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.          

Under Suspicion, somewhere on the old LD&ECR

The map showed me the way down to the railway sidings. I found the left turn I needed, a metalled surface but with no signs. Past the last house, which was shown on the map, the road became a track, but it was still easily drivable. Over a bridge that crossed a stream, through an open gate at the end, and I had still not passed any obvious place to park. I knew I was now just onto railway property. The signalman’s car was parked there, as was a white van marked “Network Rail.” There was just enough room for me behind them.

I went to talk to the driver of the van, who was reading a newspaper. I told him why I was there. I had looked on the internet and was expecting one coal train out and one train of empties in during the next half an hour. I asked if it would be OK to leave my car there for a few minutes while I took a couple of photos. He said he could not give me permission, but he didn’t tell me to go, either. We chatted about his job, checking the workings of the mechanical signal boxes along the line. He was based at a location on the main line about ten miles away. His next port of call was the box to the west of this one, but he was in no hurry to get there. He gave me the impression that he did not get on too well with the signalman there. He intended to reduce his visiting time to a surgical strike.

Conversation turned to the advantages of the traditional signalman’s life, which modern technology was in the midst of bringing to an end and which was the real reason I was there – to record it before it disappeared. It was a lovely summer’s day. I had already heard skylarks and yellowhammers and seen tree sparrows, in the few minutes I had been standing there. It was an idyllic rural oasis, yet only minutes away from sizable settlements.

The NR man walked over the tracks to the signalbox. I noticed that the locomotive had now pulled slowly towards me along the siding, so I picked up the camera from my car. The signalman appeared at the door of his box and shouted to me. “Do you mind standing on the other side of your car, please, mate?” “OK,” I replied and I did what I was told. The engine rumbled forward. I took a couple of pictures but the light was wrong to begin with and my newly withdrawn position just about scuppered the whole operation.

NR man returned to his van. He explained that the driver might have reported me as a “near miss,” and if he had, “We’d have had everyone here, swarming around the place.” I murmured something generally compliant and wondered what they had me down as - demonstrator, suicide, terrorist, vandal or metal thief? NR man drove off to forge a meaningful, if short-lived and no doubt a little strained, working arrangement with his colleague in the next box. When the dust settled, I followed him back to civilisation.  

On my way home, I mused over what the signalman in the next box might have said to upset NR man and wondered how that call was going. I also thought about how suspicious these two railwaymen had been of me. Surely, I don’t look like a trouble maker? They were only covering their own backs, I concluded. They were doing their job by the book. I was strictly a trespasser on railway property. It is not just technology that has changed over the years and I’m all in favour of safer working practices, but we seem somehow to have lost something of value alongside such developments. Maybe it is trust.

Remain

Last Wednesday, my son became an American citizen. I sent my good wishes and added my concerns about the forthcoming referendum. His wife, herself an American, replied,

"The ceremony yesterday was, to me, really an affirmation of global citizenship and responsibility and a celebration of the strength that diversity brings to a country. It was a reminder that we are truly a country of immigrants. They played a video of immigrants coming through Ellis Island, juxtaposed with images of more recent naturalization ceremonies and quotes from new citizens who had worked long and hard to gain their rights. The officiant even encouraged him and the other new citizens to help others who are seeking citizenship and support them through the process, as they've been supported. I dread to think how the process would change - or end - if Donald Trump were to be elected. I really hope that Britain does not leave the EU. I hope reasonable people come out in force to prevent it from happening."

It seems possible that the alliance including right-wing Tories, UKIP, the more depressing elements of the press, vehement nationalists and every racist in Britain, could actually win the referendum and we would then be left to re-negotiate all our international arrangements again from scratch. 

All this against the advice of the government, most other mainstream political parties, the Bank of England, just about every reputable international body under the sun, the trade unions, almost every independent financial and economic forecaster, the other EU member states, international security agencies, most world leaders [apart, surprise, surprise, from Putin and Trump], every conceivable environmental group, a large majority of business leaders and all the moderate and thoughtful people that I have spoken to about the issue.

However, it appears that a large swathe of the population has been persuaded to blame all their ills on foreigners and on the EU. Many of them are already comparatively disadvantaged members of the community who have experienced considerable reductions in benefits and access to services in recent years. At the same time, the tabloid press has blamed their situation on the usual convenient scapegoats - immigrants.

The consensus is, then, that it is all about immigration and, if so, the whole thing boils down to the supposition that we really don't like people who we see as being different from ourselves. Is there any hope for us as a nation - or as a species, in the long run - if that is the determining factor for our relationship with others?

Even more important than the direct economic consequences of leaving is the threat to our stability and security that would come from taking such a massive and unnecessary risk. This is not what I want for my children and grandchildren, growing up in an already turbulent world. Are we really prepared to take a leap into the unknown when we can’t possibly know what the effects of such a decision would be?

Autistic?Moi?

OK, so admittedly, it was the train spotting thing that got me going in the first place. When Bill Bryson met up with a train spotter, as related in his book, “Notes from a Small Island” [Transworld, 1995, ISBN 9780552996006], my suspicions were immediately raised and I guessed just what was coming over the next few pages.

Bill got trapped in transit with his train spotter on a train in North Wales and short of wandering off to the toilet to hide, trying to find the non-existent buffet car or simply telling the bloke to ---- off, [as he himself put it], he was stymied until one or other of them got off.

Bill’s parting shot was that he had read a newspaper article in which a speaker at the British Psychological Society had described train spotting as a form of autism called Asperger’s Syndrome. An expert from the Medical Research Council’s Cognitive Development Unit had apparently claimed that train spotters and others who are obsessive about collecting items of trivia, may be suffering from Asperger’s Syndrome, which is widely recognised as being a psychological condition at the milder end of the autistic spectrum.

The North Wales encounter took place between an erudite writer who decided that his new acquaintance was one sandwich short of a picnic and a man with characteristics associated with classic Asperger’s Syndrome, namely an obsession with detail in a distinct area of interest and more particularly an inability to recognise when his target audience had had enough of listening to him going on about trains. 

My early interest in the same topic, no doubt encouraged by access to the original series of the Reverend W. Audrey’s Thomas the Tank Engine books, has provided me with a rewarding life-long hobby, in which the recording of numbers is but one facet. I have been entertained by some splendid railway literature, indulged for a time in railway modelling, travelled extensively in many countries in relative comfort by rail, appreciated the subtlety of unfolding landscapes, gasped at some wondrous scenery from my passing window, admired architectural masterpieces fairly close up, found fascination in the construction of railway infrastructure and its regional variations, marvelled at engineering feats, appreciated the aesthetics of various locomotive designs, met interesting people to chat to [honestly], enjoyed the togetherness of being part of a club of like-minded souls, revelled in the company of friends who share my passion and been mesmerised by the beating heart of the steam engine, fighting its way up-hill through stunning surroundings to Ais Gill summit on the Settle to Carlisle route with a heavy load.

I have also collected locomotive numbers. It is difficult to talk about individual steam engines without making reference to their numbers. Railwaymen have to do the same thing on a daily basis, otherwise particular engines could not be given specific tasks. There has to be a system which involves numeracy. So it is for rail fans. Numbers are how we tell them apart, in addition to the obvious variations in design of the different locomotive classes. It is the obvious way to do it. In the past, big important engines also received names, plus they were painted red or green rather than black to communicate more clearly their place at the top of the pulling-power hierarchy.

Surely, being interested in all this does not mean you are suffering from a psychological condition? Bill Bryson’s travelling companion was not suffering from Asperger’s Syndrome because he was interested in trains, but because he bored him to death in a one-way “conversation.” He gave him a relentless ear-bashing and was unable to pick up on the signs that his new friend was turned off by this monologue within seconds of its having begun.

With over 400 psychological conditions to go round, according to the American Psychiatrists Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders [Fourth Edition, A.P.A., 2000, ISBN 9780890420249], there is a fair chance that quite a lot of us, railway enthusiasts or not, have symptoms of some of them, even if they are not prevalent enough, in terms of frequency of occurrence or over the necessary range of recognisable behaviour traits, to tip the balance sufficiently for us to become labelled as belonging to one identified and specified group of sufferers or another.

I worked closely with young people with autism for over six years and on the whole I found them to be delightful and benign but they generally showed little disinterest in making relationships with each other. As a caring adult, it was eventually possible to gain their trust. Many were amusing and most were pleasant company. At the same time, their condition was, for the majority, patently very real and to varying degrees was an enormous impediment to their progress over a whole range of life skills and competencies.

The main problem appeared to me to be that it was a life sentence and that significant change was unlikely. Its severity varied enormously and in those with more marked symptoms, any ability to adapt their behaviour to manage their autism sufficiently to allow progress in any measured or mainstream educational sense was dramatically impaired. In fact, it often seemed to be a complete non-starter.

The blanket accusation of affliction aimed at train spotters niggled me a bit because it seemed a sloppy way to describe vast numbers of disparate people and because it begged more questions than it answered. “Intense interest in something is not sufficient reason to label people as suffering from this or any other disorder, though I suppose the way they relate their passion to others might be grounds for concern,” was how I put it in my book, “Train Spotters.” [M. Priestley, Countyvise, 2010 ISBN 9781906823542, p.166]

The American reference book goes on to define when interests becomes obsessions, namely, when they are “compulsions that are severe enough to become time consuming, ie. they take up more than one hour a day, or cause marked distress or significant impairment” [2000, p.456/7]. That still seems like a pretty grey area to me. There is a massive difference between the first part of the claim, which I would have to declare myself guilty of, and the second, which I would confidently claim is not really me. With so many psychological conditions to go round, the law of averages would suggest that it is likely that some rail buffs are indeed so afflicted, but it is another leap of faith altogether to suggest that one equals the other.

I have to admit to having found some comfort in making collections - in the past of train numbers and more recently in some of the paperwork of the railway companies, in the form of advertising posters, carriage prints and paintings. They have an artistic merit, as well as being significant historical documents and indicators of cultural change.

I recognise that my attraction to order, predictability, consistency and symmetry puts me right in the frame for some commentators about the condition. I think that this is the extent of my obsessive behaviour, however, and if we are to include collectors of all descriptions then we would certainly have an extra avalanche of sufferers of Asperger’s Syndrome to deal with. Not just stamp collectors or those possessing an array of porcelain figures, china tea pots or silverware, but geologists, fossil hunters – in fact, hunters in general with their animal remains traditionally on show in cabinets or plastered to the wall; modellers, gardeners of all description from roses to cacti, book worms with extensive libraries, those with voluminous wardrobes containing far more clothes or jewellery than they could ever actually need to keep warm or look smart in, vintage car enthusiasts and bird watchers with tick lists of the species they have identified - all disabled by a psychological condition that they did not know they had.

In fact, anybody with any interest at all, whose enthusiasm leads them towards acquisition, is presumably tainted, especially if they derive some comfort from the assembly of paraphernalia. How is the pleasure gained to be measured? Is the nature of the pleasure only autistic if it involves classification or recognises numerical coincidences, shows a preference for sequences or a liking for complete sets of items? I would have to admit this fits me to a tee.

“Classing” of locomotives - the recording as seen of each one in a set or type - was one of the main aims of the hobby when I was younger and I definitely got a buzz out of it. I remember standing on Newton Abbott station early in the 1970’s to welcome in D1028 Western Hussar, the last one I “needed” to tick off all of that class, as clearly as if it was yesterday. I was elated, probably punching the air and letting out a whoop of delight, which may well have attracted some curious looks from the passengers on board as the train pulled up in the platform – and all that was just for a diesel! I then underlined it carefully in red biro with a ruler to register the completion of that particular sequence. What must it have been like for steam in the 60’s, when I was an impressionable school boy? At the time, it was the nearest thing to heaven for me.

To continue the theme to the present day, I also possess all 24 of C. Hamilton Ellis’s “Travel in….” series of 1950’s carriage prints, cosily enclosed in archival quality, see-through, display envelopes, which I get out from my art folio carrying case at the drop of a hat to show to anyone who shows the remotest flicker of interest in seeing them. If I accept that this is an indicator of my being an Asperger’s sufferer, I would probably respond by insisting that that is probably the only one of the symptoms I’ve got. But would that alone be enough to seal it for me? Surely not?

If I have Asperger’s Syndrome, then so does a very significant proportion of the population. I think it is unlikely. It would only be based on one criterion, after all. However, the idea that I might be more closely aligned than I had previously thought to the people I started working with when I was 56, after 34 years as a classroom teacher in mainstream comprehensive schools, certainly provided me with another angle with which to investigate the behaviour of my new students. I was obviously more like them than I had previously thought.

So what is the point I am trying to make here? One engrossing aspect to all this is that some train folk probably do have manifestations of the recognisable characteristics of these various conditions, but on the psychologists own reckoning, it is the whole cocktail that has to be present to acquire the condition. Human individuality blurs the clear-cut distinctions and casts doubt on the labels that some would like to confer in their strenuous efforts to categorise people.

I suppose my argument is that one ticked box is not enough for a diagnosis, but there must be millions of folk with odd ticks here and there to emphasise not only that autism is a continuum, but that there must be a very wide transitional zone straddling the ultimate dividing line between autism and normality [which the experts prefer to call neuro-typical behaviour].

My second point is really the answer to the question, “So what?” Well, it is obviously important to many people because accurate diagnosis is the prerequisite for allocating scarce and necessary resources to provide help for those who need it. In most cases of autism that I have seen, it is blatantly obvious where this is a “must.” For the rest of us, living full lives and hopefully in control of our own destiny but maybe carrying a few idiosyncratic behaviour traits, all this simply adds to the richness of human existence. It does not affect our day to day lives, does not impede our progress in our chosen fields and should certainly be regarded with tolerance and maybe with some fascination by those who are so bland that they are apparently free from all accusations of variation from the norm.

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

Trains? Why Trains?

At a railwayana auction a couple of years back - one of the last held at the Gateway Centre at Derbyshire County Cricket Ground - a young cricketer walked through the club's reception area and noticing that something out of the ordinary was afoot, he cast a glance towards the main hall and looked even more puzzled when he saw the Saturday morning crowd within. “What’s going on?” he enquired of the receptionist at the desk. She opened her eyes a little wider and stretched her mouth downwards in mock bemusement.

“Go and have a look!” she suggested, as if anything she might have offered in the way of an explanation might have failed to do justice to the scene. He retraced his steps and took a peek inside the arena, in which he was more used to hearing the smack of willow on leather from his team mates practising in the indoor nets. He took the view in sufficiently to register that an auction of railway antiques was taking place. “I see what you mean,” he offered on his return, raising his own eyes to the ceiling and shaking his head in feigned bewilderment. 

I’ve had this attitude paraded in my direction from time to time throughout my life. “Trains?” they say, quite contemptuously, “Why trains?” I can put up with a bit of mickey taking about train spotting. I explain that it is really railway enthusiasm, which obviously suggests a more rounded interest to begin with. I go on about our national prowess as inventors, the architectural legacy we have been left by previous generations, the inspiration for art and literature, the engineering skills passed down in our workshops, the aesthetics - the essential attraction of the steam locomotive, our contribution to transport development on a truly global scale and all the rest of it, but I know that minds are already made up. They think we are a little eccentric - and certainly in no way “cool.”

That’s OK with me. I’ve noticed that when you ask a lot of those people who like to profess that we are a bit of an unusual bunch what their own interests are they often don’t come up with very much about themselves; maybe watch a lot of telly, walk the dog, go to slimming classes or take a lot of interest in lotteries. Some do a lot of shopping and then go on social media to tell their friends what an exciting time they have had at a retail outlet.

On the other hand, I’m always a little intrigued to hear about activities that are more off-beat than ours. Whether its collecting plastic traffic cones [you can buy them from Barriers Direct], keeping a pet skunk [OOPS –Owners of Pet Skunks - have their own website, which includes a Skunk of the Month competition], the Roundabout Appreciation Society, collecting air sickness bags, extreme ironing [in unusual locations], or the lady in Sussex whose hobby is knitting woollen breasts [100 in three years to enable her daughter, a community nurse, to teach mums to breast feed], it is all OK with me. Apparently, vehicle tattooing is big in Taiwan.

Talk about life’s rich tapestry. I think all this is wonderful. How boring life would be if everybody had the same interests. What would we be able to tell each other about? Each to their own is how I see it. There is nothing wrong with a bit of harmless amusement - and does it necessarily mean the adherents of these particular hobbies are oddball characters? I certainly won’t be the one to cast the first stone.

What a numerous and loyal following railwayana collecting seems to have. And so, of course, do the trains themselves. When I get talking to folk, I often find out that they also know a train man and they might even admit to having one in the family. Go to any access point on the main line when there is a steam special booked and I can almost guarantee that you won’t be on your own by the time it arrives and not everyone who comes along could strictly be described as a devoted fan. Yet, grandfathers bring grandchildren to show them what a “proper engine” looks like and even unsuspecting passers-by spontaneously turn their heads in admiration. It is, after all, a fine sight for anyone with an inkling of romance or a sense of history about them.

One day, also about two years ago, I waited in the company of about twenty other people on the Sleaford Road bridge in Newark to celebrate a north bound run of Tornado. The guy with the fancy video recorder set up on a tripod, who had been training his sights on the curve of the main line for the previous half an hour, suddenly realised at the last minute that three people and a dog were walking into his view finder and more particularly into ear-shot along the line-side footpath and just below his strategically chosen position. “Excuse me, can you be quiet, please?” he demanded.

The thing was that none of them was actually talking [or barking] and the only sound, apart from Tornado, which was by now just visible, was the tapping on the ground of the disabled old lady’s aluminium walking stick, which she had securely strapped on at the elbow. She stopped abruptly, looked at her companions in disgust, lifted her stick into the air, stared at it pointedly and then glared back towards the source of the request in disbelief at what she had just heard. Perhaps that was one potential convert lost to the cause, I thought, as 60163 steamed resplendently by and disappeared in the direction of York. I’m pleased to report that the lady in question managed to remain firmly upright throughout the event. I doubt if she bothered to turn up for the return working that evening, though.   

[From an article first published under the title "Hobbies" in the Railway Antiques Gazette and with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]        

Time and Tide

I am a little slow sometimes to acknowledge changes that might signify the march of time. I noticed recently that I had started clasping my hands behind my back whilst standing or walking slowly, a bit like members of the royal family might do when inspecting a line of troops. I soon knocked that one on the head.

Then I woke up one morning to find out that during the night someone had deliberately turned down the volume in my left ear by approximately two points. I only know this because if I lie on the pillow on my right side I can no longer hear the trundling noise that the paper boy’s trolley makes on the pavement outside our house. Within seconds, I resolved that it would be light years until I would accept the need for a hearing aid.

When a lady cold-called me last week and asked if I had ever worked in a noisy industry, because she thought I might be eligible for some compensation, defiantly holding the handset to my left ear, I replied, “Yes, in a school.” After a brief pause during which time she decided that I must have been taking the mickey, she showed no further desire to pursue the conversation. I was not joking. Corridor racket really got to me in the end.

My eyes are not brilliant, either. I’ve had glasses for reading and watching TV for years, but I have tried to hold out elsewhere, for example when driving or watching football matches. Driving is fine until daylight goes and I am approaching a roundabout that is new to me, and I have to make use of the road signs in time to make a safe manoeuvre. I sometimes end up going right round twice to be sure I’m still on track.

Football was also OK until lately, but as it is a game of two ends, I really need to be able to follow the action at both of them. Last Friday was the first time, too, that I had allowed my glasses to come with me to a concert. When the ageing rockers came on stage, I was relieved to see that they were both wearing a pair themselves. With seats near the back, I admit that at times I was still grateful for the additional support from the big screen.

Apart from that, I generally still do without my glasses, in spite of occasionally trying to open other people’s small black cars with my remote key in the supermarket car park. I always take them to auctions, however. The catalogue images are thumbnail size and the print is generally small. At venues without display screens, I would certainly be struggling to make critical decisions about the appeal of some of the smaller items.

A television interview with a rather forlorn older actress ended up with a rather wistful, “The worst thing about growing old is that your skin always looks like it needs ironing.” Admittedly, various other bits of my body are creaking, too. I will spare you most of the details, but, in the case of knees with no surviving cartilage, that creaking is audible, but now only via my right ear. I have resolved never to have a stick. I would rather crawl. On reflection, I may reserve the right to change my mind about that one in years to come.

Even my balance is now in question. When taking a photograph of a signalbox recently, I fell backwards from the top of the wire fence I had perched myself on and landed on my back in a muddy field, thus providing some unexpected entertainment for the passengers on the upper deck of the number 28 bus from Newark to Mansfield, which was simultaneously held up at the adjacent level crossing gates.

   

In direct contrast to this increase in minor infirmities, I find that, for me, an attraction of railwayana is its relative permanence and its resistance to creaking or any other sort of biologically induced disintegration. In a changing world, temporally it refuses to budge. It is fixed in the world as it was in 1968, or whenever you choose for yourself as your personal tipping point, at which the good old days ended and the modern era began. How extraordinarily reassuring it is. My totem’s enamel may have lost a bit of its shine and the shed plate may exhibit a little rusting here and there. My railway clock may have stopped and my posters may have a bit of foxing and some creases, but these are as nothing compared to the gradual toll imposed on us by our own body clocks.

Whilst in the USA, I noticed a message outside a workshop that we drove past in Sperryville, Virginia, which advertised [hopefully, tongue in cheek], “Antique tables made daily.” That reminded me about the marvellous caption on page 82 of O. Winston Link’s magnificent album of photographs, “Steam, Steel and Stars,” referring to a train crossing bridge 201, which was itself just to the east of Wurno Sidings. Wurno Sidings were so-called because there “were no” sidings there until they were added later on.  

Such are the ravages of time on the human frame that inevitably the collections of erstwhile fellow enthusiasts are periodically recycled at auction events. Their former interests are reflected in an apparent and sudden glut of hand lamps, a rash of prominent nameplates, or, in the case of the late Malcolm Guest, a veritable tsunami of posters and design work. Time stands still in the world of railwayana. Only the technology moves on - oh yes - and the threat of higher buyer’s premiums.

Luckily, although I may be at a stage where increased dodderiness might soon tighten its grip, I am reminded to take more care, at every turn. At Newark station, for example, there is a notice on the stairs that connect the platforms. “Take care on the stairs,” it warns. There is even a little picture of what might happen to you, should you not heed the advice. You could, apparently, fall over. So, be careful on the stairs, then. Got it?

I won’t forget that tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life and I shall resolve to keep on doing the things that interest me, no matter what. As former rock star and now raconteur and self-styled “grumpy old man,” Rick Wakeman, told us at an evening out in Lincoln, just a stones throw from that famous, distinctive, yet troublesome inner urban level crossing next to the Central station, “I joined Alcoholics Anonymous. I still go out drinking. It’s just that I have no idea who I am drinking with.”    

No railways this time but loads of heritage - new book now out - Seafarer Jones

Seafarer Jones is a collection of stories about mariners from previous generations, all of whom shared a relationship with this particular family of that name. I examine the familial links amongst a proliferation of seafarers and recount their experiences from the eighteenth century up to the Second World War.

In addition to the profusion of ships’ captains were local fishermen, first, second and third mates, cabin boys, ordinary seamen, able seamen, bosuns, coxswains, engineers, carpenters, stewards, pursers, marine insurers, victuallers, watchmen, landing stage superintendents, explorers, inventors, ship owners, shipping agents and shipping company directors, as well as five women who went to sea with their male relatives. Seafarer Jones describes their adventures and triumphs, their mishaps and tragedies.

From the age of sail to that of steam driven, steel merchant ships, the Jones clan travelled the globe, from Porthmadog to the Baltic, the Mediterranean, Newfoundland and New York; from Liverpool to the Americas, East Africa, the Far East, Australia and the Great Barrier Reef and to the Pitcairn Islands in the Pacific Ocean and back round the Horn. They carried slate, coal, timber, grain, salt, fish, manure - and migrants seeking new lives in the New World. Others helped to protect their fellow mariners along the Welsh coast by manning the lifeboats.

They suffered mountainous seas, collision, shipwreck, foundering, scuttling, arrest, mutiny, torpedo attack and attempted assassination. They worked at sea in peace time and served their country during two world wars. They ran the gauntlet of the German U-boats and some lost their lives whilst thousands of miles from home.

By the end of the Victorian era they had all congregated in the port of Liverpool and it had become the focal point for their continuing exploits, typical of so many other families in that period, who went “down to the sea in ships” for their livelihood.