that lurk in lay-bys offering cooked breakfast, with smart American-style diners made from our missing rolling stock.
Or perhaps First Great Western can’t count to 8 on a Saturday.

A Singular Man – part 4

      From that point on, the holiday took off like a rocket heading into space. During the day we went our separate ways but from late afternoon, like bees round a honey pot, we gathered round Alan and exactly like flowers, we blossomed. On our last night, we all went to dinner, including several of the poolside couples, who had come to the conclusion that we were having more fun than they were.    Not the gargantuan ladies, however, of whom one was a vicar. Sadly, I came to the reluctant conclusion that she was progressing up the same avenue as the large florid gentleman.  According to her, she had been preparing a sermon one night and had felt someone sitting behind her. Turning round she saw Jesus and had said to him, something like, 'These are your words, Lord, you should read them not me.'   I didn't have the nerve to ask why she hadn't asked if Christ might step through the door and meet a few of her colleagues, thus settling the debate once and for all. Perhaps I am prejudiced against the cloth. Seems fair, after she spent an entire evening bending my ear about her progress through religion and then two days later, when I spoke to her in the swimming pool, she pretended to be Greta Garbo.       'I want to be alone,' she gasped theatrically. 'This is my holiday and people won't leave me alone.'       'But I only asked, when do you go back to work?' I stuttered.
At the our-last-night-of-the-holiday-dinner, couples sat together for security. And feeling myself in distinct danger of being propositioned by our hostess, I plonked myself down next to Alan. He, in honour of the occasion had substituted his Lycra for an old pair of trousers and a fisherman's jersey. John the Jazz sat in regal splendour on his far side. Quicker on the uptake than me, he had already sussed out that in Alan (whom he insisted on calling Reg, after Reg Harris, World Champion sprint cyclist in the fifties) he had discovered something unique. I agreed after spending several hours in his company, on a walk up a steep mountain to view a monastery. He had joined us (me and the young geek, who I hasten to say turned out to be the most delightful young man. Perhaps it was his shorts that were at fault.) at dinner one evening, where I learned that he rationed himself to ten Euros a day. He ate breakfast and something, relatively cheap, like spaghetti bolognese, for dinner. And it was at dinner that evening that I discovered, to my great relief, that his deformity was actually an overly large money-belt, purchased in the market at little expense.      On the far side of the table sat our resident paranoid schizophrenic, whose stomach had by this time reached the two yard line, over which buttons and button holes would not leap. He had proved himself relatively normal in the light of day, but deteriorated rapidly as the sun sank towards the horizon, and was now regaling those seated around him, about the Zionist / MI6 plot to eliminate him and stop him blowing the whistle on the government. These were the people who had bugged his television set. Having already sat through it several times, I knew his listeners were in for a roller-coaster ride.       Alan was undoubtedly by far the safer option.
Born in Kent and a union man, he admitted to being a firebrand in his youth. In sober middle age, this had turned to calm disgust at the corruption of modern government – particularly the one he had championed for so long. Married, divorced, his family had pretty-much disowned him. I expect it was the Lycra. Bestowed on him as a job lot some ten years earlier, when he was living in unbelievably reduced circumstances yet still possessing a determination to travel, he had taken to wearing Lycra instead of holiday clothes. Washed at night – hung up to dry – no ironing needed. Perfect for a man living on £45 a week.       This had come about because the Job Centre in their wisdom had decided  a man couldn't possibly live on £45 a week, his wage from his part-time job. Instead, they offered him six weeks full-time employment, unfortunately without being able to say if there was or wasn’t a job at the end of it. Now Alan liked his job. He was a cleaner at a local college and he was happy. It had taken him a couple of years to even find this one, and without guarantees there would be something after the six weeks, when he would become fully unemployed, quite logically, he refused – rightly preferring the bird in hand. Concluding he had to have money stashed away to be so obdurate as to refuse six weeks' work, the Job Centre cut his entitlement to benefit. Alan didn't argue but set about living on what he earned.      It was John the Jazz who told me that Alan never burned heat, only in the severest of winters. Instead, he rolled himself in a blanket, stuffing a hot water bottle between him and the blanket. He never used the immersion either, boiling a kettle for hot water. Breakfast consisted of oatmeal porridge (buying large sacks cheaply) sweetened with a little wild honey. And for dinner pilchards in tomato sauce were stirred into potato. (You know those huge tins that cost 50p and are frequently fed to non-fussy cats). Once a week he visited (and still does) the supermarket, filling his trolley with whatever was out-of date, bent or damaged, all the goods he could lay his hands on for a tenner. And for entertainment he listened to Radio 4.      Finally, after ten years he was granted a pension of just over £100 a week. For him this was a fortune. He made himself live off £60 because somewhere amongst all this high finance he was still paying back £85 pounds a month to a Holiday Club. In the wildness of youth, he had fallen victim to a scam, and had signed an agreement to pay £5,000 for which he would get free holidays in Spain every year. He never got the holidays but he still had to pay the five grand. The rest he saves or spends on going places. Constantly checking for last minute deals – no matter where – he packs his Lycra and off he goes.       I wish George Bernard Shaw had been one of our party in Crete that year. I would back Alan to against Alfred P. Doolittle any day, and after talking with him, no doubt the great man would have agreed.      We parted next day. Most were returning home after a week's holiday. Alan and John the Jazz were staying longer. Swearing to keep in touch by email there were murmurs of a repeat visit next year. But it wouldn't work.It was the thrill of discovery which jelled such a disparate group, and that in any future encounter would be lacking.
Still I confess to a hankering to find out what is in store for Alan. He was the type to 'have gone over the top' in the First World War, despite his abhorrence for war. I just know he will be junketing around Europe until he is too old to move. And then quietly, without any fuss, he will die.       So please, if a man in Lycra, with piercing blue eyes and greying stubble decorating an overly large chin, turns up in your holiday destination, say 'hello' to him for me.  

A Singular Man – part 3

      That evening I was dispatched to the far end of the beach for dinner, where the hotel owner’s brother had a restaurant. If you look at an agency contract closely – it usually stipulates that Bed, Breakfast and Evening Meal will be provided. It says nothing about eating in the same hotel as you sleep.
The restaurant was empty except for three people – me, the youngster and the somewhat florid gentleman, whose face after a day in the sun now rivalled his shorts. Remembering my determination to enjoy this holiday, I asked if I could join them.
If I am asked, 'What is the most important event of 2006?' I will confess that it was taking that first step across the restaurant floor, although at the time I was consumed by misgivings.                            The youngster turned out to sensible, knowledgeable and possessed those earnestly dependable qualities that appeal only to bank managers, in a society based on credit bashing, binge drinking and clubbing. Ten years down the line he just might come into his own, when blond bimbos, having experienced an army of good-looking wasters finally accept that they do not make good life-time partners and begin the search for something more long term.       The large florid gentleman, in the vast pink shorts was either a paranoid schizophrenic, who regularly forgot to take his medication, or he suffered from an over-active imagination. With conspiracy theories to end all conspiracy theories; from Mrs Thatcher and British Telecom taking over the world, to a Thai doctor who injected wealthy business men with AIDS in order to steal all their money, talking to him was like a mystery tour; you were never quite sure where the sentence would end up. Exhausting, especially when he came out with such gems as, 'I was travelling on Rumanian Airways and there was a draught.'
Very much later, I returned to my room to sleep, thankful I had not eaten dinner alone but dreading my week in such company. The following afternoon after the trio returned from their day's excursion, it was as a matter of politeness that I strolled round the pool to say hello.      Alan appeared, the day's Lycra offering of black and purple. He sat down on the edge of the recliner, saying nothing, not really joining in, more waiting for someone to notice him. It was awkward and I would vehemently deny any accusation of snobbishness. It is just that – Lycra on a retiree is not really something a delicately brought-up lady wants to mix with!      Then John the Jazz arrived. He had spent the day working the crowd around the pool and needed a new audience to bewitch and bedazzle. Before long he was regaling some outrageous part of his history. He stopped suddenly, his aging memory refusing to recall a name.      'Is it …?' said Alan quietly.It was.      John swung round and for the first time registered the curious figure, including him in the circle he was so busily entertaining. The conversation became more general, turning to football. A question popped up, to do with a Chelsea player from a bygone era.
'Is it …?' asked Alan humbly. It was.
We stared and John succumbed to a mock apoplectic fit. Wild horses wouldn't have dragged me away from that circle now. I peered at Alan closely. Beyond the Lycra and the chin there were a pair of brilliant blue eyes through which he squinted, a set of perfectly even white teeth, and a masterly brain.      By the time the hilarious session reluctantly drew to a close, it had become clear to every one of us sitting there, that if you wanted to know anything, you asked Alan.
'Who played in the 1970 FA Cup Final?' 'What was the name of that film star who murdered his wife, and got off?''The President of Albania?' 'The beginnings of Jazz in London?'
      John the Jazz, upstaged, reacted like the typical showman he was, producing mock spluttering rage and mimed neck-wringing. All in all there was so much merriment that the poolside residents raised their collective heads from their books in shock.

A Singular man – part 2

Somewhere buried in the primeval recesses of the female mind lurks the feeling that a female interloper, or indeed any interloper, and it doesn’t matter what kind unless it is four-legged or over four score years and ten, is likely to be on the prowl.
A few days lounging round the pool, a few days and nights sipping a glutinous concoction of strange alcoholic drinks and strange things happen to the libido of even the most placid of husbands. And so the wife dare not speak to the lone female, in case it stirs her 'usually docile' husband into flirtation mode and the husband daren't speak in case his wife thinks it.
Was it not Noel Coward, who so vividly described the midday sun and Englishmen?
Strangely enough this barrier doesn't apply to men travelling on their own. A spare man is like manna from heaven. Wives welcome them in with open arms, an added element of excitement, a hint of spice in an otherwise boring meal. And the husband? They are pretty well acquainted with their wife's libido after thirty years of marriage, and are not the slightest bit bothered by a harmless flirtation. In any case, after three days round the pool they are in desperate need to chat to someone about football or fishing.      The following morning, once again armed with a determination to make this holiday something other than bloody awful, I attend the travel rep's welcome meeting, where the rest of yesterday's intake are gathered. A pathetic sight, no wonder the rep plies us with drink. Most you will never see again, except on the coach taking you back to the airport. Instantly forgettable with white legs and arms, new holidays clothes, wearing their 'easily pleased' antenna, they are busily signing up for every excursion going. There are also the obligatory complainers, severe-looking couples who are determined to make their displeasure felt to anyone that will listen, because thus far the holiday does not resemble the brochure in the slightest;
And of course a trio of men travelling alone.The youngest of the trio is very young, very pale, very serious, with glasses and long, neatly pressed grey shorts. There is no way he can attract covetous glances from the opposite sex. The best he can aim for is to awaken long-dormant maternal feelings in the bosom of some of the more elderly ladies scattered round the pool.
The second man is overly large with flamboyant patchwork shorts, his shirt failing in its attempt to restrain the metre of flesh that protrudes windward. And it takes no time at all for him to tell all those unfortunate enough to be within range, that he is here to lose weight. He could be okay. He knows about football.
 … And then there is Alan.     It is impossible to decide what hits you first. The chin? Spiked with greying stubble, it protrudes way beyond the rest of his face. Or the electric blue Lycra shorts and shirt, presided over by a black cap? The garments identify him as a dropout from the Tour de France and he is carrying a fold-up bicycle to boot. Thankfully (but tragically for him) this has been damaged in transit and is being reported to the holiday rep. He is also somewhat bent  with a serious chest deformity, on which your gaze immediately becomes fixated; a misshapen bulge pushes out the skin-tight Lycra shirt, running from waist to shoulder. It's almost as if the surgeon, treating him for a hunched back, effectively cured it by popping the bulge to the anterior with a sledgehammer ...

Alan - A Singular man – part 2

Somewhere buried in the primeval recesses of the female mind lurks the feeling that a female interloper, or indeed any interloper, and it doesn’t matter what kind unless it is four-legged or over four score years and ten, is likely to be on the prowl.
A few days lounging round the pool, a few days and nights sipping a glutinous concoction of strange alcoholic drinks and strange things happen to the libido of even the most placid of husbands. And so the wife dare not speak to the lone female, in case it stirs her 'usually docile' husband into flirtation mode and the husband daren't speak in case his wife thinks it.
Was it not Noel Coward, who so vividly described the midday sun and Englishmen?
Strangely enough this barrier doesn't apply to men travelling on their own. A spare man is like manna from heaven. Wives welcome them in with open arms, an added element of excitement, a hint of spice in an otherwise boring meal. And the husband? They are pretty well acquainted with their wife's libido after thirty years of marriage, and are not the slightest bit bothered by a harmless flirtation. In any case, after three days round the pool they are in desperate need to chat to someone about football or fishing.      The following morning, once again armed with a determination to make this holiday something other than bloody awful, I attend the travel rep's welcome meeting, where the rest of yesterday's intake are gathered. A pathetic sight, no wonder the rep plies us with drink. Most you will never see again, except on the coach taking you back to the airport. Instantly forgettable with white legs and arms, new holidays clothes, wearing their 'easily pleased' antenna, they are busily signing up for every excursion going. There are also the obligatory complainers, severe-looking couples who are determined to make their displeasure felt to anyone that will listen, because thus far the holiday does not resemble the brochure in the slightest;
And of course a trio of men travelling alone.The youngest of the trio is very young, very pale, very serious, with glasses and long, neatly pressed grey shorts. There is no way he can attract covetous glances from the opposite sex. The best he can aim for is to awaken long-dormant maternal feelings in the bosom of some of the more elderly ladies scattered round the pool.
The second man is overly large with flamboyant patchwork shorts, his shirt failing in its attempt to restrain the metre of flesh that protrudes windward. And it takes no time at all for him to tell all those unfortunate enough to be within range, that he is here to lose weight. He could be okay. He knows about football.
 … And then there is Alan.     It is impossible to decide what hits you first. The chin? Spiked with greying stubble, it protrudes way beyond the rest of his face. Or the electric blue Lycra shorts and shirt, presided over by a black cap? The garments identify him as a dropout from the Tour de France and he is carrying a fold-up bicycle to boot. Thankfully (but tragically for him) this has been damaged in transit and is being reported to the holiday rep. He is also somewhat bent  with a serious chest deformity, on which your gaze immediately becomes fixated; a misshapen bulge pushes out the skin-tight Lycra shirt, running from waist to shoulder. It's almost as if the surgeon, treating him for a hunched back, effectively cured it by popping the bulge to the anterior with a sledgehammer ...