The following letter, sent in by Mr Dense Inchcock of Nottingham was received by the Nottingham City Council Parking Services, Loxley House, Station Street, Nottingham. NG2 3NG. Obviously of a spurious content and intention, Mr Inchcock thought perhaps it may start a bit of humorous banter twixt himself and Traffic Department personnel… but no!

We could not help but see the bitter-sweet side to this letter; however, the Council Officials obviously could not.

Inchcock’s Letter;

Dear Sir,

I went into your wonderful city last Tuesday, in my 1969 Austin Allegro registration W234 TIT, and after three hours managed to find a parking space within walking distance of the NHS drop in centre, where I was visiting about a medical concern.

I purchased a ticket for two hours to be on the safe side, not wanting to cause any bother to your wonderful Parking monitoring personnel, and walked the four minute route to the centre.

After being seen by the nurse in attendance, she called for an ambulance straight away, after finding a problem with my heart. An ambulance was summoned, and I was transported to the QMC hospital, where, after checks and being prescribed medication, I was released several hours later.

Thus, making it eight hours before I could return to my car. To my amazement, I could find no parking ticket or penalty notice on the vehicle, or after searching the streets, nearby.

Understandably, I am riddled with guilt, and full of contrition.

Considering my reprehensible actions, I would like to beg and entreat you to correct the situation, by issuing me with a penalty notice, forthwith ASAP.

I hope this will relieve my deeply felt remorse, and overpowering self-reproach. Yours Dense Inchcock.

The authority’s response was:

Dear Inchcock, Regarding your appeal received (date).

The Traffic Management Act 2004 sets out grounds on which you make representations to the Council. These are shown below:

* The recipient had never owned the vehicle

* The recipient had ceased to be its owner before the date on which the alleged contravention occurred

* The recipient became its owner after the date on which the alleged contravention occurred

* The alleged contravention did not occur

* The vehicle was stolen at the time of the offence (documentary proof from the police will be required)

* The relevant Traffic Regulation Order is invalid

* The owner of the vehicle is a Hire firm and the hirer has signed a statement of liability for any Penalty Charge Notices. (In this case the hirer will be held to be liable and the city council will proceed against the hirer)

* The amount of the Penalty Charge exceeds the appropriate amount. (In practice this has been correctly approved by the Council and the Department of Transport, so any challenge is unlikely to be successful)

* There has been a procedural impropriety by the enforcement Authority

* The Notice to owner should not have been served because the Penalty Charge Notice have already been paid

* Unfortunately the Penalty Charge will not be cancelled in these circumstances. It is the motorist’s responsibility to purchase enough time to cover the duration of the parking time required, allowing for any possible over-running of meetings or appointments. In these situations it is advisable to use a car park where payment is made upon return (like Trinity Square, Broadmarsh or Fletcher Gate)

* If you have been issued with a Penalty Charge Notice (“Parking Fine”) please be aware that Civil Enforcement Officers have no authority to cancel them. We accept the following types and methods of payment:

By cheque:

Please make payable to Nottingham City Council and send to Nottingham City Council Parking Services, Lawrence House, Talbot Street, Nottingham, NG1 5NT By card: Please visit us at Nottingham City Council Parking Services, Lawrence House, Talbot Street, Nottingham, NG1 5NT and we will take your card payment by chip and pin and provide you with a receipt.

By Postal Order:

Please visit your local post office and obtain a postal order. The order should be made payable to Nottingham City Council and should be sent to Nottingham City Council Parking Services, Lawrence House, Talbot Street, Nottingham, NG1 5NT. You can find your nearest Post office by visiting http://www.postoffice.co.uk and clicking on the Branch Finder tab. Details of how to pay are also shown on the reverse of the Notice.

Yours: Mr J Obsworth JP – Nottingham City Council, Clerical & Legal Chief Executive Officer.

Now Dense Inchcock is really confused!

Part Eight

One of my fortnightly trips to the public baths

Each fortnight, Dad and I would venture out to the Public baths on Portland Street, in the Meadows area of Nottingham. It was a very stressful exercise for Dad, because it involved him parting with 3d (1½p), and that hurt him a lot I know. It might have been 6d if we’d both had a bath each, but Dad being Dad, not one for wasting or spending money, we shared a bath between us, me going in after him in his dirty water, and using the wet towels he had used before me – and getting the verbal’s from the husky female attendant as I was always the one in the cubicle when the time permitted was up! I recall her husky, grating orotund voice as she would kick hell out of the door and, in a tone reminiscent of Winsor Davies in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum say; “Time up, Out Now! Let’s be ‘avin’ yer, one minute!”

But I still preferred these fortnightly trips out to what I had to do on the alternate weeks. That involved my first getting all the pans, and kettles we had, and getting the water in them on the boil on the stove, and on the fire in the front room.

Then go out and struggle to get the tin bath off the hook on the railway viaduct wall in the yard, and drag in into the front room in front of the fire.

Then get the carbolic soap and towels ready, warming the towels at the side of the fire grate.

Then carry the hot water pan off the fire, and tip it into the bath (I still have a scalding scar on my right arm).

Then add water from the kitchen stove utensils, refill them and put them back on the ‘lights’.

Then call down Dad, to get into the bath.

Then retire to the kitchen, and listen to him singing, occasionally interspersed with the odd curse word as he caught some appendage or other against the hot side of the bath facing the raging fireplace, as I awaited his demands for a top up of hot water.

Then supply the same as ordered. After an hour or so, he would emerge from the front room and start to sharpen his cut-throat razor on his emery block and leather strap.

Then to mix his shaving jug contents into a lather, and then to have his shave.

During this time, I had to rush into the front room, dive into the luke warm dirty water, bath, then dry myself on the wet towels he’d used, get dressed, get the bucket and scoop out some of the water from the bath and tip it outside down the drain in the backyard, then when it was light enough for me to move it, drag the bath to the back door, and tip the remaining water out.

Then take it to the viaduct wall, and climb on Dad’s cobbling bench, and lift the bath back onto the hook.

Then clear up the front room, top up the fire with coke, put the towel on the drying horse in front of the fire.

Then put away the pots and kettles.

By then, Dad was usually just finishing off his shaving by placing bits of the Nottingham Evening News on the cuts and nicks he always acquired when shaving with his open razor. (We had the Nottingham Evening News as opposed to the Nottingham Evening Post, because the News was made with a little softer paper, and kinder to our posteriors when cut up into squares for our outside bog) in readiness for his settling in front of the fire, tuning in to the ‘Light Programme’ on the radio, putting his feet up, opening the newspaper, and falling asleep – While I got his tea ready!

So you see, going to the baths was like a holiday for me every fortnight!

Back to the day I started writing about:

Dad, came out of the bath cubicle and told me how long I’d got left to have me bath, usually between 5 and ten minutes, this day it was 10 minutes. He shot off to support the local Shipstone’s Brewery at the ‘Lord Nelson’.

He left me not only to have a bath, but to prove that the Eric Sykes episode where he got his toe stuck in a tap outlet was feasible!

Even at that tender age, I was so embarrassed when the stern-faced woman attendant had to free my digit! Tsk!

I actually do not have the scar today, as I crushed the toe some years later and this obliterated the scald scars as the nail was pushed into the flesh and bone.

The accumulation of these many True Woes suffered over the years by the little mite, are an indication of why the poor old git is now the gibbering wreck that he is yer know.

Coming soon; Part Nine – The Fascinating Auntie Mabel!

In this part of his True Tales of Woe,  Inchcock remembers from 1950’s, as a young lad, when his Dad would take him to the Empire Theatre in Nottingham, and used to made him sit and watch what bit he could see over the front of the stalls up in the 9d (3¼p) seats in the Gods, with many wonderful acts performing things he was not the slightest bit interested in, couldn’t hear, or understand.

However this particular trip had a profound effect on him.

The Trip to the Nottingham Empire Theatre

(Not to be missed these weren’t… I tried, oh how I tried…)

After Dad had taken his usual hour and a half (minimum) to get himself ready, we would set off on the long walk to the Empire (he had to take care, cut-throat razor and all that), avoiding the horse droppings that had not been collected for peoples allotments (no gardens where I was dragged up), and onto the next street, under the railway bridge past the gasometers, then the Duke of Norfolk pub where the murder of Muriel Harbuckle took place on 1949, and around the corner past the best chip shop in the area, The Friary.  Where Dad would refuse me  chips on a regular basis. (Well, they were 2 ½ d [about 1p now, I think?] a bag!)

Time permitting, this is where I would lose him as he would disappear into the Castle Inn, reappear with a bag of Smiths Crisps, and sometimes a bottle of lemonade for me as I loitered in on various doorsteps nearby waiting, he’d disappear back into the Castle Inn, and reappear yet again, always with the words (or similar to); “Sodding ‘ell, we can’t stay here any longer we’ve got to get tut Empire afore it starts, you’re always holding me up, cummon!”

With which I would be dragged by the arm, scruff of the neck, or kicked into activity as we progressed towards the Empire Theatre.

Sometimes we would stop at Watmough’s toffee shop, to get 2 oz of Nuthall mintoes (Oh how I hated them!), and once inside he would produce his penknife and slowly cut one in half, granting me the pleasure of a half of one! But not on this occasion.

So back to the walk, up passed the Hong Kong Restaurant, where they were repeatedly prosecuted for selling ‘Choosy’ or ‘Kit-E-Kat’ cat food on the menu as something else, when prosecuted for this, and barred from running a restaurant, they would sell the business to the next brother and carry on as usual, I know this for certain, as when dear Mother was at home, she worked there for a bit. She told me.

Onward up towards the Midland Railway station, passing the even more gorgeous smelling ‘Friary chip shop that I would not be frequenting, and down towards the canal with its working barges, and smelly water. (The down and outs had not yet taken up residence under the bridge behind what was then called the ‘Dole Offices, as they do nowadays.)

 *And of course memories of my Canal Calamity were refreshed too.

So on this particular day, we progressed past Woolworth’s and the Water Fountain that was between Woolies and Burtons on Carrington Street, and Wigfall’s television shop, without incident.

Then up King Street passing the pawn broker’s, the Post Office, then over the road passing the Theatre Royal and Watmoughs to the Empire.

Joined the queue (not calling into the sweet shop), and went upstairs to take our seats in 9d (4.9p) gods seats. Where without fail, I was always put in a seat behind a dirty great pillar – blocking me view.

One of the acts, I think it was a fire-eater, set fire to the curtains, and we all had to evacuate the theatre.

Now Dad was mainly concerned with getting his entrance money back, and as we were all rushing down the stair, I fell, but he dragged me up and we got out alright, and joined the other audience members milling about.

We were told later that the theatre would not be re-opening that night, and we had to go back home, and I was limping and had a tiny spot of blood above my eyebrow from the fall down the stairs.

Dad notice this by the time we were half way home (walking again of course, Dad wasn’t one to waste money on trolleybuses yer know) and some compassion arose in him, and for the first and only time ever, I was treated to a bag of chips on the way home, and from the Friary chippie too – it was heaven!

Shame I had toothache.

Coming soon A Nottingham Lad’s True Tale of Woe – Part Eight

The Trips to the Public Baths

* See: A Nottingham Lad’s True Tale of Woe – Part Six: The Catastrophic Canal Calamity

There I was, a toddler in the company of three other local lads, we were just crossing the canal bridge on Wilford Street, and one or two of the lads stopped to watch a boat going through the lock.

A gang of youths approached, and without delay they picked us up and threw us into the canal! Damned  delinquents!

Now you must be aware, to fully comprehend this story that I was, and always have been scared to death of two things – women and deep water. Some would question if there is any difference?)

I somehow came up from the depths of the canal, and managed to grab hold of some thick rope hanging from one of the British Waterway barges, and there I stayed, scared I’d lose my grip, unable to utter any sound or word – through shear fear and panic – and watched as passers-by fished out the other lads. Convinced if I shouted out, I’d lose me grip on the rope for some reason?

An ambulance and police arrived and they took me mates away – me, confused as to why I wasn’t rescued, still hanging on for grim life to the rope, getting colder, weaker and more and more scared than I ever thought possible!

Eventually, someone did spot me, and came across on a rowing boat (Still don’t know where the boat came from, but I thanked the man and God for it), and dragged me ashore. He even took me home in his pushbike-sidecar. I couldn’t thank him properly as I was still struggling to find my voice, and shaking like a leaf throughout the sheer terrifying ordeal, that has left me a phobia, if that is the right word, a dread, trepidation, and panic of deep water, that prevented my ever having learnt to swim – natural really, as before I could learn to swim, I had to conquer my fear of water, but could never do that, despite several periodic attacks of bravery and visits to the baths in an effort to master my fear, all failing miserably I’m still afraid of deep water. (Tsk!)

You’d have to understand the meaning of real fear, anxiety, dismay horror panic… call it what you will, that was my deepest sense of distress in my life.

Still it got me ready in a way for what was to follow I suppose?

They say everyone has their Achilles Heel – in that dirty canal on that fateful day I confirmed mine, definitely deep water!

When I eventually arrived home, thanks to the Good Samaritan, I was so pleased – that was until the Samaritan left, and daddy was kind enough to belt me about a bit for coming home late and with wet muddy clothes.

That night I went to bed bewildered, confused, dysphonic, sad, shivering and bruised, but the bruises caused by my falling into the canal were the least of my pain!

Getting another, good belting for getting my clothes wet, did not help my future sanity.

To Follow: A Nottingham Lad’s True Tale of Woe – Part Seven

The Anxious Trip to the Empire Theatre

 The first Christmas I can remember after dearest Mother had skedaddled, leaving me and Dad in peace.

Dad being Dad, and not inclined to spend money unless it was absolutely vital, did get me a few Christmas presents though – a packet of the new fire-lighters (Tik-Tac, remember them?), a second hand pair of gloves, a screwdriver, half a roll of lino, and a colander to strain the potatoes for his dinner.

He departed to the local Cricketer’s Arms (Davenports Ale) to support the brewing industry, and left me to get his dinner ready for 1300hrs.

By the time I’d got the fire lit and ‘going’, the meal cooking, and the radio set to the light programme for him to listen to the Queens Christmas speech, it left me just enough time to cut up some toilet squares out of the Nottingham Evening News, before he returned.

We ate the meal with little conversation, then as I was ‘washing the pots’, not an easy task without washing up liquid, getting hot water from the boiled kettle and pans, and the top of the sink about level with me chin!

(Cooking on the stove involved me having to stand on an upturned biscuit tin to reach everything – and as for heating the iron on the rings…) 

Dad listened to his ‘Family Favourites’ on the radio. By the time I’d cleared up, he was fast asleep, snoring gently. So much for his wanting to hear the Queens speech!

I delved into the larder under the stairs, in search of fodder to get ready for our tea, and found the Corned Beef had ‘gone off’, so opened a tin of Spam instead.

I nipped out to the Chapel, but must have got the times wrong, as no one was there.

I returned home.

Dad stirred about 1700hrs, and demanded his ‘cuppa’. I duly obliged.

After eating our tea, I again ‘washed up’, and Dad went off to sleep again. Safe I thought to go out to see a neighbour and mate… or should I say ‘go out to play?

As I approached number ten, I heard confusing sounds emanating from within – later confirmed as laughter and sounds from a TV.

I was admitted, and they had a Christmas tree with decorations all over the place. I found so many people in the front room it scared me, these fears were alleviated after I was informed they were members of the family. They fed me real turkey, sprouts, the pudding, biscuits, and something called mulled wine?

The TV fascinated me! (Never saw one before)

I swayed unsteadily on me feet back to number 4, with a minced pie.

Dad was still asleep.

I joined him in the other chair.

Dad woke up, ate the minced pie, and returned to his brewery supporting activities at the Cricketer’s Arms.

I listened to the Navy Lark, and Hancock’s Half-Hour on the radio.

Dad returned with a bottle of lemonade for me, and gave me a shilling for Christmas (5p)!

Dad retired.

I retired, despite everything, happy and content.

Funny how easily pleased I was in those days.

Coming soon:

A Nottingham Lad’s True Tales of Woe – Part Five

Fire in the Backyard