More training today at one of our News Journalism seminars.
This time the usual practice news report was followed by a more unconventional description of my home street, an Indian restaurant down that road, and a detailed description of my sister.... As you do...
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A bus was left stranded at sea today after stalling and being dragged 30 foot by the current at Sandbanks, Dorset this morning.
At 6:31am this morning, on the first journey of the day, the Wilts & Dorset bus from Poole to Swanage Ferry suddenly stalled on the slipway to Sandbanks before being pulled into sea by the tide. At the time of the event, it was high tide, and within minutes the bus had been dragged 30 foot into the sea. However, the driver and all seven passengers managed to escape safely.
The bus has since been brought back out of the water, with a team of Royal Marine divers helping clip the bus onto a toe-line before the bus could be dragged back out. Since the bus was so far in the water, it wasn’t close enough for a crane to save it.
The bus, only recently bought, is thought to have cost around £200,000 when new, yet is still worth around £150,000 since, after the diesel engine has been dried out, will still work.
Street Scene
The first things you’ll notice are the door numbers. For some reason (well, actually it’s because the train station takes up the space of about 10 houses) the door numbers on one side of the road are 20-30 numbers lower than that of the other. I live at number 124, yet live opposite number 98. This is a nightmare for the postman, but more than anything it’s a nightmare for me when ordering a pizza, since the delivery man always seems to deliver to number 125 when the pizza place is only down the same road, so really he should know by now!
The road itself gets quite bendy and hilly toward the middle, with a cluster of shops dominating most of the street. As you walk down from the never-ending row of houses, there’s a library to your left – that always seems to be empty, yet the council seem it’s a good idea to revamp it…
There’s a whole load of takeaways down the road, with a chicken shop open til 4am – yep, one of those knock offs of KFC that sound the same but taste disgusting unless you’re so pissed you don’t care. There’s a pizza place, a Chinese and 4 Indians – all of which do pretty damn good food actually. There’s a card shop, which has a surprisingly good range of cards for the birthdays you always forget, and a train station opposite all of this that carries all the lucky people to work every day.
It always gets busy at the start of the road, with the railway crossing being caught up between four bus stops, a school, and two pubs. Why someone thought this was a good idea I’m not sure, since the buses carrying the drunks, the school kids and the workers always getting stuck on the corner of the turn-in to the street, creating a huge jam.
The Place
The Purbani is possibly the smallest Indian restaurant of the lot, yet has that warming feeling when you walk through the door that you’re home. As you walk through the heavy blue glass door, there’s always a waiter or two that stop whatever they’re doing – usually making drinks or creating take-away orders – and give you a hearty handshake. They all seem like you’ve made a huge positive impact on their life, with a huge smile lighting up their faces. Stood there in formal gear, waistcoat to accompany, you feel like royalty. You’re ushered to your table. As you get closer to the tables, past the waiting area for food deliveries, the wonderful smell of true Indian food dominates your nostrils. The combination of chicken, lamb, duck, whatever you can think of, makes you remember what it feels like to be truly hungry, even if you’re not. The tables are set out grandly, with space not an issue for this little company, as style is the priority here. The chairs are deceivingly comfortable – as you approach and put your coat on the long metal backs, and the waiter carefully pulls out the chair just enough to whip your legs under the table before he pushes the chair back towards you, strapping you to the table, you get a warm fuzzy feeling as the cushion suddenly feels like a huge soft pillow.
A glance at the bar is never far away. The bar has a huge assortment of spirits and mixers, with fridges full of Cobras waiting to be popped open by the two barmen working at the time. Funnily enough, most of the spirits are British, yet there is very few British beers lying around. The music is the only odd thing in the place. You’d half expect the cliché bangra music flooding your ears as you enter; yet they seem to play an unheard-of radio station from two decades ago. Strangely, this is hardly noticed over the beautiful smell emerging from the kitchen.
Vivid description of a person
A workhouse is probably the best way to describe her, and the first thought that would come from my head after thinking this would be the sheer amount of money she’d have to play with. The only thing is, none of it is ever seen, since most of it is blown on drink or clothes to be honest!
By morning she’s a primary school helper, at a school near my house. By afternoon, she does a similar job in a football stadium helping out in a sort of community support scheme. She absolutely loves children, and there is rarely a day where she doesn’t come home with a story to tell. Usually, she’ll come home with a beaming smile on her face and say every minute detail about her day at work, yet on the off-day she’ll also happily rant about one sod or another who’s royally ruined her day. Of course, this is always accompanied with an ever-listening mother and a bottle of wine whilst sitting in the back garden. As it gets dark, they don’t make a move to go in; they simply whip on the patio heater and turn a few lights on indoors to light up the place.
Although she seems to think she’s a bit chubby around the sides (what girl doesn’t), she’s training to be a personal trainer. Although I’ve yet to see her in action, judging by the dedicated amount of time spent at the gym, and the slim figure she shows off every Friday night in a brand new dress, it’s only a matter of time before it all clicks into place for her new career move.
She’s not one to get down over nothing, and always seems to be bubbly. Her eyes are always lit up, even though sometimes there may be a little too much make-up around them. There’s always a smile never too far away either, no matter if it’s real or fake…
The Fuss
Exercise. Training. The word CV doesn’t mean a sheet of experience to show to your employer; CV for her means hitting the gym. So much so does she seem to obsess over it that it’s dominating her working life as well as her social life. Never is there a day where she comes home from work tired. It’s like there’s a motor inside of her that won’t stop working until it’s sweated at least a gallon of water out of every pore in her body. As soon as she enters the door at home it’s out with the workbag and in with the gym bag. Sometimes to save time, she’ll hit the gym before home, often getting home past 8 or 9pm and managing to cram dinner in before it’s off to bed. She’s adopted running from her little big brother, and every day after her gym sessions either me or her make sure we both know how far she’s managed to run this time around. I usually make a comment judging on the way she tells me this – most of the time she’s out of breath and looking more like death than a friendly school teacher, but occasionally she doesn’t look too worn out so I tell her she should push next time. Of course, not one to bow down to a challenge, she does just that and the next day she’ll come into my room and tell me her new distance managed today – further than yesterday.
She’s a really healthy eater – of course, being a vegetarian does help immensely. Often I steal some of her food; she really can make anyone hungry at the drop of a coin, and I’ve found myself eating once-disgusting concoctions of bowls of vegetable they call ratatouille amongst kilos of Quorn just because it looks so damn good.
The weird thing is, however tired she may look at night, by morning-time she’s ready to do it all over again, as if she’s just had the most amazing relaxation holiday anyone could ask for. How she manages to put out so much energy is beyond me – and this is all without the help of meat.
There is literally only one day a week or so where she won’t want to go to the gym, and this is only if her hangover is so bad that the word ‘treadmill’ will result in vomiting. Even with pulled muscles, even with a bad knee that shouldn’t be ran on, she’ll happily run a good few miles just to put it to the man!
After the bazaar Mrs Hartnett slipped in, “the Name the Bear ‘freebie’ went down well for me, since although the winner didn’t get a prize, they got to do my job as head teacher for the day!” Asked what the most successful event of the day was, she then replied “the 16” ‘pizza cake’, made by one of our parents, went down well and made the most bids. The parent who won it said it went by Monday!”
