Peter Frederick

HOW WOMEN LOVE THEIR TELEPHONE…..

2012-01-19T01:57:00.001+11:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2011-12-28T21:26:00.001+11:00

WISHING YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS…

2011-12-19T18:14:00.001+11:00

LIMERICKS FOREVER……

2011-12-16T23:38:00.001+11:00

Dear Friend, Please click below link to open my flip book: MY LIMERICKS Would you care to leave a comment?

HEALTH PROBLEMS ON THE ROAD

2011-11-11T21:34:00.001+11:00

Whenever I felt the need to eat, I made a habit of stopping where the big interstate trucks parked because there, for sure, would be the best food and best comfort! In summer, their air conditioning would be working well and in winter, there would be, for sure, a warm log fire to relax by. On this day, I found myself looking for a place to have a mid-afternoon snack. The nearby large roadhouse looked inviting, and there had been a group of semi-trailers congregated in the vast car park, waiting for their owners.

‘Good afternoon’ a friendly greeting made me relax right away.

Sitting down in a cosy nook, I had asked for a chicken salad and a pot of coffee in accordance with the weight-watching program I was undergoing at the time.

‘Very well.’ The young lass had made notes and disappeared into the kitchen.

The background music was all ‘country’ and I had glanced into a newspaper for the latest news on the economic front, what so-and-so said in Parliament and the reply from the opposition, the news from the footy teams and how they dealt with unruly players.

Boring, boring, I thought - always the same. But it helped me to relax, so much so that I felt like dozing off.

‘Here you are luv,’ a friendly-voiced waitress put down some cutlery, pepper and salt and then ‘bang!’ an enormous bowl of something appeared in front of me. My sleepy eyes snapped wide open and I gasped in shock. It was a large mound of salad, piled high above the rim of the bowl, and on top of it, carefully balanced, was a half a grilled chicken!

I can’t eat all that, I thought. What a portion! Looking around helplessly I had seen on each table one or two tall, burly men in singlets or T-shirts, tucking with gusto into similar mountains of food. They all seemed to take the size of the portions for granted! Trying to fit in with the other ‘road people’, I had pretended to tuck in with great appetite. But I still had to furtively wrap most of the chicken into a paper napkin to take ‘home’ to my motel room.

Later, back in my car and driving off, I had made a mental note to check the size of the meals in future before ordering.

Upon approaching the town of Darebin, I had remembered some friends in Melbourne asking me what I did if I fell sick or something similar whilst on a country trip.

Well, on my last trip to Darebin, I had lifted a heavy case of samples out of my car. Grabbing it wrongly, or misjudging my ability, my back had given out and the pain which shot up and down my spine was excruciating. I had managed to drag myself into a motel room, close the door and fall on top of the bed. The pain got worse because the bed had suddenly become so unbearably soft. Carefully, I had managed to slide off it and slowly lower myself onto the thickly carpeted floor. The relief was instant - no pain, no aches. I managed to pull down from the bed a pillow and a blanket.

Never had I thought a floor could be so comfortable to lie on. I slept through the evening and the night, but before I dozed off I had wondered what the staff would say if they came in the morning to make the bed and found me on the floor, unable to move. Would there be a doctor in the town that could come and help me? How long would I have to lie on the floor before I could move again? I was a long way from home . . .

However, when I woke up in the morning, I had felt extremely well and had no more problems with my back! As I slept deeply, nature had taken over and healed, like the utilities programs in my computer, I thought.

Another time, I had caught a bad flu virus. I must have shaken hands with a real germ carrier of an architect! Arriving at a motel, I had checked in with a croaky voice and running nose, shivering and obviously with a slight temperature. Once holed up in my room, I had helped myself from the courtesy bar to a tea bag and a small bottle of Bundaberg rum. After a cup of hot tea laced with rum and when ensconced in a warm bed, I had started to glow like a stop sign. But again, when I woke up the next morning, although my pyjamas were wet with sweat and my hair was sticking to my scalp and forehead, I felt fine, even on top of the world I had thought,

Another time things were a bit trickier for me. Again, on a country trip, I had parked my car in front of a hospital engineer’s office. The ground was so uneven that I had twisted and sprained my ankle. First I took no notice of the pain and completed my business with the engineer before driving off. As soon as I was on the road, I had noticed that my left ankle was swollen and extremely painful. Putting my car in ‘cruise control’, I had experienced immediate relief. But every time I had to slow down and use the brake, the pain that shot up my leg was indescribable. I never noticed before how often one has to brake, even on a clear freeway! Finally I arrived at the next town and, jumping on one leg, with gritted teeth and bated breath, I checked myself in at my motel,

The next day I went to the local hospital by taxi, where a doctor x-rayed my ankle and put bandages on it. I hired a pair of crutches from the nearest chemist and spent the next two days in my room, conducting my business as well as I could, from my telephone. Other illnesses have, thankfully, never happened to me whilst on a business trip.

DRIVING THROUGH A LOCUST PLAGUE

2011-11-02T21:41:00.001+11:00

On the horizon there was something like fog and I was driving right into it. At first I noticed the occasional locust splashing on the windscreen and I had winced in my seat. The creatures turned into something like scrambled eggs and slid down the windscreen in a gooey, slimy mass. My windscreen washers did their work and cleared the screen, but this was becoming increasingly difficult as the number of smashing locusts increased. What would happen if I ran out of water to clean the windscreen? I thought. And then I noticed the red warning light indicating an overheated radiator. Just now this had to happen, I thought bitterly. Turning into a roadhouse, I quickly parked my car and ran into the restaurant part where I found a man looking worriedly at the darkening sky.

‘My radiator has suddenly overheated and I think I need fresh water.’

The attendant appeared to be amazed at my naive talk and advised me out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Nothing to do with it. You have to brush the locusts off your radiator and you’ll be alright. You’ll still need some water for topping-up’.

He suddenly had a small hand broom in his hand and walked to my car where he brushed an amazing amount of roasted locusts from the radiator – all crispy fried, I thought. After everything was checked - water, petrol and the windscreen was cleaned properly once more - I was about to drive off.

But first, I returned to the service station’s office and bought a small hand broom and felt slightly safer. Returning to my car in a haze of swarming locusts, I had noticed the horizon looking black. All the time the chirping noise and flying whirr of the creatures had been sawing at my nerves. A four wheel drive had pulled up behind me and I asked the farmer who emerged from his heap of scrambled eggs what else one could do in such a situation. He glanced at me in a strange way. Somehow, they all seemed to know how to cope with a situation like that one.

‘Well, you’ve got a small brush or hand broom, I see,’ he pointed at it. ‘You surely need netting in front of your radiator . . .’

‘What’s that?’ I interrupted.

He pointed to his vehicle. ‘What you need is a fibreglass mesh tied in front of your radiator to prevent the bloody locusts from clogging up your radiator.’

I stared at the flywire mesh in front of his radiator – that’s the solution, I thought.

The farmer noticed that I was simple and added ‘Of course you still need to get out of your car occasionally and brush it clean once in a while. Otherwise your radiator may still boil!’

I had thanked him with great relief and gone back into the service station’s office where I bought some flywire mesh and tied it in front of my car’s front grille.

Upon continuing my trip into the ‘black hole’, I learned what fear was. You cannot see the road ahead; your windscreen wiper cannot clean away quickly enough the messy slime that runs down the windscreen. And when you are out of water, and the radiator is hot again, you have to get out and brush away the insects and that’s when they get you. In the stifling heat, they crawl into the car, into your clothes and as quickly as you brush them off, they clog up your mesh again. And all the while, that high pitched chirping is penetrating your brain and you cannot do anything about it!

With my suit clinging wet to my body, shaking and wide eyed with terror, I got through the swarm, headlights blazing. At the next roadhouse, I steadied myself with a strong cup of coffee.

While the mechanic filled up the petrol tank and checked the motor and radiator, he tried to talk to me: ‘So, you’ve been through that swarm already. They are expected here by tomorrow. Then we will have trouble,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘You won’t believe what they eat. There is nothing left wherever they strike!’

‘I thought the Government was spraying their areas to reduce the swarm.’

‘Yeah, but only crown land, me boy!

‘What do you mean? They spray only on government land and across the fence, on private property, nothing is being done? And there is more private land than crown land in some areas. That’s no good.’ I got agitated. ‘The authorities are bragging on the radio about what they are doing to break the plague while they keep breeding on private land.’

He laughed, ‘You’ve just learned a lesson now, haven’t you?’

I swallowed bitterness. ‘Yes, I suppose I just have.’

ARE YOU AN AUTHOR?

2011-10-28T21:28:00.001+11:00

AN AUSTRALIAN BUSH NURSING HOSPITAL.

2011-09-27T19:44:00.001+10:00

‘Morning Glory’ was a bush nursing hospital in a remote country town and surrounded by shady eucalyptus trees, giving it a picturesque appearance. During recent renovations, it had just installed new PVC floorings throughout. It was my company’s product and it was selected because it needed only the occasional quick buffing with a floor polisher. Yet despite this ease of maintenance, I had received a phone call requesting my visit to sort out a ‘faulty vinyl’. Sure, sure, I thought grimly.
Sister Theresa, who was running the hospital, smiled when she saw me. It was a trusting smile which made me determined to get to the bottom of her problem.
‘Mal, our cleaner tried to buff the floor with his floor polisher but said your vinyl was too soft!’
Despite the nonsense I’d just heard, I smiled back at her reassuringly. ‘Is Mal here?’
‘No, he starts work at six o’clock in the afternoon’, she stated.
‘But, sister, if I can come all the way from Melbourne to impart some knowledge and help him solve a problem, don’t you think that this merits his being present in his own time?’
‘I’ll phone him now because he does not live very far from here.’ Sister Theresa liked to get on top of problems.
While she retreated into her small office, I walked around the building, head bowed and studying the flooring. It was very well installed and looked bright and friendly. Suddenly, I came across the complaint mentioned and knew instantly what had happened to the flooring. The cleaner had switched on his floor polishing machine without having a buffing pad on the rotating disk with gripping spikes and he had routed into the PVC flooring. Of course, he had not admitted to having made a mistake and damaging the flooring himself, but complained instead about ‘the appearance of the floor after having buffed it’.
Within half an hour Nigel Firty had arrived. He looked annoyed for having been called from his home, in his own time, and, showing no embarrassment, pointed to the spot of approximately 70 cm of damaged vinyl. He took the buffing machine out of the cleaner’s room and polished an area of passageway without any problems. Obviously, he had learned his lesson in the meantime!
‘Unfortunately, I was not here, Sister, when this happened but I am confident that it will not happen again. If I send you a large piece of the same PVC flooring free-of-charge, could you ask the flooring contractor to cut out the damaged part and insert the new piece?’
Sister Theresa nodded ‘That will be fine.’ She, too, realised that this was not the time to point the finger at anybody but to ensure a friendly working relationship all round.
‘Thank you for coming, Peter,’ Sister Theresa spoke again. ‘If you could help us with that piece of vinyl that would be great.’

ME AND THE KGB / NKVD ………

2011-09-14T21:28:00.001+10:00

A few months after the Cuban Missile Crisis (note the capitals), I was lunching with another Russian expatriate who rejoiced in the name of George George. I knew him well as he was a great friend of Alex’s. He ran a small import/export business from a minuscule office in Jermyn Street and was a fairly frequent traveller to Europe, including the occasional visit to East Germany (sorry, the GDR).

Early in the meal, he said, in almost an off-hand way, “I hear you’ve had a spot of bother with the War Office.”

I was staggered when he said he knew of my fracas with Colonel Allen. Then I remembered George’s tale of how he came to Britain.

He had been in the last class of the Imperial Russian Military Academy, escaped shortly after the revolution and eventually set up in Germany where he qualified as a lawyer. In the early 1930s, he didn’t, as he said, “like the look of Hitler” (though he was not Jewish); he felt that Germany was not for him. He had corresponded with some vague relations who lived in Scotland, a situation which went back to the late 18^th century when there was a flourishing trade in timber between Scotland and Russia, so, after much thought, for he spoke virtually no English, set off for the United Kingdom.

He found his German law degree was quite useless in Scotland. Indeed, an English law degree did not qualify one there either. So he left for London.

He much enjoyed telling of his time after war was declared in September, 1939.

“I went along to the authorities and said I would like to volunteer. I pointed out that I was fluent in Russian and German and had more than a working knowledge on Italian, Spanish and most Slavic languages, so thought I might be useful as a censor. They thanked me but pointed out that my request for naturalisation had not yet been approved. So I was sent off to learn how to be an air-raid warden.

“Someone may have pulled a string or two, as my naturalisation was approved quite quickly and I was sent for by what we now call MI5. They decided to use me in

their foreign language department……..and put me in the Dutch section; I knew, perhaps, a dozen words of that language.

I digress. George, very tactfully, asked me if I was still seeing a lot of Alex.

“I suppose I see him most days when we are both in London.”

“I had a call from Jim Craufurd. He’s worried about your friendship with Alex.”

In parenthesis, I would mention that Jim Craufurd was a cousin of my father-in-law and, thus, knew me, though slightly.

“Gosh, is that old fool still with the spooks?”

“That’s not very polite, Michael. He’s among the most revered ex-members of the intelligence service.”

“I’m astonished. I know what my wife’s immediate family think of him. I knew he was a KC in the dim and distant past but that most judges wouldn’t have him in their courts as he was almost impossible to understand.”
“Be that as it may. He is worried about Alex.”
“My dear friend. You know Alex better than I do. You know he is almost the archetypical Russian. He loves Russia, loves using the Russian language, he’s volatile and demonstrative. But he’s no more a fellow-traveller than Winston Churchill.”

Then I remembered the chance encounter in Geneva but thought better than to mention it to George, sure that, despite the lady’s nationality, nothing of a sinister nature had occurred (if you omit the cuckolding of a husband)

“Oh, well, I know it’s a difficult situation. I’ll trust your judgement.”

Blimey, I thought. Dear little (he was just over 145 cm tall in his Homburg hat) George was still heavily involved in the defence of Her Majesty’s realm. I supposed it was a case of ‘once in MI5, you’re there for life’, though that rule had hardly applied to Messrs Burgess MacLean and Philby

1963 arrived and with it the “Profumo Scandal”. A fairly senior Cabinet Minister (the Secretary of State for War—i.e. the bloke in charge of the Army under the Minister of Defence) had been accused of having an affair with a famous (?notorious) call-girl, Christine Keeler. That might have been tolerated but it transpired that among those enjoying her favours at the same time, was a Russian naval captain, one Evgeni Ivanov. Golly, I thought. Wasn’t he one of the blokes I met with Alex in the Moscow Arms?”

He was indeed and, it turned out, no more a naval captain than our daughters’ nanny for he was identified as the head of the London office of the Russian secret service, the NKVD. Obviously, ‘our chaps’ in MI5 had known this, hence their great interest in Alex. Incidentally, it is amusing to recall that British spies in embassies, whether in friendly or not-so-friendly countries nearly always seem to use the cover of “The British Council representative”, while our American cousins are often undercover as “Agricultural Attaché”.

I have often wondered what MI5 thought when one day early in 1962, they saw the front page of The Manchester Guardian (as it was then called). There, slap in the middle was a photo taken at the British Iron and Steel Federation’s trade mission to the USSR. Three men were depicted. One was the head of the BISF, another was Comrade Khruschev. Standing between them acting as interpreter, was Alex.

In the summer of 1964, I called on Alex in his flat in North Notting Hill one Saturday afternoon. It was on the top floor of four, no lift, quite spacious and comfortable. I knocked on the door and Alex answered immediately. He greeted me “Slav Style” with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Ho, ho,” I thought. “He’s been at the vodka.”

I went into the living-room and was introduced to a cheerful-looking chap, about fifty or so.

“Meet ‘Uncle Vanya’,” said Alex.

Now I had heard of the Chekhov play, but this fellow wasn’t dead. He solved my unspoken question by saying,

“I am Major-General Efremov, Senior Military Attaché at the Embassy.”

Here we go again.

What with one thing and another, plus the undoubted fact that Alex and “Vanya” were at least two very large ones ahead of me, I let that one through to the keeper. Vanya told me of his time as a parachutist in “the Great Patriotic War” and I, without too much exaggeration, retailed some of my Korean experiences.

“We were bloody fools to back that awful Kim Il Sung,” remarked my New Best Friend. I felt I could pluck up the courage to ask him to come to the window which overlooked the street below.

“Look at that──those two cars opposite.”

The automobiles in question were a Morris Minor with two men in bowler hats in the front and a large black car which I picked out as a Russian Zil. In this were a couple of hefty-looking chaps in large fedora-type hats.

‘Uncle Vanya’ roared with laughter.

“Those fellows in the little car are your chaps watching me. The blokes in the black car are my chaps watching your chaps watching me. Bloody stupid. Your MI5 know that the new head of the NKVD here in London is he ambassador’s chauffeur. I am what I told you; the senior military attaché. But they continue this charade. Gives them something to do on a wet Saturday afternoon.”
That was (almost) the end of the affair save that, once more I heard from Curzon Street. Not the rude Colonel Allen but a much more polite chap who asked me what I thought of Efremov.

So Our Spooks know I met him. Here we go again.

But it turned out a little different.

“What was your impression of the General? Does he like it here?”:

“He certainly seemed to. Indeed, I have wondered whether he might be ‘turned’”.

“Yes. But he doesn’t have his wife and family with him. The NKVD/KGB think he’s not totally reliable, so they keep them in Moscow as a kind of hostage to ensure his return to the Soviet Union.”

And that, as far as I was concerned, was the end of my (very sketchy) entry into the world of the NKVD, MI5, KGB and anyone else who had thought that my mate Alex was a fellow-traveller.

MICHAEL MUSCHAMP – GUEST AUTHOR AND MY VERY GOOD FRIEND.

ME AND THE KGB / NKVD ……..

2011-09-10T21:44:00.001+10:00

Dear Visitor,

Today, I have the pleasure of introducing a guest author, my good friend Michael Muschamp, and am confident that you will enjoy his amusing reminiscing as much as I do. PETER FREDERICK

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Yes, I know the heading should be “The NKVD and I”. Whatever, at least it rhymes.

1962 found me in London where I had worked for three years or so as manager of a New Zealand firm’s UK office. Not the world’s biggest office; self plus secretary and the occasional visiting fireman.

For the past three years, I had been sharing an office in the posh environs of Mayfair with another Kiwi, Alex Marks, who was the London end of a large NZ construction company. His boss and mine were good friends and the arrangement worked very well until the summer of ’62 when, for reasons unknown either to me or Alex, the bosses fell out and I was told to find an alternative home. Which I did, just round the corner from the ‘old’ one. Mind you, to get to my small office on the first floor, you had to fight your way past he rubbish bins of the ground floor caff.

Alex was about fifteen years my senior, a chap of medium height, greyish hair, bright eyes behind large rimmed glasses. Annually, he attended his good friend, a Jewish tailor, and bought two suits; by the month’s end they looked as if he’d slept in them. He probably had, for his success with the opposite sex was, not to put too fine a point on it, extraordinary. Given that he was usually emitting a good deal of garlic, I could only remain somewhat staggered

An example of his success in this important aspect of heterosexual life occurred in the spring of 1962. We met, by arrangement, in Geneva, both en route to the Hannover Fair, the biggest of its kind in Europe. It was chilly for the end of April but we put up with the temperature and had a coffee in a lakeside café. There was hardly a soul there, save for, a few tables away, an attractive woman in, I guessed, her early thirties.

We left to do our own bits of business, arranging to meet at Alex’s hotel three hours hence, i.e. at 7.30. A stickler for punctuality (a defect which has haunted me ever since my naval days), I knocked on Alex’s door at precisely 1930, local time. The door was opened. But not by Alex but the “lady by the lake”.

She joined us for dinner and left immediately after, explaining that her husband was due home early next morning. She spoke English with a decided Russian accent, but, at the time, I thought no more of that, knowing Alex’s love of his native country and its language.

He had arrived in New Zealand in 1920, the youngest of three children whose parents had undertaken the perilous journey to escape the Bolshevists, via Siberia and Kamkatcha for, as I was to discover a little later, they were , in the words of another émigré, “upper-middle class intellectuals, a bit like the Huxleys”. The language at home in Wellington, where they eventually settled, was Russian. Indeed, his father who was one of the founders of New Zealand’s radio manufacturing business, only spoke a very few words of English to his dying day and, whatever their family name was, it certainly wasn’t Markov or even Marx, the anglicised version of which had become Alex’s patronymic.

A few months later, in early October, it was cold, grey in England and, when it wasn’t raining, looked as if it would do so at any tick of the clock.

The newspapers, the BBC and ITV (thank God, only two channels then) were full of dire warnings. World War Three was just a-round the corner. Or, so they said. The United States and the USSR were playing a deadly game of ‘chicken’. Who was going to crack first as the Russian ships bearing missiles for Mr Castro were approaching Cuba?

My previous employment as a naval officer meant that I was subject to recall to the forces of the Crown whenever a state of emergency was declared or such seemed likely. Thus, I was not completely bewildered when my phone rang and an unmistakably military voice said, “Muschamp?”

“Michael Muschamp,” I replied, hoping, in vain, as it transpired, that the disembodied one might be a little less peremptory.

“You’re on the Emergency List of the RN, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I was transferred from the RNZN when I came to live in England.” I purposely omitted ‘sir’ as I had no idea who was interrogating me. I didn’t have long to wait.

“I’m Colonel Allen, War Office,” quoth the ill-mannered one, “come to my office in Curzon Street tomorrow at eleven.”

Not so much as ‘by your leave’ or ‘hope you haven’t another appointment.’

“I’ll be there, sir.”

“Room 35 on the third floor. Don’t be late.”

Having established that the fellow was three ranks senior to me (maybe only two as Lieutenant-Colonels are usually referred to without the first word), I thought I had better throw in the ‘sir’ in aid of good and friendly British Commonwealth relations. And ‘Curzon Street’ meant ‘MI5’, a fact of which I had become quite aware. for, before she was lucky enough to marry me, my wife had worked there though, of course, her post was a good deal junior to that of the peremptory “Brown Job” (the navy’s epithet for army personnel).

This exchange had left me aghast. I was fully aware that, some seven years since I had ‘been at sea’, I would be about as much use to one of Her Majesty’s Ships as a rope entangled in a propeller (‘screw’ in naval parlance). Nevertheless, I fronted the apparently anonymous Curzon Street building, told the guard who I was and where I was going. He checked, made a phone call to which he contributed,

“He’s in a suit, sir. Quite smart, actually.”

Some compliment.

I took a creaky lift to the third floor, found Room 35 and knocked.

“Come in, damn you.”

So I came in.

To face an angry-looking fifty-ish man, regimental tie, rather creased suit. He motioned me to a chair opposite him.

“Siddown.”

If that’s the way to win friends and influence people, I went to the wrong school, I mused.

I sat.

“This feller Alex Marks, you know him?”

“Yes, sir. We shared an office until about six months ago.”

“Why did you leave?

“Our respective bosses in Auckland had a bit of a falling-out.”

“But you still see Marks?”

“Yes, he’s a very good friend.”

“Funny sort of friend. You know he’s a Russian?”

“ I know he was born in Moscow about 1916 and fled eastward with his family a bit later.. They finished up in New Zealand after a hair-raising trip. Not that he remembers it, but I’ve met his sister who told me about it.”

“You know he’s been seeing some Russians from their embassy here?”

“Yes, sir. I went with him once to the Moscow Arms where he introduced me to several Russians.” (The pub’s name had nothing to do with matters Russian except for the odd coincidence that it was in Moscow Road. In West Kensington) “But they all wanted to speak Russian so I didn’t go again. Of course he knows plenty of Russians who live here. He enjoys speaking Russian and, as someone once said, ‘You can take the man out of Russia but you can’t take Russia out of the man’”

“Well, I don’t want you to see him any more.”

“Might I enquire, sir, what right you have to tell me this? I may well be on the Emergency List of the Navy, but I am yet to be called up and I was unaware that a State of Emergency had been declared.”

“You are a cheeky young colonial. Get out.”

So I got out.

I didn’t tell Alex.

(to be continued…..)

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NOTE:

Would you like to leave a message for Michael, right below? Many thanks!

HELPING A FRIEND…….

2011-09-05T22:10:00.001+10:00

The town of Bilbool was not very far. I had already passed its signs and soon I would be amongst houses again. Bilbool was a small country town and I only had to visit a school, a Government department and a bush nursing hospital.

The school had always fascinated me. It was so small that the principal was also a teacher, the cleaner and God knows what else. It had a small administrative building made of red bricks, many years ago, and since the town’s population was dwindling, there was plenty of space everywhere.

‘Good morning,’ I greeted the friendly lady behind the office counter. ‘Would Mr Frank Upton be in? I don’t have a firm appointment but he is expecting me today.’

She smiled. Obviously, they did not get too many reps. calling, being in the middle of grain-growing country with little else to warrant a visit from far away Melbourne.

‘He is teaching right now but just knock on the door and he will come out. But he may ask you to wait till recess.’

‘That is fine.’ I thanked her and walked the long corridor in search of a classroom with children and a teacher in it. Through the glass windows I could see into empty classrooms that would have been filled with children in days gone by. With young people flocking to the cities, country towns now struggled to preserve their small communities.

Sure enough, the last classroom to my right hand side was active. Children were sitting on their small chairs and listening with admiration and awe at what was being taught. At the front of the room, I saw Frank, the principal, teacher, caretaker, and whatever other functions he may have had in this little country school. He looked more like a farmer than a teacher, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned. His sunburnt face, with lean features beneath a tussled shock of hair, was animated as he talked. I had also noticed that his pearly white teeth and blue eyes, cheerfully darting from one child to another, accentuated his personality. And, of course, he wore the grey gabardine trousers of the country folk and matching desert boots, made for walking on unsealed roads.

Suddenly, I realised that he was teaching German language. His blackboard was covered with picture cut-outs of various household articles and he kept pointing at them with a thick forefinger. I don’t know what came over me, but I knocked on the classroom door, opened it and stuck my head in.

I heard myself say in German: ‘Could I see you for a moment, please? I won’t keep you long.’

He flashed a smile at me and nodded. I am sure he mentally checked my grammar. However, my question had a noticeable effect on the children. Their mouths dropped open and they stared at me utterly surprised. Obviously, they had accepted a foreign language as being something to give them a hard time in school, but that somebody would actually speak it, when he didn’t have to, seemed to astonish them.?

‘That was a surprise, Peter,’ Frank extended a grateful hand. ‘Could I ask you to wait another ten minutes, when we have recess? I shall not teach for the rest of the morning and I am all yours then.’

‘Great, Frank. I shall wait outside the reception area. Alright with you?’

‘Perfect! See you soon.’ He went back into the classroom and recommenced torturing the poor children with a difficult language.

It turned out that Frank wanted my advice on installing a safety floor in the passageway. ‘Every time it rains, the rain water comes inside, making the corridor slippery and downright dangerous for the children’.

I had a look at the situation. ‘Frank, I’ll give you my honest opinion. The installation of safety flooring will cost a large sum of money and will still not solve your problem.’

‘Well, what do you suggest?’ Obviously, Frank was not keen to spend money unnecessarily. And if a floor covering rep. advises against buying flooring, there must be a valid reason.

‘Your main entrance to the school has no porch; it is flat and without protection. You step from outside directly inside. The rain hits your entrance and virtually comes inside every time the door is opened. And even closed, it runs from outside into your interior as there is no barrier.’

‘Y-yes. But what can be done about it?’ He was keen to make the right decision and was prepared to listen.

‘You have no roof protruding as a barrier for rain. If you had at least a canvas or aluminium awning which would act like an umbrella, the rain would fall at a distance from your entrance! ‘This, combined with outdoor industrial matting and another industrial mat inside, a minimum of five paces long, would take everything off the soles of shoes and your corridor would be dry.’

‘That is very good advice, Peter. It certainly would cost less than replacing a floor. I’ll be glad when I’ve stopped the kids from slipping.’

‘Now, hang on, Frank.’ I interrupted his beautiful thoughts. ‘There may be kids still falling because they push and shove each other. Even if you had a safety floor, there is no guarantee that nobody will slip - ever! But you will reduce the chance considerably if discipline is high.’

‘But that means your own advice will lose your company business,’ he said looking puzzled.

‘We do not work that way’ I explained to Frank. ‘If you really needed flooring I would say so. But I will not recommend something that’s not necessary’.

Frank assured me that he would get some quotations for a large awning and industrial matting and do his homework budget-wise. We shook hands and I left with the elating feeling of having helped a friend!

MY DEAR FRIEND ALF…….

2011-08-19T15:58:00.001+10:00

Sales representatives were basically in the ‘people business’ and every meeting had the potential to bring problems. And I do not mean just lack of sales. When staying in contact with somebody, a deep relationship may develop, sometimes deeper than one is at first aware of! For example, in a tiny country town of Edenborough, there was the only floor covering shop for near and far which belonged to Max Whiting and his staff of three.

There, my cup of coffee was made with more love and attention and the biscuits were more generous. The shop was run by a manager, Alf Downing, as the boss did the actual flooring installations - a somewhat unusual arrangement. But the flooring installations were of top standard, of course, having been installed by the boss himself! How I loved calling on this shop, because the welcome was so much more sincere than anywhere else.

There was never a complaint to investigate and everybody seemed to have a permanent happy smile. Every time I called on that establishment, the complete staff assembled in the shop to meet with me: the boss, the two other floor layers, the boss’s wife and her father, a farmer who had nothing to do with floor laying but liked to meet ‘city people’. I always found myself sitting in that shop on a roll of carpet or PVC flooring, a cup of coffee in my hands and biscuits on a plate which was balancing on the roll I was sitting on, with everybody facing me with all attention I had ever wanted. Of course, I always had some knowledge to pass on, installation techniques to discuss, questions or queries to answer, new product catalogues to give out and technical data to hand out. It was sheer enjoyment, sitting there, having their utter attention; it was a circle of real friends and the atmosphere was always relaxed and warm.

Whenever I hit the town at lunch time, I used to phone ahead and arrange with the shop’s manager, Alf Downing, to have lunch with me. There was a little cafe which served simple meals but the seats were actually benches, arranged in cozy nooks, giving one the sensation of utter privacy. Sitting there and enjoying Alf’s company, I always felt that the two of us were the only customers in the shop. (Sometimes we really were!)

‘Here we are, Alf,’ I would say as we sat down. ‘It’s time I had lunch with a real gentleman!’

Alf smiled his relaxed smile ‘Thank you, Peter. Oh, I’ll have a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee, if that’s alright with you.’

‘Of course it’s alright’, I replied and went to the counter to place my order.

‘You mentioned last time that you had leukaemia? That’s terrible, Alf! Are you in treatment? And what can be done about it?’

‘Nothing much can be done about it, Peter’. He smiled quietly and gave me the impression of utter peace and calm.

‘It is in remission right now and I can lead a normal life. But it can flare up at any time and I could die at any time.’

Seeing my horrified face he smiled and added: ‘But at the moment I am alright.’

‘But you have a young family, Alf - a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters. This is a terrible predicament. And you are doing such a good job, managing the flooring shop. What did you do before you joined Max Whiting’s team?’

‘Oh, I am a printer by trade and also used to do a little bit of artwork and layout.’

‘So, that’s why your shop is always so nicely laid out and signs and price tags are always placed correctly! You are an artist as well!’

We always had a chat whilst chewing something and it was very relaxing for me. Alf had this natural, friendly, personality and always seemed to be at peace. At the end of our meals, he would say ‘Now, let’s go to the shop and meet the others! We all want to know what you have for us this time.’

Back in the shop, the whole team was there and, yes, another cup of coffee and more pleasant conversation followed. I always regretted having to move on to another town and getting back into the ‘rat race’.

One day, when walking from the parked car to ‘our cafe’, as we called it, I noticed Alf limping slightly.

‘Hang on, Peter, I am a bit slower today’ he pointed to his right leg. ‘I’ve got this pain in my hip and I do not know from what. But it’ll go away,’ showing again his serene smile.

But it didn’t go away. I had been back in Melbourne, for a week’s work, when I received a phone call one evening at my home: ‘This is Joe here, Peter. You know me; I work for Max Whiting in Edenborough.’

‘Hello, Joe, it’s nice to hear from you. How are you doing? I hope I can help you with something!’

‘It’s about Alf, Peter. He is in the St Vincent’s Hospital in Melbourne, dying of leukemia - will you visit him?’

Never had I received a greater shock! This was a dreadful telephone call, with a very direct question. I felt the blood draining from my face and my hand that held the receiver was shaking and I could not do a thing about it.

‘Whaaat? I . . . er . . . since when?’ I babbled uncontrollably. Then fear set in: First I was losing a dear friend and secondly . . .

‘Will you visit him?’ Joe had more presence than I.

‘Yes, of course!’ I do not know how I had the strength to say that. It was a most dreadful situation. Obviously, his illness had surfaced again to full-blown leukemia! What do you say to a good friend who is dying?

‘He wants you to visit him, Peter. He thinks a lot of you!’ He sounded natural and genuine, with no trace of flattery. Putting back the receiver, I broke down. I could not handle this, I thought. Never had I been in such a predicament. Yet Joe’s voice still reverberated in my ear. ‘Will you visit him?’ spoken with such naive trust. This was another of those occasions where my wife had given me great support. It helped me a lot, feeling her hand on my shoulder and speaking to me softly. We went to St. Vincent’s Private Hospital the following morning.

‘Yes, Alf is on the fifth floor and you may visit him now. Take your time,’ said the sister at the reception with a soothing voice and gentle smile.

I cannot remember entering Alf’s room, as I was still

trembling and pale, but I believe my wife led me in. Alf was in his bed, fast asleep. There were flowers on his bedside table, a jug with orange juice and a dressing gown folded neatly at the end of his bed. The reality was not as bad as I thought, I noted and recovered somewhat.

My wife and I sat on chairs by his bedside and simply waited. I thought of all the good times we had enjoyed together, about his family, his young wife and two lovely girls who used to smile at me from the photo he kept on his side table. I certainly dreaded his waking up, but suddenly, his eyes opened.

‘Hello, Peter, I was wondering when you would come!’ He smiled and his serene face seemed to gleam with joy. He always knew that I would come!

My wife introduced herself and took over the conversation which suited me fine as I was still confused as to what to say. What was appropriate in such a situation? Fortunately for me, Alf had a long and interesting conversation with my wife and the mood was that of a ‘normal’ patient who was recovering. But he wasn’t getting better, I thought. Every now and then a nurse or a nun would come into the room; they all had a nice smile and reassuring manners. At the end of our visit, I had promised to come again the following day, which pleased Alf visibly. Our conversation was just ordinary small talk between friends - that’s all.

When we left I was very glad that I had visited him and relieved that our visit had turned out alright and that I had been able to cope with a situation like this. Somehow, I had come through the occasiont! From then on, I visited him every day for the next five days. Alf always looked forward to my visits and on the fifth day we found him sitting on his bed with his feet dangling and eating a roast chicken with gusto.

‘You are doing well, Alf!’ I greeted him.

‘Yes, Peter’, was his cheery reply, ‘I feel fine and the doctors are sending me home tomorrow. I am in remission again and only need to visit the local doctor back home in Edenborough once a week. Isn’t that great?’

Alf, with his leukemia put on hold, went home to his family and friends. He had to retire from work on doctors’ orders, to look after himself better. I phoned him at home nearly every day and we had great conversations!

However, these daily conversations were interrupted when an urgent business trip took me to Tasmania, but, as soon as I arrived back home I phoned him again.

‘Hello, Jenny,’ I greeted his wife cheerfully. ‘How is Alf today?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jenny replied, ‘He died’.

Handing the phone to my wife, I walked away, thinking of everything we have been through together and the many conversations we had about life and the joy of it. And now, there was what he loved most in this world, his family, alone - a grief stricken wife and two bewildered little girls.

Since that time, whenever I had to go to Edenborough or had to drive through it, I always bought flowers and visited his grave. It wouldn’t matter how busy or how late I was for an appointment somewhere, I always had the time for Alf! Laying down the flowers by his graveside I prayed for him and spoke to him. I have since asked people in Alf’s town about his family and was told that they were ‘alright’ and that his widow had found a job in the town and that life was going on as normal as could be. But one person, who knew Jenny well, told me that she had noticed that every now and then there were flowers on Alf’s grave and that she had always wondered where they were coming from.

The years go by and sometimes we, who live, tend to question the purpose of carrying on, but for me, one thing never changes: whenever I have to drive through Edenborough, I always buy beautiful flowers and visit my friend Alf!

A MICE PLAGUE

2011-08-03T22:05:00.001+10:00

The radio announcer warned drivers to be very careful when driving in the area of the mice plague, however, I just had to drive to the town of Hurtley. Again, as was my wont, I drove to this location on a warm summer evening in order to be able to meet my client there first thing in the morning.

Hurtley is a small farming town with great grain silos, which are visible from far away. Also, there are huge mounds of grain simply covered by large tarpaulins. The people there are particularly friendly to anybody who calls on them. Unfortunately, they lose their young folk to the city and those who stay, try very hard to make a living and to stop the population drain. I thought of my contact there, a hospital engineer with a craggy face and deep sunburn, which told me that he was also running a small farm in his spare time.

Darkness had set in but in my headlights the roads were clear and there was no traffic at all. I had the feeling that I was the only person in the world driving on that road. The gentle music in my car and the soft glow of the dashboard gave the interior a pleasant ambience. Suddenly, I saw something - a strange vision. Slowing down to almost walking pace, I gazed at what seemed like a gigantic grey carpet on the road - a carpet stretching from one field, covering the road, and continuing on the other side. It was so large that I could not see where it started or where it ended. It covered the ground and billowed as if there were a draft underneath it. Incredible! As I got closer, dread came over me - ‘the grey carpet’ was a plague of mice, migrating across the road and spilling into the field on the other side. They moved in such tight formation covering the left side of the road and spilling onto the middle that they really looked like one gigantic grey carpet. When I wound down my window, I heard them emitting a high-pitched squeaking that continued on and on. It was a clear moonlit night and I could see quite a distance into the land on both sides of the road - and what I saw was wall-to-wall mice. There was no end to them.

I quickly had to make a decision: I had to continue my journey, come what may, as I had people waiting for me: the motel where I had booked a room and my client early the next morning. Driving slowly and gritting my teeth I kept going, into the mass of living flesh. My car slithered and slid and my hair stood on end because I could not see where the road ended and where the fields started. Unlike in floodwater, I could not see the middle line on the road to guide me, yet every now and then a traffic sign indicated to me that I had managed to somehow stay on the road. After about an hour of this gruesome experience I had reached the outskirts of the town and the mice had started to thin out.

I staggered into the reception room of the motel and the manager looked with alarm at my white face, trembling body and wet shirt, clinging to me. I stammered a bit when I told him what I had just been through. He nodded understandingly and his face hardened. It was like a punishment from God and there was little the suffering population could do about it.

Digging trenches with poisonous liquid, trapping them, shooting them; nothing seemed to have had any effect on this plaque. And as for the cats, they were nowhere to be seen. Jim, the motel manager, spoke very slowly: ‘And when this plague is over we can expect a plague of snakes. They normally follow mice.’

‘That is terrible, Jim. How do you cope with all this?’

He managed a forced smile. ‘You city people have no idea what we go through at times. As if the drought was not enough for us!’

I had walked into my motel room in a very depressed state. The next morning, upon seeing my blood spattered car, my stomach churned again. After completing my business with Alan Frosby, the maintenance engineer, I had driven off to the next town and found the roads clear and the land eaten bare, devoid of any plant life. Only occasionally did I encounter mice and the ones on the road were as flat as pancakes. This eerie experience will be with me for a long time, taking its place in my memory, next to some other catastrophes I have encountered in my long years as company representative.

Technorati Tags: writing,writer,short story,entertaining,author,authoring,mice plague,plague,composing a short story,biography,story telling,literature

NOT ANOTHER LIMERICK!

2011-07-23T19:55:00.003+10:00

AT THE BOOK MARKET, I DO NOT SELL ANY
ALL DAY LONG I DON’T MAKE A PENNY
“HEY YOU! BUY A BOOK
AND DO NOT JUST LOOK”
AS AN AUTHOR, I'M LOSING MY SANITY.

THERE WAS A YOUNG GIRL FROM TASSIE
WHO WAS PRETTY BUT KNOWN AS A HUSSY
WHEN SHE MET A YOUNG SCOTT
WHO LIKED HER A LOT
AND CALLED HER “MY WEE BONNIE LASSIE!”

LEGS VARY IN SHAPE AND IN SIZE,
IN SHORT SKIRT, THERE IS NO SURPRISE,
SOME ARE SKINNY LIKE STICKS
HAIRY LEGS ARE THE PITS
BUT CONCRETE CRUSHERS I DESPISE!

THE BABY CRIES PIERCINGLY LOUD
“SHUT UP!” THE FATHER DOES SHOUT
THE MOTHER THEN NURSES
TO AVOID FURTHER CURSES
BUT AS PARENTS THEY BOTH ARE SO PROUD!

….MORE LIMERICKS….

2011-07-19T23:18:00.003+10:00

WHERE IS MY TIE?

2011-07-12T16:48:00.002+10:00

‘Hello Peter, your car has been serviced and it is ready for your country trip.’ The friendly voice on the telephone belonged to Stan, the man in charge of Selby’s Motors. Since a lot of people treat their car almost like a loved one, as a member of the family, his role was like that of a family doctor. His diagnosis of a car is always eagerly awaited by customers and his recommendations are followed religiously.

‘That’s great, Stan, thanks for your good work.’ I am sure I sounded relieved and grateful.

‘That’s alright, Peter. We know that you are due for your country trip and therefore have made servicing your car a top priority!’

Good service! I thought. Whilst I hated putting the car in for service as I always felt stranded without it, I realised that it had to be maintained properly. If not, it could let me down in the country side, in the middle of nowhere, between two towns, with tons of mozzies swarming around. I knew from bitter experience that you could do nothing about it then because when the motor doesn’t run, the air conditioning doesn’t either. It then gets stifling hot inside the car and you are forced to open a window. And that’s when the gnats get you! Out of nowhere they converge on one as if trained that way.

So, I went to my loyal service station and picked up my car. Relieved, I sank into the comfortable seat, turned on the air conditioning and sighed with sheer pleasure as the crisp, clean, refrigerated air hit me. Automatically, I undid my tie, took it off and dropped it on the seat next to me. I undid the top button of my shirt and . . . ah, that was luxury! For a moment I envied all those people who did not have to wear a business suit, shirt and tie.

Upon driving back to the office, the traffic was at its peak and I got nearer to my office only by the stop-start method, which I always found unnerving. I much preferred to do my business calls in the country because at least you could drive without the frustration of traffic and stop where you wanted to stop. It was wonderful to be able to park right outside an architect’s office and just go inside!

Suddenly, I had the feeling that something was not right. Was it the air conditioning? I fingered the control buttons - it was turned on alright, but why was the air suddenly so stiflingly warm? Feeling the air vents, I panicked. The fan which normally blew out the refrigerated air was not working. What an inconvenience! I was supposed to go on a country trip but could not possibly do so with the car in such condition!

‘Stan,’ I explained on my car phone to the service manager of the workshop, ‘the air conditioning does not work. It started alright, blowing cold air but suddenly the fan is not working. What happened?’

‘There can’t be much wrong, Peter,’ Stan’s voice was very reassuring. ‘We checked everything before handing you the car. Can you bring it back and we’ll have a look at it?’

Despite the heavy traffic I managed a u-turn and raced back to the workshop. Once there, Stan sounded less optimistic ‘To check the air conditioning’s fan and motor, we have to open up the dashboard and have a look at everything - it will take a while as it is a big job. Leave it here and we will phone you tomorrow with the result of our inspection.’

This did not sound reassuring at all. I’d have to face another full day without my car! Feeling like a broken man, I hailed a taxi cab and returned to the office. Whilst I had enough business to attend to at my desk, it was not a happy situation. I was in the middle of a large batch of phone calls when Stan reached me on the line. His call got to me between my outgoing calls.

‘This is Stan again, Peter. Your car is ready to be picked up. I’ve fixed everything. Now you can go on your country trip. Can you come right away as our workshop closes early?’

Slightly breathless I had entered the service station and Stan was waiting for me. All the other office staff and all the mechanics seemed to be looking at me, for some reason. ‘Peter, where is your necktie?’ Stan enquired with a very formal attitude. This was an unexpected question and I said the most stupid reply I could think of:

‘I haven’t got a necktie,’ I replied, totally confused about what that had to do with my car? ‘And what’s a necktie?’

‘Your tie, Peter!’ and he tucked at his own accessory to jog my memory.

‘Oh my tie? It’s in the car, on the seat.’

Suddenly, the whole office staff and the mechanics started to laugh and Stan explained: ‘Peter, we found your tie entangled in the fan. Here it is,’ and like a magician, he produced my tie which was in a terrible state.

‘It somehow got sucked up into the air intake opening at the floor and prevented the fan from blowing. There is nothing else wrong with your car!’

With a red face, I had accepted my car keys back and the tattered tie and got into my station wagon. What happened? Well, with all that starting and stopping in heavy traffic, the tie had fallen from my seat onto the floor, must have slid forward and been sucked into the air opening. What a reason to give a car back to a mechanic! I did not live this down for a while. Whenever I put my car in for service, Stan or whoever was serving customers, always remarked: ‘Ah, I see you’re wearing your tie!’ Naturally, I can laugh about this now but I still wish it had never happened to me!

EXAGGERATIONS…..

2011-07-07T21:06:00.002+10:00

The morning’s grey – what will it bring?
Outside, there blows a freezing wind
and brings the South pole closer home.
I fancy polar creatures roam
at intersections, public places,
where people rush with frosty faces
past penguins and seals in masses
who stare at them with frozen asses
as they pursue their daily chore,
so frozen deep down to their core.

MISSING SLIM DUSTY IN CONCERT…..

2011-07-01T21:54:00.002+10:00

I turned and there was Ian, a youngish architect, smiling at me. He had set himself up on his parents’ farm and travelled up and down the country district, finding business and was seemingly cushioned against the vagaries of the economy that his city counterparts dread so much. Conducting my business was easy as Ian was naturally friendly to visitors. He did not get too many and that made me very welcome.

‘Be careful when you drive on to Dunkston and into Victoria,’ he warned.

‘I know, Ian, I heard about the plague of locusts on the radio. Unfortunately, I will have to spend a day in town because I have to put my car in for service,’ giving him an accusing look which went unnoticed. Anyhow, I wondered what there was to warn about? They were tiny creatures, weren’t they? What could they do? Plus, the government was constantly announcing that it was spraying the area, obviously killing them off before they started swarming, so if I kept the windows closed and the air conditioning on, they could not get to me. I just had to drive through the swarm in comfort. Easy!

Well, it wasn’t! I was wrong as usual and my hair greyed a bit more than nature intended. But first, I had to get the car serviced. There were two good mechanics and I chose one with the least cars waiting. The workshop was located at the begin of the town and it was unique because it had a life-size mannequin outside, near the road, with a motorised arm waving motorists into its driveway. Obviously, the owner of the petrol station cum repair shop had a sense of humour!

Looking at the dummy, I had noticed that it was also being used as an advertising medium for other things because it had a large sign hanging from its neck, inviting everybody to a play in the town: ‘Rome, sweet Rome’ it said in large letters - obviously a pun directed at the Italian population of the area. Also, the dummy was dressed in a Roman toga and, like in ancient Rome, had a laurel wreath placed on its realistic wig. With its finely detailed face and accurate proportions the mannequin really did look lifelike! To make it attract even more attention, the service station owner had installed a windscreen wiper motor that moved the arm. Waving at passers-by and directing motorists into the driveway was certainly a clever set-up!

Wally, the owner came out, smiling. He knew that another city slicker had been lured into his establishment! ‘You like my dummy, then?’ he started a conversation.

‘It’s incredibly lifelike! It certainly gets a lot of attention,’ I observed admiringly.

Wally nodded proudly ‘Yes, I put a bit of work into it,’ pointing at the arms. ‘I’ve installed a windscreen wiper motor. Actually I put two of them in the dummy and added hinges to the arms.’

I stared at the animated figure.

‘I’ve also installed a loudspeaker and work everything from the console in my office. He pointed to his small office with all the space occupied with paperwork and with spare parts used as paperweights. And sure enough, there was a microphone and some buttons and knobs giving the appearance of a primitive radio station.

‘I have only one problem’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ I could not think of a drawback.

‘Come into my office right now’ His voice had become a whisper like a conspirator’s. Eagerly, I had followed him. He placed himself in front of his microphone, his hands hovering over the knobs and buttons. His expression became grim and determined.

He obviously had forgotten about me, judging from his intensive staring at a van with a family inside. Clearly tourists, they had stopped in front of the dummy, and stared at it, talking to each other excitedly. Then one man had left the van and slowly approached the figure, as if mesmerised.

‘Watch this bastard,’ Wally whispered. ‘They all do that!’

‘Do what?’ I whispered back, feeling like a conspirator, too, only not knowing the plot.

The man stood in front of ‘Nero’ as I had named the Roman mannequin, reached out and tried to shake hands with him. This must harm the mechanism, I thought.

Suddenly, the dummy jerked and boomed at the tourist ‘Let go of me bloody arm! What do you think you are doing?’

The shock was very visible, especially as there was nobody else in the driveway. The man almost jumped out of his skin. Trembling, he sprinted to his van, got into it and drove off with the acceleration of a racing car driver.

‘See that?’ Wally turned to me. ‘They all try to shake hands and it damages the motors inside it.’

‘That’s incredible,’ I could only stammer.

But Wally was made of sterner stuff because I heard him mumble: ‘I hope his drycleaner can keep a secret!’

I had to stay in Dunkston while my new muffler was being installed and I also took advantage of getting a full car service at the same time. Wally was an old-fashioned mechanic who took his work very personally, and whatever he did, he did properly. However, I had some visits to make in the town: to the hospital, the local government authority and flooring contractors, all in walking distance, so not much time was lost.

Upon leaving an architect’s place and walking towards a Government department where more architects were waiting for me, I had passed a large cinema and noticed a sizeable poster advertising a concert by Slim Dusty. It was a pleasant shock because Slim Dusty was one of my heroes of country music. In fact, it had always been my dream to attend one of his concerts and witness this legend perform. His concert was scheduled for the next day! I was reading the poster with excitement when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hello, Peter! You are back in town.’ It was Terry Stringer, an architect, whose small office I had intended to visit.

‘Hello, Terry.’ I was pleased to see him as he was completely natural with none of the snobbish air I sometimes encounter from city establishments.

‘Yes, I was coming to see you this afternoon, if that’s alright with you? I have some new samples for you and your catalogue needs updating.’

‘Splendid, Peter. Let’s say about 3 pm? That’s it then. I see you are a Slim Dusty fan? Are you going to his concert tomorrow? It will be a great event.’

‘Unfortunately, Terry, I can’t! You know how it is - there is always another town to call on.’

‘I know what you are like, Peter. You are too correct. That’s what’s wrong with you.’

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Let’s say, if you had a car problem that needed fixing or if you were not feeling very well and had to take a day off - you are entitled to it, aren’t you? Then you would have your chance to see Slim Dusty and nobody would know!’

‘You make it sound so easy, Terry’

‘But it is easy. And don’t forget that after the concert, you can meet the master in the pub and have a yarn with him. You know what Slim is like!’

‘Yes, he is very folksy and,’ I was pulling myself together, ‘I have my car in for repairs and a service today. I tell you what, Terry, if the car is not ready by this evening I shall stay here for another day. But only then.’

‘Please yourself. So I shall see you at 3 o’clock then’. Terry nodded and left me in inner turmoil. I have always been a stickler for correctness. It didn’t not matter how far away from a boss I worked, I always did the correct thing, otherwise I just would not have been able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning. Therefore, I decided to leave it up to God. If my car was still being repaired the next day, then I would have had no other choice and I would see Slim.

Wally, the repairman, smiled when I called on him late afternoon. ‘It’s all ready, Peter. New muffler and full service! The tyres are alright and I have just test driven it.’

‘Thank you, Wally. I am relieved that I have a reliable vehicle again and do not need to feel stranded any more!’

But there was a touch of regret in my voice.

http://www.peterfrederick.org http://www.life-on-the-road.com

TOPLESS LADY

2011-06-22T19:46:00.005+10:00

One day, which I particularly remember, was very hot - one of the hottest on record and the city was sweltering in the heat. It was the kind of weather that was popularly called a ‘real stinker’ and school children were sent home, building sites were deserted and I had the feeling that only company representatives were kept working as a refinement of torture.

On that day, I had to call on a private household to inspect a complaint about a flooring installation. It meant having to find the address in a new suburb called Brentworth, which was not recorded in my antiquated street directory. Also, it had a lot number instead of a house number which were always more difficult to find and very time consuming. However, despite those difficulties, I had to get the inspection over with!

Whilst driving in my air conditioned car the temperature was not a problem but every time I had to stop and get out, the heat hit me like one of the hot towels that barbers of old slapped onto customers’ faces!

In the end, the owner of a new milk bar had pointed me in the right direction: ‘The Fletchers are second street to your left. A white weatherboard house with roses planted along a white fence. We know them well.’

That would be easy, I thought. All that was needed was a quick inspection of the PVC flooring in the kitchen, asking all the relevant questions, making notes, and a speedy getaway to my normal calls, namely architects and government departments, who have all nice, air conditioned, offices!

Parking in front of the house, the heat caused me to stagger back as soon as I had stepped out of the car. Nevertheless I had grabbed my clipboard, tape measure, complaint forms and staggered towards the house. Ringing the bell took an eternity and there was no answer. I rang once more, taking care to keep under the shade of a newly installed veranda awning.

I had just decided to loosen my tie and unbutton my collar when I perceived movement in the house. Somebody was in there. I glanced at my watch which showed that it was indeed the appointed time of my inspection. Eventually the door opened slowly and a young girl of about 15 years of age stepped out. She was dressed only in a bikini bottom, had a kind of very open fishnet scarf wrapped around her shoulders and was covering up her ‘topless-ness’ with one arm folded across herself.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Is Mrs Fletcher in? I have an appointment to inspect the kitchen floor.’ I tried all the time to keep looking casually into her eyes but only managed a fixed stare, although I did notice her beautiful long wavy hair and her statue-like figure, with a shiny, silky skin.

‘Yes, this is the right house but my mother is not here at the moment. You are welcome to inspect the kitchen floor. Please come in.’ She stepped back, opening the door wide to let me in, using the other arm.

‘No, no, no, ‘I heard myself reply. ‘In order to inspect a complaint, the complainant must be present. An appointment had been made, but perhaps there was a misunderstanding somewhere.’ I tried to smile. She smiled back and tried to be more helpful by waving with her free arm in the direction of where her mother was right now.

‘She went over there (pointing over the trees to the next street) to the Wellingtons’ and my father’ - this time she nearly used the other arm - ‘went to work at the service station over there. Both will be back soon. Would you like to wait?’

Standing there in the searing heat and with her so close to me, I had to force myself to keep from getting dizzy. There was a sudden ringing in my ears and I had to force myself to concentrate.

‘No, thanks. But I’ll come again when I’ve made another appointment with your parents. Here is my business card’ and I held it towards her free hand. ‘Please ask your mother or father to give me another phone call and we will try it again. Goodbye for now!’

She smiled and reached out for my card, nearly shifting her other arm which gave me an electric sensation.

I could not get into my car quickly enough and had turned on the motor, blasting the air conditioning into my face at full force. This should ease my sudden headache, I had thought but it took me some time to recover enough to continue with the remainder of my calls for the day. Regaining my philosophical mood, I reminded myself that there were situations in a rep’s life that he dreaded but that he simply had to be in control of.

One day which I particularly remember was a very hot day - one of the hottest on record and the city was sweltering in the heat. It was the kind of weather that was popularly called a ‘real stinker’ and school children were sent home, building sites were deserted and I had the feeling that only company representatives were kept working as a refinement of torture.

On that day I had to call on a private household to inspect a complaint about a flooring installation. It meant having to find the address in a new suburb called Brentworth, which was not recorded in my antiquated street directory. Also, it had a lot number instead of a house number which were always more difficult to find and very time consuming. However, despite those difficulties, I had to get the inspection over with!

While driving in my air conditioned car the temperature was not a problem but every time I had to get out, the heat hit me like one of the hot towels that barbers of old slapped onto your face!

In the end, the owner of a new milk bar had pointed me in the right direction. ‘The Fletchers are second street to your left. A white weatherboard house with roses planted along a white fence. We know them well.’

Parking in front of the house, the heat caused me to stagger back as soon as I had stepped out of the car. Nevertheless I had grabbed my clipboard folder, tape measure and forms and staggered towards the house. Ringing the bell took an eternity and there was no answer. I rang once more, taking care to keep under the shade of a newly installed verandah awning.

I had just decided to loosen my tie and unbutton my collar when I perceived movement in the house. Somebody was in there. I glanced at my watch which showed that it was indeed the appointed time of my inspection. Eventually the door opened slowly and a young girl of about 15 years of age stepped out. She was dressed only in a bikini bottom and had a kind of fishnet scarf wrapped around her shoulders and was covering up her ‘topless-ness’ with one arm folded across herself.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who are you looking for?’

Standing there in the searing heat and with her so close to me, I had to force myself to keep from becoming dizzy. There was a sudden ringing in my ears and I had to make myself concentrate.

She smiled and reached out for my card, nearly shifting her other arm which had given me an electric sensation.

A LITTLE BOY STANDS WONDERING….

2011-06-10T22:45:00.004+10:00

A little boy stands wondering
wide-eyed and amazed,
the world is colourful and wide -
he takes all in unfazed.

As long his parents lovingly
are by his side protecting
and guiding him to adulthood,
without in care neglecting

One day he will be all alone,
a 'grown-up', as they say,
strong and virile and determined
in his daily fray.

PETER FREDERICK

www.peterfrederick.org

www.life-on-the-road.com

THE WRONG VIDEO……

2011-06-02T12:20:00.002+10:00

‘On the road again . . . ‘ I was thinking of country singer Willie Nelson’s famous song as I hurtled along on the freeway to Darebin. I had a five hour trip ahead of me and not to have this long stretch take away from my valuable selling time, I had left Melbourne on a Sunday afternoon. I liked travelling on Sundays, in the afternoon, because the roads were clear and the service stations and roadside restaurants were unhurried and relaxed.

Whenever I felt the need to eat, I made a habit of stopping where the big interstate trucks parked because there, for sure, would be the best food and best comfort! In summer, their air conditioning would be working well and in winter, there would be, for sure, a warm log fire to relax by. On this day, I found myself looking for a place to have a mid-afternoon snack. The nearby large roadhouse looked inviting, and there was a group of semi-trailers congregated in the vast car park, waiting for their owners.

‘Good afternoon’ a friendly greeting made me relax right away.

Sitting down in a cosy nook, I had asked for a chicken salad and a pot of coffee in accordance with the weight-watching program I was undergoing at the time.

‘Very well.’ The young lass had made notes and disappeared into the kitchen.

Boring, boring, I thought - always the same. But it helped me to relax, so much so that I felt like dozing off.

‘Here you are luv,’ a friendly voiced waitress put down some cutlery, pepper and salt and then ‘bang!’ an enormous bowl of something appeared in front of me.

My sleepy eyes snapped wide open and I gasped in shock. It was a large mound of salad, piled high above the rim of the bowl, and on top of it, carefully balanced, was a half a grilled chicken!

I can’t eat all that, I thought. What a portion! Looking around helplessly I had seen on each table one or two tall, burly men in singlets or T-shirts, tucking with gusto into similar mountains of food. They all seemed to take the size of the portions for granted! Trying to fit in with the other ‘road people’, I pretended to tuck in with great appetite. But I still had to furtively wrap most of the chicken into a paper napkin to take ‘home’ to my motel room.

Later, back in my car and driving off, I had made a mental note to check the size of the meals in future before ordering.

Upon approaching the town of Darebin, I had remembered some friends in Melbourne asking me what I did if I fell sick or something similar whilst on a country trip.

Never had I thought a floor could be so comfortable to lie on. I slept through the evening and the night, but before I dozed off I had wondered what the staff would say if they came in the morning to make the bed and found me on the floor, unable to move. Would there be a doctor in the town that could come and help me? How long would I have to lie on the floor before I could move again? I was a long way from home . . .

However, when I woke up in the morning, I felt extremely well and had no more problems with my back! As I slept deeply, nature had taken over and healed, like the utilities programs in my computer, I thought.

Another time, I had caught a bad flu virus. I must have shaken hands with a real germ carrier of an architect! Arriving at a motel, I checked in with a croaky voice and running nose, shivering and obviously with a slight temperature. Once holed up in my room, I helped myself from the courtesy bar to a tea bag and a small bottle of Bundaberg rum. After a cup of hot tea laced with rum and ensconced in a warm bed, I started to glow like a stop sign. And, again, when I woke up the next morning, although my pyjamas were wet with sweat and my hair was sticking to my scalp and forehead, I felt fine, even on top of the world I thought.

Another time things were a bit trickier for me. Again, on a country trip, I had parked my car in front of a hospital engineer’s office. The ground was so uneven that I had twisted my foot and sprained my ankle. First I took no notice of the pain and completed my business with the engineer before driving off. As soon as I was on the road, I noticed that my left ankle was swollen and extremely painful. Putting my car in ‘cruise control’, I had experienced immediate relief. But every time I had to slow down and use the brake, the pain that shot up my leg was indescribable. I never noticed before how often one has to brake, even on a clear freeway! Finally, I arrived at the next town and, jumping on one leg, with gritted teeth and bated breath, I checked myself in at my motel,

I was deep in thoughts, when I arrived at Darebin town. On my car phone, I had dialled John Russell’s private telephone number.

‘John Russell here’, a relaxed voice had answered. In the background I could hear children laughing, dogs barking, adults talking.

‘John, this is Peter Frederick here.’

‘Oh hello, Peter’, his voice sounded pleased. ‘Are you in town again?’

‘Yes, John, I have just arrived at my motel. I shall be in your shop tomorrow morning to discuss with you your current television advertising campaign.’

‘Great, Peter. Shall we say at 9 am?’

‘Yes, John, I am looking forward to seeing you again. And, oh, before I forget, could you video-tape your TV ad, please? You know, the one you have currently showing in this area! My boss wants to see it, regarding cooperative advertising.’

‘Of course, I shall tape it tonight for you and bring it tomorrow to the shop.’

‘Excellent! Have a nice evening, John, and I shall see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, see you tomorrow, Peter!’

The next day, I was at ‘John’s Floor Coverings’ right on time, but there was no sign of John. Being used to waiting outside shops and offices, I had looked at a few windows and then admired his store sign. Whilst some establishments have high-falutin’ titles like ‘Galaxy Floors’, ‘International Floors’ or ‘Super Floors’, ‘John’s Floor Coverings’ sounded rather quaint and, since everybody knew him, there was no need to impress anyone with a bombastic name. At twenty minutes past nine, John arrived in his panel van and I made the mistake of looking at my watch.

‘Sorry, Peter, but I had to take the kids to school.’ ‘No problem, John. It’s good to see you again. How is business for you?’

‘I am really flat out at the moment.’ We entered his shop and he switched on the kettle.

‘I see you’ve got your priorities right, John. Coffee comes first!’

He grinned. ‘Have you spoken with your boss regarding subsidised advertising on our local TV? I do need help!’

‘Of course, John, and we won’t let you down, like I explained to you yesterday on the telephone. Did you bring your sample video recording of this spot with you?’

‘Damn, I forgot! I put it next to my bag and overlooked it this morning. It’s all that rush, you know!’

‘I’ve got to have it in order to help you, John. I promised my managing director to post it to him “express overnight”. He’s waiting for it.’ I was looking desperate and John had an idea.

‘After you have called on the architects and the hospital in Darebin, at about lunch time, come back to the shop. I’ll dash home in the morning and get that bloody tape!’

Having updated his samples and having talked ‘shop’ for about ten minutes, I took my leave. Exactly at noon, ‘high noon’ as I remembered from the famous film, I walked into his shop again. He was still breathless from a hectic morning.

‘I’ve just come from home and here is the tape. There is another program on it too - your boss will have to find the TV ad.’

‘Thanks, John, I shall go straight to the post office and mail it. Declan is waiting for it. You will hear directly from him regarding our payment towards your costs.’

Walking into Darebin’s post office was like going back in time. It still had linoleum-covered floors and counters. I wrote a little note for my managing director telling him that the commercial was on the tape, amongst other programs. Feeling relieved for having finalised everything in this matter from my side and with the ball now in the corner of my head office, I headed happily to the next town.

Driving home to Melbourne at the end of the week I was listening to calming, classical music and had loosened my tie as I still had four hours of driving ahead of me. Suddenly my car phone sounded a shrill interruption and it was Declan, my managing director, on the other end. ‘Where is the TV advertisement you were meant to pick up from John’s Floor Coverings?’

‘I sent it to you “express overnight”. Did you not receive it?’ I was very annoyed because I had made an extra effort to make sure that he received this important item as a top priority.

‘I received the video tape with your note alright and watched it wondering when the commercial was coming on.’ And now he raised his voice in frustration, ‘But you’ve sent me the wrong tape, there is nothing but two hours of ‘’Tom and Jerry” on this one!’

PETER FREDERICK

www.peterfrederick.org

www.life-on-the-road.com

…MORE LIMERICKS….

2011-05-28T22:05:00.003+10:00

Peter Frederick http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

SOME LIMERICKS….

2011-05-23T21:00:00.002+10:00

Peter Frederick http://www.peterfrederick.org http://www.life-on-the-road.com

BUSINESS IS CRAZY…..

2011-05-20T17:17:00.003+10:00

It was early morning and I was already in sweat, having just had one of my most unpleasant telephone conversations ever - about flooring that is not my company’s! The caller would not have it and preferred to shout and rant instead of accepting the truth. Trying to relax, I switched on some soothing music - Chopin is one of my favourites - and tried to relax. And as always, I started to philosophise.

One of the fallacies of being a company representative was that outsiders sometimes thought it was a cushy job, driving around all day, wearing a business suit, talking with architects, flooring contractors, Government departments and hospital engineers, sipping coffee and looking stupid! They never seemed to perspire was the general opinion, always had a clipboard in their hand and business came easily to them! These were also my observations when I worked as a retail salesman in carpet shops.
I had lived an harassed existence then, with customers coming to me, several at once, with their flooring needs and the boss was breathing down my neck all the time. Oh, to be a company representative! I had always thought at the sight of one of those privileged creatures entering the retail shop to talk to the store manager. What a shock it had been for me later to experience the reality of being one myself. For example, the worst task for me was to visit, for the first time, a Geriatric Nursing Home or a mental institution. I am not ashamed to admit that I had not been able to sleep properly for a few days after each such visit.
It is amazing how complacent one can become after a while and now I could wander about in such institutions as if I were employed there, or one of the inmates as my so-called friends would tease me.

Strange things have happened to me, like the incident of my visit to ‘Peaceworthy’ a large mental institution in Woodburn, a bustling town with several different types of health institutions.
There were always large building projects going on in Woodburn and I had established a good rapport with the local architects, hospital engineers and project managers. The institution, ‘Peaceworthy’, was a large, sprawling complex of single-storey houses and one tall office block for the administration. The institution was almost like a suburb, nestling in hilly surroundings and looking to me ‘peaceful’ indeed – until one day I encountered something really strange.

Let me first explain the situation and the goings-on there and then the part where I came in. Heading towards the office building, I had walked past inmates (sorry) patients and tradesmen as there were constructions going on all over the place. Some patients seemed to dress according to their fantasy. One person looked like a boxer, with protective headgear and boxing gloves, with shorts to match. His headgear had one ear protection flap pulled up, like a Russian fur cap, and on the other side had the ear padding pulled down, flapping against his cheeks as he walked - as if he’d just lost a fight, I thought. Another one was screaming at visitors about what he was going to do to them: terrible things, he threatened, but never explained the details and never did anything else. However, it was still unnerving to walk towards the main office with him following close and screaming!

One fellow played a foreman or supervisor of workers and he really looked the part with his dust coat, pencils and ballpoint pen in his breast pocket, necktie and white shirt, a clipboard in his hand and an incredibly authentic supervisor attitude. Also, his thick glasses and almost hypnotic stare helped to reinforce ‘authority’. He would go to a plumber who was crouching on the floor, fixing a ducted heating radiator, and say ‘I want a good job, you understand?’ And the tradesman, playing along, nodded submissively. ‘Yes, Sir!’ Then he rushed to a group of bricklayers who were extending a building ‘I want this over there!’ He pointed to another building opposite their workplace. ‘Sure, of course. No worries.’ Good natured, they knew the game too! Obviously, people who worked there daily knew what was going on and they all humoured him. But what about first-time visitors? I thought. Who would tell them of this place’s peculiarities?

I had called on so many similar institutions that I knew what to expect upon entering the premises, but outsiders? Walking past patients shuffling about, busy tradesmen, and the ‘supervisor’ supervising, I entered the administration block. Once inside, I found myself in a large room with lots of desks and a counter, which was obviously a reception. There was a hum in this place indicating a big workload and intense concentration. A woman looked up from her desk as I bent over the counter for attention.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘Where can I find the maintenance engineer?’
Instead of answering, she shot sideway glances at her co-workers and they, too, looked at each other in a furtive way. But nobody said anything.
‘Where is the maintenance engineer?’ I repeated. It became very quiet in the room.
Everybody stopped working but kept looking at each other.
‘I need to see the maintenance engineer,’ I said waving my clipboard agitatedly, as I ran out of patience.
No reply from anybody. They just sat there and gave each other knowing glances. It was really spooky, giving me the creeps. Pulling myself together, I found in my breast pocket my business card.
‘I am from this flooring company and have an appointment with the maintenance engineer. He is already waiting for me in his office - somewhere!’ I emphasised.
The lady at the desk closest to the reception counter reached out, took my card and read it carefully. She looked at her colleagues and nodded. This was the signal for everybody else to nod and resume their activity.
‘He is in the next building, second door to your right,’ she directed, quite friendly, but slightly exasperated.
‘Thanks for helping me.’ Giving her a quizzical look I walked out of the building and found the office of Mr Bob Thwaite, the maintenance engineer. As predicted he was already waiting for me and welcomed me with a cup of coffee.

Having concluded my business with Bob, I left the complex in a hurry. On my way out, the ‘supervisor’ with the clipboard and pen, nodded at me in a collegial gesture. Obviously, since I too had a clipboard, he perceived a kinship!

Bill Setton was the main flooring contractor in the town, with a large warehouse and a number of floor layers employed. He was the only flooring contractor in the town, who, in my opinion, could handle major building projects, ensuring a very high standard.
‘Hello, Peter, you are back in town!’ he greeted me cheerfully.
‘Yes, Bill. And on my way here, I stopped at ‘Peaceworthy’ to meet with their maintenance engineer. As you know, they have a lot of new building projects and alterations going on. However, I had a strange experience there,’ I shuddered.

‘What was that? I mean the whole place is strange, but once you know everybody from the administration, you’ll find they are decent people.’
‘Well, I don’t know, Bill. I went to administration to inquire where the maintenance engineer was and the lady at reception did not want to talk to me. In fact, nobody did. They all looked at each other but nobody answered. I had to give them my business card before they helped me. Why? What’s the matter, Bill . . . what’s so funny . . . hey Bill . . . tell me!’
Bill had broken into loud laughter, leaning back in his chair and would not stop. His mouth was wide open and I fancied I could see his tonsils and beyond. In such a situation, you had to let him be. After a long while, his merriment abated and, wiping his tears, he offered me a seat.
‘Do you know what happened there yesterday? You won’t believe this. It’s a beauty.’ I sat down in a comfortable chair and while his pretty assistant made us cups of coffee, Bill enlightened me as to the previous day’s happenings at ‘Peaceworthy.’

‘You probably noticed how some people there walk around in funny clothes, acting out their fantasies? Did you notice somebody dressed like a foreman - with a white shirt, tie and clipboard? Yes? Well, you’ll never guess what he did yesterday.’ A few more tears of laughter were wiped away before he continued.

‘A large truck with sand arrived and this “foreman” directed it to reverse into a corner of the place, away from the building site. “Back, back” he shouted, waving his arms and his clipboard. “Are you sure?” the truck driver shouted out the window.
‘”Yes, I want the sand over there!”
‘Anyway, the truck driver, reversing as directed, knocked over a fire hydrant and there was water spouting seven metres up into the air. The sand was dumped at the wrong spot and promptly washed away by all that water.’
‘That’s an incredible story. Didn’t anybody . . .’
‘Wait, that’s not the end, let me tell you! That same afternoon a gigantic semi-trailer arrived from Melbourne, which is a five hour trip as you know, and our “foreman” confronted the truck driver as soon as he climbed down from his cabin.
‘”What do you want?” he shouted with booming authority.
‘”I’ve come to deliver the stainless steel kitchen sinks for the new kitchen,” the burly driver grunted aggressively. He was tall and towering over that skinny runt of a “foreman”. But the latter was un-perturbed.
‘”What again?” he yelled. “I got them yesterday - everything!”
‘The truck driver jutted his chin out and, flexing his muscles, he snarled: ‘Look mate, I’m only delivering that stuff!’
‘”Why would I want it a second time? Why? I am asking you!”
‘This was too much for the truck driver. Mumbling “nobody tells me anything,” he climbed back into his semi-trailer and drove off, back to Melbourne on another five hour drive.’

‘That’s incredible, Bill. It is . . .’
‘Wait, let me finish the story, will you? So, this morning, there were furious phone calls going back and forth: “Where are our kitchen sinks?”
‘”Stuff you,” was the answer, we tried to deliver them yesterday but you didn’t want ‘em.”
‘”Says who?”
‘”Your foreman on the building site! He would not accept them!”
‘”What foreman?” they shouted back. And so on. I heard them scream on the telephone because I was there on business.’

Bill took a long sip from his coffee. I did not dare interrupt him this time, but rather waited.
And Bill continued: ‘There was a hell of a commotion about the fire hydrant, the sand delivery and the stainless steel kitchen sinks and it was decided that nobody - and this meant nobody – is to be believed. Everybody had to identify himself first at the office and establish his bona fide.’
He looked at me, this time waiting for my reply.

‘Oh, and that’s when I came in, I guess! What with my shirt, tie and clipboard; they were not going to fall for another trick.’
‘And your phoney accent,’ Bill roared again, ‘they were not going to fall for it - nobody talks like that!’
So we had several more good laughs and I left with a feeling of having been well entertained, except for one nagging question which kept going round in my head:
‘What,’ I thought, ‘would have happened if I had run out of business cards and had been unable to prove who I was?’

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

NONSENSE POEMS !

2011-05-14T19:05:00.004+10:00

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

AN INCREDIBLE INCIDENT.....

2011-05-07T15:57:00.013+10:00

Johnson & Bailey was a realold-fashioned department store right in the heart of Melbourne. It had manyfloors with great merchandise and extra friendly sales personnel, who gave goodservice in a courteous and relaxed way which suited their many loyal customers.The sales ladies wore white crocheted gloves and the salesmen, in their darksuits and conservative ties, exuded dignity and utter integrity. The store waslaid out with parquetry flooring which was well-maintained and softpassageway-runners with Axminster patterns led to the various counters. In thelifts and the display areas was linoleum flooring with antique, old-fashionedcolours and streaks.

Sir Robert Menzies may have approved ofthis retail institution, I thought when calling for the first time. I liked tovisit there because it was always like calling on friends. Their carpetdepartment used to order from me mainly rugs and carpet squares. It didn’tmatter to me that their floor covering department was on the fifth floor andthat I had to physically drag enormous big rugs into the lift and to the topfloor. One reason for this was - yes, I must state it again - the sales staff,especially their department manager, Mr David Sussmann. His staff were twoyoung lads, but there was no trendiness in their dress code nor in theirmanners. Joe and Alfred were very quiet and unobtrusive in their ways of goingabout their business.

In other stores, I always encountered abit of eagerness for sales figures and perhaps some aggression. However, atJohnson & Bailey, pleasing the customer was considered of paramountimportance and their sales technique was very ‘soft sell’ as far as I couldobserve. They had their own clientele who came back to them time and again. Mostwere rather middle class, solid citizens who commanded respect and, in turn,respected the sales staff.

The department manager, Mr Sussmann, withhis grey, wavy hair and pin-striped suit and waistcoat, was always extremelycorrect to his staff, never giving an instruction without explaining why it wasnecessary. He had impeccable manners and an elegant command of the Englishlanguage, mixed with a very strong German accent which I pinpointed as fromBerlin. I always treated him with the greatest respect because not only was hea fatherly figure, he went out of his way to be ‘correct’. This applied to hiscustomers, his staff and also to the sales representatives who called on him.

He had noticed that I exchanged hisslow-selling rugs with ones that were more popular in patterns and sizes,without being asked to do so. As a result, he was never ‘sitting’ on any slowstock. Huffing and puffing, I dragged rugs upstairs and when ordering hismerchandise from me, I occasionally advised him of a better selection. When he discoveredthat my advice was always correct, he often asked me outright which rugs heshould select. For example, I advised against selecting oval rugs, as roundrugs were outselling them by far! Sometimes he would insist on ordering againstmy advice because he knew I would exchange them if his chosen merchandise didnot sell. With this arrangement, he could not possibly make mistakes in buying!And he was turning over his departmental buying budget many times more than hiscompetitors could.

As mentioned before, Mr Sussmann alwaysspoke in a precise way, never raising his voice. That fact, plus his extremecorrectness made everybody in his team love and respect him. I also noticedthat his staff took more interest - and responsibility - in their work. He wasa superior who would not hesitate to stand up for the ones who worked with him!This kind of loyalty also applied to suppliers who were reliable and did theright thing by him! Let me illustrate Mr Sussmann’s correctness with anexample. Sometimes, he would phone me in my car: ‘Good morning, Peter, how areyou today?’

‘Very well, Mr Sussmann. It’s nice to hearfrom you!’

‘Peter, the reason why I am calling isthis: I understand you want to visit me this week with your latest, imported,rugs. Is this correct?’

‘Yes, it is, Mr Sussmann. We’ve got awhole range of new rugs I wanted to show you.’

‘Excellent! However, I have already spentmy entire buying budget for this month, therefore I cannot buy anything at themoment. But next week is a new month so I will have a new budget and will needto buy merchandise. I shall give you a ring when I am ready to buy and then youcan come and show me what you have. I thought that would save you coming in fornothing’.

Now, anybody who has worked in this tradewill know that this was an extraordinary relationship I enjoyed! Whenever Iwent holidaying overseas, I always brought him something from Germany: a pocketcalendar or some other souvenir as sold to visitors there. He always thanked mevery formally, perhaps too formally, I thought at times. Then he would quicklyglance at it and put it in his pocket and change the subject. He obviouslyvalued the thought behind my gesture more than the actual souvenir! He nevertold me anything about his background and despite our excellent relationship,we kept it on a strictly formal and correct basis. But I always wondered abouthim.

One day something cataclysmic happened inhis department! Apparently, there was a competitor of mine from Bach & Co,who was, at that time, the largest rug supplier in the trade. They had a muchlarger range of rugs than I could offer because rugs were their sole business.They really specialised in them and, yet, Bach & Co were not getting anybusiness from Johnson & Bailey. Several of their representatives had triedin succession to call on Mr Sussmann and had offered their wares, but had neverbeen able to obtain an order. And they knew that I was getting the businessalmost exclusively, despite the fact that my company handled rugs only as asideline to PVC floorings.

Since Mr Sussmann was a very correctperson, who would not even think of discriminating against a supplier, it musthave been the good service I gave. My competitors could not or would notcompete with me in this. That may have been the reason why Mr Sussmannpreferred to team up with me. Only after this terrible incident I am about torelay, did I obtain all the background and facts and was able to piece togetherthe whole picture. But I shall list the events that led up to this in chronologicalorder.

Bach & Co, the big rug supplier,plotted an assault on Johnson & Bailey. It must be possible, they may havereasoned, to dislodge me from my position as preferred supplier. Theyadvertised and employed a new sales representative, somebody with used-carbusiness as his background, and with corresponding sales skill and drive - onewho knew all the sales techniques, how to probe for sales, understood ‘buyingsignals’ and was not afraid to ask for an order. (‘Closing the sale’, we callit.)

I never met this man but heard that Nigel,for that was his name, had called once and had introduced himself to MrSussmann, who received him with his usual courtesy and utter correctness. MrSussmann had a short conversation with him in his quiet voice and precisegrammar and a day of product presentation was arranged. This salesman tooknotice of Mr Sussmann’s German accent and plotted to ‘win him over’. Knowinglittle of Europe, Germany or particularly Berlin, he must have read someencyclopaedia or had asked his mates. Anyway, he had absorbed everything on thesubject and, equipped with this knowledge, he tried to ‘buddy up’ as Americanswould call it.

Nigel leaned back in his chair, folded hishands, observed his fingertips meet, and started his conversation:

‘Some of these rugs come from Germany!’There was no reaction from Mr Sussmann, who kept leafing through the catalogue.‘They are, of course, of top quality’, Nigel continued. No reaction. ‘Likeeverything else they do, the Germans are good! No doubt about it.’

Still no reaction. Mr Sussmann wasengrossed in the catalogue, and as an expert, he was interested not only in thesize and price, but also in the composition of the fibre, the density of thepile, weight of the cloth, colour fastness etc. That’s why he kept perusing allthe technical data as well. This made Nigel lose his patience and he went onwith his carefully prepared talk:

‘I mean, it took them six years to win thewar! They were holding the world at bay for that long!’

‘I beg your pardon, what was that?’ MrSussmann looked up briefly but immediately returned his gaze to the photo pagesbefore him.

Having mastered the opening, Nigel wasunstoppable: ‘That’s right. And Hitler had many good points, you know, I meanthere is a lot of propaganda against him . . . ’

‘Oh yes?’ Mr Sussmann interrupted,probably for the first time in his life.

‘Of course, look at the autobahn inGermany, what a great idea, and the Volkswagen and . . . and really, all hewanted was the German territories back that had been given to Poland after thefirst war.’

‘You don’t say!’ This was Mr Sussmann’ssecond attempt to interrupt.

But Nigel pressed on: ‘And his Ministerfor Armament, Albert Speer, was a genius! Why, they had the highest productionfigures in 1944. I mean, despite all the bombings . . . ’ Nigel was proud ofhimself, remembering all the names and their correct pronunciation. But thenthe storm broke loose; the unbelievable happened.

‘Will you stop and talk about somethingyou know?’ Mr Sussmann shouted at the top of his voice! It boomed across thefifth floor and even reverberated in the stairs leading below. People had neverexperienced anything like that and certainly had not expected this from thereserved and correct Mr Sussmann!

The representative of Bach & Co.somehow disappeared. Nobody noticed him slinking away. Perhaps he had sunk intothe floor or had crept down the stairs in snake-like fashion.

These were the facts as I had gathered immediatelyafter the event. And then I came into the picture. I happened to call on theRug Department as a routine visit, to say hello to my friends there, hoping fora cup of coffee. Arriving at the fifth floor, I noticed a strange atmosphere.Staff were walking around pale and clearly shocked. Obviously something waswrong.

‘Hello everybody? How are things today?’ Ireceived no answer - just a grave nod.

‘What happened, Alfred, what’s wrong?There is a terrible atmosphere on this floor.’

Alfred gazed at me absentmindedly andresumed staring in the direction of Mr Sussmann’s office.

‘What happened?’ I pressed on. ‘I can cutthe air with a knife.’

Alfred was in no mood for conversation. Heused the minimum of words to put me in the picture.

‘Mr Sussmann shouted!’ he hardly got thewords out.

‘What? Never!’ I refused to believe it.

That’s when Mr Sussmann’s secretary cameout of the office and called the staff of the floor to a short meeting.Everybody was glad to be able to do something instead of standing around inshock.

‘Alright, you go into the office, and I’llmind the floor for you. There is no need to miss any sales because of ameeting. After all, I am a salesman too, you know.’ I attempted to jest.

As everybody started to file into theoffice, Mr Sussmann came out. ‘And you too, Peter!’ He waved me into theoffice. Normally, I would have been honoured to be included in my customers’sales team, but this time I was not so sure. Mr Sussmann addressed his team inhis exact manner: ‘You may have been wondering what happened just now and I’dlike to fill you in so that you may understand my reaction’. And then he toldus his story.

He was part Jewish, living in Berlinduring the war, and had spent time in jail, a victim of anti-Semitism, althoughonly for a brief period because it was discovered that he was a carpenter bytrade. So he had to work for the infamous Gestapo, boarding up bombed-outwindows, reinforcing ceilings, partitioning rooms etc. Since he was a very goodtradesman, he was kept working as slave labour right to the end of the war. Butin any case, he would have never gone to a Konzentration Camp because he knewhow to escape in the event of an immediate threat of deportation. Being a childof Berlin, he knew all the back streets and underground hiding places and alsothe deep forests around the city, every lane and hidden path, ditch and cave.

‘They could have never taken me anywhere’,he assured us. ‘I knew the area too well!’ The irony was that the more bombs werefalling, the busier he was. The prisoner rations he got kept him barely alive.The man responsible for the provision of slave labour had been the very sameman Nigel had praised so much, earlier that morning.

Towards the end of the war, in April 1945,he noticed that prisoners were about to be transported somewhere else; the timehad come to abscond! Hiding in the darkest cellars and attics, he lived inconstant fear of being discovered. When he ventured out into the streets insearch for food, he met people he knew and who knew him. However, they allpretended not to recognise him and walked right past. He had to sustain himselfby eating incredibly filthy scraps of food and even those he found onlyoccasionally.

When the Russian soldiers closed theirring around Berlin Mr Sussmann broke out of his hideaway sneaked through thefront and headed towards the Russian line, making his way through all thehidden paths in the forest he knew so well. He was in extreme danger becauseunexploded bombs and mines were everywhere and Nazi military police werecombing the area. He hardly dared to breathe and he prayed to meet Russianssoon, because then his nightmare would be over, he thought.

There was a wide river he had to cross butto his horror, he found that the bridge was being defended by a unit ofHitler’s Youth. They were actually children but very fanatical. Isolated and ina hopeless position, they were determined to defend no matter what. Alert andarmed to their teeth, they would have shot him without a qualm. So he hid inthe forest, near the bridge as the Russians were sure to arrive at any moment.But they did not come for some reason and he had to hide in the forest for twoweeks during April, after a severe winter and living on virtually nothing!Finally, a Russian army unit came and took the bridge. His freedom had come atlast! Coming out of the forest, barely alive, he surrendered to the Red Army,but they wanted to shoot him immediately as they suspected him of being aGerman soldier in disguise.

As Mr Sussmann explained this to us, myhair was standing on end. Other people also had an understanding by then ofwhat he was saying and why the incident had happened that morning.

‘And that’s why I wanted you to know allthis to understand my reaction to this young fool who did not know what he wastalking about!’ Mr Sussmann concluded his meeting with his usual soft voice.

As everybody filed out of his office, heturned to me: ‘Thank you, Peter, for attending this meeting as well.’ Walkingwith me to the stairs, as polite as usual, he shook my hand and bid me‘Goodbye’. I was then able to grasp his reaction to the little presents I hadbrought him from my trips to Europe!

And the unfortunate salesman? I was toldthat he left his employment three weeks later and I have not encountered himsince in any other shop. He certainly did not seek a career in the flooringtrade.

Johnson & Bailey do not exist anymore. Mr Sussmann has probably retired and his staff have ‘gone with the wind’.It was after I had returned from a week’s country trip that I was told thatJohnson & Bailey Department Stores had closed down. I went to say goodbye toMr Sussmann and to thank him for the good working relationship we had, buteverybody was already gone and I stood before a boarded-up entrance. Suddenly Ifelt very sad, as if I had lost something. And in a way I had!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

ANOTHER COUNTRY TOWN......

2011-05-01T20:20:00.046+10:00

Upon arriving in the town of Barerra near the border ofNSW and Victoria, I glanced, again, at my list of appointments. My itinerary wasto call on all the architects in this town, the government departments, theflooring contractors, inspect two large flooring installations and maintaincontacts with the end-users of our PVC floor coverings.

The first visit in Barrera was at a flooring shop run byFrank Cleary. It was at the edge of the town and Frank was an old friend ofmine. I had supported him for a long time because he always made me feelwelcome. There was a friendly smile, a cup of coffee and intenselistening to any new knowledge I had to pass on and he happily acceptednew catalogues and samples. It was amazing how few flooring retailers treatedvisiting company representatives as part of their team!

‘It’s just a rep!’ they would mutter when they sawsomebody in a business suit and holding a folder enter their establishment and they would continue withwhatever they were doing. Obviously they considered people like me aninterruption to their work!

However, Frank Cleary was different. He would sit downwith me and we discuss his business and I would point out where I couldhelp him with a special discount when his competition was too tough or I mightoffer to recommend him to a builder to help him win a contract that way.

On this visit, however, he informed me that things hadbeen very quiet. ‘There is a large building project in town, Peter, and despiteour keenest tender, somebody from out of town is quoting cheaper, with a differentbrand of flooring - I don’t know how they do it!’

Since business was quiet due to a downturn in theeconomy, I realised how much he needed to win this contract. And he certainlyneeded my help. Plus, of course, I wanted to see my own brand of flooringinstalled.

I thought about this and hit on an idea: ‘I tell you whatwe could do’ I exclaimed. ‘My company could donate 10 sqm of a Safety Flooringas a test installation. We always do this when a client needs convincing. Thisoffer is only available to you! Your competitor from out of town will not beable to offer the same. Would this help you?’ I asked.

‘My word it would’ he sighed with relief and histiredness seemed to disappear. He clearly saw the proverbial light at the endof the tunnel.

‘Also, mention that, if you win the contract, you wouldtrain the maintenance staff in the proper cleaning procedures, thereby ensuringthat the ongoing maintenance costs are kept to a minimum.’

‘Hang on - who would do the training?’ he sounded alarmedas he did not wish to promise more than he could keep. He was truly a decent businessman.

I touched him soothingly on the shoulder: ‘I would comefrom Melbourne, upon your completion of the installation, and conduct atraining seminar for the cleaners. As you know, I always have floor cleaningequipment, like a buffing machine, in my car. For now, Frank, follow up youroriginal tender for the project with a “Letter of Amendment” and list theextras we just discussed. I shall speak later on today to the manager of theproject and recommend you.’

‘This may help’ Frank said quietly.

I had known Frank for almost 30 years and was aware thathe would have liked to have sold his business and retire as he was getting onin years. But he had no son or other family members to hand over his businessto. He was a bit tired but had to keep going, competing with big andwell-established businesses from as far as Sydney. In my opinion, he belongedto a disappearing breed of flooring contractors: hard working, doing their owninstallations, giving good customer service, and yet being squeezed hard by bigand rough-working competitors.

My next call in Barerra was to the large private hospitalwhere Carl Boswell was the maintenance engineer. Right from our first meeting,about two years earlier, we had gotten on extremely well. So much so that atChristmas time I always brought him a bottle of wine or company give-aways,small attention-getting trinkets, like an attractive-looking ball point pen ora set of golf balls. In return, Carl would present me with a Christmas puddingthat he’d cooked himself, as he was also a qualified chef and in charge of thehospital’s kitchen!

The hospital, Star of the Sea, was run by nuns and alwayshad a peaceful atmosphere. So, with pleasant expectations, I entered the hospital and asked at thereception for Carl Boswell.

‘He will be with you in a moment’, announced a serenelady at the reception. She had a very friendly face, with a happy smile thatseemed to radiate cheerfulness. This was in marked contrast to some otherhealth institutions, where the receptionists were overburdened and their smilesstrained. Still, they all were doing a good job and doing it with dedication. Ithanked her and relaxed.

A sister came by, clearly in a hurry, but stoppedsuddenly and asked me: ‘Are you the representative of the manufacturer we gotthe new vinyl flooring from?’

Realising that she was in a hurry, I answered ‘Yes. I amPeter Frederick and call here regularly to make sure everything is alrightflooring-wise.’ I tried to hand her my business card.

‘Well, we are not happy with the floor - it stainsterribly in the operating theatres. They are full of iodine stains. Terrible.’And then she rushed off and was gone.

This surprise attack had taken my breath away and I hadto gather my wits to say: ‘I am sorry to hear that you are not happy with ourvinyl flooring but frankly, iodine will stain any flooring. There is, however,such a thing as iodine stain remover and I shall give your maintenanceengineer, Carl Boswell, the details!’

But I had not been able to voice this because, like Isaid, she was long gone. Just by uttering an accusation whilst rushing past, she haddeflated me somewhat. I felt this was terrible: being wronged and unable todefend myself! I must have shown a long face, because when Carl arrived he wentout of his way to welcome me and cheer me up.

‘Nice to see you again, Peter! How are things with you?Are you having a good day?’

‘Well, just so-so, Carl, and how is your day?’

‘We are very busy at the moment,’ he explained as wewalked automatically to the hospital canteen. ‘As you know, I am also in chargeof the kitchen and do the cooking plus I’m in charge of the hospital cleaners.’

‘Then you probably get two pay packets, I guess.’ I hadfound my cheerfulness again. This had made Carl laugh and when we arrived at the staff canteen, we went through a well practised routine - Carlfilled up the coffee mugs from an enormous container whilst I selected sconesfor both of us.

‘There was this lady, Carl, who rushed past me andcriticised our flooring for accepting iodine stains and before I could replyshe was gone.’ Carl giggled and waved a resigned hand - he was used torough stuff. ‘Are you are aware that there are very good iodine stainremovers available?’

We had continued talking ‘business’ and I handed him aninformation sheet on stain removers. ‘Here is one company you could try.’

Carl was a man of action. He excused himself for a momentand went to the nearest phone. Coming back to his coffee and scone he smiled.‘I have just phoned the company you recommended and they are sending me asample bottle to try out.’

‘Here is something for you, Carl,’ I said, reaching intomy carry case. ‘It's French wine, all the way from Burgundy - for you - withbest wishes from our company and me. Thank you for all your cooperation andhospitality during the year.’ Carl, a keen connoisseur, perused the label withdeep appreciation.

‘Well, thanks, Peter! This is a real surprise! I shallenjoy it with my family, if I get a spare minute with them!’ He giggled inexpectation at the thought of sipping it.

Suddenly he jumped up, rushed into the kitchen which wasadjacent to the staff canteen and returned with a great smile on his face. Inhis hands he carried a Christmas pudding! ‘Here is something for you, Peter. Icooked it myself.’

I knew from the previous years that his Christmas puddingswere always very tasty and I accepted his gift with humble gratitude. Afterall, I knew of no other company representatives receiving a Christmas presentfrom a hospital! It’s always the other way round.

‘Thank you very much, Carl, but you didn’t have to dothis - I wasn’t expecting anything . . .’

Carl laughed and took the drained coffee cups to aspecial tray for washing up. ‘You deserve it, Peter. Whenever I need help,advice or whatever, I can always count on you. You’ve never let me down.’

We took the lift to the second floor, where new vinylfloorings had just been installed. It looked great; smooth like a billiardtable because Carl took care to supervise the subfloor preparations as I hadadvised. Only when the concrete was smooth ‘as per the Australian Standard’ andtherefore to his satisfaction, did he let the flooring installer proceed withthe next part of installation, the actual PVC.

Carl was a smart man! Normally, tradesmen were let loosewith a minimum of supervision - and an installation could go wrong in a bigway. This always amazed me as the installation of flooring is a major projectand the costs are massive. Therefore, I have always felt that tradesmen shouldbe supervised with the utmost attention. But in Carl’s hospital, everything,whether flooring or cooking, was perfect. He made sure of that!

We looked into the operating theatres: The good doctorshad been very generous with the iodine. They were obviously splashing it about with wild abandon. Theymust shower in it, I thought, judging by the enormous stains on the floor. Ofcourse, nobody can tell a doctor how much to use. In Europe, however, they useanother substance, chlorhexidine, which is colourless and leaves no marks.

‘I guess our doctors believe that sterility has to beseen to be effective!’ Carl muttered.

After discussing with Carl the excellent installations, Imet with his cleaners who wanted to know some details regarding cleaningmethods. I left that friendly hospital in high spirits. I always did.

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

ALL IS WELL.....

2011-04-13T21:29:00.000+10:00

The voice on the telephone was the project manager of the Royal Heatherdale Hospital, at that time the largest refurbishing project in Melbourne.

‘Peter, this is Jeff Sweeney, here, from the Royal Heatherdale Hospital.’

‘Hello, Jeff, it’s nice to hear from you. I hope I can assist you with something’.

Jeff is one of those hard-working managers who have no time for small talk and, with him, one needs to get straight to the subject.

‘Peter, I have your samples here and since they are a bit small to make an important decision, I was wondering if you could bring me a larger piece of your vinyl flooring, perhaps one square metre - is that possible?’

‘Of course, Jeff. May I bring it to your office tomorrow morning?’

‘That would be great if you could do that. We need to make an urgent decision about the brand of flooring we want and your product is well in the race to be selected. If I am not in the office, please leave it with my assistant! Thanks, Peter, for helping me and I’ll be in touch with you real soon.’ ‘Click’ went the phone and this busy man was gone, probably attending other, equally urgent, matter!

Well, that sounded great, I thought. The Hospital was to make a decision very soon and my company was ‘well in the race’ for having its flooring selected for the new section. With a bit of extra service I might have been able to obtain a large business contract and thus establish my company as one of the major flooring suppliers in this city!

Looking through my call sheets, I had no firm appointments for the rest of the day so I had rushed to my office and searched among the vinyl cuttings I kept there for a nice, large piece. Luckily, I had discovered a two metre by one metre piece of exactly the colour and pattern Jeff required, which I labelled, rolled up and added my business card and a ‘With Compliments’ slip, all ready for the next morning!

The following day was in my car very early, at about 7 am! I really felt feverish to be so close to this very large business deal and it was with a sense of expectation that I arrived at the hospital. Walking from the car park to the maintenance engineer’s building, I noticed a great number of employees busily going about their duties and there was a certain hum in the air caused by a lot of dedicated people working together in healing the sick and infirm. And in that elated mood I had arrived at the project manager’s office, as I promised, first thing in the morning!

But Jeff Sweeney, the project manager, was already attending an early meeting somewhere else in the large building and could not be contacted. This had deflated me somewhat because a personal contact in such a situation was very important.

Angie, his attractive assistant, tried to be helpful: ‘Yes, Peter, just leave your vinyl sample right there at the doorway to his office and I’ll tell him about it when he comes in.’

It’s nice to deal with a helpful person, I thought, glancing into Jeff’s office, but what a shock I got! The whole room was full of all sorts of samples from a vast range of companies, from different types of bricks to curtain material, to water taps, cleaning machines and sterilising equipment. There were other bits and pieces of metal and plastics which I could not identify, however, the room was overflowing. They were not stored in any orderly fashion or in sections but were stacked along the walls, strewn all over the desk, the office floor - in fact, one could only carefully squeeze oneself into the room. Even Jeff’s chair and the wall shelves were overflowing. His telephone was buried somewhere. Soap dispensers were lying in the doorway. The whole place was a nightmare; it looked as if a bomb had hit the place. It was a horror picture straight out of a painting by Hieronimus Bosch. And the terrible thought came to me that this man would never notice whether I had delivered something or not!

But lovely Angie smiled at me encouragingly. ‘If you leave it in the doorway it will be the first thing he sees. And I’ll point it out to him and tell him it’s from you!’ ‘Thank you, Angie,’ I heard myself say, but I was not really convinced. All my chances of winning this contract may depend on his noticing my sample. I was in agony!

Angie must have sensed this: ‘It’ll be alright, Peter!’ She nodded and flashed a smile that lit up all that mess.

Thanking her, I carefully placed that roll of vinyl flooring right in the doorway and left in a very apprehensive state.

I had kept looking at the telephone all that day, hoping that the next phone call would be from Jeff Sweeney, of the Royal Heatherdale Hospital, but nothing like that happened! The following morning, I had not been able to hold myself in check any longer and in my tortured state I phoned Jeff. Again, he was not in but Angie, once more, tried to reassure me.

‘Oh, hello Peter! Yes, he has noticed your sample - I pointed it out to him.’

‘Are you sure, Angie? Does he really know that it came from my company? I mean there are so many other samples in his office . . .’ I stammered and sweated.

Angie, a very experienced trooper, realised that she had to tell me something to reassure me for good:

‘As a matter of fact, Peter, when he walked into his office he tripped over your vinyl sample and nearly fell flat on his face. And he said: “Whoops, what the bloody hell is that?” And that’s when I told him all about your sample of vinyl flooring.’

I was reassured! My breathing eased and my sweating stopped suddenly. He had noticed my product alright and all was well!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

A GUN-SHY BUSINESS MAN....

2011-04-03T21:24:00.002+10:00

In the suburb of Franklin, on the outskirts of Melbourne, I found the shop I was looking for in a small but busy shopping centre. Frank Merton was the owner but when I visited, I found him out on a service call and the shop attended by a lady shop assistant. She looked like a typical spinster, I thought, in her mid-forties, tall and skinny, with a sharp nose and horn-framed glasses that gave her an owlish look. She sat behind her desk, staring at me - she may have returned my greeting but I only saw her lips trembling for a moment.

Ignoring this, I went through my business routine, bringing her samples, pricelist, accounts application forms, a list of specials we had on offer, etc. All the time I tried to engage her in a conversation, trying to find out her name or details of her boss. I attempted to tell her about the technical advantages of our flooring and with a salesman’s cunning I asked her questions that could not be answered with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’. (A common method sales people apply when the need arises.) But all was in vain; she just wouldn’t talk! Realising that I was getting nowhere, I managed to smile and asked her one more question before giving up and leaving.

‘Would you, perhaps, be the retailer’s wife?’ I wanted to find out whether she was merely employed or married to the retailer. Her long and mournful face dropped even longer and she simply said ‘No’.

That’s all I got and it was disappointing! Most people would answer either ‘Yes, I am’ or laugh and say ‘Him? No way!’ But not this lady. Knowing when I was defeated, I bid my ‘Goodbye’ and left the shop.

Back in my car, the thought had occurred to me that this woman would make a very good secret agent as she would betray nothing! Nevertheless, driving away I had the good feeling of having tried everything - I had done my job!

My next calls were to an architect and two hospitals where the maintenance engineers were waiting for me. They all wanted technical data, which I gave them and I also offered to install test pieces of floorings, free of charge, as there is nothing more convincing than seeing a piece of PVC flooring installed and performing well in the heaviest floor traffic!

Later, sitting in my car and getting ready for my next visit, which was to a again, to a Rudy Werner of ‘Acco Floors’, the phone rang and Norma Hazelwood, our accountant was on the blower, sounding very perturbed and agitated.

This was unusual for a tough woman like her. She spoke fast and, by the time I had answered the phone, was already in the middle of a conversation. I had to calm her down ‘What’s the matter, Norma? You sound upset. Can I help you with anything?’

Norma forced herself to talk in her normal and precise mode, explaining to me something that, at first, I could not quite comprehend.

‘Peter, a man has just phoned us and he was very upset! He is from ‘Medallion Carpets’. Apparently, you have just been in his shop and left samples and brochures and so on. The rest I could not make sense of. He kept saying a representative had been in his shop and had been prying into his private life and he said this was none of our business! What right did we have snooping into his private affairs and everybody should live according to his own fashion and that we have no right to know everything and so on.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I could not make out what he wanted. Strange man, Peter! He was very, very, upset, screaming and yelling at me on the phone.’

I could not believe what I was hearing. ‘Well, Norma, I’m amazed at what you are saying. I’ve been indeed in his shop, at his request, but have only spoken with his shop assistant and she didn’t want to talk to me at all.’

‘What can we do, Peter?’ Norma felt involved in this matter.

‘The man is obviously very disturbed about something, Norma! Leave it with me and I shall find out. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a clear picture of the situation!’

That was strange! I phoned my colleague, Ken, who knows Frank Merton, the retailer, very well and explained to him what had just happened.

Ken’s reply was typical of him: ‘No worries, Pete. I’ll have a yarn with Frank and sound him out. Wait in the Golden Star Pub for me at, say, two-ish and we’ll work this out! It’s your shout!’

‘Gladly, Ken. Thanks for helping me. I am really at a loss here.’

‘No worries, Buddy! See yah!’ There was a ‘click’ and my extroverted colleague was gone.

Sometimes, Ken and I would meet somewhere in a cafe or pub and help each other with advice, samples and information. It was good for us to meet sometimes outside the office - for a more private chat.

‘Hi, Pete! Nice to see yah.’

‘It’s nice to see you, Ken. And I wonder if you have been able to work this out?’

‘Done it, matey. I can tell you exactly what’s going on. But first things first! I’ll have a drink, please.’ Giving me a commanding stare, he sat down and eased himself into a comfortable position before explaining to me the whole situation.

The retailer had had an affair with his shop assistant and his wife had found out and there had been a scandal, their marriage broke up and his ex-wife sued him, taking him to the proverbial ‘cleaners’ and leaving him ‘skinned’. All he had left now was his shop.

‘Now, the shop assistant wanted him to marry her, to make an honest woman out of her, but he was still traumatised from all the past upheaval and didn’t want to know about such a commitment. However, his shop assistant keeps hinting continuously, making his life miserable.’

Catching on, I interrupted his explanation: ‘Now, when I called on the shop, I tried to make small-talk with her but she did not want to. Ready to leave, my final question to her was whether she was the boss’s wife. Her face dropped even more and she said mournfully “No”’.

Ken, having taken a deep draw from his beer, took up his story: ‘She must have told her boss something like: “Everybody is talking about us.” And the boss agitatedly asked: “Who’s everybody?”’

‘”Well, even the reps think we should get married!” she had replied.

‘”What reps?”

‘”Why, just today a fellow - here is his card - came and asked me whether I was your wife?”

‘The retailer, stung at his sorest point, had apparently snatched the card, phoned our office and, being very upset, blasted poor Norma for prying into his private life and passing moral judgement on our customers.

‘That’s the story, Pete!’ We both doubled up with laughter.

‘Honestly, Ken, I don’t care what he is doing with her!’ More laughter from both of us. When we concluded our pleasant little meeting, I had proceeded with my list of calls, not forgetting to relay to Norma what had really happened. She did not find it funny at all. ‘An affair with a shop assistant? Disgusting!’

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

CONFETTI......

2011-03-31T06:27:00.002+11:00

Once, upon answering the telephone, I encountered a voice on the other end that had sounded very agitated. It belonged to Frank Cunningham who ran a very large architects’ office in the town of Mayfair, Tasmania.

‘I have received several complaints from my client, the Crown Reception Centre. Your vinyl flooring is no good. There are black spots appearing everywhere!’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Frank. What kind of spots are they actually? I do not understand what you mean by “spots”.’

‘Well, little round black spots. I want you to come here right away and sort things out!’

That was tricky! I was asked to fly to Tasmania immediately - just to have a look at ‘spots’! Of course, spots do not just develop on PVC floorings. It must have been something to do with the floor maintenance or other external influences. Never had I received a complaint like that and I had kept thinking about it .A hectic day went by and I was still mulling things over when I received another call from Frank.

‘Peter, I want you to come over as quickly as possible! More and more spots are appearing.’

‘You mean there are male and female spots?’

‘This is no time for levity, Peter. I’ve seen the spots myself They are round and black and they are increasing as time goes by!’

‘Frank, I’ll phone my boss for permission to fly to you right away. You’ll hear from me in a few minutes.’

‘Okay, Peter. But remember this is urgent. I have a client who is very unhappy and probably thinks I’ve specified the wrong flooring. Remember, I’ve seen the spots myself. I will get no more assignments from him and of course I cannot specify your products any more in future projects. So, I am waiting to hear from you shortly.’ ‘Click’ and the line went dead.

Yes, it was the old blackmail again, I had thought bitterly. The real reason for getting me to fly to Tassie was because it costs the architect nothing! Since my company paid the costs for this service, it was easier to request my coming than to try a bit harder and find out the cause of the complaint themselves.

Still, it was my policy to attend to complaints immediately, no matter what, because if problems were allowed to drag on, they became magnified and in a legal dispute the motto seemed to apply: ‘blame the manufacturer unless he can convince us otherwise’.

Having informed my boss, I had booked a ticket and the next morning I was on my way to Tassie. Arriving in Launceston, I rented a car, phoned the architect to meet me at the site, the reception centre, and had driven off.

Upon, arriving at the Crown Reception Centre, I had encountered a whole group waiting for me - my ‘welcoming committee’, was the thought that raced through my mind. There was the owner of the Reception Centre, his manager, the cleaner, the architect and somebody from the Health Department.

I had to laugh ‘inside’ just looking at them. They all had grim faces and looked like a mob ready to lynch a ‘mainlander’! Regional patriotism was ripe everywhere, and I had found it particularly strong in the island state. Nothing good can come from the mainland, seemed to be their thought. Their polite greeting was extra stiff, as if they were welcoming a mass murderer. But then again, I may have been exaggerating, as usual.

We all went through the decorative wrought iron main gate and headed for the largest building. It was a very pleasant looking reception centre, a white complex in Spanish-style imitation; the owner walked ahead, followed by his manager and then the remainder of us, in a kind of pecking order.

The owner had then aired his unhappiness with the floor using particularly descriptive words, for my benefit, of course! There were indeed lots of small black spots on the floor which nobody seemed to want to touch. And as they walked along, they all kept nodding gravely to each other and every now and then, shot damning glances at me, especially the cleaner and the Health Department official!

I was hanging back as I had wanted to have a close look at everything, take photos, check the whole installation and basically take everything in as not only would I have to write a report to my company but also I would have to come up with an answer!

Like I said, I was hanging back from the group and had noticed immediately that the so-called black spots were in fact confetti from a wedding party. They were lying loosely on the vinyl flooring. The cleaner obviously did not sweep the floor with a broom before mopping and when he did mop the floor, he did not pick up the slurry but merely swished everything about and let it dry. Of course, the confetti on the floor went darker with every mopping! Another reason for my trailing behind the group was that I was busily picking up some of the dark confetti. And the heap in my hand grew bigger all the time.

The others were waiting for me at the end of their ‘excursion’, back outside their building. They looked at me with dark expressions that said it all: ‘Now what do you have to say for yourself? Isn’t your floor terrible!’ I went to the architect, my main contact.

‘Frank, hold out your hand, please.’ He did so with a puzzled expression. ‘Here are your spots’ I poured enough to fill his hands while he screwed up his face.

‘That’s confetti!’ he exclaimed, totally bewildered. The remainder of the group just stared at his cupped hands which were overflowing with the ‘black spots’ and every now and then one slowly drifted to the floor.

I had swallowed deeply and taken control of myself - no good making enemies! I tried to make light of it. ‘Now that this is settled, could I invite everybody for a cup of coffee? I am a coffee addict myself and am having withdrawal symptoms right now. Where is the nearest café?’

The manager of the reception knew his cue: ‘Good idea, I will take care of this. Please come with me.’ He took us all back inside another building. A table was quickly covered with a fresh cloth and, with amazing speed, it was populated with coffee and plenty of hot scones, butter and jam.

We started to relax and talked about all sort of things except what we just had been through and soon we laughed together as if we were celebrating a reunion!

To be honest, I had always liked to go to Tasmania because the people there were genuinely friendly and their hospitality was always great. They seemed to look at you and see a person with feelings and not a title or position. In fact, I almost wished I had more complaints in the wonderful island state!

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

STATIC ELECTRICITY.....

2011-03-24T21:51:00.001+11:00

One day, I had received a request for a meeting from a very large architect’s firm in Melbourne’s CBD. A Ms Anne Blakely, an interior designer, wanted to discuss with me the various PVC floorings I had on offer and their best applications. Calling on her somewhat early - I always did that - I asked the receptionist whether I could sit in the waiting room. Feeling comfortable, I had arranged my samples, looked at my notes in my clipboard and then observed the goings on around me.

The soft cushion-chairs were of imitation leather and the carpet on the floor was made of nylon fibre. It was a rather old carpet and I remembered that the early nylon carpets could build up quite a bit of static electricity. The plastic furniture in leather imitation, too, would not help dissipate any static current. I must have had second sight because of what happened next.

When Anne, the interior designer, finally walked through the door I had noticed with alarm that she was expecting a baby any moment. She moved towards me awkwardly, extending her hand. To save her some walking, I shot up from my chair and rushed towards her. As I tried to shake her hand and with our fingertips almost meeting, there was a strong crackling sound and sparks flew . So strong was the static electricity that it really hurt me. Anne, too, forgot her usual bright smile and grimaced for a moment. We exchanged polite introductory words and I pretended nothing happened. Anne, however, seemed to take the electric shock for granted.

As the entire premises were covered with the same nylon carpet, I wondered how Anne’s fellow architects and designers coped with this phenomenon. At first glance I had noticed nothing but then I became aware that whenever somebody had to open a door, he or she quickly touched the door knob to duct the static electricity before grabbing it again and turning the handle. Also, when they approached the metal shelves of their extensive library, they quickly touched the metal before browsing at their leisure. All this behaviour was automatic, I noticed, and only visitors may have become aware of this odd behaviour. Of course, the current generation of nylon carpets do not have these problems any more, but since they were hard wearing, the early carpets can still be seen in some offices.

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com

A SALES REPRESENTATIVE'S PRANK

2011-03-21T22:16:00.000+11:00

Stopping outside the warehouse of the company Harley Kraus, I walked past the rows of parked cars, all company vehicles.

Among them was the managing director’s car, which was always a Holden Statesman. The other executives’ cars and the representatives’ vehicles were mainly station wagons, like mine. There must have been a sales meeting in progress because the whole car park was occupied with company cars, with no space to spare.

Parking in their large driveway where a sign indicated ‘No Parking Allowed’ - we had an understanding in this matter- I had walked purposefully into their warehouse, where a group of salesmen were standing around, cheery, laughing and eager to explain to me the reason for their hilarity. But this was done in a roundabout way.

‘Did you see all the cars outside?’ Lyle, their Senior Salesman made a start. ‘Yes? Did you see our country traveller’s car, parked outside our managing director’s window? Ha, ha. . . ‘ He had to stop to cope with another attack of laughter. Actually everybody in the warehouse seemed to be in an unusual state of merriment. They all laughed, from storemen, the representatives, to the cleaning lady. I felt like an undertaker at a clowns’ convention!

I probed Lyle again: ‘What is so funny about your country traveller’s car? Go on, tell me. I could do with a good laugh!’

‘Go and have a look at his car. You can’t miss it. It’s parked right outside the managing director’s window.’ He could not speak any further as he was doubling-up again.

‘All this guffawing and nobody tells me the reason!’ I muttered. And since I am not inquisitive, just a bit nosey, I keenly walked back outside to find out more about this. In the company car park, I found the managing director’s window and sure enough there was a traveller’s station wagon parked outside it. It looked clean and shiny and peering into it from one side, I noticed it filled up with samples and rugs, literature and leaflets. There was an order book and even a pair of gum boots for rainy days and rough roads in the country. I saw nothing unusual and felt disappointed.

Back I went into the warehouse and confronted Lyle: ‘What is so funny? This car looks like my own car; perhaps a bit cleaner. It seems to have been washed recently!’

The laughter around me started again and Lyle offered further assistance: ‘Go outside again and have another look at it from the other side, the street side, you know, away from the window.’

Feeling a bit silly and irritated, I went out again to the car and walked around it to the side facing away from the managing director’s window. I stood stunned, staring in disbelief. The other side was the filthiest car I had ever seen. There seemed to be the dirt of centuries of country trips sticking to it, with bundles of grass peering at me from behind the mudguards. The side windows, smeared with red dirt, seemed opaque, giving complete privacy. But only on this one side! Looking at the car from both sides I saw that it had been carefully washed and polished - but only on the side facing the managing director’s office window. There was a clear demarcation line right in the middle of it, separating civilisation from wilderness.

‘That is incredible’, I exclaimed, rejoining the crowd inside the building.‘What is the story behind all of this?’

And then they explained: ‘Every time we have our weekly sales meeting, our country representative, you know old Bill, a bit rough and uncouth, comes straight from his country trip and always parks his dirty car smack right outside the managing director’s window. And his whole wagon always looks like the dirty half you’ve just seen. So, whenever we have our sales meeting, the old man sees this filthy, dirty company car outside his window and doesn’t like it! So, last week, he sent a message to the country representative: if his car was not cleaned to a shine he was not to park it outside his window. He doesn’t want so see all that filth . . .’ More derisive laughter all round.

‘So, to please him, our Bill, great joker he is, carefully washed the side facing the window. And the managing director is now happy.’

Shaking my head and laughing, I completed my business there. Life was wonderful, I thought, full of funny incidents - nobody could make up such a story! Reality was much funnier.

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com