"Just because you want to watch the trains go by"

That 1960s BR rail safety TV ad’ had a rather sneering and sarcastic tone. The words were directed at railway enthusiasts, though it was not train spotters who were the most endangered species at the rail side but rail workers, followed by the travelling public.

Some stations banned spotters altogether for health and safety reasons. That decision was supposedly made for the benefit of passengers but also perhaps to take a bit of pressure off the station staff. There could be quite a lot of us around from time to time.

Since those days, an avalanche of rules and regulations has been accompanied by a gradual improvement in working conditions, especially for those engaged in safety critical operations on the railway. I would like to think that such advances emanated from greater consideration by the public, government and employers for the well-being of the workforce. It was not “health and safety gone mad,” as some might have been tempted to describe it - though increased fear of litigation no doubt pushed things along a bit, too.

   

In France, the United States and Tanzania - examples I have seen at first hand, the railway is not hemmed in with quite the same insistence on interminable miles of robust fencing as it is here. Everybody knows that trains are big heavy bits of metal and it’s therefore probably not a good idea to get in the way of them. Road vehicles everywhere pose a similar threat, but other than alongside motorways, we don’t seal them in quite so vigorously.

Circumstances are certainly different elsewhere, both culturally and developmentally. Those countries are all characterised by larger expanses of land, lower population densities and sparser rail networks. In Britain, the railway often appears to be more up close and personal, cheek by jowl with suburbs that seem to go on for ever.

In much of western America, appointed places to cross the railway are frequent, almost always on the level and many passageways do not have any kind of barrier. It is largely a matter of “Look and Listen” before you cross, as is still the case in some of the more rural parts of Britain. In developing countries, people walk along the track, using it as a thoroughfare, generally saunter over it as required and in many cases live uncomfortably close to it, through necessity.  

It must contribute notably to the cost of train travel in Britain when almost every inch of the network has to be sealed in with fencing which seems to be growing higher and becoming more substantial and invasive. It is also uncompromisingly metallic and very unsightly. It makes the lineside a less welcoming environment and it spoils the view.

In Trains and Buttered Toast [John Murray, 2008, p.125] Sir John Betjeman wrote, that “Railways were built to look from and to look at. They still provide those pleasures for the eye.” Unfortunately, I think we now seem to be in a spot of bother with that assertion.

[Based on an article of the same name that first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey. Thanks also to Simon Turner at GW Railwayana Auctions for permission to include an illustration from the GWRA archive.

"Now here's the thing - Train Station"

There it was in black and white on the front of the Loughborough bus.

“Town Centre, Train Station.”

“It’s railway station,” I muttered to myself.

“Don’t be so pedantic,” I replied.

“It’s railway station,” I repeated.

When did that happen, then? Is it another Americanism? Almost certainly. Should it grate with me? Perhaps not. Language changes all the time. Words and phrases go out of fashion. Words come in from abroad and become absorbed as they always have done. Look no further than jodhpur and gateau - though not necessarily together. New words are added to official dictionaries with each new edition. Redundant words fade from use. Perhaps we should just get used to it.

If people reply that they are “good,” rather than well, when you ask after their health, is there really any need to grimace inside? If the youngsters around the table with you at the restaurant ask the waitress, “Can I get a steak?” rather than, “Can I have a steak?” it doesn’t mean that they are about to dive into the kitchen and help themselves, so does it matter?

A friend, who, though perhaps living uncomfortably close to the Welsh border for the maintenance of his own equilibrium, has been known to go off on one when he sees the direction sign welcoming car drivers to both Flint and Y Fflint. “What a waste of money, all that extra metal, paint and time paid to the sign writer; too many effing “Fs”. We know where we are effing going.” 

Specific terminology helps bind groups in the same way that language at large binds a nation [thus Y Fflint etc]. It provides a feeling of identity and common purpose. I’m perfectly OK with “railroad” as long as I’m in America, reading a book about American railways or one written by an American.

Predictable usage is familiar, reliable - even comforting - and a commonly accepted vocabulary ensures that those that share an identity in a particular area of experience - like railwayana, for example - know exactly what is being discussed. I plead only for tolerance. On a personal level, I promise to try harder to smile rather than wince at the next new fashion in words, as our very dynamic language continues to roll on.  

[Based on an earlier article which first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to the ditor, Tim Petchey]

Ars Longa Vita Brevis

I’ve always made a bit of an effort to try to appreciate cultural zones that don’t initially appeal. I check out the odd classical, folk and jazz concert, though I draw the line at country music. I have walked out of the musical, Cats [through boredom], abandoned Philip Glass [I made it to the interval and went for a stroll, instead] and even Bob Dylan [I went to the bar]. I couldn’t recognise some of the songs that I thought I knew. 

The same is true in literature. In my quest for life-long learning, I tried Charles Dickens again and Charlotte Bronte but soon retreated to Sue Townsend and Bill Bryson. And then there is art. I’m happy with Lowry and Grayson Perry, OK with Turner and David Hockney, but I’m baffled by Mondrian and Jackson Pollock. I find Dali depressing and Picasso unappealing. I promise that I still try, although often it just doesn’t happen.

Yet, I have marvelled at the centuries old Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymous Bosch at the Prado in Madrid, stared into the eyes of Van Gogh’s self-portrait at the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC and queued in the Hermitage in St Petersburg, to be astounded by the clarity of Da Vinci’s Madonna Litta.

All of which leads me - and by no means feeling comfortably in charge - to the subject of railway art. Time was, I could have named all the railway artists I knew on the fingers of one hand – Cuneo, Shepherd, Welch, Hamilton-Ellis, er…. I might actually have been struggling for a little finger example.

I was first attracted to 1930s and 1960s railway advertising posters. I moved on to collect original carriage prints and from there to the commercial copies of paintings by the leading railway artists. More recently, I bought my first original oil painting.

We visit friends who have an artistic background. Their home is a dynamic treasure trove of their eclectic choice of art work, including some wonderful quad royal railway posters, carefully selected prints and an impressive array of originals.

I felt sufficiently stimulated to join in. You really do put your money where your mouth is, or perhaps, more accurately, where your eyes are. So what makes a good railway painting? Is it authenticity, as represented by mechanical accuracy, the sensitive interpretation of light through colour or simply the application of imagination? Is it largely a matter of perspective or is it an overall impression - the ability to conjure up a particular ambience - that is most important?

Help is at hand, however. Within the Guild of Railway Artists, the relative merits of contributors are judged by their fellows, those who are already renowned for work of quality. They have their own distinctive hierarchy - elite fellows, full members, associate members and the friends group, which takes the total membership above 300, though it has to be said that there are also fine railway artists who do not appear to be connected to the guild at all.

As I look more carefully I can see why the top names are where they are. It is easy to see how the quality of their work has earned them their status. Factual accuracy and attention to detail are clear prerequisites. I have seen pictures for sale at railway events and elsewhere, where one glance tells you that the artist has just not got it right. I think I know what the various classes of steam locomotive look like from every conceivable angle, so I recognise almost instinctively if a representation of them is “out” in any way. It grates. It almost hurts to look at it. All the big names get these things right.

The best railway artists recreate a moment in time. The locomotive is in an appropriate setting and the context is likely to be significant and equally well produced. The figures who inhabit the scene can be important ingredients in recreating the atmosphere. There are still plenty of opportunities for personal interpretation. Paintings do not have to look like photographs to be effective, though proficient photographers use changing weather and lighting conditions to their advantage in the same way.

I’m hoping to add to my collection of originals. I shall be on the look-out for unusual angles and imaginative compositions to add to the traditional, three-quarter side-on locomotive portrait so expertly represented here by Barry Price.

[With thanks to Barry Price for giving me permission to use photos of his painting for this purpose, and also to Tim Petchey, editor at the Railway Antiques Gazette, where a lengthier form of this article first appeared.]

"The train now standing at platform one..."

“The train now standing at platform one is the 8.55 for London Paddington, calling at Chester General, Shrewsbury, Wolverhampton Low Level, Birmingham Snow Hill..….” When I close my eyes and whisk myself back I can still hear it now, booming out and echoing around under Birkenhead Woodside station’s overall roof.

Sometimes crackling into life with a “ping,” sometimes coming across intermittently when the microphone was not properly connected. Sometimes the whole performance was accompanied by background hiss and sometimes you could hear other people’s conversations in the background. It was fallible human beings wrestling with intermediate technology. It was imperfectly perfect, to me.            

 

It has all changed now, of course. Received pronunciation at the main line termini and the regional accents of the provinces are long gone. In their place is a staccato, characterless, computerised electronic system, uttered by a robot. The output is so distant and functional that it smacks of disregard and even rudeness. It is another example of how human interaction has become less valued than the technological alternative. 

My own favourite “old school,” and as far as I can recall, very polite public address system message came on a Peter Handford, Argo Transacord, extended play vinyl record, which turned at forty-five revolutions per minute on the turntable of my Dansette record player. That came with an auto-changer that allowed us to stack records in multiple. Now that did seem pretty high-tech’ to us.

It was called Change at Templecombe, though it is long gone from my collection for reasons that can only be summed up as a complete and near criminal lack of foresight. It looked like a seven-inch diameter “single” record, but it had two or three tracks squeezed onto each side. I had about five such discs. I see now that it was EAF125 that gave me so much pleasure after I had made my own pilgrimage to Templecombe, in 1965.

Bear with me, please, because I don’t think I have heard the actual recording during this century. It was preceded by a loud click as the PA was switched on. “Templecombe, Templecombe. This is Templecombe. Change trains here for Bath and Bournemouth lines. Over the bridge to number three platform for trains to Bath and Bournemouth. The train at platform one is for Exeter Central, calling at Sherborne, Yeovil Junction, Crewkerne, Axminster, Seaton Junction, Sidmouth Junction and Exeter Central. Change at Exeter Central for Exeter St David’s.”

On the trains today there is a barrage of audio information in addition to the digital VDU displays. I’m happy with that. I would much prefer to listen to a real human with a regional accent, that marvellous phenomenon that divides us and unites us as a nation all at the same time. I love it. I sometimes hear a bit of sniggering from along the carriage when a distinctly regional passenger manager is on the air. I can do without class conscious contempt, to be honest.

If the tittering is directed at someone who is getting to grips with English as their second language, then it just makes me feel uneasy. Momentarily, I am uncomfortable being there and even a bit embarrassed to be British. I was taught to treat people as I would wish to be treated, wherever they have come from. 

There were no mobile phones in my day. Before Subscriber Trunk Dialling - the initials STD long lost to something else - we had to ring the operator to connect us to the holder of the destination number, which was given as a location followed by a few digits. You expected a clear speaking voice, and a polite manner was not in question.

I could probably have done more to reduce cold calling on my land line. I don’t get out as much as I used to and incoming calls bring a little more variety to the day. I really don’t mind answering the phone and I’m always friendly and polite to whoever is calling. What I get in return is unconvincing enquiries about my health, a rehearsed or dictated spiel, a “media” voice or downright ingratiating sycophancy. “Hello, Sir. It’s just a quick courtesy call from……” No it isn’t. Courteous is actually the last thing it is.

When they pause for breath after the opening pitch and I say, “No, thank you,” they just carry on as if I had not spoken at all. “No, thank you,” I repeat, at which point the phone call is emphatically curtailed at the other end without so much as a good-bye. The person who has been artificially as nice as pie up to that point then shows his or herself to be totally insincere. Phoney pleasantries fail to mask commercialism in the raw. Recently, a lady who was only too pleased to tell me that her name was Roxy rang me about her solar panels. Her parting shot after my repeated, “No, thanks,” was, “So you like wasting your money do you?” I would have been happy to explain my position but she was already off to find someone else to be rude to - had they not immediately fallen for her charms, of course.

[Adapted from an article which first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey] 

Clock Stopped

This was an expression that an old friend of mine used to describe acquaintances who had adopted an appearance and style associated with a particular fashion when they were young and impressionable, but who had then chosen to stick with it long after it had become not just passé but a downright blast from the past.

Though delivered in good humour, it implied that whilst we recognised ourselves as hip, cool and groovy young people around town, those on the receiving end of the observation emphatically were not. It is an accusation that has probably come home to roost long ago. Would I still be sporting a Beatle fringe had hair loss not intervened? Perhaps circumstance has dragged my appearance into the present century as much as any purposeful decision to move with the times.

My own railway clock has also stopped - again. It was a long shot to begin with, I suppose. It was thought to be in working order and was complete with a key, though it was minus glass and bezel and the eight inch, LMS inscribed dial sported a different number from the one on the wooden housing, indicating, presumably, that two former railway clocks had actually been stitched together to re-make one. At least one part of it was thought to have been in use in a Rugby Midland station signalbox.

  

Luckily, I know a man who fixes clocks and he gave mine a good going over as soon as I had bought it, replacing the bits that were missing and cleaning and servicing its innards at a reasonable price. My brother-in-law, a restorer of art work on antique furniture, kindly touched up the clock face for me. A good job done then, I thought, as my initial outlay, plus my friend’s and my brother-in-law’s input, still left me in a good place financially, when comparing it to other similar examples at auction.

In place and ticking, there was now just the little matter of getting the thing to tell the time accurately enough to help run a railway. I’m not sure how reliable the internal workings of the Rugby signalboxes were in the days of steam, but I don’t remember hearing about any lack of synchronisation between the boxes along that stretch of line that might have been caused by my clock’s different interpretation of GMT.

Then it stopped, even before it had properly settled into its own version of the 24-hour day. My friend took it back and found that it needed some replacement parts. I felt a bit embarrassed about calling him again and I think he felt a bit embarrassed that I had had to do so.

It returned home fitted with its new bits for another go at being a normal clock. We talked about what needed to happen without me raising my voice. I wound it up and off it went. So far, so good, I thought. As instructed, I gradually adjusted the little wheel at the end of the pendulum each week to speed it up or slow it down slightly, and I was confident that Bob would soon become my uncle.

After all, we had already ironed out that other little teething problem, whereby, if the mouse-sized trapdoor at the base was shut, the pendulum could not move without rubbing against it. I was quickly on to that little setback, resulting in the very slightest filing of the end of the pendulum. 

Now it has stopped again. This time, it has received quite a severe talking to and in spite of threats of the imminent withdrawal of any further pocket money being spent, it still refuses to do any more than rock its pendulum until the few swings I have encouraged it to attempt with direct finger power have been dissipated.

“My clock has stopped again,” I informed my wife. “Good,” she said. “I don’t like listening to all that ticking.” So, no sympathy there then, though I like my clock and it certainly looks the part, but I would prefer that it was doing something to earn its keep rather than just loafing against the wall looking polished and elegant.

Now where did I put my clock man friend’s number, again?  

[From an article that first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette and with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]

There is no such thing as the Poo Fairy

The single track Midland Railway branch, constructed in 1871 to connect Mansfield to Rolleston Junction via Southwell, was built with coal traffic in mind and it closed completely in 1964. It now performs another useful function as the Southwell Trail, a walking, horse riding and cycling amenity, leading inevitably to plenty of doggie-dos and manure, especially near the access points. In more recent times, dog owners have been shamed into picking up the little steamers in those small plastic sacks, thus giving a whole new meaning to the term, “doggie bag.”

Instead of holding onto them until a suitable receptacle is reached, however, some owners seem to prefer to litter the path with black, pink and blue parcels, often hung like Christmas decorations on adjacent bushes and trees and prompting an indignant local with a sense of humour to put up notices to remind offending dog owners that, “There is no such thing as the Poo Fairy.”  

I have found that one of the unfortunate effects of the ageing process is the requirement to visit the facilities with greater frequency than in times past. One of my early morning cocktail of little white pills is apparently designed to remove excess fluid from my system. It usually springs into action when I’m half-way round the supermarket or at the wheel of my car, either in a traffic jam or on a motorway just after we have passed a service station.

Up until two years ago, the last time I’d had a little accident was whilst sitting cross-kneed on the polished wooden floor in the hall at my infant school, in 1954. “Not me,” I claimed insistently to all those around me, as the pool, in which I was the only island, gradually enlarged, as if emanating from some underground spring. “Not Me.”

Nearly six decades later, I discovered the hard way that public toilets in Stockholm are more difficult to locate than I had hoped. I even made it back to the hotel but could not see the sign I expected to find on any of the doors in the reception area. I dived into the lift, where muscle fatigue finally got the better of me and I embarrassed myself, thankfully privately, before covering the evidence with my day-pack and scuttling into the hotel room and somewhat belatedly completing the job.

I recently travelled to Edinburgh to take advantage of my birthday present to myself, a first class day return to the Scottish capital. I was very well fed and watered by the time I got to Waverley station, so first stop the loo. It must have suddenly come over me when I stood up. That can happen. “30p? You must be joking?” Off I rushed down Princes Street in search of quality at a more reasonable price. I found just the place in John Lewis’s, always reliable and “never knowingly undersold,” whatever that means.

On my way back from Scotland, I noticed that all my pocket money for the day was still intact and I was being looked after every bit as well as I had been on the way there. After downing complimentary tea, coffee, sparkling water and a can of Stella Artois, I needed the odd trip or two to the loo. When pointing Percy at porcelain on a train, who can claim they have never wafted a spray across the smallest room after a sudden jolt over the points, heavy braking for an unexpected signal check or a relatively cavalier switch by the driver onto the slow line? Surely, we have not always left the facilities exactly as we might have wished to find them, as a result?  

I may not have spent any money while I was north of the border, I mused, as I carefully kept my balance with my feet firmly apart, but at least I’d made a substantial deposit at John Lewis’s. 

Quiet Coach B

Quiet Coach B was actually quiet for the 12 minutes it was timetabled to travel from Newark Northgate to Grantham. The racket started as soon as the doors were opened. “This one, then. There’s seats there.” They stumbled aboard with rucksacks and bulging carrier bags, but no suitcases. “They’re no good. They’re all reserved. We’ll have to split up.”

“Excuse me, this is the Quiet Coach,” someone already comfortably seated prior to Grantham bravely piped up. Reducing the pitch of their voices by about one decibel per person, they started to fan out down the carriage. “Some up here,” claimed the pioneer, walking the full length of the coach towards our carefully chosen, reserved and labelled, window and aisle seats, facing the direction of travel.

“Are these taken?” she asked, staring first at the empty reservation card holders above the two seats opposite, then at us, before returning her glance to the seat backs in apparent disbelief that they really were vacant. “Look, six together. You go there,” she motioned to the rest of her party. “We’ll sit here…. Do you mind?” she implored, turning to lean over us, her bag already half on what I had already begun to regard as “our” table. A little reluctantly, I shuffled together the various sections of the Saturday newspaper. It felt like she was apologising in advance for the fact that it was no longer going to qualify for the description of Quiet Coach B.

“I’m desperate for a coffee,” her partner exclaimed, so drained by the process of finding six seats within shouting distance of each other that caffeine levels had been reduced to critical. “Mine’s white with one sugar,” came the sarcastic interjection from the other end of the Coach Formerly Known as Quiet Coach B.

All seated at last, out came the bottles of Buck’s Fizz. The first cork to be removed ricocheted off the light fitments set in the ceiling above our heads and shot off down the coach in the general direction of the most recent contributor to the conversation, and was accompanied from our end of the carriage by the sort of muffled laughter that naughty children employ when they have just been found out. 

Thus began one of the rowdiest trips to London that Quiet Coach B had probably witnessed in quite a time. The subsequent entertainment was provided by a group of middle-aged party-goers, determined to start their day out in the metropolis in a manner that they clearly had every intention of maintaining throughout. From a range of containers, a vast picnic was assembled. “Would you like a cold sausage sandwich - these ones are veggie?”

The initial excitement subsided and we chatted our way to the capital, though perhaps with some of us feeling a little more sheepish than others about talking at what might be described as normal volume. It transpired that our new friends did have reserved seats in coach B, had not realised it was nominally a quiet coach and had then found out that some of their seats were already occupied once they had embarked.

On our return journey the next day, the attendant broke off from wheeling the snacks trolley down the train to reprimand a young man who had infringed the rules of Quiet Coach B by taking a call on his mobile phone whilst still at his seat. “The ticket collector will have a word with you, so I’m just warning you,” she offered, as non-confrontationally as she could manage.

   .   

I was reminded of another instance when a railway passenger had been attracted by the noises he had heard on a train journey sufficiently to want to record the event. It seems we are a whole world away from Adlestrop now. Edward Thomas’s poem is surely the most evocative of all those that described the atmosphere of times past on the railway.

When his train stopped briefly at the now long gone country station on a summer’s day, the sounds he was met with were very different from those concerning us here.

“The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat…

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.”

Isn’t that just wonderful?

Recent publication, Seafarer Jones, now available on Kindle.

Seafarer Jones now joins Youth Hostellers and Dick Jones of the Hoylake Horse as an eBook on Kindle.

Off My Trolley

Of all the items that crop up at railwayana auctions, I can honestly say I don’t remember ever seeing a platform trolley. Hardly surprising, I suppose. Substantial, heavy and rather unwieldy affairs, but they are absolutely central to my reminiscences of platform dwelling in the 1960s. Sitting on the raised, metal rimmed edge surrounding the carrying area of the trolley itself cut off the circulation to your lower legs quite effectively, so you had to put in quite a lot of wriggling time to avoid deep vein thrombosis in the course of a whole day’s train spotting.

We assumed that the unpainted and not noticeably labelled variety were the railway’s own property. Many were more obviously Post Office trolleys, painted pillar box red and with altogether smoother boards, come to think of it. Of those, some were surrounded by wire cages, so they were no use to us at all. We did not want to be enclosed like animals at the zoo. We needed to stretch out a bit more than that – and we required a more frequent feeding regime.

Profusions of both types, however, could be seen stacked up to about eight feet off the ground with sacks full of parcels. The Christmas rush from the Arctic Circle, maybe? Of course, they were provided for staff to use and not the travelling public, directly. After all, that was what the station porters were there for, lugging stuff around for passengers. Station porters – there were millions of them!

Trolleys were moved by pulling the handle down to waist height to release the brake on the far axle. At rest, the pole and handle were in the upright position and slightly inclined towards the trolley surface. I assume that this position automatically applied the brake, so the trolley presented us with a seat which was often much closer to the platform end than the last official platform bench, which was always an advantage. It was definitely a case of location, location, location.

Platform ends were always preferable. If you were almost anywhere else on the station you could miss a loco’ passing by on another track, because the view was blocked off by the train that was standing at your own platform. Platform ends gave you the best chance of seeing everything that came through.

Although the brake was on, there was often some give on the wheels at the un-braked end where the handle was, especially if the trolley had been parked with those leading wheels a bit awry. This allowed us to sit on the trolley and rock it just a short distance, but everybody knows how comforting rocking chairs can be and we never tired of gently swaying the thing backward and forward a few inches, backward and forward, hour after hour.  

The platform trolley became home base at many a station, but especially at Crewe, Chester and Shrewsbury. Being mildly rebellious by not conforming to the occupation of a standard British Railways platform bench would have appealed to us as well. From our chosen perch we would sort out all the world’s problems. We would agonise indignantly at the injustice of the latest omission of Colin Harvey of Everton from the England football team and ponder over our rank order for over-weight county cricketers, who were rubbish at fielding.

 

We were also prepared to share our trolley with more deserving causes on occasions. Mail bags could get a bit lumpy to lean on, but you could sometimes fashion a little nest out of them that afforded a degree of back support and relative comfort. The wicker frames of pigeon baskets would emit much rustling and creaking and their submissive contents would go in for sporadic collective cooing to draw our attention to their imprisonment, but we largely ignored their plight. We had more pressing issues to attend to.

We were rarely disturbed by officialdom. If so, it was most likely to be a relatively polite request to “Shift” or an occasional “Come on, hop it.” Being the well-mannered and easy-going youngsters we were, we would have sprung to our feet and abandoned our base, quickly stuffing loco-shed book, notebook and pen, butty box and R. Whites lemonade bottle into the army surplus rucksack with the straps that would never stay taut, however carefully you tried to secure them.

Sometimes, a whole train of trolleys would snake its way along the platform, pulled by a diminutive motorised contraption, bearing a railway employee in a peaked hat. In some cases, a few trolleys strung together would be hauled by hand, with a little difficulty, by a porter or PO worker, clattering along, winding in and out of piles of suitcases and knots of passengers.

On occasions that we were probably engrossed in teasing each other, trolleys would sometimes take us by surprise, arriving in convoy, packed high with mail bags or cardboard boxes, in readiness for the impending visit of an express. On its arrival, the double doors on the brake van would fly open and a brief bout of energetic activity would interrupt the usual sedentary pace of the day. Doors would eventually be slammed, accompanied by a rapid exchange of unintelligible messages bellowed insistently between the staff, followed by impatient whistling from the locomotive, as if the whole process had taken far too long for its liking. Then the train was hurriedly on its way again, perhaps slipping on wet rails after an over-eager jerk on the regulator handle. 

Trolleys were not comfortable. You could easily get a splinter in your bum or on the end of your finger. Why did they always go up your finger nail? Painful. Nevertheless, we adorned them for hours and for days, breaking our occupancy for an occasional enforced trip to the loo, or at times of particular extravagance, to the station buffet. Sometimes we would make these forays in shifts, so as not to abandon “our” trolley to other groups of trolley covetous youths.

The only other reason for possibly leaving base would be if an engine had surreptitiously slipped off the shed and had appeared light engine in a bay or was simply loitering at the far end of the station. In case it disappeared in the direction it had come from, someone was going to have to go and find out what it was. Even then, we might see someone else trotting off to do our work for us and depend on quizzing him on his return, instead of bothering to make the journey ourselves.

Trolley conversation largely revolved around girls, football and music and probably in that order. Not that there were any girls around, nor would we have wanted that. This was a male only preserve, as far as we were concerned. Real life was quite competitive enough on that front and this was time out from the intensity of Friday night at youth club, which could be quite a fraught environment from time to time.

Here, at least, we could disseminate female attractions more objectively, with scoring systems and wistful observations on the physical attributes of the girls who we knew were just out of reach, literally, either because they were a year or two older than us, a grade or too better looking than us, or attached to someone that we knew was quite a lot harder than us.

We sang our way through our chosen repertoire of pop songs, concentrating on the Kinks, the Animals, the Beach Boys and the Who and avoiding the likes of Matt Munro, the Seekers and Jim Reeves like the plague. We chewed over the ongoing rivalry between the Beatles and the Stones. We made up the lyrics where no-one could remember them or where we ourselves had not yet quite deciphered them from some scratched and crackly 45s. We purposely adapted the words to make fun of the innocents standing nearby and waiting for trains, who, unless they were particularly attentive, would never know they had been the butt of our humour at all.

Finally, we vacated our lair to make for home, ready to stand in the corridor stock, taking turns with heads out of the window, risking temporary blindness and even a full frontal lobotomy in case we missed a cop passing us on the up line on our way back to Birkenhead Woodside. In this collective good cause, we gradually blackened up with smoke and grit, illustrating to those at home the determined lengths we were prepared to go to in the quest for yet more new numbers. Temporarily, I was off my trolley again - but we would be back.