The Little Things (c) by Michael Casey

The Little Things ©

By

Michael Casey

Well I was thinking what shall I write next, or shall I say what will  I write next, I’ll let Esol students fight over will and shall. It has been a couple of days since I spoke to you last. So what have we been up to in the Casey house?

We have been tidying up the house, just small little things, a bit of paint here and a splash of paint there, mainly over my clothes. As I write this I remember a piece called “Michael’s Bathroom” I’ll dig that out and post it next to this. But paint really does make a different, “that’s a nice tidy job” my dad used to say. So what did I paint? I badly painted the wall under the bay window. It looks as white as American film stars bleached teeth.

I blame our next door neighbour, she had a new front door so our house looked shabby by comparison. MY daughter also nagged me. So as we had a bit of paint left over  I painted under  the window, as well as the front door step. It made a big difference, just a lick of paint and hey presto the house has a smile.

It started 2 weeks ago when we accosted the builder over the road, we needed gutters fixing after the 3 months of the coldest winter in 50 years. The Indian builder was great, he jumped at the extra bit of work and did a tidy job as my dad would say. Only at the back of the house the new gutter showed up the outlet pipes from the kitchen and bathroom.

So like greased lightning I dug out the paint from the corner of the kitchen on the floor by the washing machine and started to paint. Only there was a problem, I did not have a paint brush anywhere, not even in the old bread pin under the sink where we keep various rubbish. The bread bin was actually the one we had when I was a child so it must be 50 years old now. It had no bread in it nor paint brushes.

So what do you do, you improvise, I’ve been a concierge and a night shift worker in a computer room, so I know how to improvise. I just stole one of my daughter’s art painting brushes and used that instead. This idea was great because it meant I could reach further as I painted the new wooden board that the new gutter was attached to. Then I went on to paint the outlet pipes from the kitchen and bathroom.

So hey presto the back of the house looked good. Then the Little Englander as my Shanghai wife has become decided to attack the grass, all my snowmen have since melted away. So marching behind her favourite toy, the lawnmower, she gave the grass a short back and sides. It’s so good now we may even have a bowling match on the grass. In fact it reminds me of the patch of grass that’s in the grounds of the Irish Pub in Shanghai, perhaps that’s where my own Shanghai girl got her inspiration from.

We also have a gate on our entry, I paid for it 20 years ago, this gate looked dull and faded and had no personality, a friend made that same joke about me some time ago, I’m smiling as I think about it. So again I attacked the gate with left over paint. I had bought some brushes by then, 99p for 5 brushes from the Plastic Shop up the road. Painting is very soothing and I’m not talking about inhaling the fumes either. It’s the satisfaction of seeing something dull come back to life. Mick Jagger could not get any satisfaction because he did not know how to paint an entry gate.

So all in all we have painted front and back and got our village green pocket garden grass back to nice looking again. As for my clothes, that’s another matter. I was wearing old clothes, 11year old green trousers, the trousers I wore when I had my Crowne Plaza NEC training. I tell you this to prove that I’m the same size after 11years, though the wife does not believe me. I am a large size person after all, that is how I’m viewed by my Shanghai Little Englander wife. Though I have to admit she is great with a lawn mower, even if she always cuts up my wild Shamrock, but they always grow back.

As for my clothes, I didn’t really get too much paint on them, though the entry itself has been baptised in paint, but nobody sees it as the door is always locked. I just noticed I’ve reached 800 words, am I turning into Ronnie Corbett, a tangent of a tangent, perhaps I should write for him.

Little things do matter as Ronnie Corbett will testify, but why do they matter? My mum cried when we broke a pink wooden coat hanger, her own mother had given it to her when she left for England in 1944, that’s why she cried. A bit of paint is nothing in itself, but it can change our view of our own homes. The street where I live is looking upgraded just because of a bit of paint here and there.

What about ourselves? I had a debate with a friend over presentation, not just of words but of self. Something one person hates another can love, it may be something our mum gave us, or we may be so poor that’s why we wear things to destruction. I sent a video clip of me reading my stuff to somebody and as its Summer I’m in my favourite orange Polo. Now will the person be listening to my words or just hating my Polo, or loving both. I’d don’t really know the answer to that, yet.

No Hiding Place (c) by Michael Casey

No Hiding Place ©

By Michael Casey

The thing about email and facebook is that you cannot hide anywhere. You will be found and will get mail, just as in the film “you got mail.” North South East and West, email and facebook will get you. Sometimes it’s hard to find the contact details page on  a site so you have to waste time on Wikipedia  

to find the email, then you can send your opus.

At this very moment in a bathroom at Moscow airport Edward Snowden is  being swamped by my emails asking him to read my material on his radio station. It’s just a link he has on his Wikileaks app on his computer. It connects him to the bathroom in the London embassy of Ecuadar, where thestrange is holding up this past year.

So their computers are being hacked by the IDHAC, which stands for I don't have a clue spy agency. All they can get on their computers is my material

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Casey/e/B00571G0YC/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

The  thinking behind it is that after a week of just Michael Casey it will drive them insane and they'll both come out with their hands up. There is also a screen saver of me in my Orange Polo, the one with the Polo scene on it, I'm 

moon-walking and I'm singing "you're bad, you're bad."

My Handbag

My Handbag ©

By Michael Casey

As you can imagine a man as sophisticated as me really must have a handbag, doesn’t every man? I first say a male handbag in France, or was it Italy, the word manbag wasn’t invented then. I noticed that the bus drivers all seemed to have one. A kind of overgrown shower bag really.

Obviously from that moment on I just had to have one, this may have been 20years ago. Where would I put my loose change, and a comb, and a pen and a metro map.  It was hot and I was in Paris, I was young and fancy free. I had sat down and injected ink into my right  buttock. I jumped up and  stabbed myself in the chest with my comb, one of those dangerous ones with a separate handle. As I danced like a Red Indian at a pow-wow in the entrance to the metro station, I took out my handkerchief and dropped it to the floor. Tourists thought it was an act and threw coins into my handkerchief.

As I rubbed my buttock and my chest alternatively, ladies of the night approached and danced next to me, this resulted in more coins being thrown into my handkerchief. They went away laughing, I bent down to retrieve my handkerchief only to have my bum squeezed by a 90year old French woman wearing a red beret. I would have hoped she enjoyed the thrill but she squeezed the sore buttock. So I jumped into the air screaming. Applause from the audience.

Now I deserved a drink so I made for the nearest bar, I could afford a beer with my earnings. In the bar I looked around and saw men and their manbags. So I drunk my beer and approached a group of drivers to ask where they got their bags from. Tatti was the answer, which is a cheaper than cheap department store in Paris.

Leaving the bar I needed a Kebab, as does every man traveling alone in Paris. So I had my Kebab and went back to my hotel satisfied. Though I was mistaken.  The night was a Dark Night of the Soul, which is a Spiritual concept. However in my case it meant food poisoning. My hotel was in a bad area, by Gare du Nord, my friend or should I say former friend had convinced me it was a nice area and it was dirt cheap too. That half right, it was a dirt area.

The hotel room had a shower with the sink and toilet all jammed together. Imagine the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, but instead of entering the wardrobe and enter up in Nania. You squeezed into a wardrobe like space for the toilet and shower. Many times that  night I entered the confessional, for again it was that small. I wished I was dead. I thought I was dead and in the depths of Hades, only in my case I was trapped in a phone booth like shower and toilet, which considering what was happening to my body was very convenient.

In the morning the sun rose, the state of my soul I cannot imagine, but I must have begged God a billion times to end my torment. Perhaps I had seen Hell itself in my broom cupboard of a shower and toilet space. So showering again, and I did need it I got dressed and had went down stairs.

Downstairs in a postage sized room I had my breakfast of rolls and coffee. I had paid francs for it so I was going to have it if it killed me. The rolls were very nice, so I had three, even though my head pounded like the drums at an African wedding. Then with an Au Revoir I hit the street.

I really did nearly hit the street, cos I tripped on the curb. In the distance I saw a cross, no nothing to do with church and God, no it was the green cross the symbol for pharmacy in Europe. I went  inside and practiced my French. Avez vois des aspirin de bas pris I asked. Which is do you have some cheap aspirin please, why do certain brands of aspirin cost so much. I slapped the money down on the counter and I went away happy.

The Dark Night of the Soul, had not yet ended. I read the writing on the side of the box. Aspirin Tamponne it said, I though what, is this a new way to take aspirin. And how was I supposed to take them, I was a man after all. Inside the box was a tube. I opened the tube and inside that was a giant pill, as big as extra strong mints, about an inch across, no string attached. Relieved I shoved the mint in my mouth, only it fizzed, I looked like a rabid dog. You were supposed to take them with water. So I went in search of bottled water.

I made my way to Tatti in search of my manbag, only to discover why Tatti was called tatty. It really was TATTY, I was amazed just how, well tatty Tatti was. So I never bought a manbag after all. I did buy two full length men’s coats instead, wool blend, I still have the blue one in my wardrobe upstairs. Right next to my wife’s collection of handbags. But that is another story.

Politics(c) by Michael Casey

Politics(c)

By Michael Casey

They are all Bananas
They think they are the Biggest Apple
The Berries think they should have a turn.
I don't trust any of them.
Apples are the brightest the shinyest family.
Bananas are just as bent and crooked as thier name.
Berries are just small fry and should be squashed.
Only Apples and Bananas have a right to rule.
A divine right to rule just like in England.
But we left England for freedom here.
And what did we get?
Apples and Bananas and those small fry Berries.
And we still keep on electing them.
The Apple family goes back years.
The Banana family came over on the Mayflower.
AS for the Berries, some say they are the bastard child of an Apple and a Banana.
So how should I vote Grandma?
Vote with your heart, and ignore all the bastards, Apple,Banana and Berries.
Just vote with your heart, but do vote only 1/4 of the population actually voted for the president. The opposition got just under 25% and 50% never even voted.
But Grandma its too complicted, I think I might join the 50% and NOT bother.
Thats all right little Michael, you're only in 4th grade after all.
I think I'll just punch the Apples, Bananas and the Berries, what do you say Michael?
Violence Grandma, is never justified, that's what the teacher says, but she's a bully.
Ok, I'll punch all of the fruitcakes, Apples,Bananas, Berries and all of the fruits,
Then I'll put it in the blender and then in a container, you can bring it to school.
That'll be great grandma, a mixed fruit punch for the school President elections.
Now give your grandma a kiss, and never trust any fruits.

Are You Ready Yet?

Are You Ready Yet ? (c)

By Michael Casey

Now I don’t know about you, but I believe being on time is a must, it’s not optional it’s a must. Some people would be late for their own funeral, who are you thinking of now?

Different cultures have different views of time, our priest says that Shona people are very relaxed about Time, 11 may mean 12 or 12:30, but at 1pm they have Shona Mass in our church. Italians and Mediterranean people are more relaxed about Time too. I imagine the Swiss are absolutely sticklers for time, that’s why they make so many watches. In the olden days, as in the days when Knights were bold only candles told the time. A notch on the candle told the monks when to get up. The clocks were invented, but they only had an hour hand on. Time was different.

Was it Mussolini who invented being on time, at least the trains run on time was an excuse for Fascism. We know wrist watches were invented because it was a quicker way to look at your watch when you were in the slime of the trenches of the Great War, the War to End all Wars.

Fashion arrived and watches went everywhere, in all meanings of that word. I as you know love watches and one day I’ll have a fancy automatic watch. But I have side-tracked myself, Are you Ready Yet is really about dads and their families.

Everybody up, we’re going on holiday.

But its only 5am dad.

Move, out of bed quickly, or we’ll be late.

Groans from half -awake children and the wife.

The taxi will be here soon to take us on holiday to Malta.

But I’m need more sleep dad.

You can sleep in the taxi.

The taxi is not till 6.30  dad.

And the plane isn’t till 9 dad.

You have to be on time.

Mum appears and the 3 of they discuss in Chinese why dad is so stupid, and how they were having a great dream till they were woken up.

Dad I was dreaming about Winnie the Pooh

When does she not dream about Winnie the Pooh, muses dad.

Quick downstairs, eat and shower and then I must turn the gas and water off while we were away.

WE all had a shower last night, we can shower when we get to Malta.

Go on eat then, encourages dad.

It’s too early to eat, we can snack at the airport.

Its 5:10 you should all be ready by now, says dad as he pulls the covers off his 3 girls.

Rise and Shine, Shake a Leg, he continues as if his girls were in the Navy of long ago, that’s where Shake a Leg comes from after all.

5:30 everybody is still in bed. Dad is pacing up and down.

You’ll miss the plane, he intones. Its 5:55 he lies.

As one 3 girls bounce out of bed like Tiger from Winnie the Pooh, in seconds he is crowded out of the bathroom. Dad mutters if only he had his own bathroom, one day, one day, when he wins the lottery.

At 5:55, the real 5:55am all are ready, so dad goes on the internet, now they nag him, he’ll miss the plane etc.

6:15 all are ready and standing by the front door waiting for the taxi to hoot. Dad runs around switching off water and gas. He did see the Home Alone film, so ever since them he switches everything off.

Dad decides to have a final visit to the bathroom, his trousers are still down when the taxi hoots.

Are you ready yet scream his 3 girls with glee. Dad has to sort himself out in the bathroom, only he forgotten he’s turned the water off already. So he has to turn the water back on just so he can wash his hands, then turn it off again.

Are you ready yet shout his 3 girls with glee, using all different accents from tv. Daddy’s trousers fall down, because in his haste he has not done the belt properly, it’s a shock for the taxi driver.

3 girls laugh, that’s why they love him so much, their clever and stupid dad.

See perfect timing says dad, its 6:30 exactly.

Yes daddy, perfect timing, but Are YOU ready yet.

3 Way Ping Pong

3 Way Ping Pong©

By Michael Casey

I have a friend, two actually, on FaceBook who inspire me, we make each other laugh. They are in New York and have American accents I suppose, me, I’m in Birmingham, the English one. Though in Birmingham we pronounce it “Bermingum”, no long drawn out BirmmingggHAAM. Is the saying a common people divided by a language? Or maybe the other way around.

Now E & S, I’m protecting their identities, as their children may disapprove of them talking to strangers. Now E & S live together, they are related, me I’m in Birmingham with a Shanghai wife and two bilingual daughters. E & S speak and write American English, me I read/write English English. However there can be days and I mean whole days when all I hear is Chinese, as my wife screams to her mom in Shanghai. Chinese people are very loud, especially over the Internet.

So if you like E & S are my refuge. Good morning I’ll start with, as I put my bowler hat on and open my umbrella, it’s always raining in England after all. I may send a link from a newspaper over here, and they reply with a link from over there. Ping replied with Pong. Now first E may reply before S counters, it’s like having two pitchers at the Red Socks, so occasionally I have to duck.

Now E and S are poets and writers, E has a big vocabulary, luckily I have a very big dictionary, and best of all the Internet makes everybody a spelling bee, and I can find out the meaning too. Being over here she cannot see the expression on my face when I don’t know the meaning of her big words. While she is typing her next sentence I can run for the dictionary and/or Wikipedia, so I can smoothly and effortlessly seem intelligent, when it’s my turn to return service.

So this goes on, with photos of what S has baked or made for their breakfast. I’m putting the pounds on and that’s just by looking at S’s photos of cakes galore. So S is a poet, writer and baker. Then splat, is it E returning service over the cyber table tennis table? No it’s a photo of pancakes that they are having for breakfast. I’m sure my Internet connection is slowing down due to all the maple syrup in the status updates.

E will say something and I will repost as I move closer to the net, S will make another comment distracting me from my left hand side. Then Taiwan or Arab friends pop up with news, and I’ll comment on Esol English  lists, I’m jumping from here to there, hither to thither, now how do I explain those two words to Esol English students.

I have a new post to share so I post it, after putting it on my own site www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.com In nanoseconds and I’m not exaggerating E has read it, she’s an executive editor, she reads fast. S told me once E was at the dentist and somebody dropped a magazine and before it hit the floor E had read it.

So this is how I use the Internet and FB too. FaceBook is a form of Ping Pong, and Ping is an IT word after all. Ping Pong is how FaceBook works, and don’t forget I have a Shanghai wife so I know all about Ping Pong.

Now what about FaceBook itself? Well Facebook is a 3 ring circus, with high wire acts, with juggling, with lion taming, and not forgetting the clowns. And the staff? They are roadies, they set up the tent, allowing me, E and S not to mention the 1,000,000,000 rest of you to play the game.

Now I know a thing or two about roadies, when I was a concierge at CPNEC we had the Arena next door. Roadies stayed at the hotel. All of them wear shorts and they have tattoos on their calves, it’s too hot to wear long trousers. So I can reveal this final piece of information, Mark Zuckerberg has tattoos on his calves. If you don’t believe me just go ask him, does he ever roll up his trouser legs when he’s paddling at the beach?  Ping Pong.

Relief and Recharge

Relief and Recharge©

By Michael Casey

“Thank God for that” we say when things are sorted and over. The electric bill isn’t really £500 or something like that, I can actually remember when we were kids that we had a huge gas or was it electric bill. Anyway it was one of them, the meter had been read then a week later we got the bill. In those days everybody had meters that had dials and the meter man came to your house to read them, then you got a bill. One of our meters needed a chair to be read as it was 8 feet off the ground, the other one was in a cupboard on the ground, maybe it was the electric one then, come to think of it. You’d have to be a basketball player to read it properly.

Mum was shocked, dad just cursed them as idiots, this was in the 1960s now, Ali was king, men were heading for the moon, and I was still wearing short pants, and long socks with elastic in them, before I was Head Boy at school even. Mom said we’d have to walk back and forth to school as we could not afford to use the bus if the electric bill really was that big. So we scrimped and saved until dad’s words came true. It was a misread meter, so the meter was reread and we were recharged and relieved.

That’s just one example of relief. A woman may think she is expecting a baby and then she isn’t, who is more relieved, her or the boyfriend too young to shave.

We study for an exam and we are so relieved when what we revised for actually came up. Somebody we know studied for A level Geography and then as she turned over the paper what did she see, only the exact same thing she had revised the night before. And yes she did get an A, she is my clever niece after all.

You’re walking down the street, its dark, you are on your own, you see three or four shadows walking towards you, you are scared, you don’t know should you turn around and walk or even run the opposite way. Then the shadows in appear the light of a streetlamp, they raise their hands, are they going to punch you, you, you close your eyes and pray. Then as one they all speak    “Good Evening Sir,” you look at their faces you haven’t seen them in years, but they know you, you were their teacher long ago. So relief pours out of you in a sigh.

All kinds of relief can happen, it’s afterwards that we pray and thank God for an exam passed, for a husband found, for getting that job finally. After relief we have to recharge our batteries, just as in horror films they kill the baddie and then have a fag or share a victory drink. For some of us we make a donation to charity or give that annoying beggar a fiver, just because we are so relieved the panic is over. Thank you God, I know I don’t pray much, ok, maybe never, but if I had the words I would say a prayer of thanks. And maybe it’s then that God’s relieved because we have not forgotten Him.