Sunday 29 July 2007

Party Piece

Over tea the other day - or dinner if you consider yourself to be on the other side of the North/South divide - we were chatting about the little things we remember about people. For example, I remember my grandma for her habit of always revealing the end of a film half way through; and I remember my Uncle Charlie for his, far from limitless, stock of corny jokes that he recycled throughout our childhood. We then got on to party pieces: my Auntie Hilda could recite the whole of Stanley Holloway's Albert and the Lion and delivered it in a highly entertaining dramatic oratory style; I had a phase of regaling colleagues with my renditions of popular songs in the style of the pub singer - my version of Shirley Bassey's ode to the vegatable: A Yam What A Yam, had to be heard to be believed; and I could not help but mention a colleague who, after several glasses of brandy, would suspend a large brandy balloon glass from his masculine appendages (I have had many fascinating colleagues over the years).

Later, idling away a couple of spare moments on YouTube - or as I later described what I'd been doing to Mrs C: research for creative writing - I happened across this lovely audio clip of the original Albert and the Lion; it's worth a listen and best of all, because it's not a video clip, you get on with something else whilst listening to it.


Saturday 28 July 2007

Quick Nurse! .. He Still Has A Pulse


Yesterday a constant bass throbbing disturbed the work of many people in our building - good job it was Friday afternoon; it went on for some hours and people scratched their collective heads wondering what the noise might be. At 3pm prompt, stepping into the car park of our Stretford corporate headquarters, might heart skipped an involuntary beat as I realised what the noise had been. They were doing sound checks at the nearby Lancashire County Cricket Club for this weekend's concerts featuring The Arctic Monkeys and Amy Winehouse, among others. Why did my heart skip a beat, I imagine I can hear you asking; and the answer is that that is what live music does to me, always has, wherever or whatever it is, I love live music and hearing the throbbing bass lines, barely discernible as one of Amy Winehouse's songs, I just wanted to be one of the thousands of people who gather and experience the gig.

Musing on my maturity, once again, it reassured me that I still enjoy the odd frisson of excitement. Climbing from the Cumbrian coastal village of Sandwith up to the lighthouse on St Bees Head last week, I experienced such a thrill as the vista opened before us giving stunning views over the Western Hills of Scotland and over one of the largest seabird colonies in the UK (OK, OK, I know I'm drifting into waters where you may well consider an anorak to be the appropriate wear again, but stick with it).

Earlier today, passing the Railway Hotel in Greenfield - a fabulous live music venue - I notice a poster advertising Martin Taylor - yes, Martin Taylor, the phenomenal, world-renowned jazz guitarist. I experienced another such thrill - do you see a theme developing here - and was excited all day until, only moments ago, I discovered that he was on last week while we were busy being excited at St Bees.

That burning core of light, that makes us who we are deep inside, remains unchanged; I don't have to settle for a middle age of mediocrity; but I don't have to strap myself to a Harley Davidson or throw myself from a cliff just to prove that my heart is still capable of pumping adrenaline around the system. The things that push my buttons are still there, albeit I'd have enjoyed Martin Taylor at the Railway more than the Arctic Monkeys I think.

To illustrate the point I have included one of the photographs Mrs C took of the relaxing view from St Bees Head last week.

Wednesday 25 July 2007

It's Definitely an Age Thing

Sorry to harp on again about this ageing stuff; but I'm beginning to worry that middle age is turning me into a sad old git - not to put too fine a point on it - because when I looked back on my notes from our week in the Lake District they were full of enthusiasm about wildlife - particularly bird life - and - here comes the crunch point - trains, yes trains. One of our most enjoyable days out was on the Ravenglass to Eskdale Railway.

"Am I turning into a trainspotting, beer mat collecting, anorak wearing weirdo", I asked myself; and once again, getting know comprehensible reply, I found myself reassured by my fellow bloggers.
Bill Blunt's recent post on collecting things was hugely reassuring. His collection speciality is Wetherspoons pubs. He disputes that he is a collector per se; but I think that anyone who aims to sample and review as many pubs in the famous national chain as possible is, to all intents and purposes, a collector - I was reassured.

The Ravenglass to Eskdale Railway must be about the prettiest example of public transport I have ever seen. It is a narrow gauge railway saved from being scrapped, quite literally, by a group of steam enthusiasts in the 1960s. It is not simply a tourist attraction but a relic of an age when narrow gauge railways were built to fulfil an industrial necessity: in this case transporting quarried stone, once crushed, to the regular gauge trains at the mainline Ravenglass station built conveniently directly adjacent to the little one. Apparently the narrow gauge track was easier and cheaper to lay in the rugged Lakeland fell terrain (no pun intended - but it is quite nice isn't it: train/terrain).

The station itself is a beautifully restored example of the type of country railway station John Betjamin would have gushed poetically about; it simply oozes sleepy country charm. Smartly painted and resplendent with summer floral displays it takes one of the things I love about railway stations - that feeling of ordered calm, the quiet and emptiness between trains - to a new level.

The journey is a pleasurable chug, in mainly open sided carriages, from the open esturial waters of the Lakeland coast up through the increasingly craggy countryside of the Eskdale valley, to the final destination at Dalegarth where Scafell towers in the distance.

Hanging out of the carriage, pointing at birds I spotted and waving wildly at pedestrians, I was entranced by the whole experience; and part of me can understand the pleasure that trainspotters must get from the time they spend around this form of transport. But, not to stray too far from where I started this journey: bird watching, I found, as the numb
er of previously unseen birds increased that I hankered after some sort of checklist where I could perhaps tick them off...now that is worrying.

Monday 23 July 2007

We're Back...and much drier than you might imagine

Returning to work I was met with sympathetic glances as people, expecting the worst, asked "How was the weather?" before gasping in astonishment at the fact that we found it necessary, in the Lake District, in the UK, last week, to purchase sun cream. We were rained on once, for thirty minutes and had a fantastic week of wildlife and beautiful scenery on the Cumberland coast and Solway Firth, but more of that later.

Imagine my surprise to find an e-mail from the head of HR at our firm warning all 12 000 employees about the dire consequences should we, to use the popular parlance of my sons, Dis Da Company in our blogs. Heaven forbid that I should I even write about work when blogging is a sort of therapy to get over it. I can only assume that a number of people have been dishing the dirt on the notables higher up the company food chain hoping to both sue them, following their sacking, and win a major book deal like Petite Anglaise did; a bit of a risk if you ask me.

I think I'll stick to my themes of navel gazing for the ageing, bird watching and life in't North where, so far, it might be grim but is dry.

Friday 13 July 2007

How to be a Bad Birdwatcher


It has been a while since I've wrote anything about nature, but I was reminded of Simon Barnes excellent book How to be a Bad Birdwatcher when Mrs C and I were chatting about her uncanny knack of spotting birds. I have been a fan of ornithology since a teenager, when I used to wonder down to Crime Lake near Failsworth with my dad's Carl Zeiss 10 X 50 binoculars, that weighed nearly as much as me, to spot Coots, Moorhens and other birds that, whilst common, I loved. On and off, over the years, I have returned to my hobby with varying degrees of enthusiasm; but I have never been a twitcher: I have never felt the desire to run half way across the country to see a rare bird that has arrived at our shores by sheer accident only, in most cases, to be eaten by the local Sparrowhawk. I have always delighted in the bio-diversity of wherever I happen to be at the time, rather than specifically going to look for something; and that is why I am a bad birdwatcher: I don't have to hire a sherpa to carry my array of optical equipment; I take the dog with me; and I point excitedly at things (usually scaring them off in the process). Mrs C. has come to birdwatching late, as much to humour me, I suspect, as to expand her existing interest in wildlife in general; but she has now embraced it with every bit as much enthusiasm as I and, what is more, she is damned well better at it than I am. Only yesterday, walking the dog near to Dovestones Reservoir, whilst I was doing my impression of the great hunter, silently creeping along the path with my binoculars, and seeing nothing, she suddenly stopped, pointed and said, "What's that on the side of that tree" - it was a Great Spotted Woodpecker, not uncommon, but I hadn't seen it. Simon Barnes' book is a book for people who are not impressed by the lore of twitchers but love nature, it is full of excellent tips to improve your enjoyment without having to buy an anorak.

Mrs C and I leave for a week in Keswick tomorrow; We are staying in a lodge on the outskirts of the town right by a river,
so I hope to have plenty of nature notes to share when we return. Just as an aside, it's funny how in Keswick we are in a lodge, but effectively the same building was a chalet, at Pontins as kids, and a pre-fab after the war when people needed cheap housing stock (and in those cases post war pre-fabs are listed buildings with families still living in them).

I have two good books to read, so if it rains all week, as the forecasts suggest it might, you needn't worry about us; click here to see what I've chosen as my holiday reads.

Thursday 12 July 2007

Gone But Far From Forgotten

Whilst passing the time of day over a cup of tea with Sarah Didsbury's father, he happened to mention that she had only the other day shared an amusing Police type anecdote across the dinner table. Sarah gave me permission to re-tell the sorry tale as she skipped past us both with youthful vigour leaving only a fragrant cloud behind. Click Here to read the tale of how one particular Police Officer got more than he bargained for in exchange for his free bus ride.

Wednesday 11 July 2007

I Knew It!


As soon as I heard about people throwing themselves from high things for thrills into water of indeterminate depth and current strength I thought to myself: that will be the next thing on the list of idiotic things for middle aged people to do to prove their imagined youthful vigour. Imagine my warm, dry and safe smugness when this quote from the BBC News summed it all up:
"A middle-aged man drowned and another was seriously injured when they jumped into the sea off a pier in Essex, in a stunt known as "tombstoning".
This is Mrs C's and my annual holiday fortnight: the first week at home and then a week in Keswick with the dog, (for any burglars reading, our two burly sons will be at home protecting the family pile). During this first week the most excitement we'll probably get is allotment sitting for my Father in Law, Mr W, who is enjoying the summer weather (I hesitate to say sun) in North Wales. We have already had a bountiful crop of raspberries and gooseberries and, to judge by our last visit, it won't be long before we are replete with beetroot too.

My advice to anyone thinking of chucking themselves from a lofty perch into the seething waters below, is to take a step back and reflect on the greater and more profitable experience that can be had from growing vegetables.


Monday 2 July 2007

A Hole New World


I wonder sometimes, what my blogging niche is; looking back over my posts there is quite a pot pourri of subjects; there does seem, however, to be a theme developing: the unstoppable march from middle age into the Saga years. Perhaps that's it: if you are on the journey through the middle years, feeling lost and anxious, I will be your guide and friend. I can quite see myself as fearless reporter for the mature reader, prepared to experience and tell you about the wilder side of gardening or how to choose your mid life crisis - goodness knows I seem to be trying a few. And that brings me smartly to my next subject.

You may remember me mentioning that my favourite shop name is Holier Than Thou: a body modification centre on Oldham Street, Manchester. Feeling it would be churlish of me to not understand what they do, I did a bit of research and was, well, enlightened about the amount and type of body modification that can be achieved. It seems that all you need is imagination and a strong stomach. Gone are the days when it was cutting edge to have anything more than a couple of ear piercings or a safety pin in your nose. Whilst I might have considered my single ear lobe hole as daring at the time I have to say that what I saw, stood before the window of Holier Than Thou, made it all same very small beer.

Bus passengers seeing me stood, fascinated, like a child at a toy shop, must have smiled thinking I was plucking up courage to have a bone inserted through my nose or a large hole stretched into my earlobe, but I was simply dumbfounded by the range of possible modifications and jewellery to adorn them. Body modification has moved on, really moved on - or in some ways moved back, because the expansion in modification has embraced traditional techniques used for thousands of years in tribal Africa. There is barely a place
on your body that cannot be pierced, stretched or have artistic scarification applied to it.

My research - on your behalf - has in many cases relied solely on the strong stomach developed whilst a nurse to stop me evicting the contents of my stomach. I include here a couple of links if you wish to follow my path into some of the more bizarre areas of body modification; but be warned, the extreme edges of this art are a mixture of eroticism and masochism: pictures of the DIY end of the market are not pretty. Bmezine is a magazine type website for fans of body modification, there are a host of user submitted gallery photographs - do not go lightly into the Extreme or Hard areas of the sight; another interesting site is Infinite Body Piercing that is a very practical introduction to techniques
and possibilities: a good place to go if, after reading this post, you are tempted.

Having had my fill of body modification on Oldham Street, I concluded with a
stroll down Shude Hill to Victoria Station for my train ride home. Walking along Shude Hill I passed Rambo's Tattoo parlour, a very popular venue for those wishing to make a statement in non-fade American inks; it has been the venue for mid-life statements of many colleagues of mine. I have to say it all looks a bit tame now compared to Holier Than Thou, not least because, thoughtfully, right next door is the laser tattoo removal centre.

Thankfully I am tempted by neither tattoo nor piercing but if, at a weak moment, I was to indulge I could do a lot worse than Holier Than Thou - it all seems very clean and professional.







Oxfam Chic - At A Price

I am not noted for my sartorial elegance, nor for my interest in fashion matters; but, whilst crossing Manchester city centre the other day, my eye was caught by two young people dressed in what I would term Oxfam chic. The phrase deriving from the need of young people to dress stylishly, yet affordably, by searching out second hand clothes emporiums and charity shops. Indeed this was a method of clothing I adopted whilst a student nurse - though, if you ask Mrs C, it was more Oxfam than chic. I was known to wear an ensemble consisting of a RAF great coat, boilerhouse overalls or any other combination of mismatched, discarded garments adopted and adapted from Oldham's flea market. So it was with a fond smile that I viewed these two happy young people tripping carefree through the city streets. Until, that is, I spotted the carrier bag over the arm of the pretty young female; a bag emblazoned with the logo of Viviene Westwood.

"Isn't she one of those fancy expensive designers?" I asked myself; and getting no comprehensible reply hopped off to the expensive part of town to do some journalistic research on behalf of my readers.

Stepping out of my comfort zone (Marks and Spencer) and into the hallowed halls of Harvey Nicholls (where I felt I ought to pay just to cross the threshold), not finding what I wanted and having the burning gaze of people who could tell at a glance that I didn't belong, I left and continued my research in the classy part of town around King St and St Anne's Square. There I found Hervia; a quick peep through the window and I knew immediately that the down at heel appearance of my two student types was nothing more than an expensive copy of the real thing.

Needing reassurance that all was not lost in the world of clothes, I trecked back across town to the seamier, but far more interesting area around Oldham Street - where, incidentally, sits my most favourite of shop names: a body modification and piercing parlour entitled 'Holier than thou' - and went into Affleck's Palace the home of alternative clothing, alternative jewellery, alternative music and alternative haircuts. I sighed happily, transported for a moment back to my youth, as I saw that Oxfam Chic still existed and far surpassed the expensive imitations of King St.

News from the Nick


Many of you may remember my friend Sarah's blog: The Slim Blue Line; Sarah described life in the UK cops for girls and also shared some of the lighter moments of her life in the police. I've been meaning to do something with her posts for a while and have now created an archive for them here. Alternatively you can go there from the link further down the left hand side of this page. I intend occasionally, with her permission, to recount some of the tales she still cannot help but share with me and will let you know when I put anything new on the site. In the meantime I've transferred what Sarah likes to call 'News from the Nick' which are tales of some of the embarrassing moments she and her colleagues occasionally have.