Try The Simple Thing First

Have you noticed how quick we are to fret and fribble when a problem comes up, rushing towards the worst-case scenario as the first port of call? It couldn’t be something of little import could it, easily-solved and of minimal consequence? Oh no, it has to be complicated, potentially expensive and a catastrophe. An annoying little gnat of an inconvenience is rarely our opening assessment of Life’s provocations.

Most friends think I am a calm, easy-going soul but that’s just appearances. Here are three incidents that show a pervading Duck Mentality; calm on the surface while paddling frantically below the waterline.

Back in the early-90s, I used to go tenpin bowling with a bunch of mates. This was at The Edwardian Club in Billericay. Now, that club has gone. It’s a gym or a bistro, maybe a garden centre - something fashionable, somewhere to be seen parading about in designer gear as is compulsory for The Essex Way. But, back then, it was just half a dozen blokes having a bit of male bonding once a week, drinking lager and taking the Mick mercilessly, all to a backdrop of punching the air at a strike or big grins with an insincere “No one likes to see that…” at a mate getting a 7-10 split.

As it was winter, we arrived trussed up like turkeys at Christmas in our high quality quilted jackets, ski jackets and Parkas. No Man at C&A for us, only the most beautiful and the best. All this, to brave the walk from the car park to the front door, some 20 or 30 yards. Once inside though, tropical central heating soon saw this gorgeous insulation discarded, bundled up and stuffed under the seats as we set about humiliating each other in the way that only true mates can.

At the end of an evening of bowling, banter and incessant guffaws, warm outer garments were retrieved and half a dozen brave mountain men faced Arctic Essex once more, reputedly the warmest, driest county in England, to get to the powerfully-heated saunas that were our cars.
One night, as we left, on wrapping up to face the elements, recovering our bundled jackets from under the seats, imagine my horror at spotting black tar-like smears on the light blue sleeve of my ski jacket. Incidentally, I believe the makers marketed this colour as “Ice Blue” to add several unnecessary pounds to the price. Nonetheless, it was now Ice Blue with tar trimming (for free). My heart sank.

The next day, almost in tears, I took it to the dry cleaners across the road from the office. The girl there took pity on me and examined the stained garment, damaged almost beyond repair by this malicious intruder. Amid much sympathetic tutting, nodding and shaking of her head to show how she shared my pain, she suggested trying a bit of solvent on the inside of the sleeve first, to ensure no lightening of the precious Ice-ness of the Blue. Unfortunately, it was a reversible jacket so the Dangerous Grey of the alternative outside may have suffered. We were stumped.

At that point, we smelt burning sulphur and brimstone. The Beast had emerged from its lair. The owner of the shop, Mrs McCardle came out of her office to see what all the fuss was about. She looks like a little old lady but don’t be misled; the Devil has many cloaks. It was her view that dry cleaning is a simple affair; punter brings in garment - young Retail Executive takes garment, casts expert eye over it, sucks in air through teeth and shakes head resignedly to justify the charge but doesn’t say anything - gives punter a ticket - punter leaves feeling grateful at some perceived favour although not knowing why - the end.

Why we needed to be locked in protracted conversation piqued Mrs McCardle’s interest as this was straying from Nature’s dance. Clearly, expert piloting was needed to guide this ship back to the charted route. Adding her expert eye to the scene, she asked “Have you tried water?”
Two dumb dummies looked back. She disappeared momentarily, returning with a cup of water and a flannel. A moment later the stain was gone, completely gone, not a trace. I suspect Ice Blue felt sheepishly self-conscious at making such a fuss about its dignity.

While stumbling through a pathetic and pitiful excuse for an explanation of how the stain got there in the first place, Mrs McCardle let me squirm for a while before interrupting, “It was probably congealed beer, spilt down between the seats. Must have been there for a while to get so black.”

She smiled, turned and returned to her office. It seems my soul was not worth bothering with.

That was the first lesson. More recently, my car wouldn’t start. On my drive, braving all weathers, unused through the recent snow, frosts and biting cold, the oil must have grown so thick as to have turned to treacle. I never have trouble starting my car - a turn of the key and it fires first time. This was new ground.

As a young man, I worked on cars with my dad to guide my hand as dads do, then, on my own through necessity as a Newly-married with no money for garage mechanics. At any rate, I knew then, mainly through Dad’s efforts to educate me in manly things, and financial pressures, the mysteries of the combustion engine and attendant cables, hoses and devices. In short, I was comfortable with life under the bonnet.

Today, however, there is no room under the bonnet to slip a fag paper between any two components of technology that would be at home on the Bridge of the Starship Enterprise. The compartment is fully packed with wondrous toys - injectors and hydraulics, sensors and emission control nanobots, all kept in order by a normally well-behaved and capable computer. Nowadays, the engine compartment is a place of mystery. I don’t tinker with cars anymore and with slightly more disposable income than in my early married life, I let the young and technically gifted keep me on the road.

But, last Saturday, on turning the key, instead of the usual ‘Vroom!’ I got a couple of sluggish groans as the engine tried in vain - and then a lot of clicking. I’ve never had this before. I guessed at a flat battery but normally that meant a couple of pathetic attempts at turning over an unwilling engine, then silence. Now though, the turn of the key drew an Edinburgh Tattoo of clicks with a synchronised light show of the instrument display panel; a contemporary phenomenon for which I had no point of reference.

As ever, when faced with a new dilemma, my reaction was to run around like a headless chicken, scream that the sky was falling down - and throw money at it to make it go away. In a flash I saw as clear as day that that I’d need a tow truck to get me to a garage and then face a massive repair bill. Resigned to my fate, I took the British way out, I made a cup of tea.

I wonder how much of the Empire was built on plans made over a cup of tea while pondering a fresh crisis? I’m guessing the answer is ‘Quite a lot’ as, sitting there looking at the garden while sipping tea, it occurred to me that there was nothing to lose by simply charging the battery.

Recent car usage had been trips into Spalding, three miles away, or to the golf club; a similar distance. Either way, journeys had been small bitty ones that had probably taken more out of the battery than they’d put back. Add to that life on the drive probably meant cold, thick oil holding the engine in a snug hug, leaving little chance of the battery having enough oomph to get the thing started.

As a result of these tea-inspired thoughts, I charged it for a few hours and Deep Joy - it burst into life, first turn - as ever. Problem solved by another simple solution.

Lastly, my electric blanket contributes to this Life Lesson. I sleep alone but have a big bed with dual controls on the blanket for personalised left and right warmth settings. If used at all, it’s normally just ‘my side’ that gets switched on. While my stomach insists on increasingly-inconvenient intrusion into my life nowadays, I’m not a hugely fat bloke so I don’t need more than ‘a side’. I sleep peacefully and as I rarely twist and shout during the night, I generally wake up more or less where I started. Hence, most times, I just need ‘my side’.

The house is a warm one, which means, in reality, I rarely use the blanket at all but the recent unsociably cold weather prompted an indulgent whim where, feeling expansive, I decided to stretch out and have both sides on. The light on the control on the passenger side came on so when I got to bed, I expected coast-to-coast warmth but was to be disappointed. My side, warm as toast; the guest area, cooler than the welcome I used to receive from my wife after a night with mates, arriving home drunk and playful eager to tell her how amusing and erudite they were. But that’s a story for another time.

Puzzled, but tired and seduced by the warmth of ‘my side’, I let it go and was soon asleep. The next night I tried again. The glowing red light on the control inspired optimism but served only to mislead as that side remained determinedly cold when I got to bed a while later - not a new experience, as mentioned above.

As the blanket is still in its warranty period, I sought out the Instruction Manual (yes - for a blanket) looking for the Customer Service address and phone number as I supposed I would have to return it for repair. In reading the section entitled “Try these things first before you bother us” - abbreviated to ‘FAQs’, the Manual stated the obvious; “Ensure the blanket is plugged in…” Well, of course it must have been plugged in. How else would the red light on the control come on? Nonetheless, with the pained attitude of a parent accommodating a child, I pulled back the sheet to find - the male plug on the cable from the control - sitting happily, a couple of inches away from the female socket in the blanket. That now works too, writes ex-Patronising Parent, now Humble Pie Muncher of Lincs.

As you see, my life is littered with moment of profound tragedy which, in the fullness of time turn into silly memories, significantly less alarming than as first viewed - usually resolved with simple, uncomplicated actions. Let’s hope I can remember this lesson when the next catastrophe visits.