Suddenly, a new rich row to hoe

NOTE: North Americans please glance at my profile and check: I am the ancient of ancients. My US experiences date way back. Nixon was in the White House and the Pirates were winning the World Series.

So, the US and white goods. When we moved to Philadelphia my wife complained about the summer humidity. But I didn’t fancy paying a big electricity bill all the year round. Ha ha. During my holiday at home we bought an air conditioner. Pushed up the casement window, shoved the metal box half in, half out, and plugged it in.

Then we moved back to Pittburgh (journalism’s like that). I pointed out to my new landlord I had an air conditioner but his metal framed windows precluded its use. “Do what you need to do,” he said, “I want you to enjoy the house.” (These days I tell foreigners that English landlords, especially in London, are just as nice.) So I sawed away part of the frame and installed the box. I must add that when we moved out I re-glazed the gaping hole. A different world?

In those days Americans used to change their fridges to match the new kitchen décor. Avocado green was popular. The old fridge went down into the cellar where it was plugged in. Visitors to cook-outs traditionally brought a case of beer (that’s 24 cans) which they put in a downstairs fridge. Which filled up. I was born in the West Riding (“Lucky enough to have a pebble”) and occasionally I goggled.

It wasn't anything like the movies

If you see a good idea, plagiarise it! This is my version of Julia’s expatriate reflections game. To legitimise it I have added a techno-slant (well sort of).

As a Brit in the USA (me, 1965 - 1972) you know you’re in foreign parts when:

(1) An American says “Take my car”. (At a time when a male Brit would have preferred to say “Take my wife”.)
(2) You warm yourself at an open fire – in a centrally heated apartment.
(3) Services at the outdoor barbecue aren’t concluded until there are seven unordered burgers on the grill gently charring.
(4) You find you can phone anywhere for almost nothing.
(5) You are asked to contribute to the Democrats. You reply that as an alien you are unfranchised. The voice asks, “Is that like being a Republican?”
(6) You admit you are an alien to a neighbour who worriedly says, “Oh, you can’t be as bad as that”.
(7) You report a defect in your central heating to your landlord. He turns up within the hour, repairs it and gives you your Christmas present – a bottle of Scotch.
(8) You pull up for gas. The attendant sticks the hose in your filler then checks your oil while your tank fills.
(9) You attend your first baseball game and it’s 37 deg F in the bleachers. Your friend explains the rules to you and to the approval of those on adjacent seats. In the eighth innings there’s an intentional walk. Your friend groans: “I hoped they weren’t going to do that”. Laughter all round.
(10) Bad weather grounds the airlines. Car-less you take a Greyhound from Pittburgh to Buffalo for an exhibition. Your arrival is a surprise but the surprise grows tenfold when you explain how you travelled.

The USA. It changed my life. Thanks Julia.

It was great - except for David Vine

For thirty years I skied. Then, a couple of years ago, acute wheeziness caused a sudden skill migration and left me looking for the downlift. I told myself it was a hard resort (Zermatt, close to the Matterhorn) but I knew it was time to pack it in. Happily ski-ing is dominated by technology.

SKI SHAPES Shorter these days and severely pinched at the centre to resemble elongated hour-glasses. Pressed into the slope by the weight of the skier they embrace its contours and make it easier to turn. Turning is the essence of ski-ing.

BOOTS Agony until you find the right pair. Unyielding for a purpose – to lock your ankle/calf into a forward-facing angle, the basis of the optimum stance. That’s the theory. But a steep slope makes you lean backwards. With no weight on them for control the skis surge forward…

LIFTS Four main types. Gondola Pro: Travels long distances with fear factor reduced to zero. Anti: Skis have to be removed and you have to stand. Chairlift Pro: Comfortable, out in the open, transportation. Anti: Getting off is a frequently varying art. Novices can cause chaos. Poma (skier bestrides a disc attached to metal pole) Pro: Solo skier gets to commune with nature and his fears. Anti: Ruts can be a worry. Going downhill (a rarity) can be terrifying. T-bar (two bums share the inverted arms of the T). Only Switzerland clings to this anachronism. It’s all anti.

One reason why I blog

I’ve touched on technology and aesthetics before but clumsily, not getting to the heart of the matter.

Take a power drill. One can enclose the works in a multicoloured, smoothly shaped plastic shell making it prettier. But that’s simply giving a doll a new set of clothes. What I’m struggling for is something that looks good because of what it does.

My poor old metalworking vice – not used much these days as you can see – is, of course, required to hold workpieces securely. More interestingly, it must be designed so that I may get to any oddly shaped workpiece with a saw, a drill, a file and so on. To ensure this accessibility unnecessary metal is removed from the vice jaws.

As a result both jaws emerge from curving neck-like structures. The shape of these structures is functional but pleasing. The curves are there because those type of curves work best. And that premise is often a useful definition of beauty in other unassumingly attractive objects.

I'm ashamed about the condition of the vice, though.

Nuts and bolts not bad for your intellect

I am gritting my teeth. In seeking to right an oft-repeated wrong I must first claim some liberal arts credentials. Well, I left school at 15 for journalism and that was a good start. Since then I have read Proust, listened more than once to the Grosse Fuge, bought a quintet of Almodovar DVDs and would kill to own a Turner.

Does that do it? Now let me turn on the idiots who made this self-aggrandisement necessary.

Most reviewers, notably those doing TV, major on liberal arts. This is obvious when something technical crops up. If the guy driving round the world in a Deux Chevaux describes how he bodged up a broken suspension, that’s boreeng darlings. Tell us more about your fears, your incipent gay-ism and what you feel about all those colourful natives. Feelings count, not track rods.

It gets worse. It’s not just antipathy but a celebration of ignorance. These people, limited to a book-bound world, revel in not knowing what a track rod is. As if knowing would diminish their crystal-pure thoughts on Derrida. Needless to say they were all at sea when “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” was published.

Am I finished? Yes, that’s it. Track rods resume soonest.

How to soften a rude subject

NEW READERS: Please read the third comment before the post itself. Just to spare my blushes.
I am a connoisseur – though not an intentional user – of euphemisms. We call it a loo while Americans call it a can. That says a lot; genteel plays hard-nose. Ironically the American seeing someone (vs going out with in the UK) hints at an occasional Yankee preference for gentility.

My brother (DIY perfectionist and good cook) has a caravan. Now he’s completed the Land’s End to John O’Groats walk he is taking it to Scotland as a base to resume his assault on the Munros (peaks over 3000 ft). There are some 240 and he’s down to the last twenty.

To limber-up he was in the Brecon Beacons and we had lunch. Afterwards, driven by my taste for euphemism, I inspected his caravan. In particular the technology of the bathroom – the middle-class US alternative for can. Fanatical design effort ensures that when he discharges accumulated waste from his temporary home the caravanner only handles advanced and utterly hygienic products of the plastics industry.

This system is called a cassette. Think of the images that evokes and you’ll agree with me it’s a perfect euphemism.

Knowing what not to fear

Some people have an instinct for technology. Richard, one of my earliest friends, born a week before me and only a mile away, dead these last ten years from horrible motor neurone disease, had that instinct.

The proof could take a terrifying form. When my brother ran the bearings on the engine of his Morris Minor Richard supervised the removal of the engine, its dismantlement, the replacement of the crankshaft and the bearings, the reassembly and the reinstallation. My only contribution – other than the loan of my bathroom floor to accommodate this work – was not to drop the engine when it was put back into the car and my brother and Richard were unable to contribute any further lifting effort during the last foot or so of the transfer.

Here’s where the magic happened. With everything connected and a sump full of new oil, the engine was started. Brmmm…brmm. Fine, apart from the oil light glowing bright red on the dash. Alarmed, I reached in to switch off the ignition but Richard shook his head. Dipping under the raised bonnet he shook the engine on its mountings - vigorously. And the oil light went out.

How could he know that?

One foot on, one foot off

The hippety-hoppety antics required to propel a scooter (the children's version not a Vespa clone) surely rules it out as a serious mode of locomotion. Or does it?

The Swedes don't think so and they're pretty serious about most things. They use them for personal transport in high-bay warehouses.

The normal way of getting around a warehouse is by some kind of forklift. But that's wasteful if your journey doesn't require you to extract or re-install a load. Imagine instead a scooter rather like this but scaled up for a full-grown adult. Notably with larger diameter wheels. No brakes needed.

The floors of high-bay warehouses are deliberately made smooth so that forklifts can be aligned precisely with individual bays in the racking. Perfect for scooting. As I watched one dashing Nordic individual, with flowing yellow locks, hip-hop off into the distance it looked like fun. But perhaps that's also the drawback. In Britain we're not inclined to think of work as fun.