Waiting at a bus stop in Kingswinford, in the Black Country, for a bus to Wolverhampton.
It is just after half past eight in the morning, and since it is the school holidays the streets that would normally be sprinkled with groups of overly energetic children are instead peacefully empty. I've been standing alone at the stop for about ten minutes when I hear brisk footsteps approaching behind me, and then a hand grabs my forearm. The grip is not hard enough to be painful, but moves and squeezes in and out in a way that instead seems to suggest an excess of affection.
The owner of the hand turns out to be a small slim guy, probably in his fifties, who lets go and then momentarily turns to look at me as he passes and says -
'Gonna be nice again today!'
'Looks like it,' I reply to the back of his head as he hurries on his way.
I study his receding figure, looking for anything that might confirm my suspicion of mental illness - an unkempt appearance or discordant clothing. But a gold watch glints on his wrist and he is wearing smart grey trousers and a crisp clean shirt with fewer creases in it than mine.
Perhaps he is just one of life's undauntable optimists, never stopping to think about the advisability of grabbing strangers from behind, or of predicting the weather on a morning when the sky contains as much grey as blue.
I hope he managed to avoid the downpour that ensued in the afternoon.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
No Time to Stand and Stare?
It's just after nine in the morning and I'm on a bus from Pensnett to Merry Hill, in the Black Country.
In between Merry Hill itself and the shopping centre we pass a cluster of old, council tower blocks. On a second floor balcony of one of these a very white man leans against the railing smoking a cigarette. He is middle aged with short greying hair and has no top on to cover his protruding gut. Beneath the railing the balcony is enclosed by thick glass, and through this I can see his bare legs, and white shorts of a similar enough shade to his fishbelly skin to momentarily give the alarming impression that he is entirely naked.
This is a summer morning in name only. There is a cold breeze blowing, which must be colder still up there. The sky is dark and it has only recently stopped raining. The rest of the world is in jackets and coats.
There is nothing about the man's appearance that suggests the kind of pride in his physique which might lead to him to consider the cold to be a price worth paying in order to have his body on display. From the way he leans, puffing on his cigarette and idly contemplating the world below him it is easy to believe that instead he considers the cold is worth enduring in order to avoid the effort of getting dressed.
Did you know that Ambition used to be one of the Seven Deadly Sins? The list was originally part of the ancient religion of Mithraism before being adopted by Christianity where Ambition was rehabilitated and replaced with Gluttony.
My man on the balcony seems almost immorally out of step in a capitalist society, but I can't help thinking that he would have made a good Mithraic
In between Merry Hill itself and the shopping centre we pass a cluster of old, council tower blocks. On a second floor balcony of one of these a very white man leans against the railing smoking a cigarette. He is middle aged with short greying hair and has no top on to cover his protruding gut. Beneath the railing the balcony is enclosed by thick glass, and through this I can see his bare legs, and white shorts of a similar enough shade to his fishbelly skin to momentarily give the alarming impression that he is entirely naked.
This is a summer morning in name only. There is a cold breeze blowing, which must be colder still up there. The sky is dark and it has only recently stopped raining. The rest of the world is in jackets and coats.
There is nothing about the man's appearance that suggests the kind of pride in his physique which might lead to him to consider the cold to be a price worth paying in order to have his body on display. From the way he leans, puffing on his cigarette and idly contemplating the world below him it is easy to believe that instead he considers the cold is worth enduring in order to avoid the effort of getting dressed.
Did you know that Ambition used to be one of the Seven Deadly Sins? The list was originally part of the ancient religion of Mithraism before being adopted by Christianity where Ambition was rehabilitated and replaced with Gluttony.
My man on the balcony seems almost immorally out of step in a capitalist society, but I can't help thinking that he would have made a good Mithraic
Monday, 14 July 2008
Just so They Know I Know
Most of the vehicles I deliver are company cars or leased cars which are one or two years old at most.
Lately though I have had a flurry of old British Telecom lorries to move. These have been declared surplus to requirements at their current depots and need to be taken to new ones. Because these lorries have been standing idle for a while their batteries are inevitably utterly flat.
However, if you turn the key in the ignition of a lorry and nothing happens then there is also another possible explanation - the vehicle may be fitted with an isolator switch. If this switch is pressed once it will disconnect the battery from the vehicle's electrics, preventing it from being drained during long periods of inactivity. A second press will reconnect the battery.
Isolator switches are sometimes located on the dashboard, sometimes elsewhere in the cab, and sometimes even on the outside of the vehicle.
When I collected the first of this series of surplus vehicles, from a depot in North London, I hunted around for the switch, couldn't find it, and then double checked that there wasn't one via the following functional conversation with the guy in the workshop -
'There an isolator switch on it mate?'
'Not on them.'
'Gonna need a jump then.'
'I'll send someone round to it in a minute.'
And here's the thing - that brief exchange made me feel like a proper lorry driver, someone who not only knew that isolator switches existed but also knew their propensity for being hidden away in unlikely places.
Compared to most HGV drivers I don't have a great deal of experience, and my licence only covers me to drive the smaller (Class 2) types. In most situations I have to grudgingly regard myself as a novice, but at that moment I felt like an old hand.
So here I am now in Cardiff, a couple of weeks later, picking up the sixth or seventh of these lifeless lorries, by now fully aware that the problem is always a flat battery and yet still casually asking, as I do every single time -
'No isolator switch in it is there mate?'
Lately though I have had a flurry of old British Telecom lorries to move. These have been declared surplus to requirements at their current depots and need to be taken to new ones. Because these lorries have been standing idle for a while their batteries are inevitably utterly flat.
However, if you turn the key in the ignition of a lorry and nothing happens then there is also another possible explanation - the vehicle may be fitted with an isolator switch. If this switch is pressed once it will disconnect the battery from the vehicle's electrics, preventing it from being drained during long periods of inactivity. A second press will reconnect the battery.
Isolator switches are sometimes located on the dashboard, sometimes elsewhere in the cab, and sometimes even on the outside of the vehicle.
When I collected the first of this series of surplus vehicles, from a depot in North London, I hunted around for the switch, couldn't find it, and then double checked that there wasn't one via the following functional conversation with the guy in the workshop -
'There an isolator switch on it mate?'
'Not on them.'
'Gonna need a jump then.'
'I'll send someone round to it in a minute.'
And here's the thing - that brief exchange made me feel like a proper lorry driver, someone who not only knew that isolator switches existed but also knew their propensity for being hidden away in unlikely places.
Compared to most HGV drivers I don't have a great deal of experience, and my licence only covers me to drive the smaller (Class 2) types. In most situations I have to grudgingly regard myself as a novice, but at that moment I felt like an old hand.
So here I am now in Cardiff, a couple of weeks later, picking up the sixth or seventh of these lifeless lorries, by now fully aware that the problem is always a flat battery and yet still casually asking, as I do every single time -
'No isolator switch in it is there mate?'
Monday, 7 July 2008
Roadside History
It's early afternoon and I've just attempted to deliver a shiny new red Vauxhall Astra estate to an address in Leek, Staffordshire. The attempt failed due to the customer having ordered a saloon. I've driven away in search of something to eat, and am now waiting for the office to tell me what to do with the vehicle.
When I studied my street map on the way here my eye was caught by something called the 'Plague Stone', whose name stood out in bold italics on the page, denoting it to be an antiquity of some kind. I ought to be within a mile of it and have decided to seek it out while I wait.
It turns out to be more visible on the map than in the reality, and I drive past it three times before I spot it, a small upright stone about three feet high at the side of one of the entrances to a playing field.
It is topped with green and streaked with a single white line left by a bird that obviously had no respect for history. A small plaque at its base explains that it is the bottom part of a medieval wayside cross, and derives its name from the local belief that it was here that supplies were left for the town when it was isolated by the Bubonic Plague during the seventeenth century. The plaque also explains that the payment for these supplies would be left in bowls of vinegar to prevent the spread of the disease, a small strange detail that seems to make that long gone scene come to life in my imagination.
I wonder how many other diminutive but enthralling relics lurk along the sides of our roads, not quite capable of catching the eye of passers by? The Plague Stone could certainly use a sign to tell people it is there, preferably one written in bold italics, or better still, in a font borrowed from the opening credits of an old black and white horror film.
[caption id="attachment_37" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Plague Stone"]
[/caption]
When I studied my street map on the way here my eye was caught by something called the 'Plague Stone', whose name stood out in bold italics on the page, denoting it to be an antiquity of some kind. I ought to be within a mile of it and have decided to seek it out while I wait.
It turns out to be more visible on the map than in the reality, and I drive past it three times before I spot it, a small upright stone about three feet high at the side of one of the entrances to a playing field.
It is topped with green and streaked with a single white line left by a bird that obviously had no respect for history. A small plaque at its base explains that it is the bottom part of a medieval wayside cross, and derives its name from the local belief that it was here that supplies were left for the town when it was isolated by the Bubonic Plague during the seventeenth century. The plaque also explains that the payment for these supplies would be left in bowls of vinegar to prevent the spread of the disease, a small strange detail that seems to make that long gone scene come to life in my imagination.
I wonder how many other diminutive but enthralling relics lurk along the sides of our roads, not quite capable of catching the eye of passers by? The Plague Stone could certainly use a sign to tell people it is there, preferably one written in bold italics, or better still, in a font borrowed from the opening credits of an old black and white horror film.
[caption id="attachment_37" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Plague Stone"]
[/caption]
Friday, 4 July 2008
A Bit Like...
Walking from Dudley to Gornalwood
In an earlier blog I wrote about eating Hawthorn flowers. These have now disappeared from the hedgerows to be replaced by the beginnings of bunches of berries. However, the Elder is now in flower across most of the country, and the blossoms are equally edible.
Elders are often found making up the numbers in hedgerows, or standing alone as small trees whose twisting branches appear old and gnarled even in relatively young specimens. Elderflowers come in bunches about the size of a fist, each one composed of hundreds of tiny white blossoms.
Even though I used to do a great deal of hitch-hiking and am therefore used to being gawped at by passing motorists, I still find myself feeling self-conscious about being seen to be plucking flowers from trees and then eating them, to the point where I have to wait until there are no vehicles near enough to me for their occupants to be able to make out what I'm doing.
The blossoms taste pleasant, and I have an instinctive feeling that they are good for me, as opposed to say a Mcdonalds meal or a kebab, which are equally capable of tasting nice, but which are always accompanied by an awareness that it is only your taste buds that are going to benefit.
I described Hawthorn flowers as tasting 'a bit like raw cabbage,' and it turns out that Elderflowers do as well. However, it feels like rather lazy writing to use the same description for these as well, so I have come up with a new one - they taste a bit like Hawthorn flowers.
In an earlier blog I wrote about eating Hawthorn flowers. These have now disappeared from the hedgerows to be replaced by the beginnings of bunches of berries. However, the Elder is now in flower across most of the country, and the blossoms are equally edible.
Elders are often found making up the numbers in hedgerows, or standing alone as small trees whose twisting branches appear old and gnarled even in relatively young specimens. Elderflowers come in bunches about the size of a fist, each one composed of hundreds of tiny white blossoms.
Even though I used to do a great deal of hitch-hiking and am therefore used to being gawped at by passing motorists, I still find myself feeling self-conscious about being seen to be plucking flowers from trees and then eating them, to the point where I have to wait until there are no vehicles near enough to me for their occupants to be able to make out what I'm doing.
The blossoms taste pleasant, and I have an instinctive feeling that they are good for me, as opposed to say a Mcdonalds meal or a kebab, which are equally capable of tasting nice, but which are always accompanied by an awareness that it is only your taste buds that are going to benefit.
I described Hawthorn flowers as tasting 'a bit like raw cabbage,' and it turns out that Elderflowers do as well. However, it feels like rather lazy writing to use the same description for these as well, so I have come up with a new one - they taste a bit like Hawthorn flowers.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
Misguided Spiders?
Waiting at Bruntingthorpe Proving Ground, Leicestershire.
The Proving Ground is an old airfield, although a lot of the runway space is now given over to the storage of vehicles. The nearest town is Lutterworth, seven miles away.
I have delivered a car here this morning and am now one of four drivers waiting to get a lift with a fifth who is collecting a vehicle from the site. The vehicle is ready and waiting, (I am sitting on the bonnet), but the release note has not yet been faxed through to the right people and so we are stuck.
Platers are normally only paid by the number of vehicles we move and the miles we drive, but on occasions such as this the driver gets 'waiting time' of £7.50 per hour for the delay. The rest of us get nothing.
It is a warm morning and we pass the time leaning against the vehicle, talking shop, and blowing or brushing the money spiders from our clothes and hair. They are around in inordinate numbers today for some reason. Their reputation in folklore for bringing wealth to those whom they visit is the cause of some rather bitter humour amongst some of us.
After two and a half hours the vehicle is released and we set off. It is pitifully low on fuel and we head straight for the nearest petrol station, which turns out to be not near enough. The engine dies a quiet death before we have gone three miles. The driver phones his controller who begins to look for someone in the area who can help us out. The driver goes back on waiting time. The rest of us get nothing.
We get out of the car and stand on the grass verge, where the money spiders again descend on us. In an idle moment I count eleven of them on the car roof.
After about an hour another plater arrives to give the four of us passengers a lift to our next jobs. The driver stays behind waiting patiently and profitably for a can of fuel to be brought to him. We leave him to the company of the money spiders. It was probably him they were looking for anyway.
The Proving Ground is an old airfield, although a lot of the runway space is now given over to the storage of vehicles. The nearest town is Lutterworth, seven miles away.
I have delivered a car here this morning and am now one of four drivers waiting to get a lift with a fifth who is collecting a vehicle from the site. The vehicle is ready and waiting, (I am sitting on the bonnet), but the release note has not yet been faxed through to the right people and so we are stuck.
Platers are normally only paid by the number of vehicles we move and the miles we drive, but on occasions such as this the driver gets 'waiting time' of £7.50 per hour for the delay. The rest of us get nothing.
It is a warm morning and we pass the time leaning against the vehicle, talking shop, and blowing or brushing the money spiders from our clothes and hair. They are around in inordinate numbers today for some reason. Their reputation in folklore for bringing wealth to those whom they visit is the cause of some rather bitter humour amongst some of us.
After two and a half hours the vehicle is released and we set off. It is pitifully low on fuel and we head straight for the nearest petrol station, which turns out to be not near enough. The engine dies a quiet death before we have gone three miles. The driver phones his controller who begins to look for someone in the area who can help us out. The driver goes back on waiting time. The rest of us get nothing.
We get out of the car and stand on the grass verge, where the money spiders again descend on us. In an idle moment I count eleven of them on the car roof.
After about an hour another plater arrives to give the four of us passengers a lift to our next jobs. The driver stays behind waiting patiently and profitably for a can of fuel to be brought to him. We leave him to the company of the money spiders. It was probably him they were looking for anyway.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Dangerous Directions
Driving from Bridgnorth to Kidderminster.
Near the village of Alveley there are three new signs clustered together on a single pole at a small turning to the right. The first sign is the standard symbol for a dead end, the second says 'sat nav error' and the third says 'walk on ferry'
Having once heard a sat nav try to tell its owner that he had reached his destination when he was still hurtling along the fast lane of the motorway, and on another occasion witnessed another device try to lure a driver onto railway tracks only to be thwarted by a closed gate, it doesn't seem surprising that people are being guided down this cul-de-sac, or that it is happening often enough for the authorities to feel the need to put up a warning sign.
For me the oddest sign of the three is instead the bottom one. Why is there a ferry service for pedestrians running at the end of this single track road that seems only to lead through uninhabited farmland. Who uses it and who operates it?
It is hard not to picture a ridiculously bucolic scene in which a smock-clad man with a straw hat on his head and a separate piece of straw in his mouth sedately punts the occupants of local farms and hamlets across the water to visit and do business with their counterparts on the other side.
However, a five minute Google in the evening reveals it to be a tourist attraction. The latest news I can find on it is from last year when the signs were first put up. The article also states that the ferry had been out of action since May when heavy rainfall caused the riverbank to collapse, making the third sign as inaccurate as the advice from the sat-navs.
Near the village of Alveley there are three new signs clustered together on a single pole at a small turning to the right. The first sign is the standard symbol for a dead end, the second says 'sat nav error' and the third says 'walk on ferry'
Having once heard a sat nav try to tell its owner that he had reached his destination when he was still hurtling along the fast lane of the motorway, and on another occasion witnessed another device try to lure a driver onto railway tracks only to be thwarted by a closed gate, it doesn't seem surprising that people are being guided down this cul-de-sac, or that it is happening often enough for the authorities to feel the need to put up a warning sign.
For me the oddest sign of the three is instead the bottom one. Why is there a ferry service for pedestrians running at the end of this single track road that seems only to lead through uninhabited farmland. Who uses it and who operates it?
It is hard not to picture a ridiculously bucolic scene in which a smock-clad man with a straw hat on his head and a separate piece of straw in his mouth sedately punts the occupants of local farms and hamlets across the water to visit and do business with their counterparts on the other side.
However, a five minute Google in the evening reveals it to be a tourist attraction. The latest news I can find on it is from last year when the signs were first put up. The article also states that the ferry had been out of action since May when heavy rainfall caused the riverbank to collapse, making the third sign as inaccurate as the advice from the sat-navs.
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