35. The Door Knocker

aka House Callers

It's said that mankind took his biggest step away from the beasts of the jungle when he invented the wheel. That certainly is true, look how he progressed with the sophisticated adaptions he fitted to the original bent bit of green branch he bowled round his cave. He found he could chop invading Romans to little pieces by fixing dirty Great knives to it, blast others of his kind to mincemeat by sticking a bigger gun than he could carry in his hands on top of two of them, and by the simple operation of putting an engine on any number from four upwards, could successfully move fast enough to reduce to a gory pulp, any of his ilk who were unfortunate enough to get in his way, himself included.

Yes, homo sapiens certainly got off his haunches when inventing the wheel, and all God's creatures, great and small, must have been laughing their heads off ever since.

However, I think he surpassed himself with another little gimmick, which he must have dreamt up when in one of his most destructive moods - the door knocker

And it's subsequent development, the door chimes and other weird noises that occur when the button is pressed outside. One bloke I knew, has a contrivance that makes a sound something like a cat being castrated without sedation during an air raid warning and in answer to my quavering inquiry of what the hell it was when he answered the door, he proudly stated that it was different wasn't it? I noticed he was a bit green about the gills and guessed he had not adjusted as yet.

But the real evil of the door knocker is what it invites, and that is the door callers. These are something that are shared by everyone with the possible exception of people who live in tents, for the simple reason that old homo sapiens ain't yet been able to fit a knocker on a tent.

The trouble is that you never know who or what you are going to find when you answer the knock or ring at your door, unless it's someone you expect, the milkman, baker or postman, or any of the usual tradesmen. It can be any of the multitude of various pests that everybody is plagued by at some time or other, and it's this uncertainty that makes each member of the family present, look at each other and say "door".

Average people have very little consumer resistance and are liable to come back indoors with a programme for a church fete, a dozen clothes pegs or a copy of the 'Watchtower' and a feeble grin, saying "I just bought it to get rid of them". Trouble is, getting rid of them can work out pretty expensive if the vendor is flogging a set of encyclopedia and we have all met this social cancer who has had the stereotyped training designed to overcome any sign of customer resistance, and whose intentions which are supposed to be unknown until he has you feeding him tea and biscuits in the kitchen, are as unobtrusive as a boil on your nose, the minute he says he's doing a survey of the district and would you answer a few questions.

Sometimes you can get away with it cheaply enough if, you are like me, and have a degree of peasant cunning bolstering up your indecisive nature, as for example, with the insurance men who always come in pairs to examine your policies.

These bods seem to be about seven feet tall, as they tower over you in the corner of the lounge, where they have you trapped and they have convinced you that what you cannot live without is an insurance against catching continental tummy when you've already booked for a week in the Isle of Wight. You don't stand a chance, so I always agree, sign the form, send them on their way happily working out the commission on their sale, and cancel the policy by post the following day. No good doing it by phone, as you only get talked into something else. If you've had to pay the first premium, well, it's usually only a couple of bob, so it's worth it to get rid of them.

Other knocker salesmen who are not so easily to fob off, unless you have the nature that can look these pests in the eye, and say "sod off" are the Kleen-eezy brush men, and of course, the family portrait men, the never-never bloke, the Avon lady, the bird who wants to have a tupperware party on your new carpet, Jehovah's witnesses, the females who try to flog you lucky heather which is usually picked off the heap of sewerage they have been sorting over with the unwashed claw that now proffers it, the 'Fair prices given' Steptoes who leave a card to say when they'll be belting the hell out of your knocker, to do you a favour by giving you a quid for any old masters you happen to have laying about, and the vast army of Xmas box collectors who mostly deserve it, but anyway they've got you by the short and curlys because if you don't cough up you know that you're going to get a trail of rubbish up you're path, or the papers are left out in the rain next year.

All people who can get at your purse and intrude into the privacy, through the door knocker. Most of us finish up with a bottom drawer full of flue brushes, "You seem to have overlooked the last three instalments on your Welsh dresser" reminder cards, and gypsies curses. All because some prehistoric Edison invented the damn thing.

You see a door knocker ? Me neither.

It would be interesting to have a list of white elephants bought by folk at the door and my contribution would be an Indian blouse I bought one night from a large gent who loomed over me when I opened the door, and swept away my defences with a gleaming smile, an assurance that I had a kind face and an Origami trick with a piece of paper he produced with a flourish from a large tattered case which lay opened on the path at his feet. Then followed a display of Oriental finery which gave me the feeling that my life would be dull and devoid of any colour, should I not acquire some portion of it, so I bought this blouse for my wife, who agreed that it was indeed beautiful, then carefully packed it away in our bottom drawer of white elephants. He left me with the request that I favour him by not giving it to my wife that night as he wanted to pray for me before I did as he was so overwhelmed by my kindness, and he wished to offer a prayer for my future well-being.

I hope he did and also a prayer for the rest of the sufferers of one of the most diabolical inventions of H. Sapiens.

34. Never Too Late To Learn

aka I Don't Know What To Do

There's nothing that makes me more annoyed than a child sitting around with a bored look and when asked what's up, says "I don't know what to do". The favourite plea of the young thug caught beating up old ladies is "I was bored" and the do-gooders fall over themselves to find some occupational therapy for the poor lad when it could have been averted at source by giving him a good thumping every time he said it when a child.

The lady who had the unenviable task of instructing my mates and myself in the ways of the Lord at Sunday school, where we were sent by our parents, more to get us out of the way for a couple of hours, than concern about our spiritual welfare, was about four feet ten, weighed around seven stones, middle aged and had the looks and temperament of an angel, and always wore a black dress with white lace high round the neck.

I was whiling away the time during one session of her quiet soft talking by pulling at the pigtails of the girl in front of me, to her muttered disapproval, when the quiet voice stopped, then in the same tone asked me to step to the front of the class. Then she said would I be kind enough to lean over the desk at which she was seated, which I did, smirking at my mates. I was most surprised when a hand with the weight of an elephants' foot was placed in the small of my back and another which felt like a bricklayers hod, was applied with vigour to my backside. She laid into me solidly for a good five minutes and wasn't even breathing hard when she let me stagger back to my desk.

I learnt two things from that session, that God moves in a mysterious way, and appearances are deceptive, and have never felt the need to beat up old ladies. You never know, you might get a karate chop across the throat. 

Mind you, I blame it all on too much telly. Proper mind destroying robot, and now it's on all day the kids' don't stand a chance of thinking for themselves, and if it breaks down they're at a dead loss. Can't understand it, can you ? Bags of things they could be doing, like learning the alphabet backwards. Not many people can say that and it could be quite a party piece.

I learned very early in life that loafing about only resulted in being given a back-breaking chore like running errands for Mum or getting the back of the old mans' hand for being idle, and kids of my time kept themselves busy with innumerable games in order to avoid such calamities. 

The streets of Paddington were alive with children in earnest pursuit of enjoyment of their own making, and I don't think they were any the worse for not having television to lose their minds in. These games were usually perilous to the players but not deliberately aimed at maiming the onlooker although anyone had to be wary, especially when passing a lamp post where a boot in the back was quite likely from the flying feet of the girls swinging on ropes tied at the top as a maypole, and the old and infirm didn't stand much chance of  getting out of the way of the child who belted along propelling an iron hoop as large as himself with a hook acting as a skimmer.

Mainly we got the bruises, as in "Releaseo", the old "Cops and Robbers" game where one team of boys set out to capture another. When one was caught, he was put in jail, a chalked square on the pavement, with a jailer, and he had to stay there so long as the jailer remained inside, and it was the job of the free robbers to get him out which they did by pulling his legs to prise him loose from the railings to which he clung. The shouts of the lad whose arms were being pulled from their sockets via his ankles while his head was thumping the rails was an unforgettable sound. That and the calls of "Releaseo" from the prisoner soon brought the scouting coppers back to engage in a free for all which was the whole object of the game.

Multiple leapfrog called "Wallie Echo" or "Jimmy Knacker"* called for devotion to duty beyond normal expectation especially when some hefty lout landed on your neck leapfrogging over six other lads at one go to get there, and had to be held up until the rest of team had landed and three verses of "Wallie Echo" were sung.

Games of conkers were usually won by the boy with the least bruised knuckles rather than the one with the hardest conker, and football matches, played with a tennis ball with coats as goalposts always ended in one of two ways, and always with the immediate flight of both teams. The crash of a broken window or the call of "Copper" from the lookouts posted at either end of the street.

Skipping ropes stretched across the street swung madly while boys and girls leapt like startled fleas in the middle, marbles played along the gutters, marred now and then by the disappearance of a favourite one down the drainhole, fag cards flicked along the pavement in games of "kissums" or knockdown, tops spun on to the hand or whipping tops thrashed to death, scooter races on home made scooters constructed with two lengths of wood, a tarry block, four screw eyes, two ball races and a large meat skewer, all activities strenuously and continually enjoyed by a generation who did not have a great standard of living but were lucky in not having their minds in danger of being made plastic by big brother in the corner of the living room.

By the way, if anyone would like the alphabet recited backwards, I shall be happy to oblige. I learned it the other night when our telly went on the blink and I couldn't think of anything to do. Never to late to learn, is it ?

Notes:

* Read more about Jimmy Knacker, "an excellent game which is both stupid and occasionally dangerous",  here:  Strange Games - High Jimmy Knacker