Parkin' Some Thoughts by Nick Hazell
Home is where the office is
The ink has run dry. So, I count to 10, inhale deeply and get up to change the cartridge. Again. I’m not used to sharing. Normally it’s just me. Recently though in this age of confinement they’ve all been using the print facilities in my study. Typically this involves setting the printer off on its cacophonous chuntering at the exact moment I’m called upon to give my wise counsel to a Skype load of video enabled lawyers. As the room shakes and I try to make my voice heard above a noise that sounds like Concorde on its landing approach, a courier will arrive sending the dog into near nuclear, bark-con hyper-woof. At this point, I’ll surreptitiously press the disconnect button and blame it on the internet.
There are indeed a few refinements to be made, but we along with everyone else are adjusting to the new normal that is working from home. Although my place of employment is one of the more enlightened City firms, there were still those who held stubbornly to the view that the practice of home working does little more than boost the viewing figures of Bargain Hunt. Those attitudes though have changed. Even the most sneering critics have had to put aside their inherent suspicion of the motives of their more agile colleagues. For most of us there has been no choice. Covid-19 has seen to that and whilst undoubtedly trying and tiresome for some, others have embraced a freedom that can only come with being able to conduct a conference call in your pants.
The experience is another of life’s illustrations of the fact that when you’re no longer able to control or change a situation, you have to work out just what it is that you can influence or alter and set your expectations accordingly. I suppose that’s how I’ve been living my life these past few years, so I’ve perhaps been more sanguine than some about being confined to barracks. This is just as well because hardly a day goes by when I don’t receive a letter or text from the NHS telling me to hide under the bed lest I receive a dose of the plague from which I will surely expire.
My sangfroid though gets tested from time to time by the Trumpian stupidity that seems to have afflicted some. For instance, there’s the mollusc who feels that the respiratory pandemic of a generation is the best time to have a bonfire, preferably on a day with little wind, thus ensuring the resulting smoke hangs about like a traffic warden on a Monday morning. There’s also the nearby neighbours who don’t seem to have grasped that social distancing doesn’t involve inviting your mates around for a drink, chat and a dubious late night rendition of "American Pie!. Then again, in a time when a holiday can be defined by the distance you can achieve from your lap top, it's perhaps not surprising to find common sense making a bolt for its second home.
Living and working from Hazell Towers on a full time basis comes with its challenges. The technology can be temperamental. Calls over the internet sometimes feel more like being caught up in a 1970s time warp in conversation with Norman Collier and his “hilarious” faulty microphone than anything like intelligible When it eventually works and you appear on line by video conference only then do you realise that you haven’t shaved for a week and you might have to combine self-isolation with do it yourself“ hairdressing. Most significantly though, you’re unable to enjoy the best part of the working day which is the bit when you go home.
There will be many who, once mobility is restored will forget their previous mad-dog, mouth-frothing rants about the state of our railways. They will once again wedge themselves under the armpits and between the sweating bodies of the commuter train massive, but grateful for a return to the office and in the fervent hope of never having to work at home again. The bosses on the other hand, having experienced it for themselves without the world ending or being discovered in a state of undress, will be reviewing the square footage of their premises and making plans to encourage the agile working about which they’d previously been so sceptical. Me, well I’ll just be glad to get beyond the front door without air raid sirens going off and being wrestled to the ground by the dog. I might even buy a new printer... and may be some spare ink... just in case.
There are indeed a few refinements to be made, but we along with everyone else are adjusting to the new normal that is working from home. Although my place of employment is one of the more enlightened City firms, there were still those who held stubbornly to the view that the practice of home working does little more than boost the viewing figures of Bargain Hunt. Those attitudes though have changed. Even the most sneering critics have had to put aside their inherent suspicion of the motives of their more agile colleagues. For most of us there has been no choice. Covid-19 has seen to that and whilst undoubtedly trying and tiresome for some, others have embraced a freedom that can only come with being able to conduct a conference call in your pants.
The experience is another of life’s illustrations of the fact that when you’re no longer able to control or change a situation, you have to work out just what it is that you can influence or alter and set your expectations accordingly. I suppose that’s how I’ve been living my life these past few years, so I’ve perhaps been more sanguine than some about being confined to barracks. This is just as well because hardly a day goes by when I don’t receive a letter or text from the NHS telling me to hide under the bed lest I receive a dose of the plague from which I will surely expire.
My sangfroid though gets tested from time to time by the Trumpian stupidity that seems to have afflicted some. For instance, there’s the mollusc who feels that the respiratory pandemic of a generation is the best time to have a bonfire, preferably on a day with little wind, thus ensuring the resulting smoke hangs about like a traffic warden on a Monday morning. There’s also the nearby neighbours who don’t seem to have grasped that social distancing doesn’t involve inviting your mates around for a drink, chat and a dubious late night rendition of "American Pie!. Then again, in a time when a holiday can be defined by the distance you can achieve from your lap top, it's perhaps not surprising to find common sense making a bolt for its second home.
Living and working from Hazell Towers on a full time basis comes with its challenges. The technology can be temperamental. Calls over the internet sometimes feel more like being caught up in a 1970s time warp in conversation with Norman Collier and his “hilarious” faulty microphone than anything like intelligible When it eventually works and you appear on line by video conference only then do you realise that you haven’t shaved for a week and you might have to combine self-isolation with do it yourself“ hairdressing. Most significantly though, you’re unable to enjoy the best part of the working day which is the bit when you go home.
There will be many who, once mobility is restored will forget their previous mad-dog, mouth-frothing rants about the state of our railways. They will once again wedge themselves under the armpits and between the sweating bodies of the commuter train massive, but grateful for a return to the office and in the fervent hope of never having to work at home again. The bosses on the other hand, having experienced it for themselves without the world ending or being discovered in a state of undress, will be reviewing the square footage of their premises and making plans to encourage the agile working about which they’d previously been so sceptical. Me, well I’ll just be glad to get beyond the front door without air raid sirens going off and being wrestled to the ground by the dog. I might even buy a new printer... and may be some spare ink... just in case.
A Bum Deal
She was only a small lady. In her sixties I’d say. She was behind me furtively looking at the shelves of supplies in the Italian deli where I happened to be ordering lunch. Slowly she began transferring all 10 packets of dried spaghetti on display to the counter. Maybe, I thought, she was planning a carb loaded dinner to bulk up her slight build. I then noticed the bags she had come in with were stuffed full of toilet rolls. Perhaps, I deduced, she had concerns about the quality of her cooking and its likely after effects.
Then it hit me like a wet fish to the temple. I was witnessing panic buying on the streets of New Malden. A peculiar type of panic though. I mean, what makes a person think the answer to the pandemic of a generation lies in a surfeit of pasta and the knowledge that how ever bad things get, you’ll still be able to wipe your bottom?
It is a strange time we find ourselves in. Almost every aspect of the normal lives we have enjoyed faces a nauseating voyage on the sea of uncharted waters as the Coronavirus storm takes hold. Borders are closed, stock markets have bombed, holidays cancelled and there are empty shelves where toilet rolls once stood. The internationally recognised sign of alarm can now be seen as a red rimmed triangle with a bog roll in the middle. Fights have broken out, people have been mugged, shopping trolleys hi-jacked all to ensure that any period of self isolation won’t be undermined by the absence of something soft, strong and thoroughly absorbent. Toilet paper fever has been transmitted on the back of COVID-19.
A quick search of the internet suggests this issue important enough to require the learned consideration of eminent behavioural scientists and psychologists. In their wisdom they cite the natural instinct amongst some of us to over-prepare, to do something we feel in control of in a time where everything seems to be so unpredictable or simply to follow the herd. An empty shelf must be a sign of something we really need so we must have more.
Whatever the reason, amidst all the chaos I’m just struck by how powerful these impulses are. We don’t need to be stockpiling but we feel compelled to do it. We can’t resist the urge. We’re helpless against its pull. It’s the big red button marked “do not press” we can’t stop ourselves from pressing. The more we’re told not to do something the more likely we are to do it and in uncertain times objective assessment gives way quickly to irrational and neurotic behaviour. It’s madness on a George III scale.
Anyway, I suspect this isn’t the only sign of irrational behaviour we shall see over the coming days, weeks and beyond as social distancing and self isolation battle between themselves to become the most over used phrase of the year. In fact, I’ve just perused the latest Government advice on the subject which seems to suggest us Parky’s need to hide in a cupboard for the next 3 months. Unfortunately that won’t be possible Chez Hazell. The space has been taken up by the 35 toilet rolls that have just been delivered from our on-line supplier. Well, with an immune system like mine there’s no way I’m going to a supermarket.
She was only a small lady. In her sixties I’d say. She was behind me furtively looking at the shelves of supplies in the Italian deli where I happened to be ordering lunch. Slowly she began transferring all 10 packets of dried spaghetti on display to the counter. Maybe, I thought, she was planning a carb loaded dinner to bulk up her slight build. I then noticed the bags she had come in with were stuffed full of toilet rolls. Perhaps, I deduced, she had concerns about the quality of her cooking and its likely after effects.
Then it hit me like a wet fish to the temple. I was witnessing panic buying on the streets of New Malden. A peculiar type of panic though. I mean, what makes a person think the answer to the pandemic of a generation lies in a surfeit of pasta and the knowledge that how ever bad things get, you’ll still be able to wipe your bottom?
It is a strange time we find ourselves in. Almost every aspect of the normal lives we have enjoyed faces a nauseating voyage on the sea of uncharted waters as the Coronavirus storm takes hold. Borders are closed, stock markets have bombed, holidays cancelled and there are empty shelves where toilet rolls once stood. The internationally recognised sign of alarm can now be seen as a red rimmed triangle with a bog roll in the middle. Fights have broken out, people have been mugged, shopping trolleys hi-jacked all to ensure that any period of self isolation won’t be undermined by the absence of something soft, strong and thoroughly absorbent. Toilet paper fever has been transmitted on the back of COVID-19.
A quick search of the internet suggests this issue important enough to require the learned consideration of eminent behavioural scientists and psychologists. In their wisdom they cite the natural instinct amongst some of us to over-prepare, to do something we feel in control of in a time where everything seems to be so unpredictable or simply to follow the herd. An empty shelf must be a sign of something we really need so we must have more.
Whatever the reason, amidst all the chaos I’m just struck by how powerful these impulses are. We don’t need to be stockpiling but we feel compelled to do it. We can’t resist the urge. We’re helpless against its pull. It’s the big red button marked “do not press” we can’t stop ourselves from pressing. The more we’re told not to do something the more likely we are to do it and in uncertain times objective assessment gives way quickly to irrational and neurotic behaviour. It’s madness on a George III scale.
Anyway, I suspect this isn’t the only sign of irrational behaviour we shall see over the coming days, weeks and beyond as social distancing and self isolation battle between themselves to become the most over used phrase of the year. In fact, I’ve just perused the latest Government advice on the subject which seems to suggest us Parky’s need to hide in a cupboard for the next 3 months. Unfortunately that won’t be possible Chez Hazell. The space has been taken up by the 35 toilet rolls that have just been delivered from our on-line supplier. Well, with an immune system like mine there’s no way I’m going to a supermarket.