Play 'Misty' for me...

I watched our family cat die last week.
Her name was Misty.



Sadly mist!

How do you walk in those shoes?

Attached to this elegant foot is my wife's shapely body. She is too modest to allow me to publish any more of her desirable form.

A grumpy old man's reflections about winter in the North

Please have in mind that I am writing of the austerity-years of the 1950s. The location is a small industrial town in Lancashire. God made it. Then, it has been rumoured, He forgot about it. It was a time and place where people were born, dubiously-raised, educated, worked, married, procreated (not necessarily in that order) and died without ever having strayed further than the great metropolis of Manchester.

Occasionally there might have been a coach-trip to Blackpool. (Such was the corporate entertainment of the time.)

Life was very different then. Perhaps it was more parochial and pragmatic, than it is now. Car ownership, and many other modern conveniences, were far from universal. (Lots of less-than-modern conveniences were inconveniently situated in the back yard. They were a Victorian builder's afterthought. The plumbing regularly froze!)

Personal transport, if you were fortunate, was a rusty-chained bicycle that needed new tyres. The concept of 'Commuting' was a rumour. It was what rich people were said to be doing around faraway London. Here it was not a consideration. Most people lived where they worked ... and enjoyed vivid dreams.

(I meant about bikes!)

There were proper railways then. As well as passengers, they would transport freight and livestock. Interminable rakes of mineral-wagons were hauled, rattling through the night, bringing fuel from the Yorkshire coal fields to centres of manufacture.

The permanent way had sleepers that had been lovingly hewn from solid timber, not those inorganic concrete things we see now. The rails were of bullhead profile, held in ‘chairs’ with wedges.

Steam was king!

Drifting off to sleep, the comforting noise of shunting in the nearby goods yard echoed around the valley. You felt you wanted to 'bottle' that sound. It made every young boy dream of owning a Hornby-Dublo train set, and of growing up to be an engine driver.

Mills were operating throughout day and night. You knew that life continued as long as you could hear those shuttles flying.

People had jobs there. Everybody did. Whole families relied on the mills for their sustenance. Parents had no greater expectation than that their offspring would follow them into similar employment.

"What will we do if Johnny passes his 11-plus exams?" asked many an anxious mother.

Factory chimneys were tall and branded. They had personality. We loved them. Their emissions were a constant reassurance that all was well in our small world.

Fred Dibnah (bless him) had triumphed over the hazardous life-crisis of adolescence. He began fearlessly and famously climbing tall architectural structures. Little did we know what was to come.
(Some say that Fred never grew up!)



Dr. Beeching was yet to take over responsibility for the railways. What qualified him to usurp the responsibility of the fat controller?


(Does this anorak suit me?)

Winter came at least once a year. It would snow.
Heavily!
Every year it would snow.
Oh, what joy!

The sledge your dad had made came out of the shed/attic/outside loo. Woolworths would regularly sell them from November onwards, but your pocket-money was never enough, and the one your Dad had made was always better.

.
The weather wasn't bad, just a minor inconvenience. You lived with it. You adapted to it. Schools did not close; we were simply advised to wear more clothing. Getting changed for PE in front of your peers became acutely embarrassing: "Your mother knitted THAT?!" they'd enquire in total disbelief.

The school milk that came in third-pint bottles was always frozen.



Then, we’d never heard of the ‘school-run’. It wasn’t necessary to be accompanied; you walked or cycled to school. We trusted Charlie, the friendly lollipop-man, to see us safely across the main road from Rochdale.

There were no parking difficulties outside my school. The only person who had a car in those days was the headmaster. It was a much-coveted Triumph Mayflower, in silver-grey, if memory serves me correctly. (Mr. Fenwick even possessed some snow-chains!)


Buses still operated on roads that had been cleared by public-spirited farmers coming down from the surrounding hills with their tractors. Points on the railways did not freeze; they’d been in continuous use throughout the night. We never had the ‘wrong sort of snow’.

While we youngsters attended school, our elders went to earn the daily bread, negotiating waist-high snow-drifts. They just set off earlier.

Only occasionally did they freeze to death on their way home.



We unfailingly walked to chapel (three times) on Sunday, where a fearsome minister exhorted the congregation to endure shivering throughout the sermon as ‘righteous suffering’. Only Auntie Muriel (the organist) succumbed to hypothermia.

The postman uncomplainingly struggled to deliver Her Majesty's mail. His worthy mission did not depend upon motorised transport; he walked from the sorting office. Mother regularly asked him in for a cup of tea and a 'warm-up'. He seemed a nice man; I liked him. However, even before the kettle had boiled, Mum would wrap me up in my warmest clothes, gloves and balaclava, and send me out to play.

In Mum's defence, I must add that I am not aware that I have any younger siblings. Nevertheless, after that, I briefly toyed with the aspiration of becoming a postman!


The doctor, carrying a worn Gladstone-bag full of mysterious substances, would visit if requested. Even the doctor couldn’t afford a car. I had measles at the time. The doctor's breath had a spiritous odour. Mother recoiled, while Father thanked God for Aneurin Bevan. I wondered, "Who on Earth is he?"


On Christmas Eve the town band continued to regale the populus with carols, as we children marvelled at these beautifully-formed hexagonal crystals that fell into, and transformed, our world.

There was one slight casualty when the euphonium-player's lips became frozen to his instrument's mouth-piece.

Life went on, and it was good. We accommodated the weather. How could we do otherwise? Mum would do old Mrs. Irwin's shopping. My brother and I were provided with shovels to clear the paths and pavement. Then we'd build a snowman in the middle of the road.

Dad used to supplement the family income by signing up to deliver the Christmas post. He walked miles through snow-filled tracks to remote farms and villages. I went with him once. It was a glorious, albeit exhausting, experience.
(We were never invited in for tea and a 'warm-up'!)

The Ebenezer Baptist Sunday-School's football team, of which I was a faithful, undersized and otherwise-undistinguished member, played whatever the weather. We regularly lost by double-digits to nil. I scored a goal once, (an own goal!) I never played again.

Yes, I admit to some unreserved sentimentality here, and only a little fanciful exaggeration. This week’s media hysteria regarding so-called bad weather irks me considerably. Shortly, harnessing all my courage and resolve, I intend to traverse a snow-laden and icy pavement in order to post a letter.
Is this wise?
Is my journey necessary?
Should I perform a risk assessment?
Will the postman (in his van) collect the letter?

So, there you are, that's how it was. In spite of the good times, I never owned a Hornby-Dublo train set, but I still have the catalogue...


I think that's the Duchess of Hamilton on the left. The Duchess continued to occupy my dreams until Jenny Agutter came along in the BBC's serialisation of The Railway Children.

(I digress; that was quite a bit later, by which time we had acquired a second-hand TV set. Father had recanted his view that the cathode-ray-tube was an invention of the antichrist. I was 18 and hopelessly in love; puberty was just around the corner!)

Here's Jenny...



(I never got to drive a steam engine either!)

Where did my life go?
Where have all the real winters gone?
Am I too old for any of my dreams to be fulfilled?

(Ooooh, Jenny ... !)

PS. I offer a prize (a thermal vest) for anyone who can identify the town. Within the fantasy are hidden several genuine clues.

Lord Colon of Borborygm

THIS

PLUS
EQUALS ... ?

There was once a noble Lord Colon of Borborygm, who is much-revered by sufferers of IBS. He was famed for methane production, and only a lighted-match away from incandescence.

Here's his eulogy:

Lord Colon of Borborygm,
So-called for alimentary grumbles,
In life committed no serious crime,
But was famed for tummy rumbles.

One day he dined on vindaloo
With poppadums for starters,
A little lime pickle and raita too,
Before he joined the martyrs.

Sweat appeared on furrowed brow.
There was copious lacrimation.
“I think I'll use the nan bread now
To mop this perspiration."

Those subtle spices burned his mouth
And made the mucus flow.
A strange sensation then moved south
And stormy winds did blow.

From the kitchen there came wailing,
Nose-holding was in the bar.
Faces all around were paling.
Customers cried, “Fetch the car!”

’Twas thus that Colon's end was met,
By methane-oxidation.
Someone lit a cigarette...
There was instant conflagration.

Glossary:
IBS: Ian Bunkum-Smith. Sorry, I meant irritable bowel something.
Borborygmi: A medical term for a noisy abdomen associated with overactive intestinal peristalsis. 'Borborygm' rhymes with rhyme!
Methane-oxidation: An exothermic reaction: CH4 + 2O2 → CO2 + 2H2O

(BANG!)

The Big Beast is Back

“The big beast is back,” reports the Daily Telegraph. (Not that I read that biased publication, of course!)


(I got this image from The Guardian!)

Today we learn that Kenneth Clarke is to return to front-bench politics within the Conservative Party. This was the bully-boy who successively, but with debatable success, occupied just about every significant cabinet post throughout the Thatcher years. Fortunately for the nation, he never became PM.

I recall his watch cry: “Market Forces!” whereby he destroyed the morale of teachers, health-workers, law-enforcement officers and (need I go on?) Rewritten contracts were imposed upon people doing the best they could. These were dedicated people who were well-trained to perform their primary function, be that to teach, promote health or police the nation. Few of those were trained for, or motivated by, financial accountancy. Targets, and considerable accompanying paperwork, were thrust upon unsuspecting public servants, as Mr. Clarke confused the desirable concept of accountability with the mysterious science of accountancy. Many of those public servants, whose income came to depend upon hitting those targets, achieved them, only to discover in following years that those targets were ratcheted upwards. Some left or lost their jobs. Those who stayed became disenchanted with what they had previously perceived as their vocation, and eagerly looked forward to retirement, (early, if you were so fortunate.)

Before this henchman came along I was a fairly apolitical being. It was KC’s arrogance and dictatorial tactics that made me a socialist. He is a liability to the nation and, hopefully, to his party. While he occupies any position of power, (and, even in opposition, there is power,) I remain a socialist.

PS. I am not enamoured of the questionable motives of Lord Mandelson either, but at least he hasn’t made me a Tory … yet!

Perhaps I'll work on John Prescott next. Then again, why bother? While he was deputy PM to Tony Blair, he never had to deputise, so did little damage (unless you were an egg-thrower!)

Lost Sea Voices

Here's some mediocre poetry I wrote some years ago. The title, Lost Sea Voices, was inspired by a track from an album by the cellist, Caroline Dale: Such Sweet Thunder. For the text I am being unforgivably romantic, marginally autobiographical and quasi-religious. I borrow more imagery from another track on the same album: To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores. Caroline’s music does not fit with the words I have written, (more likely it’s the other way round!) but her melodies are evocative of a mysterious journey.

Lost Sea Voices

I sail uncharted waters.
I ply a restless sea.
I explore what Christ has bought us;
Learn what it is to be.

I welcome each new sunrise:
New knowledge and new lore.
Another day for singing?
Perhaps I’ll find that shore?

I sail with joy. I yearn for peace.
I hope for victory.
I crave true faith. I seek real love
And glorious harmony.

Now, those Lost Sea Voices
Cry to me from the deep;
Seducing me; they call me,
“Come, lie with us and sleep.”

Gently, they caress my mind.
Here, at last, is rest?
Is this what I’ve set out to find,
Or another savage test?

I hear their false discourses;
They know not what they say.
“Away, you Lost Sea Voices!
Your tones do you betray!”

“Oh, no!” they lie, “You’re one with us.
Your quest is all forlorn.
Cease your search and die with us.
With us you’ll be reborn.”

I put about my craft and sped
O’er the watery wilderness.
But still they call me to their bed:
“Here is your forgiveness!”

I pray my God will find me
And lead me by the hand.
I pray He will protect me
And guide me to His land.

I am those Lost Sea Voices:
Floundering overboard.
So come, my Lost Sea Voices,
And sing with one accord:

Pray our God will know us
And take us in His hand.
Pray He will forgive us
When we reach His land.

Sail with joy, yearn for peace.
Hope for victory.
Seek out true faith. Embrace real love,
And glorious harmony.

(CT June 2003)



Now, excuse me while I find the antidepressants!

Ny Kirree fo Niaghtey

Here's me showing off again.
It's a song about dead sheep and a terminally ill shepherd.



Just right for this time of year!