What's that, Skip?

The sun sets over a familar icon

Flaming June is here and we are on the final leg of our journey together. As I write I am waiting for the 'For Sale' sign to be erected outside my house. The man came yesterday to calculate the energy certificate. A hundred quid a pop and he was only here 15 minutes! I'm definitely adding 'Energy Certificate Bloke' to my list of possible career opportunities. Doing 2 or 3 of those a week would do me nicely.

Just over three weeks until my final challenge - the Humber Bridge Half Marathon. I went on my longest training run to date last Sunday - 10 miles, which I managed in 90 minutes. In fact, that's the furthest I have run in my life. Even when I was a very fit 20 year old I never ventured that far. So, fingers crossed, I'm on target to complete the run in under 2 hours. The weather will be the critical factor.

I'm also running over the bridge this weekend as it is the annual Humber Bridge 10k race. I ran it last year and it was very pleasant. This year it is more of a training run for the big event, although I am aiming to run it in much less that the 56 minutes I took 12 months ago.

So, as promised, let's complete the antipodean travels before I sign off this blog for good.

Cue Jack Bauer voice-over -'Previously on Middle Aged Gapper...'

Our journey to date has taken us from Sydney, home of some very big bats, westwards to Adelaide. After an unsuccessful attempt to swim with dolphins we took the Ghan train north to Alice Springs and are about to venture to our final goal in Australia - Uluru. The story continues...

For the backpacker there are two ways to travel from Alice Springs to Ayer’s Rock Resort, a distance of roughly 300 miles. The first is to take a 6 hour bus ride through the desert. The alternative is a 45 minute plane journey. Both cost about the same, but the bus journey does stop at a camel farm.

Back in Blighty I had opted for the flight. Once I was in the outback I began to regret this decision as I felt I was cheating on the backpack experience. A comment by Emily, the girl on the Ghan, made me wonder if I have might have made the right decision after all.

‘I took the bus out to Uluru. We must have passed about five hundred dead kangaroos on the way.’

‘Five hundred!’ I said, incredulously, sure that I had misheard.

‘At least. They’re all along the road. It’s the people in the big 4 wheel drives with the bull bars on the front. They knock the ‘roos down without even stopping.’

I was brought up in the era of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo. How many people would still be trapped down the old mineshaft to this day were it not for Skip’s warnings, conveyed in a weird clicking sound to Sonny Hammond, the young son of the National Park Ranger? To witness mile after mile of dead Skippys was something I was happy to avoid.

Also, the bus left Alice at 7.00 am, whilst the plane did not leave until 2 pm, thus affording me the opportunity for a rare lie-in. My German roommate, Rudolf, however, had other ideas.

At precisely 6.05 am of the day of my departure for Uluru I was shaken awake very violently.

‘What the f...’

‘Excuse me,’ said the agitated Rudolf. ‘I thought I heard an alarm. Are you going on a tour?’

‘No,’ I said sleepily.

‘Ok. Das is gut.’ Rudolf replied and climbed back into his bunk to resume his slumber.

Fully awake, I pondered on what had just happened. I was certain that I had not set any alarms and only Rudolf and I were in the room.

The bane of men’s dormitories is the snoring. There’s always at least one snorer, usually more. For this reason I wear good earplugs whenever I have to share a room. Had I been snoring? Had Rudolf awoken me under the guise of alerting me to a mystery alarm in order to get a decent lie-in himself? Clever old Rudolf.

My German roommate may have dropped off into a deep slumber but I couldn’t. I got up and lazed around the hostel until it was time for the shuttle bus to the airport.

The flight was pleasant and afforded my first glimpse of the distinctive red rock that was the goal of my Australian trek. And not a dead ‘roo in sight.

As the plane made its final approach and I gazed out at the barren landscape below I noticed something odd. We were climbing.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom:

‘Sorry about that everyone. There’s a very strong wind blowing, making it dangerous to land. Hopefully, it will ease off and we can make it down. It might take a few attempts though.’

The next few minutes tested the sickness tablets I had taken to their limits and despite an outside air temperature of 37 degrees centigrade I managed to break into a cold sweat. Our skilful captain managed to touch down on the second pass and I wrenched my clawed hands from the arm rests.

As I stepped uncertainly onto the runway the heat punched me in the face. The surrounding landscape reminded me of the images I had seen of the surface of Mars. Except Mars isn’t plagued by thousands of sodding flies.

One month to go...

If you've ever wondered where I got the name 'middle aged gapper' it was from a TV show a few years ago that featured 6 people in various stages of middle age who went to various parts of the world to undertake activities normally associated with younger people whilst on the their gap year before or after university. What I found interesting was those who put time and effort into helping others had more rewarding and sometimes life changing experiences than those who opted for the adrenalin junkie activities.

Amazingly, my gap year is almost at an end. Looking back I don't regret a minute of it. I have been so lucky to travel to wonderful places and to have had the health and fitness to enjoy so many activities. But if the opportunity ever arises for another gap year then I will definitely focus on doing something that makes a difference to the life of others.

One of the most touching experiences of my gap year was the visit to an orphanage, near the shores of Lake Bunyoni, Uganda. I am now a sponsor of one of the children - Appa, or Paul as he is now known. Being Paul's sponsor is very rewarding as I receive regular updates and pictures from Crystal who runs the orphanage. I wish I could do more though.

A recent email from Crystal shows how the new classrooms are developing and the building of a new water tank. If you want to find out more about the project then the link is:

http://www.mindfulmarket.com/Home.aspx

I'm training for my first half marathon at the end of June and I am tempted to seek sponsorship in support of the orphanage. I don't like sponsorship though. I hate asking people for money and then there's all the emotional blackmail that so often comes into play. It's just too ugly for me and I believe that people should support charity as they wish and in privacy without pressure.

I have decided though that should my book ever be published then a percentage of any profit will go to support the orphanage. That gives me added incentive to finish the book.

As the gap year ends, so will this blog. It began as a 15 month project and I am now 14 months into it.

My plan is to finish writing about my travels in Australia and New Zealand and publish them on here over the next few weeks.

I always imagined that my year would end with one last journey but I haven't got the appetite for it. I've lost count of the number of beds I've slept in over the last 11 months. It's a lot and my own bed holds a lot of appeal as a result. What I have loved most about this year has been my total freedom. No boss but myself to answer to and definitely no boring and pointless meetings to attend. To send myself out on another journey just because it's on my list is contrary to what I'm about. Having said that, I am planning another trip to Germany for a few days in the summer. To Hamburg this time. And who knows, I might just get the urge to stay longer and take the train to Poland, Switzerland or Czechoslovakia for the hell of it. That is what being a middle aged gapper has been all about. The sheer enjoyment of it.

Live long and prosper.

19

Apart from posting bits of my supposed book on here I have been very busy over the last three weeks. Well, busy for me that is.

The episodes you may have read on here were edited and submitted to Hull University as the final submission of my degree course in Creative Writing. The classroom part of the playwright course with Hull Truck also came to an end. I now have 3 months to write my play and submit it for feedback and consideration for performance. Exciting stuff.

Not quite so exciting has been the long list of tasks that needed completing around the house. As you may know, my motto is: 'Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after that.' Consequently many tasks (usually the ones that involve a paint brush) that I should have done last year were still outstanding. But they are nearly all done now and my house looks the best it ever has since I and the kids have lived here. And all so someone else can get the pleasure of my labours.

The first estate agent came to visit yesterday and the second one is coming next week, so I expect to have my house on the market in the next couple of weeks. According to my schedule I am about 3 weeks behind, but for once my lethargy and procrastination have worked to my favour as the new government have scrapped the dreaded Home Improvement Packs that all people putting their house up for sale had to pay for. Hurrah!

My staff appraisal went well and I seemed to pretty pleased with myself overall. There was some debate over the 20 challenges I set myself though. In the end I agreed with myself that 19 of them had been achieved, albeit some are a bit dodgy.

Swimming with dolphins just didn't happen, despite two attempts. But my death defying bungee jump in New Zealand more than made up for Flipper's unhelpful attitude.

Appearing on TV didn't quite go to plan either. I had hoped to appear on the Weakest Link but despite getting through the audition the important call hasn't come. Well, I say it hasn't come. I did receive a phone call in last December and when the young man at the end of the phone asked to speak to me I took it to be another of those horrible call centres that try to sell you all kinds of rubbish you don't want. I put the phone down and ever since I have been wondering what that young man was going to say had I let him. Might he have been inviting me to record the show? I'll never know.

Thankfully the Sky cameras broadcast me saying very rude words during the two minutes of silence on Remembrance Sunday, just before kick off at the KC Stadium last November. So I'm claiming that as my TV appearance.

Getting Wainwright photographed with a celebrity was also very difficult. Russell Robertson, a recently retired Aussie Rules football player, did me proud on the plane from Uluru to Alice Springs. He may be a legend in Australia but he's never appeared as the star in the reasonably priced car on Top Gear so that rules him out as a global celebrity. Still, he was a nice bloke and the air stewardesses were virtually throwing their knickers at him so he must have something. Job done.

That's 19 down and 1 to go. The outstanding challenge is the most physically demanding of all them - to run a half marathon in under 2 hours. That may sound easy, but I am not a natural born long distance runner and I have never run anywhere near that distance in my life. Not only that but the course I have chosen is a difficult one. My original hope was to participate in the Great North Run but I missed out on the entry process whilst I was in New Zealand. I chose instead the Humber Bridge Half Marathon. People who have run it tell me it is hard. Especially the 9th mile, which is all uphill. My longest training run to date is around 8 miles and I was pretty tired after that. To run a further mile up a hill would have killed me. Add to that the fact that I am prone to back injuries and both my knees are now feeling the strain of all the running I have done over the past year and it all adds up to one thing. My chances of succeeding in the final task are slim.

I have just 5 weeks left to get myself fit enough for the challenge. Watch this space.

Don't watch it though for the next few days as I am heading off to the Lake District, where, among other things, I will be catching up with the lovely Lynn and Angelina who I met when my son and I took part in an activity holiday in Turkey last summer.

Live long and prosper.

Watery Farts

Montecatini, is a spa town, where no fewer than 9 spas come to the surface. The place to find them was a large park, about 5 minutes from my hotel.

I sauntered along there on my first morning in town and having meandered aimlessly through the park I came to an interesting, mock renaissance building - all columns and ornate plasterwork set above a cool marble floor.


The entrance fee also allowed me to take the waters. Intrigued I paid my 13 Euro and asked the very attractive lady at the entrance what I did next. I was to take a glass and help myself to the spa waters flowing endlessly into numerous sinks.

The very large auditorium was open to the sky but there was shade around the sides and numerous tables to sit at and relax. People were sitting with their half pint mugs of water and reading the Sunday papers or listening to the music. On a raised stage a piano player and guitarist in suits and ties, played along to yet another very attractive lady who was dressed in an off-one-shoulder chiffon dress whilst singing in a very accomplished and soothing manner. All in all it seemed like a brilliant way to while away a Sunday morning. I took out my holiday reading (Dan Brown, Deception Point), found a shaded table and made myself at home. All I needed now was a refreshing glass of water and I was set.

I took my glass to the spas and began my sampling. ‘Taking the waters’ was interesting. Imagine someone taking a hosepipe and trailing it from the local swimming pool to the above mentioned area of tranquillity. The water already has an unnatural, chemical taste. On its journey between pool and sink various things are added to the water. These appear to consist mainly of rotten eggs and salt. Now take a sip. Sorry, I forgot to mention, the water is also very hot.

As I said people were actually drinking this stuff from half pint glasses. The waters are reputed to bring long life. I drank enough to barely add another 3 minutes to mine. It was horrible.

On further inspection I realised that the spas had different labels: Leopoldina; Regina; and Tettuccio. Presumably from different sources. The pipes the waters flowed from were also marked red and blue – bloody hot and not quite so bloody hot.

I looked for a spa marked 'Lager', but no such luck. So, in the interests of good reporting I started at the left and worked my way along the spas. I discovered that the above words stand for: Ghastly; Disgusting; and Tolerable (in tiny amounts). I took a small amount of the latter and returned to Dan Brown.

What followed was a very pleasant, yet slightly surreal, hour being serenaded by a blonde beauty whilst sipping a mild fart dissolved in warm salt water.

Footnote - That's the first 10,000 words of what is intended to be my book. Or should I say of the first draft of my intended book. What I need to do now is finish the book and then re-write it. I suspect that much of what you have read here over the past 3 weeks will be edited out.

I'm having my staff appraisal meeting with myself later on today. I'll report next time how it went. Fingers crossed - I can be very hard on myself.

Live long and prosper.

Stop, thief!

The first of my gap year trips was to Tuscany, an area I had not visited previously. In fact I had not been to Italy before, so it was a new country to add to the list. As my flight took me to Pisa on the day after I had left work I had only the vaguest of notions about how I would be spending the first 9 days of freedom. Booking into the Buddhist hotel was a deliberate ploy. I had been to several Buddhist retreats previously and they had always proved to be very relaxing and refreshing. A few days of simply chilling out and adjusting to my new life was needed. It didn’t quite begin as I had hoped.

The flight was smooth enough. I forked out 12 pounds for extra leg room and this afforded me first class status. I had three seats all to myself and the aircrew treated me like a VIP. It was well worth additional cost and got my travels off to a worthy start.

My problems started when I switched to travelling by train as I had three of the damn things to catch. The first one was the shuttle from the airport to Pisa Centrali. The ticket machine was out of order so I boarded the train without a ticket. This prompted me to reach for my phrase book and learn the Italian for 'the machine is broken' (la machinno a rotto, should you ever find yourself in the same situation), as I was sure I would be challenged by some official or other. I wasn't.

I got off the train and made my way down the ramp to the main station. Something was wrong. I went through a mental checklist and suddenly realised I had left my laptop on the overhead luggage rack. Lugging my heavy bag, I hurried back and found with relief that the train was still there. I went back to my seat but the laptop was nowhere to be seen. I searched the train frantically, eventually reaching the driver. Might my laptop have been handed to him?

'Do you speak English?’ I said hurriedly, no time for phrase books.

'No!' he replied curtly.

Panic and fear began to crush me. There was so much on the laptop that I needed, losing it would be a disaster. I tried to think of when I had last backed up my files and calculate the damage. This was an awful way to begin my trip.

Lacking other options, I returned to my seat and looked again. The luggage rack remained empty.

There were two choices. Either someone had nicked my laptop and I could rush through the station and try to find the swine. Or, I could calm down and try to be rational. I took a deep breath.

Italian trains must park overnight at a place where kids with spray paint roam at will, for all the trains I saw had bright graffitti, or ‘tags’ on them. I had noticed that my window was a virulent purple because of the paint outside. When I checked it now, it was clean. Clearly, the computer thief had cleaned the window to throw me off the scent. How dastardly can you get?

Then I noticed a purple window on the opposite side of the train, in a seat very similar to the one I had travelled in. And just above it was a familiar laptop case.

Hot and sweaty I clambered off the train to the relief of a group of watching Italians who were clearly wondering what the hell I was doing rushing up and down the train.

'Ah, computer!' they said as one as understanding dawned. Another word learned.


My next train took me to Lucca, where I had to change again and catch the Florence (Firenze) train.

Getting the hang of things, I soon bought a ticket and worked out that the next train was not for another 40 minutes. Outside the station I found a very small bar where I was able to learn another word, this time the Italian for beer - birra.

With time to spare I made my way to the allotted platform. There was a very nice train there and clearly it hadn’t been left overnight in a skate park as it was almost tag free. The trouble was there was no illuminated sign on the platform to tell if this was the Firenze train and nothing on the front indicate where it was going either. Should I get on and risk it leaving suddenly for destination unknown?

I decided to chance it.

Not only was it the right train, it was air conditioned and I arrived at Montecatini Terme quite fresh. Unfortunately, the 25 minute search for the hotel in the raging afternoon heat soon changed that to a state of being soaked in sweat once more.

My hotel proved to be quiet and spacious and I was afforded the warm welcome I have come to expect from practising Buddhists. My room was light and airy, with a huge balcony. The only downside was the lack of alcohol on the premises. I was dying for a cold birra.

Next time - Taking the waters

Going, Going, Gone....

For months the counter on my works computer had been counting down the days like an Advent calendar. Now the clock read ‘Zero’ and it was the biggest Christmas Day of my life.

I awoke very early with a mixture of excitement and nerves that I hadn't felt since I was a child. Work was a succession of goodbyes, handshakes and good wishes. It was the last of everything. Even my last meeting didn’t seem quite so boring as usual.

The strangest part was writing reports with recommendations for change that I would not be present to see implemented. My ego wanted to leave behind some form of legacy but I knew that it was like writing my name on the seashore and it would not be long before all trace of me was erased.

I took a last lingering look at the building where I had enjoyed so many happy times and bade a silent farewell to my old life.

Deciding how to leave was something I had given a lot of thought to. Some colleagues have thrown huge parties when they retire. At the other extreme there was a Superintendent who said he was just popping out to the shop on his last day and never came back.

I decided against the big party and I settled for buying lunch at a nice restaurant near the police station for about thirty of the people I had worked with. I wanted it to be my thank you for their care, help and support. The people attending were those that had made an impact on my life whilst working at headquarters – my own staff, the cleaner, people I had worked closely with and those I simply cared about. One friend, Ian, had known me since I joined. Another, Jo, had known me for just over a year and I invited her simply because she always took the time to talk to me and be pleasant when she found me lurking near the coffee machine.

I care about what people are, their qualities and values, more than who they are, their rank or status. Therefore there was a distinct lack of ‘management’ at my farewell lunch. The only senior officer was present was Pat, a lovely man whom I had known since he transferred to the force some years earlier and who was also leaving the following week to take up a new post as Assistant Chief Constable with a southern police force.

Despite the fact that we were in a restaurant and there were other parties present, Pat got up to make a speech that suitably embarrassed me and I was given appropriate middle aged gapper gifts, including The Rough Guide to New Zealand.

I quickly went into the speech I had in my head, making it as humorous as I could by stealing some material from Count Arthur Strong on Radio 4. Then I said what was in my heart and not just lodged in my head by way of preparation.

‘Walking away today is strange feeling. This day has been a long time coming for me and I honestly don’t think I will miss the job. I’m excited about the future. But I will miss the people, because I have been lucky enough to work with wonderful people who have done so much to make my time at headquarters really special. People who mean so much to me. I don’t have time for people who think they are important because they have reached a certain level in the force. What I care about are people with strong values such as honesty, integrity, compassion and decency. And that is why you are all here today. Thank you.’

My voice cracked and the tears I had hoped to avoid filled my eyes.

A few minutes later our lunchtime party began to break up and everyone went back to work. Everyone except me. My daughter took me home and I began my new life.


Next time - Free at last - Italy

The Final Countdown

Mentally I felt prepared for my final day. I even had my farewell speech lodged in my mind should I be called upon to use it.

I had no idea what my future held. This in itself was intoxicating. I had spent my entire life playing safe and planning ahead. Apart from my divorce, all the changes to my life had been steady and controlled as far as possible. Now I could see roughly 6 months ahead, to the end of the Vietnam trip. Beyond that was just a haze. It was a terrific feeling. Although blue is the colour most usually associated with British police officers, I felt that my career had more than a hint of beige about it.

When people found out that I was studying for a degree in creative writing they naturally assumed that in my thirty years as a cop I had a wealth of exciting experiences logged away and ready to convert into the next best-selling novel. Not so. Like most police officers I have a few tales to tell: the guy who came at me with a knife; a year spent on the miners’ strike; guarding the Pope when he came to York; dealing with sudden deaths; and sundry other tales of human misery that sometimes left their mark upon me. Once I guarded a middle aged bloke in hospital after he had taken a near fatal overdose. His wife had been found dead at the marital home and he was suspected of murder. He was recovering but the paracetamol he had taken could still cause severe liver damage and cause him to die. A doctor imparted this information to the prisoner and I could see that he was visibly shocked by it.

‘So, I could still die?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied the doctor, firmly.

As soon as the doctor left the room I asked our friend a few casual questions, just in case he died on my watch. His wife had been found dead in the bath, having being drowned. Was it murder or would he claim it was a crime of passion, a sudden act of violence that was not intended to kill and could be classed as manslaughter? He revealed to me the existence of a letter to his sister that the inquiry team knew nothing about. In the letter he apologised for what he had done. Crucially, the letter was written and posted the day before he killed his wife.

Realising its significance, the sister had not revealed the existence of the letter to the detectives who questioned her about her brother. When confronted she duly produced the letter and it was a vital piece of evidence in securing a conviction for murder and a mandatory life sentence.

I received a bollocking from a Detective Sergeant working on the case for talking to the prisoner.

‘You should have left it to the CID,’ he chided.

As stories go it’s not a bad one and I am sure most cops could tell you very similar ones. It’s not going to get me any invitations as an after dinner speaker though. Unlike some of my more colourful police colleagues who have endless tales to tell about their exploits in the CID or the Regional Crime Squad, taking out whole gangs of well organised criminals or tracking murderers to the far side of the globe.

I observed that the officers who held entire crowds enthralled with their anecdotes were also the ones who simply could not leave the police. Many had foregone their marriage, sometimes more than one, to give their all to the job they were passionate about and seemingly couldn’t live without.

Compared to such living legends, my career was very bland indeed. By leaving and throwing myself into an uncertain future I saw that for once I was in a position to make my life more colourful. Whether I was being bold or reckless didn’t matter. I felt very good about myself.

A visit to the photographer made me realise just how far I had already come in preparation for my big day and the new life that lay ahead.

I have a picture of myself in my uniform as a very young police officer. I had it taken professionally as a Christmas present for my proud parents. I decided that it would be a good idea to have a similar photo taken of me in my Chief Inspector’s uniform. I also opted to have a few photos of me in casual dress whilst I was there.

The photo shoot went well until I changed into my casual clothes. I put on some trousers I had bought only a year previously. They hung off me like a clown’s costume and were a good 6 inches too big in the waist.

When I got home I went through my wardrobe, threw out most of my clothes and took myself off on a shopping trip to buy new, trendy clothes that fitted me.

As my final day at work approached, I felt like a new man. Or at least an old one re-cycled.

Next time - Goodbye to my old life