PASSENGERS ARE WARNED NOT TO PUT HEADS OUT OF WINDOWS

So!

Here we are: stuck inside, frustrated, going out of our heads.

We can get through this.

Think of all the times we’ve experienced confinement before

Not the same, granted

Not as protracted, I’m sure

Not as scary, perhaps

But we got through it, right?

I’m not belittling the struggle

I’m doing what many of us do

Taking strength from past experience

Hey, whatever... however...

We find ways to cope

We are humans after all

Perhaps the dolphins or whales might have done a better job of looking after the planet but we are human

As such…

We adapt, we cope,

When we break, we mend

It’s in the genes, it’s in our psyche

The seasons are still changing outside that window

Feels like I’m missing out

But I’m pragmatic, philosophical

It means the world is still turning

It means that…

It will still be there for us when we get back out that door

The journeys put on hold

The loved ones to see

They’ll be made

You’ll see

—-

So, having tasked myself with writing a light hearted article this time, I searched my memories for some examples of confinement. Some a little more obscure than others:

THE CUPBOARD

After deciding to write this article, I asked my mum if she had any stories about confinement. She told me about being a girl in WWII; bomb shelters and the like. Actually fascinating stories but best kept for another time; this is meant to be lighthearted.

“How about something less heavy?”, I asked. “For example”, I queried, “Did you ever lock me in the cupboard under the stairs?” “Certainly not!!”, she exclaimed. After a slight pause though, she said ”But your grandma used to stick your dad in there. It had a glass door though”, she offered, in an attempt to make it seem a little less harsh.

Uhm, that’s ok then. I said, thinking of how my father would have loathed this confinement.

THE NAUGHTY STEP

Another mild form of confinement was being sent to sit alone at the bottom of the stairs. The idea being that, having been chastised for your misdemeanour, you calmed down, thought about what you’d done to be sent there in the first place and, presumably, to look shamefaced as you apologised for your misdeeds.

In reality, at the age of 7, you probably sat there getting further wound up and indignant at how the world was mistreating you. But, heyho, previous trips to the so-called naughty step had taught you something. You stay there longer if you act defiant. You don’t get back into your mum’s good graces without seeming repentant.

So, all quiet on the Western Front, you think mum’s settled down to darn some socks or something. Listen again, holding breath for sake of silence. Yep, she’s not moving around. It’s worth sneaking upstairs to grab that old and worn coin. Toss it in the air and catch. Fate to reveal. Heads: You swallow your pride and apologise. Tails: You stubbornly cling to your principles and find your bum (stubbornly) stuck to the stair for an additional 10 minutes confinement. Uffaaaaa!

THE BALCONY

When we first moved to Singapore, we had to wait to be allocated a house on the Royal Air Force base at Changi. Thus, we spent the first 6 months of our humid posting, living on a sprawling housing estate in a place called Bedok.

It was marvellous! New houses, nice design. Garden enough for us kids but a world of adventure through our front gate, past the monsoon ditch and across a piece of waste ground. Beyond that, seen quite clearly from our house was a Malay kampong. A small village of wooden houses on stilts, sat within the neighbouring jungle. It was amazing. Makes my eyes open wide even now as I think about that cultural feast we had on our doorstep.

Problem was, to get to the village, where the locals allowed us to play, we had to cross this treacherous piece of ground. Further buildings were being erected and many scraps of discarded construction materials were left strewn around. Ordinarily, not an issue. For a boy of eight, it was actually quite exciting. You could find all sorts of useful stuff to stash in the back of your wardrobe: bent and rusty nails; cut-off bits of copper pipe; usual treasure type stuff.

Unfortunately, some of said rusty nails could also be found in the planks that lay around. These nails weren’t always polite enough to face downwards, into the ground; out of harm’s way. Nope. One day I was traversing this stretch of land and I put my flip flopped left foot down on a nail and yelled. Immediately I moved my other foot to try and extricate the first. Bad luck! My right foot also found a nail protruding from another plank! Oh boy, I really yelled then. I screamed like a banshee!!

It was loud enough for my thirteen year old big bro to hear me and run over to haul me off these cruel grips. He carried me sobbing back to the house.

Feet bathed, disinfected and my mouth treated to an ice lolly, I felt loads better; albeit sore. Loads better, that is, until I was told I’d have to stay in the house for the next two or three days to prevent further injury and possible infection in this sub-tropical land.

Can’t rightly remember if it was only two, or the full three days I was incarcerated. Seemed like an eternity, either way. I managed to read most of 1001 Arabian Nights during my time of confinement though. The closest I got to outside was sitting on a chair looking out of the balcony of my mum and dad’s bedroom. Pffff!

THE SCHOOL DETENTION

The age old punishment. Kept back at the end of the school day, unless you had some compelling reason not to get on that day’s bus. Woe betide you if your proffered excuse with some fictitious call from your grannie whose budgie had finally managed to swallow the whole cuttlefish in it’s cage and needed you there, within the hour, to save it’s life and her sanity.

This was the musty, chalk dust filled room where you and others shuffled in to spend the next hour in boring confinement. The room in which was sat the teacher who barely bothered to look over his glasses at you as you sought to find a desk that offered some amusement and salvation, at least. The desk you sought was the one liberally carved with interesting etchings in it’s sloping wooden lid.

Said teacher, assigned this assiduous task, muttered some well practiced sentence about our need to be there, threatened us with additional punishments if we didn’t get on with our homework quietly and then proceeded to mark his class’s books.

So began our confinement. Much coughing, sneezing, tittering and stern looks over teacher’s glasses to follow.

...

And finally, a lead into the accompanying shots; taken during a couple of Forties Weekends. I took many, many more but selected these because they depict another form of confinement; train compartments.

A spurious link you say? Well, I ain’t got shots of some kid locked in a cupboard; a kid sat alone on the stairs; a kid with red holes in his feet or an older kid in school detention. So...

THE TRAIN COMPARTMENT

This is a mixed and varied form of confinement. Normally one of your own choosing.

Your state of mind depends largely upon the reason for your journey, not forgetting the impact of your accompanying passengers. Some contemplative, even morose. Some outgoing, friendly, even warm, on occasion.

I was travelling alone, but for my Nikon. Feeling my way through the train, aware of eyes alighting on my camera, even before I pulled it up to my face. Some of the passengers were suspicious, almost resentful of the lens’ intrusion.

People’s response often dictate how long you want to hang around. You want a mix of reactions and expressions but it’s nice to get some positive.

However, some responses can be a little unexpected, as I found out in one compartment; crowded with a family on their day out. I’d already grabbed their attention through the window; taking shots from the outside, whilst stood on the platform.

Little did I know, that MY attention was also going to be grabbed.

I took a number of shots of them from the carriage corridor, before being ushered in to join them. I shot, chatted, shot some more. Then, ready to move on, I thought I’d just try to get something a little different… shots in the mirror. It was there I was joined by a face and a hand upon my shoulder. Oh! Was that another hand I felt? The second hand was a bit further down than my shoulder. Nah, must be imagining things. Until I felt it again, and a third time, more definite. Not just a stroke, or grab, a pinch. Is this Napoli gender roles reversed? My bum had been pinched. Uffi?

Yep, attention grabbed, shot taken time to find a safer compartment, a smile on my face.

—-

Finally, a little advice, if you will.

STAY SAFE

In some circumstances, the wearing of a mask isn’t always good for your wellbeing. My stepdad has regular visits from a nurse. With the advent of covid19, a friend gave my mum a mask to put on him; offer a little protection when he was visited. Makes sense.

Except that, following instructions given over the telephone, she decided to do a dummy run and fit the mask one Sunday evening. You know, save panicking when the doorbell rang mid Monday morning, getting flustered, trying to fit it in a hurry. Good plan.

Oh, but she stuck her finger in Mart’s eye on the first attempt and let go of the elastic on the second. Oh dear, blind in one eye and missing an ear, I thought he was going look like a cross between King Harold and Van Gogh. Oops.

Otherwise, they’re a good thing. Stay safe.

PS. Read this to her. She laughed and said: “He ain’t worn it since.”

“Street captures the imagination, it excites me, it’s slices of life! We live on borrowed time; some shots help that time last just a little bit longer.” Keef Charles