Rick´s News

Living at the top of a building in a two storied apartment with a glazed in roof terrace overlooking Västerås harbour as well as a large section of the adjoining waters is difficult to find fault with. Not to mention the absence of virtually any motorised traffic thus maintaining a calm, unusual in an area so close to the centre of the town.

On most days of the year the only outstanding sounds to be heard are the birds, not even a  Ryanair flight from Alicante or London, seen but not heard as it disappears in the distance behind the trees to land at Västerås airport a few miles away. Idyllic is the word and even though the rest of the world is only 7 floors down it is an existance that could match any country retreat deep in the woods. 

Apart from the occasional very popular Zumba session on the quay during the summer months with music loud enough to upset some apparently, little is to be heard from a very popular harbour with several restaurants, bars and ice cream stalls. Getting upset is of course a very individual thing and should be respected if not necessarily acted upon. However complaining that a boat in the harbour is obstructing someone´ s view of the lake is perhaps a little too Monty Python to be taken seriously.

Living up in the sky so to speak entitles you to a bird´´ s eye view of the world and all that comes with it. For the most part the screeching of seagulls or a swarm of jackdaws darkening the sky and then hundreds of soft thuds as they land on the roof are on and off occurrences of shoulder shrugging consequence.

Not so with pigeons where the icing on the cake does nothing to enhance the idyll. Pigeons are intelligent creatures and although lazy, rather unskillful nest builders, they are also very attached to their ”homes”  Keeping them at bay therefore requires a permanent, well thought out response and we found that spikes attached at strategic locations kept them at arm´ s length. Arm´´ s length is the word as these birds are fully aware of our shortcomings as airborne predators and will completely ignore you while they go about their business of making sure the world never runs out of pigeons, when they´ re not icing the cake that is.

The emotionally closest we ever got to our friends in the sky was when a tern couple decided to make their nest in the corner of the roof adjacent to our terrace. At first a no-brainer that turned out to be rather the opposite. No sooner had the couple laid an egg than we became persona non grata. 

It wasn´ t just a case of angry stares but actual dive bombing attacks accompanied by gatling gun sound effects. For several weeks we felt like squatters in our own home surreptitiously watching a small bundle of fluff waddle around the terrace to finally grow into a beautiful, fully fledged tern. 

The indignity of being treated as a threat was exacerbated by us being almost as concerned as the parents that their chick should come to no harm. We were not even granted being party to the epilogue as one fine morning the nest was empty.

Our family of summer guests had departed, to who knows where?

Having decided to leave my publisher´s representative job for McGraw Hill in Germany, Gunilla and I moved to the small town of Arboga. Extensive travelling from a home in Sweden for one publisher to be replaced by extensive travelling from a home in Germany for another publisher was somewhat of a status quo for me and definitely not an improvement for Gunilla. A newly born added to the pressure of getting things right. Gunilla had done some of her student teacher training at a school in Arboga so we were quite familiar with what to expect when she got her first teaching job in a village school close by. Looking back I am always overwhelmed as to how decision making never seemed to cause us much of a headache. As I do not consider myself a reckless person I suppose it will have to be put down to ”being young”

Now the boot was on the other foot, with me a newly baked dad out of a job in a foreign country. Problems are there to be solved, not least self inflicted ones. It didn´ t bother me at all, well at least not until I actually had to start solving them. Problem number one was that I suddenly found myself in charge of a six month old baby. Not just for a few minutes of coochie coo and tickling under the chin before handing her back to Mummy but for most of a working day. Talk about a crash course in how to be a Mummy. (These days it´ s called how to be a parent) I was a complete novice and Gunilla had a thing or two to say about the way I handled things. Number 1 (girls two and three were to become later additions to the family) and I both survived however. I say both because apart from the more conventional chores of baby care I had to deal with behavior normally associated with BamBam. Never turn your back or something will come crashing down, drawers will be emptied on the floor or the dog will get his tail pulled. If there had been such a thing as a baby crawling competition I would have entered her at the drop of a hat. Needless to say I was completely exhausted by the time Gunilla came home. To add insult to injury I distinctly remember her once asking me, ”is that what you do all day, sit and stare at the child?”  I think I just gave a tired shrug and explained that I had actually taken her for a push chair ride in the park together with all the other mothers. (Things would change but in 1975 I was definitely a pioneer in the field)

Problem number two was me being out of a job. As Gunilla was making enough money for both of us, problem number two would therefore perhaps not have been of such importance had it not been for problem number one, at least as far as I was concerned. Even if Dads at home were still considered a bit freaky, two working parents was not unusual even in the mid 1970s, so for me to start looking for a job would hardly have been frowned upon.

No sooner said than done found me sitting in front of a careers advisor at the local employment agency. I had filled in a form with a list of previous experience backed up by a knowledge of four languages, two fluent and two wobbly ones with Swedish as one of the latter. His exact words have eroded over the years but were to the tune of, ”sorry, but we have no jobs available to match your qualifications.” This didn´ t come as too much of a surprise to me and I explained to him as such, adding that I was prepared to accept any sort of job, like working in a council parks department of which I had previous experience. It soon all boiled down to him admitting he had no jobs available at all. To this day I am not sure whether he didn´ t like the cut of my jib, didn´ t actually have anything to offer or had fixed a job for himself that he couldn´ t handle. That afternoon my suspicions were confirmed although I was no closer to identifying the reason. I had invested in a copy of the local newspaper and finding an advertisement looking for workers at the local paper mill had called them immediately. After a quick interview that same afternoon I found myself in work.

I have never really liked factories or at least the kind that spring to mind at the mention of the word but this paper mill was of a different calibre. My job as it turned out was raw labour and apart from having to adjust to a shift system I was far from unhappy. 

Basically all I had to do was stand in front of what can best be described as a gigantic automatic toilet roll dispenser where the paper is unravelled and automatically cut into large sheets and deposited in front of me to be picked up at the correct batch size and placed in a criss cross fashion onto a nearby pallet. Maybe I should mention that each batch weighing anywhere between 10-20 kg depending on the order, was to be aired by holding it up and compressing the sides allowing air to enter between the sheets. 

This is the closest I have ever been to what nowadays is called a workout. Mine was not glamourous but I was getting paid and the results would easily have matched any present day bench-presser.

As a teenager I ploughed through many of the dystopian tales popular at the time, George Orwell´s 1984, and Animal Farm, Aldous Huxley´s Brave New World, Ray Bradbury´s Fahrenheit 451 as well as a few others.  I was not unaware that, scary as they were, none of these were completely unrealistic visions of a troubled future. Recent history might suggest that mankind would learn a lesson  and that it would take generations of practised amnesia before the likes of George Orwell´s  et al characters once again entered the world´s stage.

Looking back over the past ten years I was obviously mistaken. A whole lifetime of things that went wrong could not match the events of the past decade. The most far reaching of these of course is Covid 19, bouncing us back to the times when lepers rang a bell shouting, ”unclean, unclean” to warn others of a dangerous disease and risk of infection. Despite a global panic and its consequences the virus will eventually be mastered and boxed in by science like so many other diseases threatening human beings.

Not so with politics, never a genre for choir boys uncomfortable with white lies, but now with politicians like America´s Trump and the UK´s Johnson quite prepared to view truths and untruths as interchangeable at will. Hannah Arendt has a few things to say about that in ”The Origins of Totalitarianism.”  Dividing people into us and them, then demonising the latter to ride on a wave of political popularity is as criminal as it is cynical. Unfortunately history shows us that it is all too often successful.

Somebody once said, ”when fascism comes to America it will be carrying a bible and be wrapped in a flag.”  Of course there are various political recipes for this, with differing flavours but this quote serves well as a base ingredient for an otherwise unsavoury dish.

An article in my daily newspaper or maybe I should say my daily news1sand0s reported on the EU´s reluctance to forward 2,5 billion Euros to Malopolskie, a self declared LGBT free region in Poland, requiring that support for LGBT discrimination in the region be withdrawn. Not an unreasonable demand considering that the money comes from taxpayers in the EU with a slightly less backward approach to the rights of the LGBT community.

The thing that struck me the most in this article was a quote from a sermon given by the Archbishop of Krakow, Marek Jedraszewski where his rhetorical question is, ”should we not stand firm and defend our honour and true freedom.”

”True freedom,” according to the Archbishop would be denying others their equal rights in the name of honour.

Without too much effort I can think of a number of people apart from George Orwell who could sue the Archbishop for plagiarism. 

Luckily for the Archbishop and for the rest of us, they are all dead.

”Everbody certainly knows that Boris Johnson lies,” writes Charlotta Buxton in todays Swedish national newspaper Svenska Dagbladet (con) and goes on to list a number of incidents. Amongst these getting fired from the Times for making up a quote and later getting fired from a top political appointment for lying about an extra marital affair.

Over the last week or so a video clip put together by Peter Stefanovic and racking up an incredible 28 million or more views on social media shows Johnson repeatedly lying at the despatch box. Yesterday (23/7) Dawn Butler, Labour MP for Brent was asked to leave the House of Commons for the rest of the day when she would not retract a statement accusing the Prime Minister of lying to the House, ”over and over again.” 

Strange as it may seem, telling the truth in Parliament can be more frowned upon than dishonesty.  Rules are rules and even in this case I assume them to be based on some form of logic. Apparently though it all comes down to the way you swing it, as when Dennis Skinner was once asked to retract the statement, ”half the Tory members opposite are crooks.”  He responded with, OK, half the Tory members aren´t crooks.”  

Nevertheless, breach of rules or no, Dawn Butler deserves acknowledgement for her courage in speaking out. 

It´s not every day you get to read articles in SvD critical of the UK´s conservative government and its prime minister albeit with the understatement of the year, ”maybe he isn´t always completely honest….”  Perhaps the time has come to realize that the political likes of Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson do little to further conservative politics not to mention his trashing of a country´s reputation and jeopardizing its very existance. 

Contrary to parliamentary rules of conduct the naked emperor is exposed in the House of Commons by a black female MP telling everybody what they already know, the Prime Minister of the UK is a liar. 

How long can this go on for?

`Those the Gods love die young` is a saying dating to classical Greek as far back as the 3rd Century BC. The intrinsic meaning of this being the belief in an after life coupled to a desire of the gods to swiftly re-introduce select humans to godly domains. 

Of course not being totally ignorant of the classics even in younger years, I was aware of this proverb and having put a somewhat fatalistic twist to my own interpretation of it made driving my beautiful, red Ford Cortina GT to its limits slightly more relaxing. 

What was new to me was that being a favourite of the Gods involved a happy reunion rather than my interpretation which was more on a par with being spared the trauma of old age. Having reached the ripe old age of 74, apart from a number of irritating, worse for wear things that need to be addressed I have to admit that so far (touches wood) nothing seriously negative has materialised to warrant any fondness directed toward me in my youth by the Gods.  Add some 40 odd years (I matured late in life) of responsible life including work, travel, family, children, grandchildren, being cherished by the Gods seems to pale somewhat.

In fact quite so; age may be fraught with aches and pains but it brings with it a wisdom of sorts. I say sorts  because wisdom still requires an ability to analyse and in the absence of analytical skills is perhaps better filed under the heading experience.Whatever, ”done that been there” pops up more frequently as the years pass.

As a teenager I had a number of pretty close calls driving and I would have wholeheartedly agreed that the Gods did not love me when insufficient cash had resulted in my having to choose a Ford Cortina GT instead of the much faster Lotus Cortina.

 As yet I have not experienced the benefits of an after life in divine company and until I do, if ever, I find myself quite content with second best.

”That´ll be sixpence ha´penny luv,” said the lady behind the counter in the corner shop as she handed me my bag of sweets. Not that I actually remember any specific purchase of sweets at that age although there must have been quite a few. I would most likely have given her a shilling and received five and a halfpence in return. Not rocket science once you realise that there were twelve pence to a shilling and quite graspable even for an eight year old. 

Taking it a step further the arithmetic becomes slightly more demanding when two items, each with a price tag of 14s 10d (fourteen shillings and ten pence) are to be paid for.  The total cost for these two items is one pound nine shillings and eight pence (£1 9s 8d). I should add that mobile phones as well as electronic calculators were not yet invented, the latter not suitable for this system of currency anyway. To arrive at the correct total it must be remembered that there were twenty shillings to a pound and twelve pence to a shilling. So, ten pence + ten pence = twenty pence which works out at one shilling and eight pence (1s 8d). Fourteen shillings + fourteen shillings = twenty eight shillings which gives you one pound and eight shillings (£1 and 8s). Add the two together and bingo you get one pound nine shillings and eight pence (£1 9s 8d). Easy peasy!

In today´s world pound, shillings and pence come across as more of a nightmare than anything else 

 The `£´ which was the equivalent to 20 shillings or 240 pence, stands for libra the latin word for pound. The `s´ which was the equivalent to 12 pence stands for shilling from scilling a German coin first introduced to 15th Century England by Henry Vll. Finally the `d´ stands for denarius or penny derived from the Carolinguan denarius, a coin spread throughout western Europe under the reign of Charlemagne. Believe it or not there is method to this madness albeit historical. Silver pennies called sceattas (origin Friesland) were the  main currency in Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and 240 pieces of these would be the equivalent of one pound in weight, in case you were wondering why there were 240d to a £1.

The UK moved on to the metric system exactly 50 years ago and I would like to think that there are few regrets.  However in this day and age of Brexit Britain it might not come as a surprise that there are actually people suggesting a return to not only this system for currency but also the re-introduction of imperial weights and measures. You know, where there are 16 ounces to a pound, 14 pounds to a stone, 12 inches to a foot and 3 feet to a yard and so on. 

Actually it does come as a surprise to me when I hear Brexiters argue the value in preserving English history.  As mentioned above it´s basically all about imports from Germany, France and Italy. The conclusion one might draw, if their quest is successful, would be to hope Brexiter´s  arithmetic is better than their grasp of history.

I see no more fitting title for this piece than the name of the person that set me out on my long path of education. I have heard somewhere that the memories of a person´s first teacher easily last a lifetime and if this is true I am no exception. I still see her before me although this memory may have been refreshed by the one remaining Abel Smith Primary School class photograph in my possesion. What cannot be attributed to the photograph however is that I can still hear the sound of her voice praising, coaxing or admonishing me,  which of these I remember not, only the distinctively gentle ”Jurgen” 

From my perch today as it were and looking back this was definitely the best start in life that anybody could ever wish for. The remarks and grades on my early school reports reflect Mrs Ramage´s success as a teacher and shamed me later during a number of educational years for not living up to the gift bestowed on me. 

Looking back, the benefits of age allow for a magnitude of experience just waiting to be analysed. I am in no doubt of Mrs Ramage´s positive influence and my later happy-go-lucky approach to school and resulting low grades rather underlines her capacity as a teacher. My eventual school career as a teacher, school principal, independent school management consultant not to mention working on a PhD in American literature (which I never finished) would certainly have rendered an incredible ”whatever is the world coming to” from most of my other teachers. 

Attempting to solely attribute success or failure to genetics, or social environment is in my opinion a blunt tool often oscillating between blame and wishful thinking with little acceptance of life´s complexities. It is said of Einstein that he suffered from dyslexia; enough food for thought there.

My choices in life always seem to have resulted in what might be described as a rather peripatetic approach. Something interesting turns up and away I would go taking any consequential side effects in my stride. A modest example of this attitude is when I was about 14 years old and boldly told my parents that I would be attending confirmation classes as I wished to be confirmed. Not that my parents cared either way. I have no recollection of even a raised eyebrow on their part. I had discovered that a girl at school who I fancied was attending confirmation classes and if by enrolling and being confirmed guaranteed me a seat next to her and as a side dish a seat in heaven, who was I to complain. 

Visiting Warnham decades later I was reminded that the church has no steeple, creating a rather disappointingly stunted atmosphere. As a lover of ecclesiastical architecture I am still pondering if there lies a message there.

November and March are in my opinion the most boring and dull months of the year. I have to admit that November has the edge on March as a long Winter dawns, whereas in March it´s a case of only a few more weeks and then…..  I should point out that my perspective is from a position along the 59th parallel North which when referring to weather in Sweden or the country´s climate for that matter is of importance. The country stretches from Treriksröset (Triple frontier) in the North to Smygehuk in the South. In navigational terms this is between the 69th parallel North and the 55th parallel North. By road a distance of some 2050 kilometres. My point is that it´s a lot colder up the top than down the bottom. 

This becomes abundently clear when you become aware that this distance is only just short of the distance between the United States border with Canada and that with Mexico. Expressed in European terms Copenhagen to Naples. Unfortunately the climate variations in these distances are not on a par with the Swedish equivalent or if so only at the northern end. Putting it another way there are no palm trees in the South of Sweden, it is just less cold than the North. This area of less cold has now spread (by now I think everybody knows why) further North. I am no fan of long Winters with the accent on long  but have fond memories of what the Swedes call vår/vinter or Spring/Winter.  Basically a battle of the Seasons, with Winter despite daily temperatures still below zero relinquishing territory during the day to an ever warming Sun as it melts snow and ice on rooftops, pathways and roads. The gurgling rivulets of water and the drip drop of melting icicles is the voice of Spring.

Whatever, vår/vinter or no the season of the long nights with only one or two exceptions, family Christmases and family holidays in the UK, is our season for travelling. Needless to say intercontinental travelling as most places in Europe during the Winter at best match a Swedish summer and who doesn´t like a change? 

The point I am trying to make here is that Covid19, Happy Birthday by the way, has thrown one gigantic spanner into the works of our lifetime routines. The digital world with its mobile phones, IPads, computers, social media, chat sights, Messenger, Twitter, Facebook, bank apps, Swish ad infinitum has served us well as, or maybe even almost as good as, substitutes for physical social interaction, shopping and banking and so on. In fact it is exactly 1 year since I paid for something in actual hard cash. 

One very important element of our lives that has come to a complete standstill with really no ”Ersatz” (best offer looking at old pictures) is the ability to travel abroad. In the first instance some might say, ”you should be so lucky, many people can´t afford luxury travel, so just shut up and stay at home.” I have no case for disputing that argument although in the second instance in this world of refugees, what if I want to get away from not only Winter but from a virus gunning for people my age? 

The answer is staring me in the face. There is no running away. From a pandemic today, from climate tomorrow.

Teasing my granddaughter Nellie the other day as she crash landed a tray with coffee and biscuits in front of me,  I said she would need more practice if she ever intended being a waitress. The instant rather characteristic reply was, ”why, you said I was cut out to be a lawyer,” rather underlining the case for that statement if quick responses are anything to go by. Realizing the importance of a credible answer in order to immediately divert any rising suspicion that grandad garbles a lot of rubbish whenever it suits him, I found my safe harbour in, ” you´re going to need a summer job, aren´t you? The logic of that raised a slight smile and an acknowledging if somewhat reluctant nod and we both went on with our day.

That little conversation brought to mind my own experience of summer jobs and in a rear mirror perspective their effect on me. With few exceptions the two common denominators were boredom and cash. Not really a bad starting point in life becoming aware that any future sustainable existence could result in sacrificing one´s soul on the alter of boredom. There were of course exceptions and not all boring jobs were without their highlights. 

As I am not counting doing a paper round as a boy or selling ice cream in my parent´s business, my first real summer job ever was as a Horsham council refuse collector generally referred to as a dustman. I have few negative memories of this job although I understand if people wonder about that when I describe carrying heavy dustbins from their location at the back of the house to the dustcart and then having to manually empty them. Maybe I didn`t have time to ponder over this as we had specific rounds that meant once completed our work would be done for the day which could be early afternoon.

The year after saw me driving a lorry for the council´s parks department. That was the good part sitting behind the wheel depositing lawn mowers and council workers to ”grass needs cutting” locations. That and picking them up at the end of the working day was the interesting parenthesis where wielding a hand scythe was the dominating flavour for the rest of the day. On occasion a sorry looking pile of grass at the back of the lorry would induce me to convince my co-workers it was time for me to take a trip to the tip. On Fridays we collected our pay, standing in line to receive a small brown envelope with holes in it. I was paid £10 a week with no tax deduction as I was a student, resulting in me earning more money than the men I worked together with and had families to support. The holes in the envelope were there to check that the amount of pay was correct, as once opening the envelope there would be no recourse for complaint.

Learning is like oxygen, an unseen pre-requisite for life. Perhaps the most mind bogglingly boring job I have ever come across has stuck in my mind as vividly as when I was a boy once attempting to join two electric cables together without turning the power off. Every morning I was picked up outside my home by a landrover complete with a tractor on a trailer and as one of a team of four driven to any one of the many chicken farms within a radius of maybe 20 or 30 miles. The tractor was used to clean out enormous chicken sheds and was driven exclusively by the driver of the landrover. There was a definite pecking order and man number two was responsible for moving things that needed to be moved and replacing them afterwards. My immediate superior was man number three, a man of few words I might add, whose soul task in working life was to point a steam gun at a chicken feeding receptacle and once satisfied it was clean enough wait for man number three, your´s truly, to turn it round for further attention on the reverse side. Eight hours a day minus travelling time and that for several weeks. Best lesson ever.

My first experience with cruise ships including the Queen Mary was a summer job working for a carpet cleaning company. This mostly involved driving round to various locations with large areas of wall to wall carpeting and steam cleaning them. The mobility and frequent changes of location not to mention the odd celebrity made for rather a good fun job. The prize however was a trip to Southampton and spending a few days cleaning cruise ship carpets, hotel and expenses all included. One of the perks for my QPR supporter workmates was filling the Dalek look alike vacuum cleaners with duty free cigarettes purchased from the crew way down in the holds of the ship. I have to readily admit I profited from this contraband as at the time I smoked although considering the quantities involved I suspect there existed further motivation for these guys than just dying for a fag. Her Majesty´s Customs and Excise were apparently not fussy about the whys and wherefores and each of them ended up being fined £80 which is more than a £1000 in today´s money. Me? I overslept that morning and was initially very upset that I had missed out on cheap smokes. Lady Luck wags finger.

Perhaps the most useful if not the most exciting summer job I had was as an odd job assistant doing anything from mixing plaster or cement to fixing leaking pipes thus paving the way for my later D.I.Y. home owner career. 

Writing editorials for conservative Svenska Dagbladet, one of Sweden´s leading national newspapers was definitely not boring and had little to do with cash, as I was already earning a living as a teacher and not caring much about the extra income. A love of writing, an interest in politics, writing in Swedish, writing for a newspaper with a circulation of well over 100 000 readers was about as tantalizing as it gets. In fact I could hardly sleep, waiting for the distinct sound of next day`s newspaper complete with my very first editorial make it`s way through the letterbox to land with a gentle thud on the floor of my borrowed one room flat. As summer jobs go undoubtedly the best.

As I have already mentioned in a number of my pieces, I travelled the world or some of it at least as a publisher´s representative. At the age of 24 I was the envy of my friends. Me with a diploma from the Institute of Linguists but otherwise no university education landing a job where universities and educational bookshops were at the forefront was strange if not incredible. Not only was I seeing the world but also meeting up with lecturers and professors in various university cities in Europe to discuss and promote the company´s latest publications. A further objective was to recruit presumptive authors although in this respect I was unsuccessful. 

Basically the job was visiting people teaching introductory courses, i.e larger numbers of students, in the subjects that could be matched with the company´s publications. Forwarding the correct complimentary copy could result in sales of several hundred books. The subjects involved were not many, primarily psychology, sociology, education and medicine yet enough for me to keep to the publication´s need to know sheet. Despite this one lecturer suggested I might apply for a teaching position at the University of Bergen on hearing how impressed I was with the city when arriving  on the ferry from Newcastle a few years earlier for a Scandinavian hitch hiking tour. Obviously I had represented the company well in that interview. 

Pride comes before a fall they say and it was only a few days later in Oslo that I became aware of how easily it is to put a foot wrong in this world and all down to good intentions. The subject was psychology and I was really excited because the lecturer I was interviewing indicated he was toying with the idea of writing a book he could use as teaching material or something like that, I don´t remember exactly. What I do remember is that he said something about it not being boring. My spontaneous reaction was about to confirm that my company would see this not only as a plus but more or less as a pre requisite for publication. I was only 24 but had thankfully lived long enough to realize not everything is as it seems and somebody stating what might be obvious to me might just be a little more elusive. I learnt two things that day; sometimes it pays to keep your mouth shut and that Edwin G. Boring was an American psychologist.