Happy

5

The Voice of Peace was still broadcasting. The owner had been in prison for over 40 days just for talking peace, surely a contravention of his human rights. I felt aggrieved and wanted to help, so I brought a book to use as a petition. I asked Marion to sign and, even though she had no idea what it was about, duly placed her signature on the dotted line. She asked if she could sign for her brother too but the offer was declined. 

Next to the marina was a large gym where I thought I might find an aerobics instructor. The place was lush and had something I had not seen for a long time- carpets. Even the receptionist was high tec. She rippled with pumped up charisma.

“Good morning sir, how may I help you?” how did she know I was english?

“I’ve come about aerobics. I…”

“Sorry sir, our classes are for females only.” she interrupted.

‘What a sexist’ I thought. “No, no, I’m looking for an instructor.”

“All our fitness advisors are under contract. Here’s our rates- 100 shekels per hour, minimum 2 hours. Good day.”

As I walked across the plaza the ladies of the night were doing a day-time shift.

“Hi Bob.” my reputation had preceded me. “Want some business?”

“How much?”

“50 shekels, as I like you.”

I smiled; at least they offered a fair price.

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I called in at the British Council to read the newspapers. Here was an oasis of calm sanity in amongst the hub-bub of Tel Aviv. It was cool in summer and warm in winter. It had carpet and wall-to-wall Shakespeare. It nurtured middle-class values of country cottages and nightingales singing. The stark reality was one of an ailing health service and lengthening dole queues. Not even Satan could keep the mills open.

However, I could retreat there and peruse the sport pages and the biased propaganda. One time a member of staff allowed me to use the photocopier 1 minute after the building had closed. I wrote a letter to John Major informing him of the dedication over and above the call of duty of an outpost of the British Empire.

I suggested that perhaps he might consider awarding all the staff OBE’s in the New Year’s honours list. I did not receive a reply maybe because in a PS I wrote ‘nothing personal, but I hope you lose the next election’. The Council staff were impressed by my audacity and I always got red carpet treatment on every visit. I never did check to see if any got an award, I think probably not.

I took a biography of Gareth Edwards hoping it would improve my passing, but dropped it before I had opened it. I noticed a fit-looking female take a book and came and sat on my table. Under the English system of manners, it would have been polite to have asked before, but this was Israel, and any concept of space-invasion was different.

The title of her book was ‘Jane Fonda’s Advanced Workout’, from which she made notes and kept shaking her head.

“It’s just wrong.” she said.

“What is?”

“Look!” she showed me a photo, “That back position is dangerous and she doesn’t have a clue about warming up, far too stressful on the joints.” 

Her knowledge sounded impressive. She was 2 years into a PE degree at Wingate University. I told her that was where I played Rugby; I kept my previous occupation secret. 

Her Yemenite features were finely chiselled and she mouthed her words poetically. She had a job as a waitress to make ends meet. I had a proposition to put to her, in the best possible way- to lead the classes at the Ego-trip.

“We’ll call it ‘robics’, with no air.” I proffered. “We’ll go 50/50.”

We agreed and I held out my petition for her to sign.

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“No way! If that schmuck wants to talk to an illegal organisation he can take all the consequences that come his way.” I could see she was angry. It made her flashing eyes glimmer. We could broach the subject at a later stage perhaps. Her name was Orit.The Voice of Peace was still broadcasting. The owner had been in prison for over 40 days just for talking peace, surely a contravention of his human rights. I felt aggrieved and wanted to help, so I brought a book to use as a petition. I asked Marion to sign and, even though she had no idea what it was about, duly placed her signature on the dotted line. She asked if she could sign for her brother too but the offer was declined. 

Next to the marina was a large gym where I thought I might find an aerobics instructor. The place was lush and had something I had not seen for a long time- carpets. Even the receptionist was high tec. She rippled with pumped up charisma.

“Good morning sir, how may I help you?” how did she know I was english?

“I’ve come about aerobics. I…”

“Sorry sir, our classes are for females only.” she interrupted.

‘What a sexist’ I thought. “No, no, I’m looking for an instructor.”

“All our fitness advisors are under contract. Here’s our rates- 100 shekels per hour, minimum 2 hours. Good day.”

As I walked across the plaza the ladies of the night were doing a day-time shift.

“Hi Bob.” my reputation had preceded me. “Want some business?”

“How much?”

“50 shekels, as I like you.”

I smiled; at least they offered a fair price.

I called in at the British Council to read the newspapers. Here was an oasis of calm sanity in amongst the hub-bub of Tel Aviv. It was cool in summer and warm in winter. It had carpet and wall-to-wall Shakespeare. It nurtured middle-class values of country cottages and nightingales singing. The stark reality was one of an ailing health service and lengthening dole queues. Not even Satan could keep the mills open.

However, I could retreat there and peruse the sport pages and the biased propaganda. One time a member of staff allowed me to use the photocopier 1 minute after the building had closed. I wrote a letter to John Major informing him of the dedication over and above the call of duty of an outpost of the British Empire.

I suggested that perhaps he might consider awarding all the staff OBE’s in the New Year’s honours list. I did not receive a reply maybe because in a PS I wrote ‘nothing personal, but I hope you lose the next election’. The Council staff were impressed by my audacity and I always got red carpet treatment on every visit. I never did check to see if any got an award, I think probably not.

I took a biography of Gareth Edwards hoping it would improve my passing, but dropped it before I had opened it. I noticed a fit-looking female take a book and came and sat on my table. Under the English system of manners, it would have been polite to have asked before, but this was Israel, and any concept of space-invasion was different.

The title of her book was ‘Jane Fonda’s Advanced Workout’, from which she made notes and kept shaking her head.

“It’s just wrong.” she said.

“What is?”

“Look!” she showed me a photo, “That back position is dangerous and she doesn’t have a clue about warming up, far too stressful on the joints.” 

Her knowledge sounded impressive. She was 2 years into a PE degree at Wingate University. I told her that was where I played Rugby; I kept my previous occupation secret. 

Her Yemenite features were finely chiselled and she mouthed her words poetically. She had a job as a waitress to make ends meet. I had a proposition to put to her, in the best possible way- to lead the classes at the Ego-trip.

“We’ll call it ‘robics’, with no air.” I proffered. “We’ll go 50/50.”

We agreed and I held out my petition for her to sign.

“No way! If that schmuck wants to talk to an illegal organisation he can take all the consequences that come his way.” I could see she was angry. It made her flashing eyes glimmer. We could broach the subject at a later stage perhaps. Her name was Orit. 

4

Not to be phased he rushed over and yelled, “Oi, put it back!” the sound of the traffic deafened his cries. “Alright, you can borrow it, but bring it back within the hour.” with that he stormed off.

“Do anything for you would Dave.”

“My brother’s friend had a Honda 50 once…” and on she whined. Basically, this monster from Essex wanted to stay the night, dossing in reception, rather than pay the necessary to have the comfort of a top class bunk. Her tactic was to bore us to death so that the pity factor kicked in.

She opened her handbag and pulled out some postcards for her wonderfully exciting family. While she wrote I stood outside of the reception lounge and gradually turned the dimmer switch lower- one degree every minute. Her face moved closer and closer to the cards as she struggled to see.

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“Could you turn the lights up please?” she asked cluelessly.

“Impossible, weakness on the national grid. Same all over the country.” Dave said with an air of authority.

“Put your arms in the air like this.” I said raising my arms.

“What will that do?”

“Well they do say many hands make light work.”

“Do they?”

Ok, it was not the best joke in the world but she did not even get it.

“Also, it will take the smell away from your breath.” That was harsh from Dave.

He whispered to me, “I’ve got to get rid of her; she’s getting on me plaster (backside).

In a second Dave pulled a small canister from his pocket and motioned me outside. He sprayed the CS gas above her head and said, “Insects.” As we left for the balcony. She coughed and spluttered a bit as we had pulled the doors closed and leant against them to bar access and then moved away. She fell between us as her eyes streamed.

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“Now you know how a mosquito feels.”

“Look Dave, he brought your bike back.”

“Cheers mate, any time.”

“Hi Bobby.” a voice yelled from below.

“Good evening Richard.” I replied. “How art thou?”

“Ooooh, you sound so sexy.” as he trolled off.