So much for my week off, I again found that I had to go to a meeting, but at least it was in the attractive North Yorkshire town of Knaresborough. While Earl had already visited the town, at least the weather had markedly improved, and I hoped I would have time to show him around a little.
Just as I was leaving, a text came through on my phone, to which I needed to respond. Now being the sort of technophobe who even rejects bifocal spectacles, you may be surprised to learn that I recently acquired a smart phone. In truth, I had little choice in the matter, and I find this smart phone a lot like some smart people a lot less smart than it thinks it is! So, while my smart-ass phone does a hundred different things I dont need it to do, it becomes virtually inoperable at the mere sight of the sun, when the contents of its screen can no longer be viewed :grumpy:
So there I was squinting at the accursed thing, and trying to find a patch of shade on what was rapidly turning into a bright, sunny day, when I was accosted by my elderly Sikh neighbour Mrs Kauer, who obviously mistook my intent peering at the stupid device to be some sort of phone wisdom. Phone! Phone! Mrs Kauer, who always says everything at least twice, exclaimed, while waving a small slightly broken-looking mobile phone at me.
Mrs Kauer came to this country 61 years ago, with her now deceased husband Manjinder. She has raised a family, has numerous grandchildren, and has a circle of English and English-speaking friends. Despite that, Mrs Kauer speaks only about a dozen words of English, and since three of those words are, Pakistanis no good! it can be difficult to hold a conversation with her. Not only does Mrs Kauer manage to introduce this phrase into every conversation she has, and usually several times, but the sentiments behind it seem to dominate her entire life. She is, for example, registered with a medical practice run by Asians, but queues for two hours to see the solitary Sikh doctor rather than one of the other members of the practice, who she denounces with her stock phrase. Likewise, she will not shop at the nearest corner shop, because she has determined (entirely wrongly) that the turban-wearing Sikh gentleman who runs it, is actually of Pakistani origin.
I occasionally help Mrs Kauer up the road with her shopping, but I was less comfortable about sorting out her errant phone, particularly as I had no idea what was wrong with it. At Mrs Kauers insistence, I eventually took hold of the device and saw that the back was hanging off. I replaced that, but it seemed there was something else amiss. Phone, phone, ring, ring, Mrs Kauer told me, becoming inpatient at my obvious stupidity. It turned out that there was something written on the phone, but she could not read the message, nor in fact could she operate the phone. After some time, in which I was increasingly berated by Mrs Kauer, I eventually determined that the message the phone had displayed was Missed call!
I should say that during my time examining Mrs Kauers phone, I had hoped that Earl would not notice the very inappropriate sticker affixed to the device, presumably by one of Mrs Kauers cheeky grandchildren. In neon pink on yellow, the sticker proclaimed Sexy Babe!
After doing my best to explain what the message on the phone said, I set off to try and get my bus, with my neighbour pursuing me down the road babbling words I was unable to understand. As I got to the bus-stop, the bus sailed past.
I usually travel to Harrogate, and then Knaresborough, by bus, because they are fast and regular, and because the top deck gives you superb views of some of the finest scenery in Yorkshire. There are extra-wide leather seats, air-conditioning/heating, even Wi-Fi. Ive sold the bus option to so many of my friends that I should have shares in the bus company! But today it all fell apart
I waited 45 minutes for the next bus, which should have come in fifteen, while Mrs Kauer happily returned from the shops smiling, and cheerily holding up 4 fingers to me, as if she knew when the next bus was, which she certainly didnt. When the bus finally arrived it was jam-packed with grey hordes making their way to the Great Yorkshire Show, an annual event of flat-cap wringing and ferret wrestling I give a wide berth. I had to stand all the way to Harrogate, unable to read my newspaper, unable to drink my coffee, and unable to show Earl the sights :grumpy:
Eventually I limped into Knaresborough on public transport, feeling stressed and exhausted. Fortunately my meeting went OK, and was over in just short of an hour, so I had a quick look round the centre of Knaresborough, acquired a nice Mappin & Webb tea-set (spoons, butter knives, and sugar tongs) and a small MOP gents knife, and then took Earl for lunch at a pleasant pub next to the stunning River Nidd. The pub in question was The Worlds End, named for the prophecy of Knaresboroughs most famous crone, Mother Shipton, who foretold that the world would end in 1881. Yes, she was completely crackers!
Earl looked lustily at my pint and told me that his joints were feeling dry again, with which I introduced him to a chip butty, which I thought would provide better lubrication for his joints than Yorkshire ale!
:thumbup:
