Vagueness and the Aftermath - A sporadic diary

[Claw75]

No better man for the job imo.   

very much this.  Who are you working for Tom and how are you finding it?  Best of luck!

[technolog]

So what's it like having a second boss and how is Mrs Red coping with the competition?

Who are you working for Tom? Mind your own business is an acceptable answer.

[Laxie]

Something's  been bugging me all day since I read about your reluctance to take on the new job.  WHY?! 

You (rightfully so) post about the hardships ye face from the 'settled' community.   Yourself and Mrs. Red peacefully work your tails off to make people aware.  You're articulate, reasonable and know exactly what Gypsies need. 

After all you've been through to be 'allowed' live on your own land, why wouldn't you jump at a position like that?!  I guess I'm just amazed you took the time to mull it over first. 

[pleno1]

Sorry if I'm being stupid here,  but are you half gypsie or something? Cliffs pls.

[Claw75]

Sorry if I'm being stupid here,  but are you half gypsie or something? Cliffs pls.

Tom is a Gypsy.  Cliffs won't do any justice.  Take a few hours out here and there to read the whole thread from start to finish - you won't regret it.

[Laxie]

Sorry if I'm being stupid here,  but are you half gGypsie or something? Cliffs pls.

FYP

I'm not a Gypsy.  Tom is.  Sometimes I'm actually quite jealous if his lifestyle, but always very interested in learning more about it.  You should definitely take the time to read through this thread.  You won't regret it.

[RED-DOG]

Claw - Techno, I work for Derbyshire Gypsy Liaison Group (I've done voluntary work there for many years)  My job as a development worker is funded by the governments "Supporting People" programme.

Laxie - Why did I hesitate? I was afraid of the responsibility, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do the job. Remember, I've had no formal education and have no qualifications. I am comfortable with people who carry picks and shovels, or halters and curry combs, I would be entering a world where people carry pens and tippex, folders and briefcases.

I could work my own hours, but if a meeting starts at 9am, there is no point rolling up at 10:30, so for the first time in my life, I would be ruled by the clock. (Don't get me wrong, I've spent many years getting up at 7:am to go to work, but if I hadn't no one would have asked why)

I had to get a diary, and I have to consult it before I agree to do something or go somewhere.


I have never had a job and I sort of wanted it to stay that way. It's difficult to explain, but Tony got it straight away.

My boss? my boss is a woman who has Gypsy blood and who has known me for 20+ years. She understands the Gypsy psyche.  

[mondatoo]

GLGL with the job,enjoy it

[Claw75]

thanks Tom - assume the 'liaison' is with council, police, those types of bods?

[Laxie]

Freedom or lack of - I totally get that side of it.  Really I do.  

I was just stumped because it seems such a perfect position for getting your point across to those 'suits' who you wouldn't normally be in contact with.  I guess I never considered the fact you've always been quite happy to avoid 'the suits' if possible.  

All makes sense now.  Cheers and best of luck with the new job.  x

[RED-DOG]

thanks Tom - assume the 'liaison' is with council, police, those types of bods?

Yes.

[RED-DOG]

Back in Berlin to pick the van up, probs off line for a while.

Be good....  

[Karabiner]

Back in Berlin to pick the van up, probs off line for a while.

Be good....  

I hope the wheels are still on 

[RED-DOG]

Back in Berlin to pick the van up, probs off line for a while.

Be good....  

I hope the wheels are still on 

Not even a blob of bird shizer on it, and after 5 days parking in the capital city, the barrier was up and I saved myself 15 Euros.

[RED-DOG]

I have to tell you a little about our 10 hour train ride to Kracow. The distance is around 350 miles, so even someone like me (who flunked o level maths) can work out that we travelled at an average about 35mph. (Well 36 if you add a little to make up for the fact that the driver stopped every now and then to let everyone off for a fag break)

35mph on a train. what a great way to see a country. At that speed, you can watch a Polish spinster come out of her cottage, stroll to the wooden privy at the end of the garden, go inside and do (presumably) what nature intended, come out again, fill a small wicker basket with beetroot, and stroll back indoors before you've passed by.

It seemed to me to be very much like those train journeys in old western films. Miles of open countryside interspersed with heavily wooded areas and, once in a while, a little township huddled beside the single-platform station.

In fact, it was the stations that really gave me the wild-west feeling. They were so evocative, anyone who has ever seen a cowboy film would recognise the similarity. The short 'boardwalk' type platform, the peeling, once-white painted wooden ticket office with the little waiting room attached. The unshaven old man in the rocking chair, his grey shirt and whiskers both stained with the same tobacco-juice yellow. The dilapidated water tower with a ladder who's only function is to allow an Indian to slot his arrow between your shoulder blades just before you reach the top, and that rusty, squeaky little windmill thing that makes a short sort of "Pheep" whistling sound once every revolution.

I was thinking about all this as we came to a halt in one particularly Leone-esque location when from somewhere toward the rear of the carriage, I heard a faint melody, as if someone had opened the back of a music-box pocket watch or something. Suddenly, the sweet tinkling chimes were drowned by an altogether more threatening sound, the harsh rattle of rowelled spurs.

I craned my neck around the seat just in time to see a tall stranger striding towards me. In one swift movement he opened his long black frock-coat and pushed it to one side, creating a small cloud of trail dust and revealing the long-barrel and pearl grip of the Colt 45 that was resting in the well used chamois holster strapped to his leg.

I drew my gun and fired. The tall stranger was dead before the Colt had cleared leather.


A a bored-looking guard took the ticket punch from his belt and glanced at me sideways as he clipped yet another hole in the ticket that I was pointing at him. When he had gone, I blew on the end of it, twirled it expertly around my finger, and slipped it back into my pocket.