Cleanliness is next to Godliness (and drive safely kids!)

17th December again. (What?- I’ve got some time on my hands!)

Creative writing Ch1.v2
About twenty minutes before landing, the flight crew whipped around with the trolley one last time. I had a tea.

After performing a contortionists trick to open my tray, whilst holding two cups- one with the tea, and one with all the gubbins- I opened the first sachet and spurted milk all over the tray, and my shirt.
I was caught in a dilemma. Whether to try and tear the second measly sachet, along the pretend, perforated edge with fingers again, or go with the teeth. Aeroplanes are never the cleanest of places and I measured that the sachet had probably been handled by more grubby, germ ridden hands than was good for me. I repeated the exercise, not surprisingly getting exactly the same result. Why do we do that- and expect it to be different?

It reminded me of my favourite uncle- uncle Dennis. Even though I’m fifty- I am still inclined to call him ‘uncle Dennis.’
I spent my halcyon, summer holidays with him, my Auntie Elsie and cousins; Robin, Claire, Simon and Alaistaire on the farm in Saffron Walden, and later Eye, Suffolk. Simon was my age and we had great times together.

I would return home 6 weeks later, with stinking clothes and often a bird of some description. Uncle Den loves birds- of the feathered variety, and once raised a wild woodpecker. It used to stick its tongue right up his nostril you know!
Now my point is – that Uncle Dennis is the most fastidiously fussy farmer you could ever meet.
The irony is that he spent his entire life wading, knee deep in pig-swill, muck and any other kind of farmyard flotsam you care to name.
Each summer, after feeding and mucking out the pigs- all manual labour, we would ride on the empty trailer, behind uncle Den, driving his red, Massey Ferguson tractor to collect straw bales from the neighbouring fields.
On the front of the trailer was an old shopping basket, to carry the water that would quench us, during our labours.
If anyone placed their own water bottle anywhere near, uncle Dens’ – including his own flesh and blood- he would shout a warning shot, then leap from the rusty seat to retrieve his own bottle to tuck behind the tractor seat.
Had he realised that I once, quite accidentally, took a sip from his bottle, I am sure that he would still be scrubbing his mouth with bleach today.

My wife is an avid student of the vacuum cleaner and it’s workings.
I hate the beast, fearful that I might tread on the plugged- in wire in bare feet, or worse the upturned plug- that always seems to be primed in the upstairs hallway, where it is dark.
I’m wary of its power to suck up the end of a mat, giving a terrific gargling roar, that sends Michelle running to its defence.
Usually when I get home from work the thing lies in wait- trailing down the staircase- to send me tumbling.
The inevitable argument ensues, about whether I can herd the thing back into the cupboard from whence it came, or whether it is still in the midst of some devilish task, and needs to be left where it is, at rest.
“I’ve asked Emily to Hoover her room,” says a distant voice, on hearing me lassoing the handle; Bat like hearing, detecting the faint movements through the airwaves.

What I’m trying to say is this; what good does all this cleaning do anyway? Anything that can be washed up, scrubbed, cleaned, cleansed- or in uncle Dens’ case, scraped, swarfega-ed and sloshed away, surely gets just as mucky again tomorrow.
It’s like trying to wash each pebble on a beach, only for the Sewage polluted sea, to wash in with the tide and sully them again.

I wonder if there is a way to be cleansed, without all the fuss? A way to stay permanently clean. Wouldn’t that be a good thing!

After a turbulent journey we arrived at the Torviscus Playa
I’m not talking about the flight either. That was positively plain sailing. I didn’t even notice we had landed.
I’m talking about the Taxi ride. We arrived at the rank after collecting our luggage. We were about to get into a newish looking model, when we were beckoned by many flapping arms to the front of the rank.
The car didn’t look big enough for all of us and it looked a bit ropey.
The swarthy driver, grimaced in my direction and, much flapping again, convinced us to start loading bags in the back.
I say convinced- I was as convinced as the British public that we should leave the European Union.
Still, in we got and the ghost train sounded, to announce the start of the ride.
I sat in the front and my nearest and dearest took the rear.
The little hatchback was stung into action by a heavy boot on the accelerator, weaving through bollards, onto the curved track that circles the airport. Out onto the main road, I noticed that our driver must have a prior appointment with the maternity suite of the local hospital, immediately after ours- and was just fitting in a quick one.
The little car barely kept to the road markings and danced in between lanes.
I began to pump imaginary brakes, but no need- the driver was adept at acceleration and harsh braking in equal measure. Like some fiend of the dodgem ride.
Where the road was straight he put his foot down, doubling the speed limit.
“How do you say, we’re not in a hurry, in Spanish?” I asked my son, who had studied the language to astonishing efficacy.

To make it interesting, to add a bit of spice; and where his route up the inside was blocked, our tormentor pushed the bonnet within a Ferraris’ tail-fin of the cars in front, until they peeled off like a squadron of Spitfires.

Having broken the record to get from Airport to hotel, the little car, moved hearse-like, into the pit lane. The driver, perhaps sighting a red flag.

Relieved, we set our feet on terra firma once more.
I gave him a tip, on the condition that I never saw him again. He grimaced and sped away.

It was a strange sensation. I was not worried for me, but for my precious cargo.

I learnt on checking-in, there was some sort of Rally, with hundreds of bikers in town, all dressed as Father Christmas. I suppose it beats, going out and getting mashed, as is the custom en Inglaterra.

It was this our chauffeur was trying to avoid. But better late than never- I say.

Footnote;

Good luck with the driving test today Josh Flower!

And for Mark Metherell.