ARM Club 1/ARM_CLUB_CD.iso/contents/sillies/silly8/S/Shopping

Text File | 1994-03-04 | 15KB | 239 lines

Greetings all!

Sometimes, quite out of the blue, there arises an alert condition which
prompts an otherwise docile devotee of amateur radio to become a
conveyor of shopping items by command of one who must be obeyed. One
day, this happened to Algernon.  Indeed, It began when Mildred, his good
spouse, actually went 'on air' - quite by accident, of course.


                        On Fetching the Shopping
                        ------------------------

'I'm going round to mother for an hour or two,' Mildred announced, just
as Algernon had begun a contact with the speech processor adjusted to
maximum sensitivity. Now most radio operators will realise that this is
a very risky business, especially when using a voice-operated switch.
Thus an insect - out for an innocent stroll - may put the transmitter
on-air if it decides to use the microphone cable for its
'contitutional'. On this occasion, Mildred's vocal cords, renouwned for
their energy content, did the trick nicely. After the onslaught, the
voice-operated switch tripped out again and his contact came back loud
and clear...  <<OK .. I'd better let you go then. Best wishes to you and
to mother! Bye-bye from ZX5ZOG>> 'Arrrrghhh!!' Our hero bellowed across
the planet as his voice re-activated the transmitter. His rare Slobovian
long-distance call was now strictly in the past tense, and his forlorn
orbs stared at the shack ceiling while he listened absently to the
ensuing pile-up as the other amateurs tried their luck... <<No - he's
gone. And I think somebody was tuning up on the frequency..,>> said a
faint voice somewhere in the hash. A much nearer and familiar voice
continued, 'and I've left you a shopping list!'

The front door closed as his good spouse made her way to the local bus
stop.  He switched off the rig and walked cautiously to the kitchen
table, whereon lay a torn piece of newspaper with the shopping list
inscribed around the margin. Ten minutes later, our hero felt that he
had decoded the message sufficiently to guarantee 75% accuracy and he
made a copy, adding the names of the sources of provisions. He also
added two more; the amateur radio emporium ten miles away, and a nearby
motoring discount store. An unwritten default location was his favourite
scrap yard. But first, the cake shop and then the supermarket....

Algernon's nostrils twitched at the aroma of freshly baked bread. This
was not sufficient to allay his apprehension on entering, however. He
pulled out the twelve inch diameter disc of wire mesh from under his
anorak, which in normally served as a reflector for his 23 cm helical
aerial. He secured the mesh to his face with two stout rubber bands and
in a nervous, stacatto voice asked for five bread rolls. 'No need to
wear a fencing mask in here, y'know. There's no wasps buzzing around in
this shop,' the assistant commented stiffly.  While she was counting out
the change, he surreptitiously prodded the jam doughnuts with the whip
aerial of his 70 cm handheld radio. Deftly returning the rig to his
pocket, he indicated them with a nod. 'Those look nice and fresh -
three, please!' he said. The assistant looked suitably appeased, and as
she reached for the wrapping paper he tucked away the mesh disc and
fastened up his coat. Well, that was easy enough, he thought, as he
stepped out onto the street again, sinking his incisors into one of the
jam doughnuts. But our hero wasn't looking forward to the supermarket -
he hated queues and nearly always became involved in some untoward
incident...


It was while he was passing the precariously constructed edifice of
cornflakes packages that his 70cm portable transceiver burst into
life... <<Yeah! I wouldn't be seen dead in one of those!>> it declared
to all within listening range. 'Keep your opinions to yourself, my man!'
objected an elderly lady, as she grabbed one of the aforesaid packages
and whacked Algernon's balding pate with it. She placed it into her
shopping trolley, leaving him to pick up the fifteen others which had
toppled to the floor. Reddening visibly, Algernon swiftly moved on to
gather his purchases and hastened for the checkout. Not for the first
time the habit of wearing wellington boots disturbed his equilibrium.
Suddenly, the well worn rubber soles skidded on a patch of spilled
cooking oil.  As his awareness tuned in to this new turn of events, he
found himself indulging in a new mode of mobile operation. He lay prone
across his shopping trolley, transceiver in hand, as it sped down the
toiletries avenue towards a checkout till. Fortunately, a pallet of
toilet rolls intervened. Picking himself up from the debris, he
staggered towards the checkout, where a sizeable queue had developed. On
these occasions, it was Algernon's habit to be occupied with his
transceiver for the alleviation of boredom and to keep in touch with
civilisation. He played with the buttons and decided to re-adjust its
programming. The ensuing cascade of bleeps was heard by the till
operator, who looked suspiciously at her bar-code reader. 'Bert to
checkout three, please!' she called anxiously into her microphone.
Looking up at the throng of customers, she said, 'I'm sorry, it looks
like the till computer's just started to act up - could you all go to
the other checkouts, please?' Algernon gritted his teeth. 'That was you,
yer twit!' piped a young lad standing next to him. Algernon's
countenance broke into a glassy grin - of the sort he wore when swatting
flies.

After what seemed to be a geological epoch, he emerged through the swing
doors and shambled into the car park.  Next, the butcher's. 'No lean
ham? OK, I'll take a couple of those cans of button mushrooms in Birani
sauce.' He hoped that Mildred wouldn't mind this small unscheduled
delicacy. Then to the pet shop next door. He often wondered whether this
juxtaposition was significant, especially after Mildred had cooked one
of her cottage pies. He turned his attention to the requirements of the
family hound, Baskerville, which were satisfied very rarely, if at all.
'Three sacks of heavy duty granules, please. And ten large cans of
Zingo-Blast.' That should reduce the chances of him devouring my aerial
cables and power leads - for a while, anyway, he thought.

Looking at his watch, he eased the car into the morning traffic towards
the other side of the village. At the greengrocer's, he consulted the
shopping list again and found difficulty in reading his own handwriting.
Better err on the high side, he thought. Or she'll send me out again. So
it was that Algernon loaded two crates of bananas into the boot of his
car. He noticed that they were marked with a deposit value, so he
dutifully took out the bananas. 'I think you'll want these back!' he
said, returning the empty crates.  As he was being thanked by the
shopkeeper, Algernon noticed something huddled in the corner of one of
them. 'Hey! That's interesting!' He lifted out a dark, furry, eight
legged creature about half the size of his hand and carefully positioned
it on the floor, next to another pile of crates just inside the shop
entrance. 'They say spiders like to crawl upwards... let's see ...' The
buzz of conversation in the shop ceased abruptly.

Then, within what seemed to be a ten microsecond interval, the shop
emptied - over the prostrate form of our hero, who miraculously avoided
being trampled to death by the stampede of vanishing customers. The
shopkeeper, with a grimace, disposed of the spider in time honoured
fashion while Algernon looked on with some consternation. He would have
liked to have claimed it and taken it home as a pet - secretly, of
course. Having lost this opportunity of acquiring a mascot for his
shack, Algernon shrugged his shoulders and set off to look for
consolation in the motoring discount store.

He had explained to Mildred that the car exhaust system needed
replacing. 'How much?' 'Oh! That's too dear - can you fix it?' 'Yes - it
should cut the cost by half.' 'You had better get on with it, then!' And
so our hero was now very well placed indeed to procure something what he
had wanted for some time.  No matter that the standard electric welding
kit, now within his budget, would punch holes through the thin metal
walls of his silencer box.  He would weld up some 1/8 inch thick steel
cladding to fit over the existing box and then try welding it to the
thicker seams at each end. That should, he thought, keep the car (and
Mildred) quiet - until the pipe gave way under the strain of the extra
weight. Then, to the rescue again with the welder!  'Good job we've got
it, isn't it...?' If there were problems, Algernon would ask his friend
Syd to covertly finish the job round at his yard using gas welding
equipment. His plan seemed faultless. Of course, the real motive for
purchasing an electric welder was the construction of a huge telescopic
tower, which at night would emerge from a hidden silo in the back
garden.  His sojourn at the motoring discount store passed with only a
minor incident. The low compressive strength of wellington boots was
confirmed by the pain experienced when he accidently parked the welder
on his toe at the cash till. The assistant thought his expression
reflected dismay at the price, and rather than risk losing the sale,
offered a further ten percent reduction. 'Thanks!' our hero squeaked, as
he hobbled to the door.  Welding mask, gloves, electrodes; yes, it was
all there. The rear of the car dipped another inch as he loaded up. Now
off to the scrap yard for the steel cladding and some odd pieces to
practise on, and indeed anything else which might catch his eye or 'come
in handy'...

Any mountaineer would rejoice in the sight of Syd's scrapyard.
Algernon's friend presided over the comings and goings of all manner of
metallic delights. On this occasion, Syd's pile was no less forthcoming
in the matter of mild steel sheets - excellent for Algernon's purposes.
But one slight snag. They gleamed dull grey atop a twenty feet high
mound of miscellaneous prams, cookers, old drainpipes and other
artifacts. Spilled oil from discarded engine parts could be seen
glistening here and there. And it had just been raining. None of this
deterred our intrepid hero, who's main goal lay at the end of the 45
degree slope. 'Hi Syd - OK to browse? Right. See you soon!' Scrabbling,
occasionally sliding as he went, Algernon made steady progress up the
mound. Now and then, he would pause for a better hand-hold or foot-hold,
taking care not to tread on anything sharp. Perhaps he should have put
on his hiking boots instead. The jagged skyline ahead, he proceeded
onward. Attrition of his clothing by protruding edges and spikes went
unnoticed, as did the acquisition of grime as he mopped his brow. At
last, the prize! An ideal sheet of steel presented itself to his
immediate field of view. He tugged at a corner and it slid towards him
encouragingly. Other sheets and pieces of angle above it squealed and
clattered in mild protest. Then it was free.

Recovering from his effort, Algernon placed two of the rectangular steel
sheets by his feet and stood a short distance from the summit. Ever
mindful of the ether and the potential of a site for the purposes of
radio transmission, he fired up his handheld radio and accessed the
local repeater. Before he could get a reply, there was an ominous
creaking from somewhere near his feet. As he reached out to steady
himself, the carrying strap on his rig slid down the other arm and the
unit dropped onto the scrap pile. Before his astonished gaze, it
disappeared down a jagged hole. Oh dear! Lack-a-day! He froze in horror.
'Aarrgh!' he wailed.

Aroused by the cry of anguish, Syd emerged from his hut. After about an
hour's scrambling, tearing at the scrap iron and indulging in many risks
to the person and feats of incredible agility, our hero, with the help
of Syd and his mobile crane, recovered the radio. It had fallen into an
old oil drum which contained a residue of dubious fluid. It was intact,
but the state of the carrying case suggested that the alternative
meaning of the term 'squelch' was more appropriate as he stuffed the
unit into his pocket. But at that moment those wellies let him down
again. He skidded on one of his own steel plates and fell on his back
into one of the many murky pools around the yard. 'How about a wash and
tidy up, mate?' Syd suggested, as he helped Algernon to his feet. 'OK.
Thanks for your help - I'll clean up the rig, then I must dash.' He
jumped with another squelch into the driving seat and handed Syd a
parting soggy gratuity. About half a mile up the road, he was flagged
down by an Army vehicle. Good grief! What now? he thought.

Er - sorry to trouble you,' said the sergeant in full camouflage, 'We
thought you was one of our men making it back to camp. We're one short,
you see.' A party of equally camouflaged soldiers, all with daubed
faces, peered down at the car from their wagon. 'That's alright - hope
you find him.' Algernon bleated. 'Thank you, sir! Carry on, sir! Good
afternoon!' The sergeant and his platoon roared away into the distance.

Algernon reached the amateur radio emporium half an hour before closing.
He moved stiffly as flakes of caked mud fell to the polished floor. The
sales assistant looked up in alarm at the ghoulish figure staggering
towards him. People stopped perusing the various items of equipment and
books to stare at the apparition. A few sniffed pointedly. 'M-M-Mr.
Braithwaite,' the assistant rasped, 'I think you should deal with this!'
'What is it, Nigel? Great Scott! I say, old man... can we help you?'
'Bill! It's me - Algernon! You know, G3...' 'Yes! Of course! Oh, I say,
you do look rather strained, old boy! Here, sit down. Nigel - some black
coffee, please!' Algernon allowed events to unfold before him and did
everything he was told. His coat was removed; he was escorted to the
bathroom and given a fresh towel. Twenty minutes later, he was feeling
much better. 'Very good of you to call, after all you've been through,
old chap!' Mr. Braithwaite said. 'Nigel has checked your rig and it's
working fine. An aerial rotator was it you wanted? Look - have this one
at fifty percent off. Brand new and it should do the job nicely.'
Algernon could hardly believe his ears.'Th-thanks Bill,' he said,
'thanks..''

Mildred was in the front garden as our hero pulled into the driveway.
'Well, how did it go today, then? she asked, 'Did you get the shopping?'
'Yes - fine. Any time, dear. No problems at all!'

Cheers. Mind how you go...  de Duncan, G0SIB

*** EOF