A long train journey and the benefits of chainmail

During the first fifteen minutes of our East Coast six hour journey down to Birmingham New Street on Saturday morning a couple of young Irish dancers, who were sitting in the seats across the carriage’s aisle from us, chatted, argued and passed crisps and juices back and forth to their Mum and their Gran who were sitting in the two seats ahead of Ka and myself. A large group of girls all sat further down the carriage decorated in various birthday attire, one girl draped in a 30th banner, squawking, laughing and howling.
“There’s no way she’s 30!” Ka scoffed under her breath, as the birthday gaggle started, Ka drinking her coffee that had been hastily purchased on the way for our soon to be departing train in Glasgow Central from a girl that asked us how to make a Mocha.
After having looked forward to a quiet journey down to Brum it looked like those chances were dashed as the tinny tunes of JLS started ringing out from one of the girls phones. It had taken four hours to go down to London in a Virgin train at the end of March with Adventure Ted but if the chatter between the family members around us along with the shrill, tinny versions of JLS songs emanating from the girls’ phones was going to last all the way down to Brum this was going to be one long journey.
As it turned out the journey wasn’t too bad. As the journey progressed Ka ascertained, with her uncanny knack or earywigging, that the family were on their way down to Newcastle for an Irish dancing competition. A girl lying over the two seats in front of the two kids, whilst comparing phones and exchanging dial tones, told the Irish dancing girls of her trip down south to see her husband who was currently spending time in Durham. When the kids got a little more wrapped up in their iPhones the girl started chatting with the Mum and Gran revealing that her husband was in fact presently residing in Durham at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He ‘had been naughty’ apparently. Whether ‘naughty’ means murder or drug dealing I’m not sure, unsurprisingly she didn’t go into that much detail.
A loud unpleasant, liquid like cough started gurgling out from the seats behind us after Edinburgh as the train coasted along on it’s journey. As we travelled over and through the fields of the East Coast on our way down to Berwick the bright sunshine glittered over the sea on the horizon, a sign of the great weather to follow on our week off. Just as we were about to start eating our lunch, a picnic, prepared earlier by the ever organised Ka, the gurgling cough was almost spat out from it’s corner of the carriage.
At one point one of the happy girls from the all female birthday party stopped to chat to the source of the gurgling throat which made the irish dancers suddenly suspect the cougher of being famous. The cougher was an elderly, tall man with an enormous grey beard, sitting quietly, observing. A lot like Gandalf, except with more of the catarrh problem. The irish dancers inquisition continued and they asked him if he was a singer. Not with that throat, I thought. Although I’m sure he could have had a go on X factor, belting out the old classic “While my catarrh gently weeps”.
Another guy then started harping on about independence to the Grannie and the Mum in front of us, ranting about what the British Government don’t want us to know and how independence will be a bed of roses. This rant as he travelled down to York for work.
Upon arrival in mid afternoon we met Colin and Heather outside the Upper Crust in Birmingham New Street Station and headed up the escalators into the darkness of the Pallasades Shopping centre.
When I left Birmingham, back in 2004, New Street station and the surrounding Pallasades shopping centre was being renovated and modernised.
Not much has changed. Unfortunately the place is still a state. Lighting and wires hang down from the dark tileless ceiling over the drab surrounding shops and cracked old floor tiles. We walked out into the light, just off New Street itself, to an old pop tune crackling out over an ancient tannoy system, which, Colin informed us, usually played Rolf Harris, and then made our way down Stephenson Street. A lot of the work in progress that had been going on when I left approximately eight years before, was now hidden by wall boards, each with their own wonderful, colourful illustration depicting what the station will look like in some far and distant future, perhaps when we’ll have hover trains and flying cars.
Other areas have shown some signs of improvement though. The Bullring Shopping Centre is now at least twice the size it was since I had last milled around the end of New Street. What was a temporary ramp made of cardboard and wood which stretched from the end of New Street down through the old St. Martin’s Square to the large indoor market and Upper Dean Street was now a large, open, curving, clean, town square surrounding the still standing St. Martin’s Church. Looking out from a viewpoint, high up on one of the balconied steps of the town square, at the foot of the statue of Lord Horatio Nelson, a good view of the south eastern side of Birmingham stretches out before you. The brown brick and spire of St. Martin’s Church looks a little ill at ease amongst the modern, pale tiles and brick of the new square unashamedly contrasting with the form of the weird, gleaming silver, bulbous architecture of Selfridges on it’s left.
Colin and Heather took us home to Yardley Wood where we had a good catch up over tea and chocolate cake before we freshened up and headed out once more to the Mailbox back in the city centre.
Another piece of Brum that was only really just kicking off when I left the Mailbox was a location I visited only once or twice. Considering it’s main attraction was a large Harvey Nichols store at the time I didn’t have much reason to go. The most expensive shop I could go to back in those days was Solihull Morrisons. Along with many designer shops and companies, including BBC Brimingham, the Mailbox now houses many restaurants and bars one of which, Bar Estilo, in which the four of us enjoyed some brilliant tapas and a bottle of red, annoying the waitress by ordering up seconds. We then went on to the lively bars outside on the canals of Gas Street, struggling to fit in to some of them through the crowds watching the Cup Final on the big screens. A little later we took a short walk up the canal eventually ending up in the Pitcher and Piano where we managed to get a seat (a very important factor when your on a night out and getting on a bit). There we settled for the majority of the night, enjoying cocktails, beers and southern comforts before heading out on to Broad Street to seek out a taxi, but only after meeting a friend of Heather’s from work who decided to take us on a wee mystery tour around the bar, apologise and leave us to get on our way again. He had been looking for their boss, I think, but neglected to mention the fact he was four hours late in meeting him.
Broad Street, the Sauchiehall Street of Brum, hadn’t changed a bit. Still full of hen nights, folk in whacky outfits and rows of police cars waiting for trouble. Just before midnight in the taxi home, Heather was interrupted by a call regarding work, and whilst the rest of us were hassling Heather to tell her colleague where to go she remained patient and polite as always trying to give reasonable, polite answers before a squeaky voice started emanating from somewhere. At first I thought Beaker, the Muppet, had popped up somewhere whilst Ka thought I was throwing my voice, presumably attempting to be the voice on the other end of heather’s phone. It turned out to be the taxi driver asking for directions. Directions which Colin gave and the driver ignored with another indecipherable squeak. After arriving back at the Main residence, and being charged double the fare we paid to go into town, we settled down for the night with a night cap, or two, not counting the large amaretto, which would be three. Which then turned into three in the morning.
Colin woke us up the next morning with a good dose of tea and rolls and sausage before we decided to head out to see some Hobbits in Sarehole, a place with an unfortunate name if said in a Scottish dialect.
The local park, The Shire Country Park, was holding a Middle Earth weekend in it’s Sarehole Mill, which I talked everyone into going along to, at least for a walk and to see some sights.
Sarehole Mill, along with Moseley Bog, were childhood hangouts for JRR Tolkien when he lived in Brum in the very late 19th century as a kid and provided the writer with his inspiration for Bilbo and Frodo’s home, Hobbiton.
Though I can’t recall seeing any blacked up Morris dancers in Lord of the Rings. We were met by this merry bunch of decorated dancers as we entered the park. Whilst the drums beat and the bells jangled, Colin, Heather, Ka and myself sauntered in and around the park among the milling crowd, in which a few folk wandered around in Wizard and Elf costumes along with one or two Hobbits. I was half expecting to hear a familiar catarrh shredded spluttering cough from somewhere.
A lot of the attending kids were dressed up in cloaks and hoods, awaiting the dragon parade at 2, running around whilst their parents chatted with neighbours. Tents were set up, some selling pottery, traditionally made food, wood works, crafts and jewellery. In one tent a lady was going over various attendees costumes in fine detail, asking one lady where she managed to produce her lovely elven cloak to which the lady replied the Bull Ring Indoor market. At one stall a man was selling and showing the benefits of wearing chainmail to a rather unconvinced audience. Other larger tents hosted face painting, stalls and stages for performances which, unfortunately, we did not manage to see. We had a train to catch.
So after another drive into Brum town centre and a ridiculous treat in a cake shop which successfully made the four of us feel ill for around an hour or so, we headed back through the Pallasades Shopping centre, Rolf Harris singing ‘Two Little Boys’ over the tannoy behind us, to get our train at 4. Thankfully there were no irish dancers, Gandalfs with throat infections or prisoner’s wives this time round although unfortunately there was a guy sitting across the aisle who liked to sit with his hand down the front of his shorts vigorously scratching himself. Unfortunately, again, I think we were halfway through our Sunday picnic dinner when Ka noticed this.

Going Underground with Adventure Ted

5 minutes to midday late on a Thursday morning and I’m standing at the bar ordering a pint. Possibly the earliest pint for a long while.
Ka and myself were in the Arrol Bar in Glasgow Central awaiting our train, due to leave at 12.40. It was the start of our holiday weekend in London so we thought we’d while away the half hour awaiting the arrival of our Virgin train with a pint and a glass of wine. Adventure Ted came out of the handbag for a tipple too. She came out for a sip of Ka’s wine as we sat in the pub’s front window watching the early afternoon world go by.
Yep, I did say ‘she’ as Adventure Ted is a girl. Her usual abode is, of course, the ELU Nursery, Ka’s work, but as one of the current projects for the kids involves London, the Queen and all things Jubilee, Adventure Ted thought she’d make the trip to London with us, her weekend goal to get her picture taken outside the gates of Buckingham Palace.
We perched Adventure Ted on the stool at the side of the table, moving Ka’s glass of wine to within her grasp, and snapped a photo of her with the phone, texting it to Vicki, who was hard at work back in dreary old Hamilton in the Early Learning Unit. There were a few fellow early drinkers in the bar around us but none seemed to even bat an eyelid at the appearance of a medium sized teddy in an all in one red polka dot outfit and sunhat perched, smiling on the barstool close by. Then again, perhaps the appearance of a bear in polka dots drinking at the next table is not a particularly strange sight for some of the folks that drink around midday in the middle of town.

As the announcement was made over the Central Station tannoy, we made out way out and up to Platform 1 where Adventure Ted obediently posed with our luggage, sitting before another of Richard Branson’s wonderful machines, one of the 390 Pendolino’s, which would deliver us successfully, in around 4 and a half hours, to our destination of the country’s capital.
Once we arrived in London Euston it was around half 4 and by the time we got down into the Underground to make our way to our hotel in Notting Hill it was the height of rush hour as we shuffled our way through the London crowds with our two cases.
Tuts, sighs, conversations, murmurings, all in various different languages, circled us as we made our way through the claustrophobic tunnels and trains of the London Underground, all with their own fantastic fashions, faces and furrowed brows. Singing and guitars echoed along a few of the more acoustic tunnels with the occasional announcements from the tannoys overhead as escalators struggled to ascend to the various different warm station levels carrying the massive crowds piled on top.
It always takes a few wee trips to get back into the London Underground mode when you visit the capital but nothing much has changed.
Spinning adverts and movie trailers on digital screens have now replaced some of the Underground’s escalator posters which follow your ascending or descending to the next level which I thought was quite a cool change though a pretty pricey one, I would have thought.
Never mind the aged track and train replacement, let’s get some 50 odd flashy digital display screens installed on this one escalator.
That can’t be very cost effective surely?
Anyway, after finally arriving at the Shaftesbury Premier Notting Hill Hotel we were helped up into the reception with our cases by a concierge and greeted by a friendly receptionist who got us to fill out our accommodation form and then informed us that we could not stay.
Ka and myself had been ready for a spanner in the works. We had been gearing up for it. Something had to go wrong.
Apparently there was a problem with the air conditioning in our room and, as a result, we would have to be moved to a sister hotel. The receptionist swiftly called a taxi.
A large merc soon pulled up and swept us along to the Shaftesbury Premier Paddingstion Hotel and after a short ten minute drive, in which we seen a biker get his moped trashed after braking too heavily at a corner infront of a car following it from the rear, we were dropped off in the middle of the far busier Westbourne Terrace, five minutes walk from the Paddington Underground station and it’s surrounding shops and restaurants.
The room, and hotel in general, was very nice and we had been promoted to a higher bedroom and would now be welcomed to breakfast on the three mornings of our stay, for our inconvenience.
After quickly unpacking and getting ourselves settled, we hit the streets of Paddington for dinner, ending our walk in the Villa Rosa restaurant on Craven Road, greeted by a pair of stinking armpits and salads with no lettuce. The cannelloni was good though. Ka, however, was put off by the mince being a suspicious grey colour. In retrospect, perhaps not one of our best choices of restaurants.
After our wonderfully average meal we jumped on the tube and headed into town, aiming for Covent Garden. Unfortunately I mistook the Victoria line for the Piccadilly line and we ended up disembarking at Oxford Circus surrounded by shoppers heading home. Moving onwards we ended up in Carnaby Street eventually finding a small bar and a couple of seats for an after dinner beverage.
Another short walk later, we ended up in the bustling Piccadilly Circus where we were to return on our first stop the next morning on our trip to the Royal Academy where we would meet Ann in the sunshine filled courtyard, see some David Hockney, whilst battling pensioners, go out on a tourist quest to see as many sights as possible with Adventure Ted, annoy many a policeman, watch battling ducks, argue over whether it was a pelican or a stork, stand in red telephone boxes and come across more than a few Easter eggs on our way.

Moos and monkey nuts

Trying to talk Mum and Dad into starting up a blog for their Grand World Tour of Austrailia. They're off to Oz on Monday for a month to travel through the cities, beaches, deserts, tropics and barbies meeting various distant relatives along the way. They've even been invited to a Wedding while they are over there.
Not sure if they're keen on the whole blog thing although Mum is talking about keeping a journal in a small notebook I apparently bought for her many moons ago. Mum came across the book the other day finding a small message on the inside cover, written by myself. Turns out the notebook is a nice little hardback number with illustrations littered throughout it's mostly blank pages depicting scenes from, none other than, The Wizard of Oz. Let's just hope they don't get hit with any tornados while they're over there. Or meet any Witches, flying monkeys or pumpkin headed men. (I've never met most of the austrailian relatives before so who knows).
Talking of pumpkin heads, it's halloween this weekend and Ka's nursery are having a party today, three days early. No doubt there'll be loads of monkey nuts and apples flying about.
Halloween was always bad for monkey nuts. Who came up with the idea of monkey nuts at Halloween? Who wanted monkey nuts for telling folk your best jokes? You knew you had to walk a little further afield on your trick or treating if all you were getting for your trouble was flamin' monkey nuts. Sometimes you'd get really lucky on you way round the houses and start getting actual money for your jokes, usually from folk that were either unprepared or just rich and generous. Nowadays, if you were to give money out to the kids you'd probably get reported for suspicious behaviour.
Anyway, today Ka is dressed as a cow with a pink skirt and a ginger fringe. This was the only costume that came to hand for her nursery party. Her brother, Colin McG, wore this cow costume, one of two, at his drama group's panto last year and on Saturday Ka and Jillian borrowed the costumes for a trip to Motherwell. As you may or may not be aware, a bunch of cows stoating around Motherwell on a Saturday is nothing too unusual but on this occasion the cows were panto versions of the actual animal, large and furry with the afore mentioned ginger fringes. It was an animal themed Singing Kettle show which Grace took them along to with Morgan. The lengths these girls go to to entertain Morgan is quite extraordinary. I dropped them off outside the theatre, driving off speedily as they pulled on the furry black and white cow costumes and posed for Grace's camera alongside Morgan, who was a Giraffe. As if this wasn't confusing, or embarassing, enough for Morgan, she was then pulled up on stage during the show to be a penguin.
Saturday is Halloween and will hopefully be the same as last year with no visitors and no rubbish jokes told by seven year olds from under rubbish costumes as they stand muddying up your hall carpet. We live in a flat so we can easily shut and lock the close door to stop any of the kids into our block. This is assuming, of course, that not all the kids are down the swing park boozing or mugging each other. We've only had trick or treaters at our door once and I don't think they've ever come back. They couldn't have liked their monkey nuts.

Fry and apple tea

Have just sat and watched the second episode of 'Stephen Fry in America' and what a great series it is turning into. Throughout the series he is to visit all 50 states of America, some of them way too briefly but it has proven to be a pretty entertaining watch. Fry is usually pretty honest, witty and interesting in all television projects he has been involved in, so to see him hit the big U. S. of A. has got to be engaging viewing. He's so english he looks quite out of place walking about in some of the situations and surroundings he finds himself in and does not shy away from being blatantly honest infront of the camera. Tonight he was up in a hot air balloon in North Carolina, gliding slowly over the giant tree tops, at first gripping the sides of the basket. No camera work could disguise the guy in a state of absolute fear. He did seem to relax a little as the slow flight continued, however, collecting a few leaves from passing trees. I've always wanted to go up in a hot air balloon. Ka, I'm sure, would say something sarcastic such as 'how fitting' but it's true. I've always fancied it. I'm not great with heights so it's probably not the wisest thing to hanker for but that slow glide through the skies, over a mile above the ground, looks great on tv. In Tenerife I did do some paragliding so it can't be much different can it? Well, it probably is very different and generally much higher but still vaguely similar! The rest of the folk I was on holiday with at the time certainly didn't seem too keen and preferred to sit around the pool side all day. Personally, I hate holidays like that. Why spend a couple of hundred pounds to go abroad, to a different country, only to sit by a pool all day? It's great to walk and soak up the streets, try and experience a bit of the culture, the marketplaces, speak to the people, and just generally learn more about your new surroundings. You just don't get that with an uncomfortable plastic bed and a bottle of sun tan lotion. Don't get me wrong I've ended up in a few dodgy situations before in recent years, the most recent being in Turkey when a 100 year old Shopkeeper trapped in his shop in an effort to make me buy something to gain my release - which of course I did. Ka and myself were walking down from the tombs in Fethiye and in dire need of a drink so we strolled into a small corner shop to see if there was any fanta in the fridge. As we hummed over the contents of the fridge we were aware of a gnarly old man in a white hat, not unlike a very ancient man from Delmonte, getting up from a wooden stool behind the counter and walking round to the front of the shop. Ka and myself turned to see the old man grinning into out faces asking us if we would like a cup of tea. Never one to deny a cup of tea off hand, I considered, as Ka ran out the shop, ducking round another old man that had emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop, who seemed even older than the first, who growled through his tooth. Being a little slow in the uptake, as usual, I sensed danger and doffing my hat made to leave. But the old man sprung forward and almost tripped me with two small plastic crates which he upturned and offered as seats, producing another in between us to act as a table. As Ka and myself hesitantly sat down the second old man offered us some apple tea, which we gingerly accepted. Suddenly the first old man went up to the front of the shop, reached up and flicked a switch. The shop's front shutter shivered into motion and started to close before us. Ka and myself looked at each other in alarm over our apple tea. Grabbing the hat on my head I readied myself for a dive under the descending wall, imagining an Indiana Jones like dive followed by a quick grab of my hat from the ground level of the otherside of my escape. Fortunately the old man stopped the shutter and was only lowering it a little so shield the sun which had been shining in our eyes. How kind. After this Ka and myself drank a few more sips of our, admittedly, rather refreshing apple tea and went on our way, of course, not without a packet of apple tea under our arm, doubled in price thanks to the slightly unsettling table service. Looking back at this as I sip on my apple tea, I'm considering that maybe I'm actually better off just staying at home...