Elvis Priestley

One of my Christmas presents was a CD - Elvis Presley with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. I know that in this age of iTunes and downloads my use of the term “CD” dates me, somewhat, but until the system goes the same way as Betamax videos I’ll probably stick with it.

Elvis had an unforeseen effect on me from a distance, in addition to the music - which I would have to admit to coming to well after he had departed - and even then, only with the addition of posthumously arranged, full orchestral backing to improve a handful of his more appealing tracks.

Presley and Priestley are not dissimilar names. You may think that unlikely, but I promise that all through my adult life, when I’ve been in the position of telling strangers my name so that they can make a note of it, time and time again they have pronounced it back to me to check they are spelling it right, as Presley.

Even when they say it right, they spell it out wrongly, “So that’s Priestley? P..R..E..S..?”

“No, PRIESTLEY - with a T,” I insist, and so it goes on.  

At school, Elvis became just one of a number of nicknames that I had to put up with. Teachers are always vulnerable to this. If it’s only a slight alteration to your name, then you have actually got away lightly. It’s much more likely to be something derogatory about your appearance.

Nicknames for local services provided by the railways were more often to do with familiarity and affection. In these parts alone, there was the Southwell Paddy [Southwell to Rolleston Junction], the Penny Emma [Sutton in Ashfield Junction to the Town station - now immortalised in the naming of a road the Penny Emma Way] and the Annesley Dido [the workers train to Annesley from Bulwell Common]. Older residents still talk affectionately of these lost lines and their passenger services. The trains were personalised because they had become ingrained and reassuring features in the communities that they connected.

I didn’t get here in time to photograph any of them, unfortunately. I did get to travel on one or two steam-hauled branch lines in the 1960s, however, including the Gobowen to Oswestry section of the old Cambrian Railway. It would not surprise me if the locals had their own name for that one, too.  

0-4-2T 1400 Class No. 1458 stands in the bay platform at Gobowen on 28/9/62 with the branch line push-and-pull train to Oswestry. I had previously travelled this route with the school railway society on a visit to Oswestry works. On this occasion, I had gone there with my dad to watch King Class No. 6000 King George V on a special train to Chester. The Kings did not normally go any further than Shrewsbury on the ex-GWR route to Birkenhead.

Birkenhead Sheds - A Home from Home

At our recent, festive, railway club knees-up, someone asked me what my favourite train spotting memories were. It is at such times, that rather than getting into gear and accelerating from 0 to 60 in milliseconds, my brain chooses, instead, to go for a cup of tea.

I dread the moment when I turn a corner and come face to face with a live TV interview team, poised with a pertinent question of the day, leaving me either totally speechless or mumbling nonsense until someone decides that this one’s a dud and they move swiftly on. By the time that I get home, of course, I would probably have been able to come up with something, but by then it is much too late.

I think this is why I write rather than speak. It gives me time to think. My very quick-witted friend, Ian, has all the spontaneous good ideas, and my role in our little partnership [about which, he is possibly unaware] is to embellish his jokes and - if I’m feeling particularly sharp – try to take them on a stage.

My first answer to my railway club colleague should have been, “Birkenhead sheds by bike on a Sunday morning.” Of all the places that we went back to, time and time again, that became the place that we thought of as our home turf – though we very rarely saw any other spotters there, at all. We were sufficiently familiar faces there to be recognised by the foreman - even welcomed in - though with the same insistence, each time, that we should tell him when we were leaving. This had become the location that underpinned our affection for steam, as we bonded with the slumbering giants, all neatly lined up on their day off.

At Birkenhead Sheds in the mid-1960s, photograph with thanks to Ian Hughes.

Most were stone cold, some were still simmering and providing an acrid curtain of haze for us to walk through, a few appeared to still be in steam, and one or two might even have been visiting the vast concrete coaling stage or taking some water, prior to an afternoon passenger duty to Chester.

So, it was, that just a week after our Christmas trip to London, we found ourselves back at 8H, as it had become by then. I have checked my notes to confirm that we never went train spotting as early as New Year’s Day, in any year before or since the 3^rd of January 1967, now half a century ago. This is what we saw then:-

2-6-4 tanks – 42087, 42133, 42548, 42606, 42613, 42647.

Crabs – 42727, 42765, 42782, 42859, 42942.

Stanier Class 5 – 45042.

3F tanks – 47324, 47447, 47533, 47659, 47674.

Standard 2-10-0s – 92019, 92020, 92029, 92032, 92046, 92047, 92049, 92059, 92073, 92085, 92086, 92088, 92092, 92100, 92103, 92108, 92120, 92121, 92122, 92131, 92134, 92151, 92166, 92167, 92247,

Diesel shunters – D2372, D2388.

We were certainly providing a home by that time for many of the 2-10-0s that were unwanted elsewhere. My only cop on the day was 92073.

A typical view of Birkenhead sheds in the last years of steam.

My new year’s resolution? To have my wits about me and a prepared opening remark up my sleeve, in the event of my bumping into any roving reporters.

Cat or Dog?

It would have to be cat. My mum let us have a cat when we were kids and so we have had one ever since [a series of replacements rather than the same one, obviously]. My daughter bought home the last one immediately after we had declared, “That’s it. No more pets” She promptly left home and failed to take the cat with her. He is still here about 12 years later.

For one of my big birthdays, we went to Nice on the Eurostar and the TGV, crossing Paris with a few minutes available to admire the amazing Train Bleu restaurant at Gare de Lyon. The French are big cat and dog lovers, too, it seems. Both in Paris and in the coastal resorts, I have noticed a penchant, especially amongst ladies of a certain age, for both cats and tiny dogs on leads, in baskets – even of the cycle handlebar attachment type, or simply tucked under one arm. They can clearly be a fashion accessory.

Taking the busy early morning return TGV to Paris, and in plenty of time to take our two reserved seats in the direction of travel and a table, an elderly French lady with a diminutive dog strode past us along the platform, obviously looking for her own seat. “She’s going to sit here with that dog,’ I said to my wife, and she did, taking her place opposite us.

Never mind, I thought, it’s only a few hundred miles of close-up dog. The dog spent Nice to Avignon sniffing my ankles. I turned to my wife. “It’s doing heavy breathing on my leg,” I said. From Avignon to Lyon it slept on the seat next to its owner. “About time,” I said from behind my hands. From Lyon to Paris it sat in its basket a few inches from my face, as I ate my previously purchased cheese and ham baguette. “Don’t you dare,” I muttered in its general direction.

“At least it doesn’t stink,” I munched sideways to my wife as the dog watched me eat every mouthful. “Why has it got that stupid bow round its neck?” I added. My wife looked up from her book and shrugged her shoulders.

Approaching Gare de Lyon, attention drawn by a sudden rash of graffiti on every available concrete surface, of which there are plenty as well as on the flanks of the parked up suburban commuter stock, people suddenly and somewhat feverishly began to gather their possessions together, as though there was only going to be a two minute stop at the terminus station.

“Can you reach my coat on the luggage rack, please?” asked the French lady with perfect English who was sitting opposite us. The dog looked at me smugly. I’m sure he mouthed, “Boo-boom.”

TGV unit at Nice station, 1999.

The Semis

I’d seen all 38 Princess Coronation Pacifics by the time I was 14. I’ve never tired of seeing them since. I went off to Newark this morning to renew my acquaintance with No. 46233 Duchess of Sutherland. I notice from my notes that I actually “cabbed” her on Edge Hill sheds on 16/11/63.

They are magnificent machines. She purred past us, looking and sounding in fine fettle and no doubt endeavouring to make up the 4 minutes I was told that she was down on her booked time passing through Grantham.

I’ve never been part of this east coast/west coast rivalry in the way that some of the older railwaymen were, but if I had to choose between a semi and a streak, it would have to be a semi, simply because they were what we grew up with. They were our special engines.

She is due back at 18.00, southbound. I might just go and see her again.

Coronation Pacific No. 46233 Duchess of Sutherland approaches Sleaford road bridge, just south of Newark Northgate station with a Cambridge to York special train, 21/12/16.

Various shades of grey

Sub-titled, Scandinavian TV dramas often leave the impression that they are not exactly pulling in the direction that their tourist boards might wish.

If it’s not snowing or icy, it’s raining. If it’s not dark, it’s going dark. If it’s the middle of the day, it’s overcast and you still need to have your lights on.

The TV Nordic rural landscape appears relentlessly uniform. Misty flat lands, pine forests that seem to go on for ever, interrupted by still [and somewhat eerie] lakes. Various shades of grey, just about sums it up.  

However, undeterred by a serious lack of hype, we decided on a group holiday entitled “Baltic Explorer.” The historic coastal cities, culminating in the magnificence of Saint Petersburg, were all fascinating, even if the bits in between were a little less dramatic.

Baltic railway station, Tallinn. There are international services from here to Moscow and Saint Petersburg, as well as provincial and commuter links to other parts of Estonia. The station yard provides a final resting place for this impressive 2-10-0, No. L-2317.

Christmas, Fifty Years Ago

In December 1966, we had what seemed at the time to be a good idea. We would go to London for Christmas. We would enjoy the bright lights of the city, go around some sheds, which we thought should be quite full, as it was always a quiet time on the tracks, and we might also fit in some football to watch, as well. It was the first time any of us had chosen to be apart from our families at Christmas time, so there was probably a bit of an independence marker being laid down there, as well.

We left Lime Street station on Christmas Eve and I recorded a succession of “blue electrics,” as we called them, as they were the only blue things around prior to British Rail’s blue period, which happened much later on. The only other locomotives noted on the journey were examples of the English Electric Type 1 Bo-Bo D8xxx series and a couple of diesel shunters.

Steam was already becoming very concentrated in the north west of England, which suited us fine, but I was also aware that time was running out for us to witness any Southern steam, and to see and photograph some Bulleid Pacifics before they disappeared was also very much on our “to do” list.

Though we were all train spotters, some of us were keener than others and I was definitely the most hooked of the four. We also all loved both playing and watching football, and though we were all Evertonians, we would happily watch any league match we could and unfortunately EFC were not around in the capital over Christmas 1966.

So, it was, that on our arrival at Euston we found our way to Stamford Bridge where Chelsea were entertaining Liverpool that afternoon. Without the need for tickets to be secured in advance, for joining a membership club or having an e-ticket password etc, we simply rolled up at the turnstile and went in at the Liverpool supporters’ end. BBC Match of the Day’s recorded highlights are available today on You Tube, in black and white, of course, and with a commentary provided by the legendary Kenneth Wolstenholme. Liverpool won 2-1, courtesy of an own goal by Hinton and a winner from Geoff Strong, Boyle scoring for the Blues. Liverpool repeated the feat in the return fixture just two days later and by the same score.

My friend, Ian, had bought a Liverpool scarf on the way in, the idea being that we would blend in better with the Liverpudlians in the crowd, but it nearly back-fired on the way out as we were briefly targeted by a group of Chelsea supporters. We made our getaway, still intact.

Off we went in search of swinging London town. It was closed. It must have been just New York that was the city that never slept. It was dead. All the restaurants that were anything like within our price range were shut. We scurried off to Earl’s Court youth hostel to heat up a can or two of beans on toast.

If anything, Christmas Day was worse. London was like a ghost town. We had the streets to ourselves. A police car drew up to us in Southwark and the officer asked us what we were doing there. We just mumbled, in a fog of bewilderment and ignorance, that we had expected some entertainment, but seemed to have got it seriously wrong. I think they probably just accepted our story and drove off laughing.

It gradually dawned that we might be struggling to obtain anything resembling a Christmas dinner on Christmas Day and that was probably the moment we decided that we had made a bit of a cock-up. Out of the blue, Graham rang his uncle and auntie and they invited us over to share their family Christmas dinner, somewhere near Cricklewood. We jumped at the opportunity and eventually found ourselves rather sheepishly pulling up extra chairs at the corners of their modest dining room table. It was a spontaneous and unhesitating act of kindness on their part, in the true spirit of Christmas, and I remain grateful to them to this day. At the time, I think we just felt slightly embarrassed.

Here we are in reflective mood, at Acton Town tube station, on our way to Christmas dinner with complete strangers [for 3 of us] on Christmas Day 1966. My attention is now drawn to the poster. What was the role of a “station woman” and why does her uniform remind me more of the Salvation Army?

Things perked up on Boxing Day. First stop was Nine Elms sheds. Here we found 6 Merchant Navies and 12 light Pacifics in various states of disrepair, alongside some Standard “7s” and a handful of Standard 2-6-4 tanks. Most engines were not in steam, some were minus their name plates and almost all were unkempt and apparently unloved. The patches of rust stood out in the low, bright sunshine on a cold, crisp winter’s day.

Battle of Britain Class, No. 34089 602 Squadron was being readied for action next to the water column at 70A, which was being warmed by a brazier that we parked ourselves by for a few minutes, returning some warmth to our note-taking fingers and pleased to see a main line steam engine actually looking purposeful and ready to go.

After an imaginary lunch, somewhere in Wandsworth, a line was drawn in the sand. I decided on Stratford and Old Oak Common, but was unable to persuade the others to join me “just for diesels.” Instead, they made their way to Highbury to watch Arsenal [Radford 2, Armstrong 2] beat Southampton by 4 goals to 1 [Ron Davies]. Terry Paine played for Southampton, one of those footballers who seemingly just went on for ever.

I noted 111 diesels on Stratford, including the first English Electric Type 3, No. D6700, which was in pristine condition. I photographed it in fading light and too much shadow.

There were another 72 diesels on 81A, including 8 Western diesels and 7 Hymek Type 3s, but I have to admit that I felt a bit lonely. The other lads only went train spotting again when it had been emphatically stated from the outset that we were going for steam, which we did, regularly, up to its demise a year and a half later, in August 1968.

[This article appears also in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette. I am grateful to the editor, Tim Petchey]

On the Scrapheap

In the days before vehicles with names like Warrior and Exterminator were given special dispensation to park on double yellow lines outside the Co-op, football was a man’s game, or so the cliché goes.

It is true that the game has changed and that attacking players - at the top level, at least - are given much more protection than previously. In a recent conversation with a former professional footballer, who had played in a game at Goodison Park, in 1968 – which, he actually reminded me - was the setting for the most horrific tackle I can ever remember witnessing. It was made by Dave Mackay of Derby on Everton’s Jimmy Husband.

Much is spoken about the destruction of our railway system that was occurring around about the same time that Dave was trying to cut Jimmy in half with a swing of his meaty [left?] leg. A few weeks before that match, we had trudged off to Lime Street station to say a final goodbye to our beloved steam engines.

Throughout our train spotting days, preceding that eventful year, we had watched as the system itself was decimated by Beeching-inspired, branch line closures. We had toured the sheds and works and visited Barry docks, bulging with condemned, rusting hulks waiting for the torch.

One of the things I have learnt in the interim and in all things, is to try to stay optimistic in times of adversity. For example, I used to tell myself after a bad day in the classroom, that the next one would inevitably be better, and it [almost] always was.

The railway heritage scene of today was unimaginable in 1968. Just look at the proliferation of revived railways available now, the range of new build steam locomotives under way to supplement those rescued from oblivion and the army of devoted volunteers who have helped to make it possible.

Jimmy could have been on the scrap heap, too, but he recovered and was back playing again 5 weeks later, scoring 20 goals over the season as a whole. Artistic, rather than destructive, forces now have the edge in football. It may be a bit less full-blooded, but inventive forward play is more attractive and entertaining than ever, because it is allowed to flow more freely and is less interrupted by hatchet-men who did not even get sent off.

In the village, more and more executive houses are going up, Main Street stays the same width, car parking remains inadequate and there will always be some who are too self-important to admit that sensible rules made for the benefit of all also apply to them. However, bull bars have been banned, Jimmy Husband played football successfully for a further 15 years and West Country Light Pacific No. 34070 Manston is alive and well on the Swanage Railway.

   Manston at Barry, 31/12/67.

Manston at Highley on the Severn Valley Railway, 25/9/10.

Missing Trains

It was time for the festive season steam specials - good old Christmas markets. I planned to watch three in a week; Tyseley to Lincoln, King’s Cross to Lincoln on the same day and a week later, King’s Cross to York.

Plans in place, I went back to the telly. I am hopeless at working out what happens in TV dramas. Luckily, I have an interpreter to explain things. “I thought he was in prison,” I said. “It’s in different time zones,” I am informed. “They tell you when each bit is happening at the bottom of the screen, but you can work it out from their appearance, anyway.”

I kept a close eye on developments but ex-GWR Castle Class 4-6-0 No. 5043 Earl of Mount Edgcumbe was deemed to be out of gauge at Nottingham quite early on. That would no doubt be the result of major changes at the station in recent times. Mind you, how long have they had to check that out?

“Are those girls twins? She looks just like the one that died in the garden shed.” Withering look, no further comment.

We embarked on a busy Saturday, undeterred by the loss of the Tyseley train. First stop, Stoneleigh, to drop off a poster and carriage print for a future railwayana auction. On, then, to Packwood House [NT] for some Christmas spirit - a most welcoming Elizabethan country house with a roaring log fire in the entrance hall. It must have been doing just that for 400 years, or so.

On the way back, we checked on the iphone that ex-LMS Coronation Pacific No. 46233 Duchess of Sutherland was still advertised as running. We were in good time when we reached Newark.

Why was there was only a handful of people waiting for the steam special, instead of the usual twenty or thirty, plus? A middle-aged man dressed as Andy Pandy and carrying a large rucksack skipped off the local train from Lincoln. He told us that the semi had not even reached London that morning before the empty stock carriage formation had split in two. The run had subsequently been aborted. When I got home I checked the website again and it had, indeed, reported that fact. We should have checked again nearer to our destination. Two down one to go. Luckily Sutherland was due to be back again the following week.

“Are we still in Germany?” No, it’s Switzerland.” Well, at least I knew it wasn’t Iraq because there was no desert. “So, there were three girls, but no twins?” “Yes, and he had a scar on his face, she had a different hair style and the detective had shaved his head.” “So, the daughter was still alive at the end?” “YES!!”

The semi was shown as running as normal when the times were posted on the following Saturday morning. We were entertaining friends and I explained the added treat we had in store for them before we went for our booked evening meal out – 7p.m. at the pub. Gamely, they had shown the same admirable enthusiasm when I had mounted a similar “share my hobby with me” event a year or two ago.

We walked until the light faded and the drizzle began, had a cuppa, got changed for an evening out and made a dash for Newark Northgate through heavy rain, getting there with 5 minutes to spare. A Class 91 sped through, southbound, and after a minute or two the signal returned to amber and I got that all important, anticipatory buzz, which I hoped was being shared by all. Nothing happened.

Twenty minutes later a young man with his finger on the technological pulse took pity on us and shared the news from his app’. Sutherland had been delayed by an hour. That means we would miss our booked restaurant slot on a busy Saturday night, a couple of weeks before Christmas. We could have been struggling. We left for the pub. Talk about the missing. I’d missed all three planned trains in a week.

Running steam on a modern main line is fraught with difficulties and sometimes things happen. I’m not into the blame culture but I am into culture and heritage. I salute all those who go to great lengths in trying to make it work and usually getting it right. I’d have taken my hat off to them there and then but it was still absolutely pouring down with rain.

The website we should have investigated showed that, as predicted, Sutherland went through just over an hour late. Under normal circumstances, I would, of course, have been only too pleased to wait for her. Partly for the benefit of our patient and understanding friends, here is a photo of what we all missed – until next time.

Anthrax Island

A prominent coach tour operator’s brochure for 2017 lists “Anthrax Island” as a highlight of their itinerary between Inverewe Gardens and Ullapool. There’s a thought. They do also promise a most memorable holiday.

Gruinard Island was the site of a biological warfare test in 1942 which rendered it a danger zone for decades until a more recent decontamination programme was deemed successful. The flock of sheep allowed back there since have shown no ill effects, apparently.

My more immediate concerns are chemical rather than biological. The gym changing rooms have a notice requesting more restricted use of aerosol sprays. This does nothing to deter the young blades, who must go through a couple of canisters a week. I just take a deep breath when the offending articles emerge from their bags and make a run for it ASAP.

On the home front, I have a feeling that cat flea spray is potentially more harmful than cat fleas are and that having weeds in the garden is healthier for you than spraying weed killer. There is asbestos in the prefabricated sheets that make up the ceiling in the garage, which is another good reason not to go in there looking for tools, or, in fact, anything to do with unnecessary home improvements that could be bad for one’s health.

Yet, who could forget the sulphurous contents of a full steam shed on a Sunday morning. We breathed in that stuff happily enough and then complained about the fumes from the diesels that deposed them.

It’s an environmental minefield out there. The shame is that you would look such a prat wearing a face mask, especially on a coach tour of the highlands and islands. I still think I’d stay on the bus for that bit, though. “Move on, driver, please.”

A very smoky Birkenhead sheds in the early 1960s. Photo with thanks to Ian Hughes.

The Hotelier - adapted from “Dick Jones of the Hoylake Horse,” by Michael G Priestley.

Dick and Joan bought a large, red brick, Edwardian house at the top of Dudley Road, in New Brighton. Double-fronted, with its original leaded lights and some fire-places intact, it was a commanding example of its type. It was on the edge of the resort, seven minutes’ walk from the station and ten from the promenade.

Two Merseyrail EMUs at the buffer stops in New Brighton in February 1972.

The “Sandpiper” opened for business in 1972. It was intended that their customers would be businessmen - salesmen, like Dick himself had been. They surprised themselves by attracting the tail end of the regular holiday resort trade, as well.

Always an interesting location at the mouth of the Mersey, New Brighton was on its last legs as a resort by the end of the 60s. Its main fare had become a very seasonal day tripper market. It had struggled to retain its former clientele in the age of the car, the aeroplane and package holidays abroad.

Building fabric was crumbling, the river and sands were polluted, attractions were closing down, new investors could not be found, the local authority was dithering and many residents would have preferred to see that corner of the Wirral consumed by an expansion of the residential suburbs that already surrounded it.

Yet, amazingly, in those rather depressing times in the early 70s, families with young children still came on the train to New Brighton from industrial Northern England, the Midlands and Central Scotland, armed with buckets and spades and a firm intention to hire deckchairs, no matter what. In poor weather, handfuls of bedraggled holiday makers could be seen wandering between vacant units in search of the few greasy spoon cafes and some shabby amusements.

Dick would not entertain criticism of New Brighton. I admired his steadfast defence of all he held dear, in the face of the negativity and increasing public ridicule, which was fast becoming the fashionable way to refer to Merseyside and its problems in the national media.

Dick used other local businesses in his own community wherever he could. Milk was delivered by the milkman long after most people were buying it at the supermarket. The newspaper was delivered from the local newsagent. Parts for failing electrical equipment were obtained from the specialist shop in New Brighton and basic foodstuffs were bought at the local grocers.

Dick held out for the importance of belonging to the place very strongly. Whilst detained in Stalag IVB, he must have longed for the opportunity to go dancing again at the Tower Ballroom, enjoy a pint in the local pub or a stroll along the promenade - just to be back where he came from. It had taken an extraordinary set of circumstances to make home the desperately special place that it was for Dick.  

If the holiday makers were disappointed with what they found on arrival in New Brighton, Dick would do his best to cheer them up. The former prison camp entertainer completely immersed himself in this new role. Ingenuity and war time cooking experience to the fore, Dick was in his element. What the hotel lacked in investment in modern conveniences, was more than amply compensated for by the sideshow he provided.

Breakfast time was pure theatre. To a background of light classical music, Dick would talk everyone through their meal with a mixture of tips about the local hot spots - “bigging up” the Granada Bowl, Fort Perch Rock and Wilkie’s Indoor Fairground - and adding a gentle ribbing of whoever was present.

His customers loved it and they loved him. Many of his visitors returned, time and time again, seduced by his charm and certainly not by the antique state of the electrics, the increasingly dubious “teas-maid” appliance on their bed-side table, or the queue to use the only bathroom.

I loved taking my friends to the “Sandpiper.” As Dick rounded the corner in the hallway he could see his guests through the full-length glass of the interior double doors. He smiled as he planned his opening remarks. They were welcoming in tone but provocatively humorous in content. You needed to be on your guard and ideally have a potential riposte up your sleeve. You felt that he was genuinely pleased to see you and all your friends. They would all get a personal greeting and a firm handshake.

At his New Year’s Eve Party, Dick was in his element. He would get in a crate of bottled pale ale and line up the glasses from the cabinet, giving each one a wipe with a dry tea towel, along the way. Joan would prepare vol-au-vents, cocktail sausages, cheese squares with pineapple chunks on sticks and her speciality, the industrial-sized sherry trifle.

Their friends would arrive; the men in synthetic fibre slacks, sports jackets and ties, the ladies with inflated hair-dos, thick coats, the odd stole and excessive make up. Dick quipped his way round everyone in turn. Rodgers and Hammerstein wafted round the house, courtesy of the speaker extensions.

Business at the Sandpiper ticked over. The kitchen diner performed adequately, given the limited space available for the arrangement. Its greatest advantage had been that Dick could regale his guests whilst he made them their breakfast and that was a master stroke – or maybe, it just happened that way! The showers remained as work in progress until the end, but the bath water was always stinking hot to make up for it.

The Eyes Have It

“You’ve got beautiful big eyes,” said the sales assistant at the till. “Thank you,” I replied, “so has my grandson,” I quickly added. I was holding him up so that he could see all the shopping action first hand. The lady’s face fell. My little joke had fallen on stony ground [again]. She turned away in embarrassment and busied herself with another task.

My eyes are small, rather narrow, too close together and getting older. I tried to rescue the situation by chatting to the younger assistant, who was standing alongside her. Humour transplant required, I thought - and then, oh dear - Has she gone to get the store detective to quiz me for harassment? Did she push the panic button that alerts her superiors to an imminent robbery or assault? Am I on CCTV, infringing the “Be nice to our employees, or else” guidelines. It was only a joke. I promise I won’t do it again.

We went to another department in search of “My First Train Set.” I mumbled to my wife that she had better do the talking. I remembered the first train set that I played with, in the garden of my uncle’s house in Winchester in the early 1950s. I think it was Hornby O gauge and I invented a very ambitious layout for it, as you can see. Sorry about the eyes.

3,000th visit

3,000^th visit today to mikepriestleysrailwayheritage.blogspot.com, so thanks for dipping in and having a look.

Don’t you just hate mission statements?

Luckily, I’m too busy

- flagging up newsworthy railway stories

- promoting the work of the railway heritage movement

- posting some [hopefully] amusing anecdotes

- airing my own railway memories

- digging out some nice old photos

to be bothered with one.

Warship Class No. D850 Swift on a wet day at the north end of Crewe station c.1962