toboggan's weblog

Another holiday blog…..

t0boggan — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 18:44:19 +0000

I’m reliably informed some folk like to read these. Here’s another & it’s a long un.

Two years ago this very week we in familiar territory once more.

RUNIVAL

September ‘07. Another trip up North….

We both finished work earlier than expected on the Friday afternoon so decided to cut down our journey time and head for a bed and breakfast in the Borders. For the third time this year Scotland was our destination of choice for a holiday. The Highlands, especially are like a drug to both of us and we needed another fix. This time I’d invested in a pair of moderately expensive binoculars to enhance our experience. Much to Wallet’s chagrin – ‘waste of money’ she opined. I was undeterred.

After a meal on the northern edge of England we arrived in the small Scottish border village of Ecclefechan. It was already almost dark. Our digs were right opposite the birthplace of one Thomas Carlyle. Until the night before his name was only familiar to me from signposts. I had no idea he was an ‘essayist and social thinker.’ Much like myself but probably of much higher regard. Because he was good at it.

Carlyle

There is a stone statue of him on the edge of Ecclefechan, and I can’t see that happening here.

Never mind.

He had apparently hardened his views as he approached old age – he lived until 86 – and from being an enlightened Calvinist turned toward feudalism. My path has been similar , though I’d not use those labels. He apparently ‘walked’ to Edinburgh – some ninety miles to attend University. He must have arrived home very late, and set off early.

Carlyle’s father was a stonemason, and had in fact built the house in which we soundly slept – in a four poster bed !The proprietor of our ‘guest house’ warned us off the local pub and recommended a walk to the ‘country hotel’ just outside the village. We took his advice but the place looked far too grand for a pair of casually dressed travellers to quaffe a couple of pints before bedtime. We ‘one-eighte’d’ and headed for the Ecclefechan Hotel. There was no ’Abandon Hope’ sign above the doors and as we approached the only sound was the sound of silence. It was almost deserted, save for two workmen in the kind of grubby hi-viz gear I’d happily left in the cab of my lorry only hours earlier. It transpired they were ‘mackems’ – a colloquial term for gadgeys from Sunderland, that new city in the north-east . They were there to wire up a wind farm, under construction in the nearby hills . We conversed a little but they were plainly tired and soon headed for bed. Not before they had presented Sue with an unwanted pint. So there we were, in a deserted bar at ten ‘o clock on a Friday night.

As we contemplated our own repose the pubs owner came down to say hello. News of our arrival had travelled. . A biggish man of pugilistic appearance. Ageing somewhat and into his sixties but still not the kind of landlord one might mess with, I surmised. He told us of his plans for expansion and investment and we wished him good luck – I fear he’ll need it in the task ahead.

Breakfast was excellent, if a little niggardly in portion, the splendid taste of the sausage and bacon (one apiece) left me yearning for more. I contented myself with extra toast.

Our objective: Mallaig, was still some five hours away. The former ‘second city of Empire’ was soon behind us though and the familiar sights of Loch Lomond and Glencoe followed as the Audi ate up the 370 miles to what we consider to be our Nirvana.

Our home for the week was really a former ‘granny flat’ generous in size and tacked into a large bungalow on the edge of town. Our hostess Jean, was welcoming and friendly and as the place was being painted externally promptly gave us a twenty per cent reduction of the already bargain price !

‘Runival’ was a revelation. We had an un-interrupted view of the small isles of Eigg and Rhum, and a small patio area on which to sit and gawp at the offshore lumps and bumps which hold us in such thrall.

Mallaig was a half mile away , a taxing and undulating hike. The hills were a challenge but we took them up on it several times in those first few days, when the car was somewhat neglected. I didn’t realise I was quite so unfit but the walk definitely got easier as the week went by. How my pulse pumped and my heart raced, I can remember when this was a joy, yet after a few billion beats more one cherishes the muscle and realises it has more past than future.

downhill to Mallaig

The weather we experienced was typically Scottish, and frankly all over the place. A couple of really wet, somewhat dismal days with no sign of those islands – they may as well not have been there. They lie about ten miles offshore. Most of the time it was dry though, and hardly ever cold. The two glorious days of sunshine compensated us well though and we made the most of them.

Come Monday we took an eight hour non-landing ‘cruise to ‘Canna’ another of the small isles, not visible from Mallaig. Calling at Eigg, and Rhum, Caledonian MacBrayne’s ‘Lochnevis’ car ferry is a regular sight, plying her trade in these waters.

A few others had made the considerable commitment to this all-day voyage . One couple in particular caught our eye. Americans, possibly in their early seventies. I’d sat beside them and realised he was resting his head on her bosom, and she was picking at a myriad of small sores on his bald head. Rather reminiscent of the way a monkey combs it’s mates coat, looking for salt, and bugs. Like myself, several passers by seemed to find this rather off putting, judging by their facial expressions anyway. I sidled away and thought no more of it.

Later the couple appeared on my radar once more, as we approached the landing stage at Canna. The sprightly septuagenarian had grabbed hold of the ships rail and was performing a kind of squat thrust routine for all to see. I’ll give her due she was more nimble than I. Her husband later enquired of myself ‘Are we going to Muck now?’

I resisted any stab at lavatorial humour and merely answered in the negative. ‘Muck is Thursday’s, mate’

a beaming Wallet

A leisurely week gave us a chance to find out more of Mallaig. We ate in the ‘Fishermen’s Mission’ for the first time. A fine institution staffed by friendly, jovial ladies which seems to have a permanent book sale in progress. I bought ‘The King’ an autobiography by Denis Law, a football hero I have long respected, both in sky blue, dark blue and even red shirt. He was an icon before the word became fashionable, and played in an era which I still hold dear. A real bargain read at just two quid. Those wet days didn’t daunt. I merely dallied with Denis, as his life unfolded. From humble beginnings which made my own childhood seem like that of a Prince !

We also visited the ‘Mallaig Heritage Centre’ to learn about the places past. Only a viable port since the 1850’s the centre celebrates everything Mallaigish – which inevitably involves fish. One memorable old black and white photo of the travelling army of girls who would gut the fish and throw them into large barrels was captioned ‘although not a few of the girls were comely and attractive, after only a few minutes at the work their faces, necks, and busts took on a ghastly appearance – covered in gill, gut and bone’ Nice work if you can get it eh ! I bet those old inns of Mallaig can tell a few stories.

We braved Arisaig under greying skies. Seeking solace at the Rhu Café and we were once more disappointed as the first three items we asked for were all ‘off the menu’ . I’m afraid this place is now off our own menu. Trendy it might be but the owner carries an air of indifferent incompetence as fare as I’m concerned. Exasperated we just drank frothy coffee before walking into ancient woodland for a wander. As we crossed the quiet main road I spotted the biggest, hairiest caterpillar I’d seen in my life crossing with us at a speed of about two miles per day ! I managed to assist the creature to safety thanks to a little leaflet I had in my pocket – I’d not – unless pressed – have been able to pick it up in my hand. I briefly contemplated the irony of being hit by the mobile Butchers van as I bent down in the road, fortunately it appeared seconds later. Caterpillar, and I were spared.

a seafaring place

The earthy ‘Marine Bar’ was our choice of watering hole. One of the boozers in Mallaig has closed down – soon to be turned into and Indian restaurant it seems – BLOODY SACRILEGE – are there no frontiers to this remorseless advance? There is now just ‘The Clacchain’ along with the ‘Marine’, which boasts an inner wall of sheer rock – a quite remarkable sight just off the bar itself.

A range of staff served us well, from a native of Perth-shire, a helpful Scotsman past retirement age to a sweet young South African lass called Gladys. She was tiny, and her head was just visible over the beer pumps. Wallet suggested she might be in her gap-year? I stifled a mild chuckle as to my knowledge this custom has not yet established itself in the townships from whence Gladys came.

Indeed it was a cosmopolitan crowd in in the pub. Accents from all over the world as behoves the best of seafaring places.

The week was passing by far too quickly. We chose another couple of restaurants for meals. Excellent they were too. The nights were often spent back in the granny-flat watching a dvd or two on the tiny telly. ‘Borat’ the Kazakhstan character’s ‘cultural learnings of USA for make benefit glorious peoples of Kazakhstan’ spoof for instance. Funny in parts, but uncomfortable in others. I did laugh at times but this movie marks another downward notch on our scale of moral decline if I’m honest. I felt somewhat sorry for some of his American ‘victims’ however those evangelical Christians were every bit as scary as Al-Qaeda in my opinion. Watch it, only if you’ve now’t better to do. ‘Children of Men’ also flopped in my eyes, although perhaps it merits another viewing on a bigger screen.

After a longer stay than usual in the ‘Marine’ one dampish evening we bought fish and chips – of high renown, and ate them as we climbed the hill back home. Seldom has battered Haddock tasted better. Complimented by my aperitif – three pints of Guinness . May Heaven hold such treats – simple pleasures are the best. Although the price tag is becoming ever heftier – ten quid for two fish suppers! No cheap pleasures, these simple ones. Perhaps I need to re-evaluate ‘simplicity.’

we love this place

We explored the Morar estuary as the ebb tide receded, leaving a massive expanse of pristine sand. Pondering the prime position of a small house we almost bought two years ago. It needed much work but for somebody with twice as much money as us it would have been ideal. I can’t think of many finer locations for a holiday home. We strolled the sand alone, only the hoot of the passing ‘Jacobite’ steam train disturbed our reverie. A passing Heron glided across the now narrow river to stand regal in the shallow water, wading and searching out morsels.

tide's oot!

Friday soon dawned, and for the first time in a while the islands were clearly visible. We headed out for Arisaig ‘Rhu’ (a gaelic word meaning peninsula) which is an arm of land extending southward. Seals were cavorting, splashing and basking on temporary islands of rock . The binoculars I’d invested in proved invaluable – when I could prise them from Wallet’s grasp.

At the very end of the Rhu road I took a photograph of our old car, more out of appreciation than anything else, and I do enjoy it’s fine, Teutonic form . On examining the results I noticed a deer, to which I’d been completely oblivious peering down at us from a higher rock. Closer examination revealed four of the beauties munching on the vegetation. A sign on a nearby gate warned us that ‘culling and stalking’ was in progress. Given the number of dead beasts at the roadside a cull is needed.

Their numbers are growing, and a well aimed bullet is much better then bouncing off a bonnet, not to mention the risk to human life. In most cases, still more precious than mere deer.

Again the place (the Rhu) was deserted, save for a couple of Oxfordians who were walking the Rhu for the first time. In their sixties they enquired of the area and like a gushing , enthusing chatterbox I filled them in. She was walking with the aid of a stick, in a way which suggested much difficulty. I counted my blessings – I’d wanted to buy a walking cane myself this holiday but somehow the sight of this lady put me off the idea. I’ll probably need one soon enough, temporarily I hope.

I explained how the island of Rhum so often had a topping of cloud. Male Oxford compared it to the pall of smoke over Didcot Power Station. I sensed our conversation might be short at this point and was proved correct. We exchanged ‘Meldrew-vian’ notes on the drawbacks of the ‘real world’ a few hundred miles south, and then we were gone.

Camusdarach

One final walk on Camusdarach beach confirmed what we already knew. For us this place is beyond compare. Especially under predominantly blue skies. The tide was out and we discovered a further stretch of sand unbeknown to us we’d spotted it from the ‘Lochnevis’ out on the sound earlier and were delighted to walk upon it. We’d also gleaned that in the war years the dunes were used as a firing range for the Commando’s and shell cases still turn up on a regular basis. Perhaps I might ‘waste’ some more money on a metal detector before long.

Returning to Runival we at last managed an hour on the patio in warm sunshine. Twenty four hours earlier it had been battered by winds – the furniture scattered asunder. The contrast as welcome as it was stark. An evening walk on the quayside. ’The Delta Dawn’ was landing her catch. A seal was malingering in the hope of a treat of fish. It was a big ’un too. Large eyes looking disdainfully at a Boxer dog, barking wildly from the deck, obviously infuriated by the marine mammals cheek. To our surprise the Polynesian (I think) deck hand threw several large fish to seal Sue had called ‘Sammy’ and this only irked the hound even more. It’s bark detracted from what should have been an idyllic scene .I half hoped it might fall into the water and receive a good thrashing from said Sammy.

sammy

We had cappuccino’s in bucket sized cups at the ‘Garden Tearooms’ – served by another South-African lass – a white one this time so she may well have been on her ‘gap-year’ I didn’t catch her name. Merely leaving her the thirty pence from balance from a fiver for two coffee’s.

A last drink in the Marine Bar , where we were now on nodding terms with a few locals , a final meal in ‘The Cabin’ restaurant and we were headed back up those hills for the final time. Easier now , not because our bodies had been honed over the week – far from it, we’d taken the car !

Up at five on the Saturday for the long drive home. We came via the Real Food Café’ at Tyndrum, and the best bacon butty’s I’d ever tasted – at four quid apiece – more simple pleasure inflation eh?

Work beckons now, and like the silver darlings (Herrings) that provided Mallaig with wealth

in decades past I’m also gutted. However, there are more holidays to pay for and you might have gleaned they ain’t gerrin’ any cheaper !

…but here’s to the next one, and the next

down the hatch & cheerio

check out ‘chinwags’ !

t0boggan — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 13:32:55 +0000

all welcome at this new forum.

Not intended to rival any current org.anisations, merely to augment ones realm of choice. It’s free…and easy going, going gone…

..to www.youforum.co.uk/chinwags

forum

t0boggan — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 08:02:32 +0000

Eh up!

I’ve had a go at setting up a forum…have a look and sign up if you’ve a mind.

www.youforum.co.uk/chinwags

NEW: the motor-cycle dairies

t0boggan — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 11:27:12 +0000

…cheese and yoghurt products in the shape of a Honda Ninety?

No: despite the deliberate mis-spelling more a smorgasboard of tales from the archive. I’ve dug deep and sorted the cream from the other stuff. Taking a ride down memory lane – harmless enough. Catch ’em if you can…

Hardly revolutionary and I know something similar has already been done. But was it done with a Grimace?

Caledonian Capers -the motor-cycle diaries

t0boggan — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 08:50:21 +0000

I miss it. The motor-cycle. Having flogged my latest mount a couple or three years ago. I’m unsure if it’s a pursuit I’ll ever follow again. It would be unwise to come a cropper when ones bones and joints are already stuffed with man made appliances after all.

So I have re-visited some memories and applied sepia toned nostalgia to the thoughts of adventures receeding ever more into the past.This chapter begins in 1992 on an island which I have since been told is in South West Asia. I admit to mild surprise at the news, but this means I’ve travelled to four different continents – not bad for a lad from Wythenshawe.

the motor-cycle diaries (not a patch on Che but I’m no icon)…

As we entered our ‘motor-cycle years’ the arrangements changed a tad. Paul was growing older and we began to do our own thing. We’d have two or three breaks a year now, varying in length. The Ford Capri tour around Ireland for instance in ‘93, came after a fortnight in Cyprus. Just Wallet & I in an apartment outside outside Larnaca. We met up with Pam & Alan who were regular visitors to the island. We’d also palled up with a Scottish couple ‘fae Motherwell’ He a joiner, who’d badly injured his hand a couple of days before setting off. It was dressed in a huge bandage. She a darker skinned woman with a piercing Glaswegian hard-edged howl….the kind of voice that grates after a few minutes. We hired a car together for three days., and toured all over the island. To Nicosia, and up into the Troodos Mountain range and Paphos on the west coast.

This meant early starts and much mileage. I think we did five hundred miles in two days. Which is a lot on half of Cyprus. Gryst to the mill for me and Wallet loved it too but by the third day they had had gone off the idea. We went on to hire another car on our own for the second half of the hols. We loved to tour. I think Rab must have seen his backside because they never spoke to us again , nor we them. There was a definite atmosphere whenever our paths crossed.

Maybe they thought we owed‘em a few quid. If so, they should have asked for it. For my part I think it was even-steven., but wouldn’t have argued the point. I’d much rather have stifled the sourness with a ten pound note. There’s now’t so queer as folk.

The highlight of 1993 was undoubtedly passing my bike test at the second attempt aged 42. Having ridden motor-bikes since the age of 12 and done a million plus mile son the road I’d been decidedly laggardly, but that’s another story.

One of the first ‘rallies’ we attended in our first , eager year as fully fledged ‘bikers’ – a label I was never truly happy with – was ‘Storming the Castle’ an annual event in the north east of England. We couldn’t leave until Wallet had finished work at 10-20pm on the Friday night - and we were heading for County Durham ! We set off in rain and it merely got heavier in the short term. Mercifully easing off as we joined the M62 motorway north of Oldham. As we climbed the familiar trans-Pennine route we could at least see where we were going., even if we were saturated. We were budget bikers, preferring simple waxed cotton jackets and cheap leggings to the expensive stuff. Dressing down rather than up. We were soon wringing wet.Not the best start to a weekend away – in a tent. Things soon got dangerously worse. Climbing Windy Hill we’d passed a recovery truck pulling a big, black bulk tipper behind it. An ominous looking hulk lumbering up the hill. Now, as I was easing off the throttle on the descent in west Yorkshire the rig was gathering momentum and roared passed us at something like eighty mile super hour! No problem – until bits started to fall from the stricken tipper. One large section of exhaust clipped my second hand ’para-boot’ and the debris almost had us off. Decidedly scary, but fortunately we lived to tell the tale.

Further north, on a rain soaked A1 the ‘Great North Road’ we began to see the odd bike heading for the rally. More often they’d roar past us, but occasionally we’d overtake old British thumpers and couples taking it even easier as the night skies cleared a little. We paused at Barton Truck Stop near Darlington for Liver and Onions.

A midnight meal in an empty café.

As the hour approached 1-30am we arrived, finally, cold and tired at the rally site. Even the hardiest castle-stormers were contemplating kip by then. Among them pals Tony & Liz who were the first to spot us as we arrived shining a lantern into our chilled faces. They were quite inebriated, as one would expect having been there for several hours.

We’d already pitched our tent by dimming torchlight and as they shuffled off to bed we had a wander around the site, checking out the impressive array of trade tents and stalls. Later we’d wrung the water from our socks and supped Strongbow Super from cans until about five am, we sat on a nearby log chatting between ourselves and to any passers by who’d listen. We were high on a sense of achievement, a sort of good to be alive feeling.. High if you like. The drug was the bike, a longish journey, a sense of unity of purpose and of course alcohol.

Next morning the sun shone and our friends joined us for the lengthy run up to Lindisfarne, another of our 1993 ‘Landmarks’ which needed a visit on two wheels and photographic proof.

to be continued

new blog

t0boggan — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:16:02 +0000

I’ve been having so much trouble with the other blog site

(Oddquine – if that was you who left comments about Will Sharman please direct them to my new site)

I’m now to be found only at

www.grimacing.wordpress.com

All orgers welcome.

hunted down?

t0boggan — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 15:28:52 +0000

Just been ushered back to org. to look at some posts under the ‘Lockerbie Bomber’ thread.

Whosoever Mr.Hunt ‘tracked down’ it was NOT ME ! I have never attacked his family verbally and frankly, have scarcely given him a second thought since I was banished from the ‘org.

Just wanted to put matters straight as Mr.Hunt’s utterings seemed a trifle ambiguous.

p.s. If anyone wants to track me down and confront me then do it quickly while I still hold a crutch I can wrap around your neck.

toboggan is logging off…

t0boggan — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 10:07:29 +0000

Equipped for th’ups and downs in life and ponderin’ what’s past..

the time to ditch this pseudonym has finally come at last….

..there is little point to Percy now..though some may say ’twas ever thus

So it’s off to pastures new my friends with a minimum of fuss.

His days on org boards are over & his personna’s all but done …

but he’s thriving in a new place somewhere warmer , in the sun.

Caithness gave him the cold shoulder and pulled t’rug from under ‘is feet

I guess he’d outstayed his welcome so he beat a firm retreat..

but tha’ canna keep a good man down the auld buggers far from finished..

you’ll find ‘im at blog.com just look for a bloke called Grimace.

www.grimacing.wordpress.com

Sarah Ferguson and my home town..

t0boggan — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 10:21:02 +0000

She’s done it now !

Sarah Ferguson, that red headed royal liability who burst upon the public stage in the nineteen eighties has put her name to a character assassination of my home town.

Well, it’s not actually a town. I was born in a small corner of a huge council estate in South Manchester. Wythenshawe – the vision of planners and architects who didn’t do a bad job. Not much high rise and decent homes for folk from inner city Manchester and Salford where the early days of industrial revolution had been consolidated into a powerhouse propelling the British economy forward on cotton and coal. By the nineteen thirties the housing stock was not doing justice to the people domiciled therein.

The suburb of Wythenshawe lies about six miles south of the city centre. It’s made up of about twelve local areas, Northern Morr to Baguley, Newall Green to Woodhouse Park and Crossacres. All encapsulated under the name ‘Wythenshawe’ which means a wood of willow.

A tree lined boulevard called Princess Parkway brought the early commuters back home after

days in city centre offices and the factories (later to become warehouses) of Trafford Park. Most of the inhabitants worked and contributed to a growing economy, for aside from the crammed red double deckers that rolled to and from ‘town’ there were few passengers. Perhaps my Uncle was one, but struck down at the age of eleven with Muscular Dystrophy he was not destined to live very long and his passing, in 1962 was the most poignant moment of my life until then, I was eleven. The hard right wingers and those who see all benefit claimants as ‘spongers’ will no doubt be relieved to know he died aged just thirty two.

My ‘Nana’ was lucky enough to have allocated a three bedroomed house at the very edge of Wythenshawe – the first to be built in the nineteen thirties (thousands more would follow over the next three decades as the estate mushroomed in size). It was a substantial brick-built dwelling with good sized gardens and of course the plumbing demanded in the twentieth century but by no means taken for granted by the working classes.

As war clouds gathered my Father – a Shropshire Lad – was billeted nearby with his motorbike and his acquaintance with the woman I’d know as Mum grew into love. They married in ’42 and were again lucky to get the house next door to ‘Nana’. Following two daughters, their luck ran out when I turned up in the front bedroom in 1951.

So, on the edge of Wythenshawe, in a cul-de-sac (The Drive) on the edge of Northern Moor and slap bang in the middle of a comfort zone of childhood, secure play, loving hard working parents and the bourgeoning welfare state we kids proceded to grow up at a fairly gentle pace. I could not have asked for much more, perhaps because I didn’t know of much more. We’d visit relations in Shropshire towns and villages but I never yearned for a rural upbringing …besides, City played just up the road and I was loving my early sporting success at school. Perhaps the only blot on the landscape were the ‘Teds’ who might sometimes gather outside the ‘chippy’ after dark….and the weekly fights at the pub at the top of Yew Tree Lane which attracted coachloads of young drinkers from outlying towns like Warrington and Widnes – it had a renowned cabaret lounge – named ‘Yewtopia’ and did good business in the late fifties and early sixties. Nana and her pensioner friends were regulars in the Yew Tree and would walk home close to midnight not a fear for their safety in any shape or form aside from the odd Mackeson induced trip !

I left in 1970 – married a Cheshire lass – true, it was the more industrial bit of Cheshire, no leafy lanes for us, no Prestbury pile…..Hyde, a now notorious mill town (home of Shipman , Brady & Hindley)…we bought a house for fewer than one thousand pounds and settle into married life. As Mum and Dad died prematurely – in their mid-fifties, and Sisters had also flown the nest (for Liverpool and another edge of Wythenshawe) by now I sort of lost touch with the area.

I’d pass through ocassionally, drive down Sale Road past the ‘Circle’ where my Mum worked in a Greengrocer’s shop part-time. I can still see her handy-work on the windows, lovely white writing on the windows advertising the various wares within. They were early pioneers of frozen food retailing in the area – fish fingers were a staple – My Mum’s left hand was famous for it’s flowing legibility and fancy flourishes. Well, it was in our house anyway!

I worked nearby for a time in the eighties. Nothing much had changed by then. No sign of urban decay, no hoodies not even too many steel shutters on the windows like the one my Mum had adorned on a daily basis. No pit-bulls straining on body harnessess again the tattooed arms of muscular morons, intent on basking in the reflected power of their dog’s brutal strength.

‘Nana’ passed away in ‘ 84 so visits down the old cul-de-sac were no more. I assumed life went on in much the same way it always had. By now we had moved into a lovely new house – at first council owned , and later we bought it in what seemed like a good deal (probably because it was)

The nineties came and went – alarmingly quickly looking back at them. I took little notice of Wythenshawe. I’d heard news reports of a decline, but reckoned this would be in the core areas of ‘Woodhouse Park’, and in particular ‘Benchill’ which by all accounts had become a terible hell-hole of drop-outs and drugs. Surprising really because I had many friends in that area in the sixties and played football against a few local sides and they all seemed normal, decent and happy enough.

I pondered the cause of this decline and never really answered my wonderings. It just seemed that for sections of society ‘decline’ was inevitable, as other sections prospered. An innate fecklessness in some would go a way to explain at least part of the malaise but there must be some wider failure on the part of a Government, or Community which allows low aspiration and failure in even the basics to be tolerated. Drugs ! Of course, they had to be a major explanation in what was happening. Apart from some minor mention of marijuana in the mid-sixites at my school no sign of drugs had ever permeated by teenage years. They were American things, or so I thought. They crept up insidiously on places like Wythenshawe….but on the edges? No…surely not. Call me naive.

Now it’s the new Millennium – already ten years old (which seems extraordinary in itself)…what happened all that fuss and all that optimism?

It fizzled out almost as fast as the fireworks. I sensed things were not as well as they were when a trip to ‘Sale Circle’ saw half the shops were now ‘advice centres’ and Solicitiors offices…horrible grey metal shutters , dawbed in graffiti hung down presenting a blank, intimidating and soul-less steely face on what was once an attractive explanade of independent little shops. ‘Carews’ the tobacconists, ‘Land & Sea’ Mum’s big competitor across the road and ‘Elites’ pronounced ‘eeh-lights’ where I’d part with my spending money for Dinky and Corgi models and the latest Superman comics from DC. The small Co-op (Mum’s divi number 126504 yes! I still remember) and the ‘Record Bar’ where I could get three hit singles for a pound vand often did. A young man in sharp suit and a zig-zag hankey in his top pocket. Now though it was a second hand Washing machine shop offering reasonable weekly terms for renting an old Hotpoint. Decay had arrived. Despair seemed not far away. I again pondered, briefly…thought of old times and then left without a look back.

I did return though, three of four more times for a look down the old cul-de-sac. Voices resonated inside my head. The friends, the games, the lads, the girls, the neighbours.

It looked okay still. In fact with new roofs and windows the houses (now seventy years old) looked surprisingly good. Many had been bought by their owners, some no doubt sold on to incomers. All seemed lived in and looked after, and the ‘Drive’ was civilised and quiet. As were the surrounding streets – although the lay out of the locale was always more ‘Road’ than ‘Street’…more ‘Avenue’ and ‘Close’…it always seemed so nice and er…’normal’ really.

So it’s with some trepidation I shall be tuning into ‘Sarah & the Estate’ on Channel 4 (I think) this week. Already there has been uproar about her documentary. Local people have been quick to attack her , and the production companies choice of area to traduce, besmirch and drag through the mire. I’ve seen one or two clips that were hard to recognise as being true, or fair . Editing plays a big part in these programmes. In the quest for sensationalism programme makers will distort the truth for their own ends. With this in mind I shall watch with my hands partially covering my eyes. I do not want to believe this part of my England has gone down the pan to such an extent that an opportunist like the Duchess of York can stick her oar in to further her broadcasting career, crinkle up her face in mock despair , do little to improve matters yet make things worse by her very presence.

We shall see.

Student makes my eyes water!

t0boggan — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 13:10:41 +0000

Today was the day my metal ‘staples’ come out. Substantial clips which held the wound together after my new ceramic hip was installed a couple of weeks ago.

one just like mine - ish

The last time this important job was taken care of I scarcely felt a thing so I was relaxed when the District Nurse knocked at the door today. Unusually, she had a companion. A long haired lad she introduced as William – I assumed he was here to observe.

Not a bit of it…as I got on the bed in the ‘livvy’ and turned as best as I could to one side the Nurse said ‘William will be taking them out’

“Oh, Okay” was my response as she assured me he’d ‘done it before’

After William removed the dressing the Nurse surveyed the incision and declared it 90% well healed.
He proceeded to pull out the first stpale, indicating that he would approach on an alternate basis, making sure the flesh held together and did not fall apart.

Ouch! thought I as William nipped out the first of ‘em…the second one was even more reluctant and it seemed the metal was tearing at my skin. At the third stroke, I emitted a rather loud ‘Oh!Bloody ‘ell mate’ as I experienced the worst pain I’ve had in a while. At this point Wallet intervened with surprising stridence – instructing the Nurse to ‘finish the job’. I was pleasantly surprised and in truth was considering such action myself. Good old Wallet .

Reluctantlyy, the Nurse stepped in and removed most of the remaining clips with aplomb, and I can only assume a sharper pair opf metal cutters for I felt scarcely anything at all . She apologised as she went but I assured her there was no pain – not even discomfort.

I fixed my eyes upon William and asked if he wanted to do the final few but he declined. I wasn’t sorry.
About five staples are still in and one end of the wound is dressed as it was ‘granulated’ whatever that means – probably now’t to do with sugar….unless the slightly above average levels in my blood have anything to do with it.

Nurse is back on Friday to remove the remainder – I hope it’s William’s day off!

I can now do the leg-lift comfortably and am putting some weight on the newly operated leg. Confidence is high of a good recovery now, given time and patience.

I’m on my own this afto. as Wal’s gone to sign on again - a weekly business now. This involves a five mile walk…we’d use Tebbit’s bike philosophy but she doesn’t ride. The sooner I can get back driving the better.