Public Transport: All Life Is Here

Many of you know I am a great advocate of public transport; even with all its faults and its falling far short of John Prescott's vision of a fully integrated transport system, I love it. Admittedly I would love it more if they didn't miss out buses, cancel trains and if they were as clean friendly and as efficient as they were in Amsterdam. What I haven't shared with you though is what great fun the bus and train can be for an ardent observer of life in all its forms.

I have a notebook in which I record the types of observations you have when someone says or does something funny that you know you will forget if you don't write it down. Flipping through its pages recently I couldn't help but smile as I recalled the details of some of my regular fellow passengers: for example the man with a pock marked face who always sits behind me.

I guess he must be one of those people who keep up a continuous internal dialogue with himself. Occasionally though, the dialogue escapes unbidden: in a deep nasal voice that's a cross between pub singer and finger-in-the-ear folk singer he bursts into short snatches of, what I think are, Sinatra classics. When he does this I get a waft of breath that leads me to suspect that he either regularly drinks heavily late into the night or has Tennant's Extra on his Shredded Wheat - either way, the result is not pleasant but is instructive. Between snatches of song he keeps up a cheery conversation but only shares brief glimpses of his otherwise internal dialogue so you suddenly get something like: "... no mate, completely trashed it...shadapoooooohh" (Frank Sinatra again). At first this was a little disconcerting but is actually quite entertaining now.

It is of course highly possible that the dialogue is not with himself but with the voices that sometimes accompany one of the major pyschoses. I'd like to think that we are enlightened enough for it not to matter - he seems happy enough and is obviously up to holding down a job; it just adds to life's richness.

My favourite character though doesn't actually get on the bus. There is a blind chap who does regularly catch it and many people seem to know him and help him at various stages: finding the seat or helping him off the bus when it stops in the middle of Oldham Street and not by the kerb as is sometimes the case. When he gets on the bus there is often an older lady - I couldn't guess how old she may be 40 or 80. She is tiny: well under 4 feet tall and has a smiley face as wrinkled as an old prune, something Mrs Pepperpot might look like after a life of smoking untipped Woodbines and eating fried food for almost every meal. It seems that she regularly leaves her house nearby, to see the blind chap across the road; then she sees him onto the bus until he is safely seated. She the alights - and here is why I love this vignette - she turns and waves to his oblivious departing form as the bus pulls away: priceless.

I do hope that we get the public transport system we deserve one day, there are more good reasons for it than I have time to list; but if for no other reason than that travelling together is a great social leveller - although not unknown, I think bus rage is less common than road rage.

The Great Facial Hair Debate

Every year at around this time, as the leaves start to fall and Duffle coats are dusted off, there is a primeval stirring amongst men to grow a winter coat - to allow the usually fresh face to take on a more hirsute look (that rhymes if you say it properly), in short, to grow a beard. I know in the houses of some of my friends their is endless debate about whether or not to grow a Winter Beard; I am proud to say that in my own home the debate is only one of style; for we are beard friendly at Crofty Halls.

I have never felt the need for help, support or advice in my hivernal pursuit; I am blessed with facial fecundity. But I was reassured to find that for those men (or women) for whom beard growing is a particular challenge, help abounds. Take www.beards.org for example: a wonderful source of succour for anyone struggling to develop their winter pelt.

For some years I have toyed with a variety of facial shapes from the jauntily tapering sideburns that peter out into nothing just before reaching the pointy chin bit, to the, what haws become commonplace, goatee. This year though, I've decided to opt for the full effect; and I have to say that I am rather pleased with the streaks of white and peppering of light grey. I think maturity has lent a certain depth of texture and warmth to what could otherwise be any old beard.

I think my decision to stick with a traditional beard this year is also partially due to realising that in the world of beard art I wasn't even scratching the surface of the true potential of the form. Take a look at some of these beauties from the World Beard and Moustache Championship, I did rather hope that Mrs C might take a fancy to some of these, quite splendid, styles but the scale of her rebuff was sufficient for me to stick to what I know. I am still tempted however, now I've started it, to see how long I can get away with not trimming my beard, like the excellent examples displayed above by the redoubtable members of ZZ Top (not counting Frank Beard of course, who is the one without the beard).

P.S. I've just realised that many of you will not have realised that I have spent the Summer months clean shaven - I forgot to change my profile picture!

Are Pets Really Like Their Owners?

Browsing previous blog posts I realised that there is a member of our clan I have written little about. Our dog Max is very much a member of the Crofty team and indeed contributed greatly to our week away in the Lake District. It's perhaps relevant to my not mentioning him that, as I write, I wonder whether you will reflect with a wry smile - those of you that know me- that Max is rather like me. I am not so sure - he is Mrs C's dog, without a doubt. She is the one he adores and bends over backwards to please; I, on the other hand, am sometimes useful for walks, food and entertainment when all other options have first been exhausted.

All that said, he is an endearing little chap - a West Highland White Terrier, or Westie, as they are popularly known; but I do rather tire of people pointing out to me how cute he is. I am often stopped in the street by old ladies or primary school age girls to point out this fact. Max grins up at me as they pet and fuss him; the look he gives me tells me that he is laughing up his sleeve as I ponder on the fact that people really can not see the obvious factors in his breeding that belie the truth. It's there in the name: terrier; the same name that when attached to the words 'Staffordshire Bull' strike fear into those same cute loving folk - but the dogs are essentially from the same mould.

This explains why I am always pulling him out of situations that he throws himself into with careless abandon: flying, teeth bared, at much larger dogs for instance. It also explains why he is so stubborn and wilful - dog obedience for Max consists of doing only approximately what is asked, unless it is Mrs C doing the asking of course when he becomes pathetically eager to please. I on the other hand, must repeat my request five times in an increasingly loud voice. Similarly - and I do hope my neighbours read this, Max's breeding might explain some of my odder moments to them - if on setting out for a walk I stride out in the wrong direction, he simply sits down and waits for me to change direction to the one in which he wants to go. I, of course, refuse to be cowed by the dog (if you know what I mean) and will stand there arms folded until he loses patience and comes with me, this also, sometimes, involves a conversation between us. To date, in the eleven years we have had him, I have won on a very small number of times by dragging him after me up the street, claws scraping on the tarmac of the footpath. It isn't worth it - he still wins in the end.

A final breed feature worth mentioning is that, without being unkind, he is not very bright. An example of this was when in a popular outdoor shop in Keswick last week, shoppers turned and stared to see him square up to a much larger dog sat in the store. They were nose-to-nose, motionless waiting for the first move upon which fur would fly. What Max was not alive to was that, as he growled intently, people were laughing at him. Why? Because the dog he was squared up to was simply a life size stuffed toy placed there to encourage donations to the local Mountain Rescue Team. Bless.

Here is a five second video clip of him on my knee, on a boat trip on Lake Derwent. It is only five seconds long because he tried to leap from my knee over the side of the boat to catch drops of water thrown by the bow wave and was most put out when I stopped him.

He is cute though.

A Week of Light and Wonder

I wonder whether people who live in areas of outstanding natural beauty ever get sick of people wandering around with their mouths open, pointing and gasping. I only ask because that's what we spent most of last week doing: gasping with awe at the scale of Lakeland scenery and the wide open spaces of the Solway Firth. It's very difficult to write in any meaningful way that conveys the scale of the stuff that gave Wordsworth, Ruskin and, more recently, Wainwright their words; but striding out around Brothers Water, looking up at the bulk of Skiddaw or gazing across the shimmering reaches of the Firth I can imagine them wrestling with words, tearing up sheet after sheet of paper in exasperation saying
"No that's not it..."

And the wildlife was equally enchanting: we watched a Weasel ferreting (sorry!) around in undergrowth only feet from our feet; watched a Peregrine Falcon soaring across a Lakeland fellside where it was mobbed by Rooks and saw so many Treecreepers, Nutchatches and Woodpeckers that they became commonplace.

In all we had a lovely, lovely week which made it all the harder to come back to work (and earth).

I've added some photographs to a slideshow below that I hope give some idea of what it was like, but before I go I was reminded, on returning to work, of a colleagues comment recently that just about sums it up in typical Northern fashion, and I wonder if it mirrors the view of Lakeland dwellers who must grow tired of people telling them how lucky they are to live surrounded by all that majesty:
"What the Lake District be without the lakes eh?"
Reply: "The District".

My Friday Achievement

Sat in Evuna - a pleasant Spanish Restaurant on Deansgate last night - I was pleased with the fact I'd actually arrived only thirty five minutes late for my colleagues retirement meal. Determined to enjoy what has become a rare night out I pitched myself headlong into the tapas and seafood paella with gusto. Similarly I quaffed the proffered wine with similar enthusiasm equally determined to face down the 'old man' image that seems to hover around me lately. Then in the Grapes I got stuck into fizzy lager beer, hurriedly washed it down in time to catch the nine o'clock train to Oldham.

Street cleaners in the subway from Oldham Mumps station would have cursed at the results of my later gastric incontinence this morning. Yes, I achieved the same results from a night out as either of my two sons do....I've not lost it yet!

I don't quite feel like the drive up to Keswick now though...me and Mrs C are going away for a week. By until next week when I promise to feel better.

What Can You do with a Quarter of a Year?

A quarter used to be the standard period of time for bill-paying and such pleasures; but with the advent of direct debit, this chronological measurement has fallen into disrepute. Tonight though, as I strolled through Oldham Town Centre I happened to glance into Boots and was surprised to see a pair of legs apparently in mid-air. Closer examination revealed that they belonged to a young - presumably most junior - employee whose job, for the moment, was to stand atop a step ladder attaching something to the ceiling. Guess what it was? It was the first of Boots' Christmas decorations, for tonight - October 9th 2007 - is for Boots, when Christmas begins. This leaves us a quarter of a year until twelfth night in which to celebrate - thank you Boots for rescuing the quarter year.

The Return Of Music

Since returning to work after my extended absence I've struggled to balance writing with the demands of family and work life. Consequently my passion for music has taken a back seat - until now. The other Sunday our band had its first gig for a while which meant practising (what?... you didn't know about our band... oh, you do know... and yes, I know it's only the music group in church, but it's still rock and roll to me, OK?). Picking up my guitar I couldn't quite believe I'd left it so long; just the act of making music felt so good, it was almost therapy as all other cares drifted away with the fading of each chord and note (gosh, I must be good!).

But music is far more than that; and yesterday I picked up my other instrument, the source of endless hours of fun that can't fail to cheer up the dourest of countenances. I don't know what it is about the ukulele that gives it the power to transform fantastic classics into witty ditties at the strum of a four stringed chord. I love choosing the most unlikely song, as I sit playing with myself alone in the bedroom, and making into a cheesy creation fit to compete with Agadoo or the Birdy Song. Yesterday I took the rock standard Down Down, by Status Quo, added a swing rhythm and converted into something fit only for elevators; it was great. I'm currently working on the chords for Nessun Dorma - I bet Pavarotti has ditched his ethereal harp in favour of a ukulele and is having a whale/wail (you choose) of a time up there, taking the mick out of Puccini and Verdi.

Incidentally, while we are on the subject of ukuleles, my insertion of George Formby's Leaning on a Lampost into a CD selection of motivational music for an awards ceremony disappointingly passed without incident - not even a ticking off. I wish I'd added something off my Best of Billy Bragg CD now; hey ho perhaps next time.

Oh, and I know that George Formby played a banjulele, not a ukulele just to save you the trouble of telling me!

Why I'll Never Be a World Leader But Perhaps Ought to Be

I was preparing a CD of mixed music this evening, for playing at a ceremony tomorrow at which will be many of the senior executives of our noble organisation. The music I chose was uplifting and inspiring; you know the sort of thing: Here Inside by M People, Lifted by Lighthouse Family, Let's Groove by Earth Wind and Fire, the list goes on. Then whilst browsing through the tracks on my computer I came across this and I couldn't help but ponder on what the reaction would be as it interrupted an otherwise life affirming collection of music. Whilst others may have been searching for the hero inside, I was suddenly possessed by the little devil inside. Perhaps it won't only be the music that gets burnt!... I'll let you know.

My Famous Friends

What is it about fame and celebrity that, no matter how we resist its allure, we still can't help crowing when we have famous friends. Take the other week, for example I learnt that only one floor away from me at work, was the bass player from the punk band Fast Cars who were nearly famous in the eighties; in fact Stuart has a photograph of himself and Paul Weller in his office. Listening to their tracks on MySpace I'd forgotten how much fun that thrash power pop stuff was; if you get chance have a listen by following the link above.

The thing is that despite the fact that I don't really know him, I now tell everyone about him. I like to think that it's something to do with being pleased that someone is creative because if it was simply that Stuart had been on Big Brother I certainly wouldn't bother, so in that vein - creativity - here are two other people I know who are remarkably creative (and also nearly famous...not that it matters, you understand).

Tony Ballantyne actually is famous, if you are in to science fiction. He is a real writer with real books on sale at Amazon; he was also nominated for the Phillip K Dick Award for science fiction this year and went to America for the ceremony. If you meet him ask him about the American sense of humour that simply drew blank looks at this snippet of conversation:
"Congratulations on your Dick, Tony"
"Yes, it's magnificent isn't it".

My other recent discovery was that someone I had known for a while was actual a relatively well known local artist with things wrote about him by proper journalists on the web, not just us bloggers. Chris Maidens creates incredibly intricate artwork that defy description. They are little worlds of their own that, in one article, were described as doodles; but after you have experienced the way that his work draws you in with it's detail and challenges you to see more and more in it, 'doodles' just doesn't do it justice. I was hoping to put a picture of his here but the website that features Chris's work is a bit funny about copyright and all that so it wouldn't let me, follow the link above to see it; and in the meantime I'll have a word with him about displaying one of his pieces for you.(I asked him and added this one on 2nd October).

One day if I'm famous maybe someone will tell their friends about me; maybe they already do, but for all the wrong reasons...hmmm.