Coincidence No.1

1) The first thing I saw, a great crocodile of kids clutching Lion King flags and filing onto coaches from of allplaces, gollygosh Matlock, Derbyshire.

2) The lonely angst of the big city

3) Ohmigodthetraffic. It wasnt like this 25 years ago, muttered the old lady as she tottered down the road.

4) Ah! Bless!

5) Still at it. There were lots of little touching demonstrations of love and affection in amongst the rushing crowds and roaring traffic. Not wanting to seem pervy I only snapped this pair who hugged continuously while I approached, walked past and crossed to the other side of the road.

6) Not quite got the hang of the zoom

7) This is one of my favourites

Cool, mysterious et tres arty - non?

9) I like this one too, it was kind of a serendipitous mistake, I didnt realise the camera was focussing on the flowers in the back of this exquisite old Citroen DS (from diesse – French for goddess, did you know that? I only just found that out. what lovely cars.)

10) . . . and to finish off – a bit of a cliche, but then, I was just another tourist with a camera. What can you expect?

My blog is moving

Inspired by our fascinating discussion at the last Urban Bloggers meeting, and now re-reading the summary on the Catch Up sheet, I’ve decided to concentrate on my other blog, Woodworker’s Wife . The subject’s going to widen out beyond the chapel conversion as well.

There are butterflies in my stomach as I contemplate leaving the security of this UB202 ‘homework’ blog and step out into the big world.

AND – HEY GUESS WHAT?? I BOUGHT A CAMERA!

Urban Bloggers condemned me to Tesco hell

A woman found screaming hysterically in a 24-hour Tesco was the victim of urban depravity and credit card indecision, said ambulance paramedics tonight.
After hours spent rushing between the digital camera display and the photo phones, trying to work out whether a ‘chocolate pink’ Nokia (£15 off if £25 spent in store) was a better deal than the Fujifilm Finepix on special offer ONLY TILL SATURDAY, Mrs Grimsdale was removed from the premises in a trolley of Sauvignon Blanc. A 10-year old assistant from the Electronic Service Desk told reporters he had only been working there for a week.

“This new photo blogging craze is sweeping up from London and overwhelming people whose technological glass ceiling is the Kodak Instamatic,” said a man in the car park. Mrs Grimsdale was too drunk to comment, but a man with scabs all over his face said she could use his Cannon EOS 350D provided she kept the strap round her neck at all times.

Foxy’s night out

The dog inside barks and gets told to shut up, I can feel his fury lancing through the night that should be bright with moonlight but instead is dripping and drizzling. He whines and makes the chicken korma taste even better;  I flip the bin over as I leave so there’s a fury of barking from inside, followed by shouts and then lights. Bingo!

Two doors down they leave titbits on the lawn for me, so I sit for a while, blinking back at them where they sit thrilled peering at me through the blind. These gardens back onto the railway line, fox motorway at this time of night, then there’s the allotments. Not much good for food, except the odd sandwich crust, too many veg for my taste, but a plenty of routes for a speedy getaway if necessary.

But Im making my way through the gardens, going to try for the jackpot tonight, the alley behind the High Street where there’s a kebab shop next to an Italian, then the chippy and the Indian – he makes that tasty korma. Have to make a dash for it under the orange lights, mostly its drunks and if they notice me they usually laugh and point. If they throw anything, their aim is lousy, but all the same it doesnt pay to hang around. Careful now, then go for it, paws streaking along the slick wet pavement.

Dinner over, I’ll head back, wind up a few cats, snarl at the rats (you’re never more than 3 feet .. ..) then creep back inside my snug little den while the city gears up for another day.

More on teeth

Not a lot’s been happening, what shall I write about? Probably fill in the detail of our visit to Lowdham BooK Festival yesterday, today’s been so quiet. Stayed in bed till 10 reading Andrea Levey’s Small Island, really into it now and desperate to know how they all make out: Gilbert and Hortense, Queenie & Bernard, will Michael turn up or is he dead?

Grimsdale suggests a bike ride, Look out of the window at the rain and stormy sky, decide to stick to a dog walk. So later contented dog and me are back home, the doorbell rings and its neighbour from the corner: There’s been an accident, Grim’s come off his bike, he’s ok but they’ve called an ambulance.!

Strange, how I shrieked and ran around – put my shoes on, ambulance’s been called so I need my handbag: christ! what’s in my handbag? Have I got my mobile? where’s the house keys? put the dog in the living room (he’s looking worried). Running up the road (running’s not my forte) there he is on the corner, blood all over his jacket and on his face, more screaming from me.

He’d been coming down the hill of Main Street on his bike about to make the turn into our lane, a car driven as usual, at speed to the junction, had been coming up our lane. G. rams on the brakes and goes over the handlebar, landing on his head.

We wait for the ambulance, at first standing in the road, I run home and get his fleece, then sitting on neighbour’s garden bench, then in neighbour’s kitchen – have to turn down offer of tea though there’s nothing Id like more what if there’s anaesthetic, me in back of ambulance?, then decide to walk the 20 or so yards home might as well.

Lad driving car is out in the road on his mobile, looking out for the ambulance. Its muggy, not cold, but damp and wet, so I tell him to go on and not hang around. We exchange names and phone numbers.

We sit on the sofa, dabbing at the bleeding mess that is Grimsdale’s face. I stick my head out the door and see 3 ambulance paramedics, girls in green jumpsuits in the lane. They all come in, one kneels down at his feet and starts cleaning him up, the other sits beside him and starts checking out his back – he says his back hurts but reckons its muscle. The other girl gazes round her, amazed at the inside of the chapel and engages me in the usual oh my god, you mean you live here? are you doing all the work yourself? conversation.

Anyway he’s ok. He takes 2 paracodol. I show them the rest of the basement and they go, grateful thanks from us. Make tea. try and calm down. Then he starts to fret about his bike and about his teeth. He’s lost the last real tooth on his top set and cracked the plate of the false set. I go and retrieve the bike from the neighbour’s garage and find the poor old last tooth in the road.

Good job his spare set are on the windowsill.

Lowdham Book Fair

Blogger speaks with wit,
small publishers with passion.
Writers, tea, cakes, rain

3 yellow things

There are 3 yellow things to see standing at my rainy backdoorstep. The gritbin, golden rod over the garden wall and a mysterious yellow thing.

What can it possibly be? It’s lurking jaundicedly at the end of the lane, grabbing my eye every time I go in and out of the back door. It’s no yellow peril, not worth the suspense, just the bulbous back of a minidigger Mike down at the rectory has got for his weekend building project.

Later the sun comes out and shines on us all dressed in black as we walk up the hill to say goodbye to a lovely man. The chapel (the last real one left in the village) is crowded and we have to stand in the schoolroom, squashed against the back wall behind the broad shoulders, cropped heads and earrings of the men from the Quarry, they must be his workmates, a big crowd of them, all men, broad shoulders, cropped bullet heads and earrings glinting in most ears. Later someone says they’ve closed the quarry this afternoon so they could all come, and so they should.

We sing ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’ and ‘All things bright and beautiful’ and the preacher, who I cant see, starts to work up a head of steam, I’ve never been to a Congregational funeral before and the quarrymen shuffle and grimace a bit. Then we squeeze out into the sunshine and his coffin comes past, topped with yellow flowers and goes down across the impossibly bright green grass to the waiting grave where people sob and all the familiar stark comforting words are said. We file past the sad open grave and there’s a yellow wreath in the shape of a spanner to ‘Grandad’.

Surfing in Derbyshire

The railways do confound. Travel expecting flood, apocalypse and a night shivering on some unknown platform, what do they do but whisk you smooth and smiling from A to B and back again – and all for only £20.

Those Derbyshire surfer boys must have been out and about on the floodwaters while I was away. They left a surfboard in the middle of the deserted 1.00am road at the mini roundabout on the way out of spire town. Strange grey shape under the orange lights in its zip-on cover – now if only I had one of those camera phones!

Grimsdale’s knashers

Grimsdale has left his old set of teeth on the kitchen window sill again. I’m rushing round at 6.15 in the morning, half having breakfast, half getting my stuff together and trying to tidy up because the man is coming round to assess us for an insultation grant. I avoid looking at the teeth, which are in a green plastic Ikea tumbler, the man will never notice.

Later phone home and G tells me the man’s been, but he’s scratching his head somewhat as the grant is for ceiling insulation (no ceilings yet) or central heating (that’s a long way off). Grim, remains optimistic though, the grant fund is around for a few years yet

Who gave who the flower

Poor flower battered by the rain. It was just a little gesture, wasn’t supposed to mean much – well, so he’d say. But she was so wrapped in her own unhappiness she just wasn’t able to respond.

Like that boy who asked her if she’d have a coffee with him on Portobello and she responded with outrage – even though there she was, all alone, no one else would be home until 6 or later and then it always took them another hour before they were fit to talk to.

35 years later she thought how much time had been wasted.