If you have ever been on a First Aid course...

Why is it that all First Aid training centres have a rundown coffee machine, pictures of the Queen in 1982, photo's of old Land Rover ambulances and a painting of Florence Nightingale? The courses are run by plump women in their 50's who either themselves or a member of their family have experienced every accident personally known to man, carry a face mask on their key ring and have a plain Jane assistant that sits in the corner usually called Polly.

Yes it was time for my 3 year check up and I have to say not the best. Sitting in a room full of strangers and making "instant friends" with the man sat next to me who took every opportunity to tap his hand on my arm, talk closely to me whenever he could and even tickle my stomach (I kid you not) as I was lying on the floor with my eyes closed as the "casualty" was not the best of situations. I can only imagine what his face was like as he wrapped his arms around me whilst mimicking the abdominal thrusts - or as it used to be called - the Heimlich Manoeuvre, and then likewise as I had to do it to him in return.

However, all that pales into insignificance as the most dreaded part of the day looms ahead of us. Six rounds each, taking it in turns to get up close and personal with a legless rubber doll. As we all do our bit shaking the torso of rubber Annie and shouting into her completely sealed off ears (after first of all applying antiseptic wipes around her mouth) we are told to imagine that she is unconscious and cannot see or hear. Hardly surprising when you looked at the state of these old mannequins, if Annie was a dog, she would have been put down.

At this stage I had successfully managed to shake off over friendly man to my left, to be replaced with beige corduroy trousers and matching corduroy jacket man to my right. As we marked each other’s competence on bringing lifeless Annie back from the brink of shifting off this mortal coil, he followed everything to the letter and got top marks.

Thankfully it’s all over again for another three years and back to work in the morning. My colleagues can now be rest assured that if they start foaming toothpaste at the mouth, cut their shin with a Stanley knife or slice the top end of a fake rubber finger off then someone is at hand who has done a course and get them back to tip top performance and at their desk to carry on working.

Wingwalker.

Cops 'n' Robbers - the official guide

Well as promised, here is the official answer in relation to my earlier Cops 'n' Robbers blog.

A 999 call should only be made in this scenario if you know or have reasonable suspicion that the crime is currently in progress. Under no circumstance whatsoever must you allow yourself to be put in any danger or danger to anyone else around you. If the crime is actually happenning and you can see the nasty burgulars then call the Police using the emergency number.

However, if you know for certain that the crime happenned earlier on in the day, there is no immediate obvious danger around you and that the burgulars have fled, then it would not be classified as an emergency and dialling 999 would be totally innapropiate. Contact the Police using another method instead.

Wingwalker

Teenagers

Teenagers. We’ve all seen them, we all used to be one at some stage and some of us have them now.  Gangly haired, greasy faced and moody we watch them shuffle around street corners swigging from hidden cans of cider and throwing chips at one another across the shopping precinct.

Today’s blog has been inspired by one teenager in particular. I don’t know his name; I don’t know where he comes from. All I do know is that I see him every day as he makes his way to the train station, so I’ve decided to call him, “Lurch”. 

Lurch is around 6ft in height; he’s thin, has trousers that ride up well above his ankles, a hat that goes over his ears and walks to the bus stop.  It’s not the walking element that gets me here but more the fact that he catches a bus to take him the short quarter of a mile journey to the train station whereupon he meets up with some more of the same species.

When Lurch does walk its painful to see, the view from behind as his knees go inward, his legs outward and his feet flop around as though they have no control or are in fact not actually connected to the rest of his body. To see him run is even worse as this requires effort on his behalf. Here, the knees knock together, his legs and arms flail around and his feet are all over the place as his satchel which is over one shoulder sways and bashes against his body.

Of course not all teenagers are like this, according to the newspapers the standard of exam results are improving year on year often exceeding previous years.  It’s an age old argument, are they getting cleverer or are the exams getting easier? If you ask the kids they will tell you that the exams are hard, if you ask the adults, they will tell you they are easy. One things for certain, a teenagers favourite past time is to eat and sleep. When they are not doing that they are hanging around with their mates and when they are not doing either of those things they can sometimes be seen working for a living stacking shelves or helping out on Saturdays at car tyre workshops.

Life for a teenager can be quite a trauma. With raging hormones, the discovery of themselves as an individual as well as that of the opposite sex can often lead to conflict and the he said she said brigade will still carry on well beyond the primary school playground into early adulthood. Now however, instead of stomping their feet for a few minutes as a child and going into a sulk, they broadcast how they feel to the entire world with the power of social media using Facebook, Twitter or even on a blog like this one. Within seconds all their many hundreds of “friends” will know who’s broken up with whom, if they are available for another serious relationship or if she really did snog Steve behind the chippy last night.

Teenage sex however is an entirely new ball game. I was 17 when I had my first kiss, a girl called Nicola who I met whilst doing my teenage Saturday job. I was in love, she was the one, we were going to have a massive family and live happily ever after. However, reality bites and after a couple of weeks she moved on to someone else breaking my heart. Now, teenagers are getting jiggy with each other just ten minutes after they meet. Wham, bham thank you ma'am and they are off. Over the first hurdle, round the corner and onto third base before you can say babies, which of course can be the inevitable result if they are not careful.

Where has their childhood gone?

They say that school days are the best days of your life but I would argue against that. For me, growing up was one long constant struggle amongst my fellow gladiators. Trying to get a girl was nigh on impossible and on the few rare occasions when one would actually stop to talk to me more than to ask for the time, my mouth would dry and I would end up a gibbering wreck through lack of experience. For girls however it always seemed a lot easier, they hang around in bunches of three or more. Whenever a brave alpha male tried to enter the arena and ask one out to the school disco they would inevitable get shot down in flames only to be equally berated from said girl’s counterparts.

A lot of teenagers nowadays are viewed by the adult population as a threat, and to an extent they have partly brought that on themselves. The hooded tops may be the height of fashion but the top and scarf combo even on a warm day can give the impression that they are out to cause trouble. Whilst this aspect may partly be true adding weight to the argument, it can also work against them as those wearing the gear to fit in with the rest can unwittingly be tarring themselves with the same brush. If they are wearing the clothing as a fashion statement then what is it they trying to say? I’m a teenager, hear me roar? 

I’m a child of the 70’s and 80’s, my parents raised me on BBC Radio 2 with Kenny Everett, Simon Bates and the big hairy monster from 200 miles up the M1. The late Jimmy Saville was sitting on his big blue chair handing out “Jim Fixed it for Me” medals and foods such as the Avocado and Prawn Cocktail were classified as exotic. Music of the time included Bucks Fizz, Adam Ant and everyone walked around like Egyptians at parties. Now, someone like Lurch will listen to a guy in a large puffa jacket swallowing a microphone reeling off a whole line of syllables in rapid succession whilst being accompanied by scantily clad dancers who parade their booty. Friends of Lurch will eagerly absorb all the gossip they can fill their heads with and think that Big Brother is highly intellectual. Mind you, compare that to watching something like The Magic Roundabout, there’s probably not a lot in it between the two.

Personally my opinion of teenagers is that deep down they can be highly misunderstood individuals. It doesn’t help however when all they do is grunt at you in their own language using as little effort as possible, whilst crying wolf in another breath saying you don’t understand and are not listening. I’ve found that the best way to communicate with a teenager is to stop whatever it is you are doing and look at them directly yet calmly in the face. Don’t frown, don’t roll your eyes at them and don’t ever try and “get down wiv da kidz” as this will just antagonize them into throwing a complete and pointless unnecessary strop. Instead, treat them like an adult and in the same way you would wish to be treated yourself. If they are acting like a prat, tell them. If you are proud of them then let them know. Emphasise that they are free to make their own mistakes but should learn from the process. If you are a parent then let them know that you are there for them when they need you but you will not always be able to provide as much financial support as the banks support their executives. Hopefully the message should get across and they will realise that you are not always out to get them.

Thankfully, it is a phase that most of them tend to grow out of after a few years and “normality” takes over once more. As for Lurch, no doubt I’ll probably see him again tomorrow as he slouches his inward knobbly knees towards the bus stop for the usual two minute journey. He’ll never know that he’s had a blog dedicated to him. Otherwise if he did then it would probably be tweeted to all of his friends via mobile phone before turning on his iPod and listen to yet more rapid fire syllables which they call music.

Wingwalker.

How much!!!!!!!!!

Every year the bills go up. It's only the start of the year and already I've just had to fork out just over two hundred pounds on car tax. I also catch the train into work and back which has risen by stupid percent and the cost of food, fuel, and living in general is rocketing skywards!

This morning as I arrived at the station after having done my morning commute on not one, but two crowded and normally delayed trains, a message came over the tannoy that part of the station had been closed off due to over crowding. This meant that my short walk through the station of less than 100 metres turned into the quick walk / semi run of nearly five times that amount round the block just to get to the point of where I would normally be in the first place. Several years ago, I used to work for a company 10 miles from my home. No worries, 20 minutes in the car, job done! Now I live in a different part of the country and the office is only eight miles from home, yet my journey to work now involves a 20 minute brisk walk to the station, 10 minutes on the platform, a first train journey for 15 minutes, another wait on the platform for around 5 minutes (if its on time) then a second train for another 15 minutes followed by a further 15 minutes walk to work from the station. Total travelling time - 80 minutes - or in other words, 1 hour 20 twice a day five days a week.

And yet, millions of people all over the country do this similar kind of journey every day dealing with delays and problems yet continue to carry on payhing the transport companies humongous amounts of our hard earned cash for the privilage. 

Why do we all put up with it? Why are we forced to pay these ridiculous hikes in prices for the same if not sometimes worse level of service you had before. The atonal bland voice of the robot coming through the station loudspeaker saying that the train company you are travelling with apologises for the delay. Its repetition stuck like an old fashioned record, continually going around and around in an ever decreasing loop. Therefore my question is this. Who is the actual person from the transport company, sorry? We hear from the automated robot that ***Insert name of travel company here*** apologises for the delay but the fat cat hiding behind his or her desk is probably looking down on the rest of us poor suckers saying thanks for your cash, it will go rather well on the company outing this year. Are you really sorry or are you just saying so to pacify us all?

Believe it or not, if I use my car it would actually be worse. Sure, I won't be forced into sniffing my fellow commuters arm pit, or sit opposite the drunk who's very loud shouting of constant swear words into his phone with both eyes closed (as happened tonight) will not be there. But due to the sheer volume of traffic there is on the roads I'll be lucky if I get out of second gear! The engine will overheat and I'll end up stranded on the side of the road with a billowing gush of steam rising up out of the radiator. No doubt one day things will change for the better and I have to remain positive and focussed that my daily journey will one day be stress free. I would just like it however if the fat cats in the companies who we all have to pay actually did the same level of travelling as we do. Join the ranks of the people and see for yourself where your service is going. I wonder then if they did, how much of an "improvement" we will all actually see.

Wingwalker.

Cops 'n' Robbers

Imagine the scene,

You have been out all day, at work, in the car, shopping or taking the kids to the park. The sun is shining, the air is free and all is right with the world. You are looking forward to the evening ahead, a nice meal, good bottle of wine and your feet up in front of the TV.

As you approach your home you get the uneasy feeling that all is not well, you begin to feel uncomfortable and your face changes from being happy and relaxed, to one of concern. You are not sure why you are starting to feel this way but you know it doesen't feel good. As you approach the front door your fears are confirmed when you find you don't need to put your key in the lock as the door has been forced open. Carefully you push it to one side and are faced with the reality of being burgled. Your stomach turns into a tight knot as you quickly scan around the mass of devastation laid bare in front of you. Your personal possessions and property have been ransacked by some other thoughtless mindless person or persons unknown. They have been in your house, they have gone through your things, they have invaded your space and privacy. You feel sick.

What do you do?

A myriad of things start to whirl through your mind. Who? What? When? Why? How? Will my insurance cover this? Over and over again as panic starts to set in. The mess. The intrusion. You feel dirty that someone else has rifled through and removed your hard earned possessions for their own personal financial gain, probably to be put up on a well known internet auction website. At some point you then think that it would be a good idea to ring the Police.

But here lies the question, what number do you call? You have been burgled, the theives could be just round the corner laughing at your expense. Do you dial 999 to call the Police out in an emergency, or do you try and find the phone book under the pile of rubble to look up the number of your local station? At this point I want to ask each and every one of you what would you do? Before writing this blog I decided to do a little bit of research and carried out an extreemly unscientific straw poll.

I asked around a few family and friends as to what they would do and the results were quite surprising. Around 50% of those asked would dial 999 straight away as they viewed the situation as an emergency whereas the other 50% said otherwise. Comments ranged from a woman on her own arriving at the door with bags of shopping through to a few teenagers entering the premises together and the response was varied. One person told me how the Police were alledgedly so busy they requested the house owner take with them a piece of damaged property to the station so that forensic evidence could be undertaken. Whilst another said that the Police could not be helpful enough.

I wondered if this had any influence as to what part of the UK you are in? Bearing this in mind I then asked a little further afield and again the answers were quite varied. In London the largest response was to call for the emergency service straight away, whereas in Dorset, those questioned said otherwise. The trail of thought and general consensous seemed to be if you are brought up in an area surrounded by sirens, hustle, bustle and general organised chaos then you are more likely to think of classing everything as an emergency. However, if you are brought up in the country where life is done at a more slower pace - even if you live in the average sized town, then people think more methodically and work from a different angle. Whilst this is not a dig at anyone, townie or country bumpkin alike, it did seem to paint an interesting picture in its unscientific way.

Every year the emergency services release on the news their most ridiculous phone calls that they receive in the light of showing the general public what is unnacceptable and how such stories are a waste of valuable Police time. Stories of how a snowman were reported as having been stolen whilst sitting out in the sun, too many onions were once in a man's takeaway and a woman once called outraged that the bunny wunny rabbit that she had bought did not have floppy ears as promised in the newspaper advert. All of which are genuine stories but none of which are real emergencies - let alone worth making a phone call in the first place.

So what would you do if faced with this terrible situation?

We'll I'll give you the official guidelines on another blog but for now I'll open up the debate for you to answer. I'm interested to hear your opinions, thoughts and comments on both what you would do in the situation as described above but also would like to know what area of the country you come from to see if my theory holds water.

Wingwalker.

Answers on a postcard please

The English language in varying regions can be a strange old thing. If you want to advertise something then why do you in one part of the country pronounce it as an "advertissment" and in a different part an "advertizement"? If snow comes down from the sky some will say it "pitches" as it lands on the ground whereas others will say it "settles" and why does "razed to the ground" always sound as though the house on fire is actually ascending upwards, thus breaking its foundations and defying the laws of gravity?

Ironically, no matter where you are "sex" is one of the smallest words but can cause the biggest issues and the obscure sounding "etymology" actually relates to the origin and historical development of a linguistic form as shown by determining its basic elements, tracing its transmission from one language to another. In short, its the origin of words and yes - I did get that one from the dictionary.

If you are in the north you say bath, instead of barth, path instead of parth and laugh instead of laurgh, yet whilst this may be a deviation of regional accents, it very neatly leads me to todays' topic and that is what do you say and when do you say it when talking about meals?

There is, and always will be with a topic like this, a social divide. Those in the north say breakfast, as do those in the south as it is universally agreed that as you start your day you are breaking the overnight fast (or farst depending on your own pronunciation) ready for the day ahead. In Victorian times you would have had elevenses which oddly enough happens at 11 o'clock but as we are all living in the fast paced world of the 21st Century, no one has time for elevenses anymore and some may say is fast disappearing.

It is from this point that the confusion starts to set in. The midday meal for approximately half the country will be called lunch followed by dinner in the evening and possibly supper just before bed. There is even the chance that there will be a tea consisting of a drink and sandwiches or cake around 4pm. However these names are turned on their head with the other half of the country saying their midday meal is called dinner, evening meal is called tea and supper before bed with no sign of what a snack mid afternoon might be called at all.

Now there's nothing new in what's written above except to say that depending on which part of the country you are in denotes what it is exactly you ask for. On many occasions I've had a quizzical look from someone when I've said around 11.30am, let's go out for dinner, only to be asked what time that evening we should meet up? Technically speaking if you get deep down to the nitty gritty there may be argument that there is a right way and a wrong way of saying what you mean but to ask the question who is right and who is wrong could spark an interesting debate. Those in the north will say one format whilst those in the south may say another so then I have to ask the question, what will those in the Midlands think? Or does no-one really care?

The politicians always say that they want a classless society but somehow I just think that will never happen, for as long as you have little differences like "Does gravy and chips belong together?" Then the debate will remain. Answers on a postcard please...

Wingwalker.


If you have an interesting topic you want the Wingwalker to write about then feel free to get in touch via the email address above.

It's the New Year and I have a headache.

Woke up this morning and fell out of bed (literally). Got up and banged my head on the door. Picked up keys and dropped them on my foot. Went downstairs and found that six of my new baby tropical fish had been eaten up by one of the other bigger ones during the night. Went out to do some shopping and said goodbuy to my partner Laura but in doing so I ended up poking my eye out. Drove the car, did the shopping, got back and my wing mirror fell off. I've only been up around three hours, is anyone else having as much fun or are the hangover's proving too much to bear? Ahh well, it can only get better.

Wingwalker.