Getting moving again

Ka and myself are in York today, checking out the local architecture, walking the city walls, experiencing the ghost tours, taking a stroll along the Real Ale walk and checking out the view over the River Ouse.
Or at least we should be…
Thanks to the current batch of storms, spinning trampolines and transport disruption we spent the majority of our morning sitting, shivering, on the cold hard metal benches of Central Station, watching the large clock hanging from the rafters, the pigeons circulate overhead and the various Central Station Rail attendants milling about, having a good old laugh at all the waiting commuters sitting around.
After watching, supposedly, funny videos on youtube of Scottish blokes filming trampolines spinning down the street in the wind and storms before Christmas, it wasn’t particularly pleasant to wake up on one of those days finding yourself having to go somewhere, even if it a wee two night trip away to York.
On our first visit to the station, at around half past nine, there was a reasonably sized crowd of expectant passengers moving around the Station’s innards, going from shop to shop, buying coffees, taking seats on the metallic benches to await further news and queuing in the various ticket offices to try and find out more information. A looping recorded message was continually playing over the tannoy, as Ka and myself took our seats to wait.
A few hours, we thought, then everything will have calmed down and will return to normality. Like the festive season, all the fuss will be over before we know it and things will all get moving again.
The recorded voice repeated something along the lines of “all rail journeys are now suspended until further notice”, as pairs of reporters circled around arriving and leaving commuters, one reporter with a large mike and the other with a giant television camera perched on his shoulder (I’d have thought those would have shrunk a little by this day and age?).
My stomach was grumbling before I was about the trains.
We left, had a large breakfast round at The Social on Royal Exchange Square and relaxed a little before heading back to the station to catch our, now hopefully operating, train.
As it happened, the only thing operating was the 30p machine to get into the loos.
Dad had drove us in after we had stood at the bus stop for around twenty minutes in the strong winds. He had called before we had left, offering his driving services, but we had refused, underestimating the craziness of the weather that was to meet us outside, as we forced our way through the winds towards the main road. I pulled Ka’s two day supplies and my two shirts and boxer shorts in our silver case behind me.
My suspicions should have been aroused, before leaving, by the paddling pool lying vertically outside our kitchen window.
As we left the flat, it was like entering some kind of war zone. A greener Libya. Wheelie bins lay over the entirety of the street, potato peelings and lidl carrier bags ferociously circling the surrounding roads like angry animals. Things, objects, stuff that certainly wasn’t leaves, flying past your face as you walked.
As we battled through the wind we passed a large, half obliterated, giant trampoline, lying over the pavement, poles spread and shaking, netting twisted and ripped, having obviously blown from a garden somewhere in the vicinity. I briefly considered filming it but decided it had probably carried out it’s best ‘You’ve Been Framed’ moment already.
We then inadvertently stepped on to a large, jagged half sheet of glass, laid across the pavement. Moments later we came across various other debris such as blocks of wood and more shards of glass. It wasn’t until we made our way further along the street that we noticed that one of the blocks of flats had lost half of it’s close entrance porch. It looked as if it had been half demolished. One side of the close box and it’s door remained standing along with it’s security entry code box, it’s wires flapping and flailing wilding in the wind.
One of Calderwood’s biggest trees was lying sprawled over a pavement, blocking our way to the main road, it’s ripped edges still spawning shreds of splinter like a giant fresh wound.
After seeing the devastation and realising there wasn’t going to be a Number 20 along any time soon, we called Dad. He had offered, I shrugged.
Following a quiet Hogmanay with some Morgan Spice and Jools Holland, we spent New Years Day at the Leckie household for dinner, where Mum had volunteered herself as driver. Angela and Steven worked hard in the kitchen feeding the McGarvas and Reids a large dinner followed by various games and quizzes, including Pictionary Catchphrase and a 30 question 2011 quiz, cobbled together by yours truly.
Ka, Morgan and myself won the Catchphrase with two winning sketches of ‘Wearing your heart on your sleeve’ and ‘Cloak and dagger’, these whole two points fending off any competition there might have been from the other assembled teams.
The 3 Wise Men were the triumphant team in the 2011 quiz. What you may have thought to be an ironic turn of phrase for Dad, Colin and Steven’s team, turned out to be more than fair play as they beat the Christmas Belle’s, Betty, Jillian and Lynsey Ann’s team, by a whole one point. This one point may or may not have been down to the fact that the girls didn’t know that Paddington bear preferred marmalade sandwiches to Marmalade itself. An unfortunate mistake, and one that cost them dearly, causing a little dispute, a bit of an argument and a lot of noise, and any noise made in Angela and Steven’s high ceilinged living room can’t be good for the neighbours. Voices just gather in those giant, high walled rooms, accumulating at the ceiling and rebounding off the walls just like a large rubber bouncy ball of noise.
The noise was made worse by Dougie’s complaining about the handing out of bonus points for Kevin McAllister’s full name and no such point for Silvio Berlusconi’s, which he hadn’t even got right anyway.
All fun and games.
As was today, rearranging our trip to York in the Central station ticket office.
It’ll have to be a mere one night stay now, and that’s if we get there at all. We should jump on to one of those spinning trampolines! They might get us there quicker.

A matter of timing

Driving along the East Kilbride expressway yesterday at 65 miles an hour the wee clio started making a strange noise and then it's engine suddenly stopped working. Lights blinked up infront of me and the speed began to fall. I was certain this wasn't right. Fortunately we were just approaching the High Blantyre turn off so I managed to coast the car off the busy A725 all the way down the hill, straight through the T-junction and into the layby opposite. Being unused to these kind of engine malfunctions in my car but having seen plenty of them in acquaintance's old cars I had hald a dreaded suspicion of what had occured. Sure enough, when the toe truck turned up, the mechanic immediately identified the problem. A bust timing belt. Possibly the worst thing to go in an engine - so it looks like it's the bus for me this week and a possible fond farewell to the wee clio. You never know there may be some kind of miracle and the damage may not be that bad but timing belt malfunctions are not known for their kindness on the wallet and it may spell the end for the eleven year old clio. Will hopefully find out in the next few days...
So it was the bus, tonight, to take us to the McGarva household for a brilliant sunday dinner from Ka's mum where many questions were raised watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang such as should the Baroness not have died after her fall to the water from the height she was at after her dress was shot by the Baron? Or where did the Baron learn to shoot like that? Personally I reckon it was from his time under the persona of Goldfinger, but that's a different story. Also, how annoying were the kids in that film? No wonder they were caged up by that Child Catcher (Bet you that's what Russell Brand will look like in 40 years time). Relying on public transport again is a real pain though. We went out to get our bus home and the bus driver ignored us and our stop. Refusing to be ignored Ka and myself ran after him though and after he got a lucky red light we got him at the next stop. Arguing with bus drivers is my favourite past time (not really - but they make me do it) but tonight I just could not be bothered, flicking my ticket in his general direction and taking my seat. Bus drivers are generally very poor, certainly in this Glasgow area. They are always rude, grumpy, stupid (half of them don't know the areas they drive through) and give the impression they have a major gripe with the world and anyone that wishes to use their smelly, slow, creaking vehicle. You try to be polite to them, they growl back. You ask a question such as how much to... they growl back. You accuse them of missing the stop you'd just been standing at and the swear and shout at you. This has given me the impression that generally bus drivers are mostly unpleasant people but, unfortunately for me, they are my taxi service for, at least, the next few days. Unless I phone an actual taxi, but they're just silly money. Some of the folk in work may help me out (fingers crossed) - I may have to pull in a few favours! Please Clio, don't die! If only Caractacus Potts were here.