The Accidental Bus Driver

What Do You Want To Do When You Grow Up?

2012-02-25T03:30:00.000-08:00

Taking yet another trip down Memory Lane, I found some of my old drawings and some of my brother's too. Those were the days. When you were free to let your imagination run wild and believe that you can do any career you so desire. I regret I do not feel the same these days and corporateness, institutionalisation and having to 'tow the party line' tries to beat the individualism out of you. In many cases it sees to succeed and people meekly oblige their masters, for a multitude of reasons.

Imagine the disappointment, as a nine-year-old boy being told by your doctor that it was a physical impossibility that you were ever going to fulfill your chosen career.

'You're already taller than the average jockey,' he advised. 'Just you wait until you start putting on the weight. It is unlikely anyone is going to employ a 6' 6", 16 stone plus person to ride their horses.'

He was right, of course. More right than I thought at the time. I'll show him, I thought. But the only thing I showed was a copy of my Birth Certificate to the ticket inspector on the train, who refused to believe that I was young enough to be entitled to half price travel.

'C'mon sonny. Pull the other one,' they would always say.

'I'm only 10,' I'd sob.

In the bizarre twists of fate life offers up, my brother seemed to want to be a bus driver. Though quite what they were teaching him at school with his belief that moles can tell your fortune ... So it is ironic that I became a bus driver. An accidental bus driver, because I should have been the next Lester Piggott.

Did my brother become the famous rider? No. Perhaps life is not so ironic after all.

Schooldays Are The Best Days Of Your Lives - Not According To My Reports

2012-02-14T08:19:00.000-08:00

'I would expect him to be near the bottom,' wrote my English teacher, 'but he need not despair.' It makes depressing reading. I've just found my old school reports. They were hidden down the bottom of a drawer. Obviously they were hidden for a very good reason. Perhaps they should never see the light again. They are the sort of reports which make David Brent seem like a genius.

'We all know that he is not an academic genius,' wrote my tutor. 'He has been somewhat slow to grasp the critical approach to the texts I have been trying to introduce,' said the Divinity teacher. 'Prosaic and unimaginative' said the German teacher.

It got worse in French. 'He has very little flair for linguistic work or understanding in this field: nor has he any compensating talent in English or in literary perception.'

Music: 'the standard of his written English gives considerable grounds for concern.'

'Insufficient effort ... superficial, insufficient attention having been given to careful and precise analysis,' said another teacher.

Then there was a miracle. 'I think some light has dawned,' said the Architecture teacher. 'Luckily the interesting but disconnected English which he has always written, has begun to jell, and there are signs he'll one day write quite well,' wrote my relieved tutor.

Alleluia.

'I'd feel easier in mind,' he continued, 'if Dick Francis, say, were one of the 'A' Level English authors; he may find Jane Austen or Dickens a little finicky.'

Cancel that last alleluia.

But my tutor ended on a surprisingly optimistic note. 'He's been the nicest of pupils, gentle and considerate at all times, never making a fuss, and fully aware of his own shortcomings. With such one can achieve something - it's the ones who think they know all the answers who are so difficult.'

Two years later with three 'A'Levels and six 'O' Levels - 'if anyone had told me this' said my house master, 'I should have doubted him.'

Then I was in the wide wide world.

My 'naive wroting style' was unleashed on a variety of things and people. Writing press releases for the Tote, short scripts for Wogan's Winner on BBC Radio 2, reports for various charities, some pages in an English learning book for Poles and various Best Man's speeches, after dinner speeches and long winded rants to whoever had the misfortune to sit next to me.

Whatever will happen next. A book perhaps. That would show those who wrote those early reports. But I must not blame them for writing nothing but the truth. I was a nightmare pupil. I hated school. Not the fun side of school, but the boredom of sitting down and learning many things parrot fashion, stifling one's unique creative skill, or so I believed. It wouldn't make any difference which school I had been at - you either are an institutional sort of person, or you are not.

So school was lifelong friends and laughter. An amazing sense of history and in some subjects a good teacher would open your eyes to the wonders of the big wide world. I absorbed as much as I could about the places of the world. In 1979 I went on a school trip to China, not so long after Mao had died. But apart from that, I gravitated to the next door town - Windsor, which at that time, because there were three major barracks situated there, had more pubs per head than any other town in Britain - 108 or something around that number. I knew quite a few of them.

I geravitated towards the racing world - the betting shops, the Evening Standard sellers. My grandmother was my telephone credit bookie. She took my bets and sent me a monthly update. I used to win in those days more than I lost.

Well I look back at my reports and I feel relieved. Relieved that they could have been worse. I had a friend who received his which read:

'At least Nero rolled in the dust to collect his laurels. Bloggins just rolled in the dust.'

Now that is bad.

Schadenfreude In The Freezing Rain

2012-02-09T10:12:00.000-08:00

'Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating,' said John Ruskin, 'there is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.' Over the past few weeks, it was impossible not to have agreed with him.

It has been spectacular. Ravishing sunsets, tundra like icy landscapes and a crispness and stillness which is rarely reached. Weather for dogs as the scents are strong and the rabbit trails easy to track.

The light dusting of snow hid the ugliness of the slag heaps. They took on their own beauty - the snow covered conical shapes glistened under the azure skies.

Even the love of officialdom and regulations were half hidden for a time.

But it was not to last. If you agree or disagree Oscar Wilde's assertion that 'conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative', the news channels and radio stations are back into full swing with debates about the strange phenomenon of frozen rain, which hit the North of England this morning and caused 97 accidents in relatively few hours. Some of the school buses were cancelled and the odd school was closed as the roads around it became like the arena for Dancing On Ice.

It is nasty. It is different from black ice which tends to only to lie in patches. This is everywhere and when you hit it there's nothing much you can do. I know. Several years ago I hit it early one morning on the Windsor By-pass. Having done two 360 o turns, I found myself facing the wrong way up a dual carriageway looking at the pale but determined face of another driver, who was also out of control. He slewed and stopped incesh from my car.

We got out and celebrated our good fortune at not ramming into each other. We watched two other drivers further down the road who were also talking to each other. Shouting would be a more apt description, as unlike us they had rammed into each other. We looked at each other and tried to suppress our grins, in a poor and thinly disguised attempt to disguise our schadenfreude.

Human nature is a funny thing. Two days later I am sure the situation was reversed when I crashed into the back of another car and a pasing motorist, I could have sworn was struggling with his shadenfreude, too. Less successfully than me as he was belly laughing as he drove by.

Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking........

Swedish Bus Driver Turns An Irishman Blue

2012-02-09T05:05:00.000-08:00

Nothing which emanates from Sweden really surprises.

A country which likes Wife Carrying competitions tells a lot about itself, when the rest of the world have quite enough on their plates when it involves wives, without the extra burden of carrying them and yomping around an obstacle course.

No that's not really fair. Wife Carrying is reputed top be a Finnish sport. The World Championships are held in Sonkajarvi, Finland. The Swedes are just being neighbourly.

So you would think that an Irishman in Stockholm might be an equally interesting proposition. But not in the world of Swedish public transport, where everything runs like clockwork and is comfortable and efficient. But my Irish friend had problems.

In the -16 o cold, he missed the bus one morning. It was 4 minutes early. He spoke fluent Swedish and said, when he caught up with the driver later that his language was about the same colour as his fingers and toes. This was not the first time it had happened. It had happened to him a few weeks before, though he was within sprinting distance of making the bus stop, though being elderly, he got there and was 'ripe for a heart attack', in his words.

'You're early,' he said to the bus driver as he got on.

'Consider yourself bloody lucky that I stopped to pick you up,' was the driver's measured reply.

He must have been watching Bob Newhart's Bus Driver Training http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5TTA4f7Q3E ......

.... or he had learnt his trade in England.

'

Australia -Land Of Painful Drowned Sorrows

2012-02-09T03:46:00.000-08:00

'At the end of my trial, I was rather hoping the Judge would send me to Australia for the rest of my life,' Jeffrey Archer is supposed to have said at the Old Bailey.

I can understand his sentiments. Australia is one of the greatest countries in the world. I've met only a handful who have thought otherwise.

So imagine the Accidental Bus Driver, rolling up at Tullamarine Airport in Melbourne on a warm Spring evening in October 1979. He was a mere 17. Fresh from school and the constraints of a grey Britain. The Yorkshire Ripper had just killed his 12th victim, Lord Mountbatten had been assassinated by the IRA, Manchester City had splashed out a record transfer fee of £1.45 million for Steve daley from Wolverhampton Wanderers only to see Wolves in turn break the record by paying just under £1.5 million for Andy Gray from Aston Villa, British Leyland were to stop manufacturing the MG and the largest shopping centre in Britain at Milton Keynes was opened by Margaret Thatcher.

The TV was down to two channels, BBC1 and BBC2, as ITV was closed down for over two months by a technicians strike and really the most exciting event of the year seemed to be the BBC screening the last ever episode of To The Manor Born, with Penelope Keith and Peter Bowles attracted an audience of 23 million (though it did return for a Christmas Special in 2007).

Arriving in Australia, where the sun always seemed to shine and mostly the people smiled and were happy, often doing outdoor pursuits, was pure magic for a seventeen-year-old. My first supper was yabbies, a huge hunk of beef with roast pumpkin and canteloupe melon - things I never saw at home. Breakfast was steak with a fried egg on top, followed by a trip to the Milk Bar for a Vanilla Malt milkshake. It must have been similar to the moment when Ali Baba saw the contents of the forty thieves' cave.

It was the get-on-with-things attitude which I liked the best. Drive 100 miles to go out to dinner? No worries. Go to a 48 hour party? No worries, so long as you bought along some wine boxes. Once you had finished drinking the contents, the box could be dismantled, the silver pouch blown up and, hey presto, you had your personal pillow. Drive 200 miles to have a punt on a trotter, laid out for a race. No worries. It won. And it was on a border town called Echuca with a bridge separating Victoria from New South Wales. Because the licensing laws were different in each state, the pub on one bank of the Murray River closed one hour earlier than the other. There would be a procession of people racing over the bridge for the extra hour's drinking.

Of course, it was only fifteen years ago that the famous 'Six O'Clock Swill' had been brought to an end. It was a time when men left work at 5pm and drunk as many glasses they could before the pub closed at 6pm. One friend, who had been a barman in Perth, said the pub was silent. Before five o'clock he would fill the counter with schooners of beer. The doors would open and there was a rush to the bar. The regulars made their way to their usual table which was also covered in glasses and begin downing them in silence. At 6 they would all stagger out.

I once went to a cattle sale with the boss. It was always a long day. If the sale went well, we would stop at five or six places on the way back to celebrate. If it was a bad sale we would do the same - but would drown our sorrows rather than celebrating. This particular day was the worst ever. The 29 Charolais heifers hardly raised a bid of AU$300. A disaster. The Boss was ultra-depressed. The drive home was slower than usual and we reached his kitchen in the early hours to round the night off. At 3am, he got up on the chair, stood to attention, sung the National Anthem and fell head first into the wastepaper bin, tearing all his ligaments and putting him on crutches for months.

'No worries,' he said. 'The next sale will be better. And sure it was.

On A Slow Bus To China

2012-02-04T06:02:00.000-08:00

A dozen or so years ago, I went with four friends to some of the wilder and more remote parts of China. It was a trip with mixed success. The basics of Qinghai and Gansu Provinces were not to everyone's taste. Needless to say I was in my element. Anywhere or anything which is the antithesis to the traditional English holiday of sitting on a crowded beach turning the colour of a cooked lobster, or taking a villa and only being with your own countryfolk, speaking the same language, or the ubiquitous package tour and city mini-break has always meant I have been to varied places.

I love the writings of John Reed, Jan and Cora Gordon, Rebecca West, Norman Lewis and Thant Myint-U. They are pioneers, both past and present and bring places to life, unlike more well known books about Provence, Sicilian Lemons or backpacking in the Himalayas. But each unto their own. I would have liked to have met Marco Polo, T.E. Lawrence and Countess Waldeck who mixed with spies from all nations whilst staying in the Athenee Palace Hotel in Bucharest in 1941.

Back to Gansu Province. Some of the group were not overly thrilled with the spartan accomadation, sleeping on a wooden floor in a hut, somewhere in the hilly, grassy foothills of ther Himalays. We were huddled together, around one pathetic little stove, covered in animal furs in a bid to keep the cold out. And by gum it was cold. It rattled through the bones and it was impossible to control the chattering of teeth.

We were illegally there, having hired a dodgy tour operator who took us off-track to some off limits village. You knew, the previous afternoon that we were somewhere where Westerners hadn't been, when we were followed by a group of curious monks. So curious were they, that every few minutes I felt a shaft of pain in one or other arms, as an anonymous hand would reach out and help itself to a tuft of hair.

'Yes, we did say we wanted to go somewhere authentic and different,' said the group the next morning, confronting me, 'but we never thought you would take us to such a hell-hole as this.'

Besides the cold, the bad backs, the aching muscles, the lack of any hot water bathing facilities, the thing which had sent them over the top was breakfast. Our host, who had kindly given up his house, had slept in the stable next door. He came in at 7am and announced that it breakfast time, pointing to a drawer under the only wooden bed in the room.

'Yak butter tea,' he said with a broad grin. 'Verrrrryyyy gooooood. He opened the door, grabbed a spoon of yellow butter, put it in a cup, poured water over it and handed it to one of the group. She took one look, wretched and ran out the door into the frozen air. So I drank it. It wasn't bad and I can helped keep the cold out. That's the thing about the Chinese. They are very pragmatic people. Nearly everything is done for a good reason.

When we went on to other places, one of the group wanted to stay in another beautiful place we had been to called Ta'er Si. She wrote a letter to me several months later, about her experiences on the way home. They were hilarious. They still make me laugh today:

"I went back to Ta'er Si after you guys left. It SNOWED the whole bleeding time. Very cold. But I had a luxury room on the first floor with full view of the monastry. I ate at that little Muslim restaurant everyday (twice). In fact that was half the reason I went back there. I avoided other places for fear of bumping into any more skinned whippets (I was not in the group's high esteem, having spent days quelling their fears of eating dog or any other unusual meat. The first restaurant we walked into, they demanded to see the kitchen and there, hanging up on the wall were two skinned dogs. Ooops.)

It was a complete nightmare getting out of Xiahe on a bus. I was almost in tears. I had to get insurance first (never worked out why) but by the time I got on the minibus was full. The driver was trying to move people so I could sit down. But each time he managed to get somebody up, quick as a flash, someone else got into the seat. Musical chairs or what? Lots of long distance spitting went on noisily and we all looked like and smellt like an ash tray by the time I got out the bus. All the passengers must have developed cramped necks, as the whole trip they turned to the back of the bus, where I was sitting and stared at me mercilessly. There was a section in the Lonely Planet (the guidebook I'd lent her) about staring. It said 'THE MOVIE IS CALLED THE ALIEN ... AND YOU ARE THE STAR'. I really caved into the pressure."

But every story ussually has a silver lining and the trip had a happy ending:

"A bunch of very snotty and unfriendly backpacking tourists on an organised tour arrived on my last day. I beamed at them happily as not a word had passed my lips in 3 days. Well except for the odd 'HELLO' to the crowds of children. But the b******s completely ignored me and I was rather p****d off with them. Then I got my revenge. It turned out, in that part of the world, one needed a travel permit, and they did not have one. They got fined $3000! HEE HEE. I knew it was because they were unfriendly s***s, and must have upset the hotel people, who called in the Police. Consequently they kept them for an extra two days, which really upset them. I was smiling fiendishly. That's what you get for being unfriendly.

Back in Beijing, I had planned to see the Summer Palace and Mao Sleeping. But I am ashamed to say I was so exhausted with dog avoiding, spitting and being a Superstar that I did not leave my hotel room for the whole of 2 days, except to go for a swim and eat downstairs in the European restaurant.'

Now this to me is the truest form of travel writing. Witty - no outrageously funny but more importantly, regardless of whether you have been there or not, if you shut your eyes you can imagine everything vividly.

And what about Chinese buses?

If you are 6 foot 6 inches like me, you will find them cramped. But the drivers are good and you will no doubt have plenty to talk about.

Death Of The Rural Bus. Few People Care

2012-01-31T02:46:00.000-08:00

A week ago, I read an article by Geoffrey Lean in the Daily Telegraph entitled: 'Will the country bus come to a grinding halt? It followed another article in the Financial Times last year about more or less the same thing.

Hmmm.

It was an interesting article with many valid points about Beeching style cuts (20% in the last year), rural passengers being stranded, jobseekers will find it harder to access work, less shopping trips, big hit to the rural economy, local people being unable to get to hospital etc etc.

He may well be right. But he just scratches the surface. A). It is now 26 years since the de-regulation of the bus industry combined with the British love of independence, choice and a motor car. B). There aren't that many people living in rural areas and successive governments gamble that the level of protest will be small and manageable. You won't therefore see 300,000 Countryside Alliance supporters marching through London in an attempt to save there local bus.

Why not?

Because attitudes, needs, desires and expectations of the British public have changed so greatly in the last 20 years. The bus industry hasn't matched them. Buses are old, dowdy and unexciting in rural areas. It seems that it has become the graveyard for ex-city buses. I look at the local buses around our area and they seem to vary from 7-years-old to 15+.

You would think if you wanted to attract people away from their cars, then buses would be cheap, spotlessly clean, wi-fi, given special routes to avoid traffic to all places and above all, offer a pleasant experience.

Instead travelling on a cattle wagon is nearly equal to the local bone-rattler.

So why should people care? Oh the odd one will. There are some whose lives depend on buses. The councils have been responsible for losing routes because several school buses, which doubled as passenger services cannot have any adults on board anymore, as a result of Child Protection and safeguarding Children. There used to be a Post Bus too, but in many areas this seems to have disappeared.

Yet with the lack of services the complaints have been minimal. The general public, in the main, don't like buses. They want their cars. They want to go whenever they please. Even though it costs far more. No Government is going to tax the motorist off the road. That would be political suicide. They will nudge and connect with the feelgood factor as they play with electric and more green options. But they won't grasp the nettle that if you want an all singing all dancing transport network, we all have to pay for it. Joe public will not delve into his pocket for buses.

So we have a muddled together compromise of a system which just gets by. This is Britain. No one will complain. It'll do. Councils have spyed a cheap way to cutcosts, taking expensive rural contracts off the bus companies, giving them to charities, who they fund which means the council in effect become a bus company by proxy. These charities cut the services to the bone, but still run one service a day, which ticks the right box.

God forbid the Community Bus, which central government is advoctating. Look at the communities track record in wasting money in grand village hall and other schemes. Heavens above, if the community are allowed to run a bus. The last community bus in my neighbourhood was used by the local youths to go to a pop concert several hundred miles away. It had only been going for ten minutes, when it was pulled into a lay-by and surrounded by a large amount of police, who were acting on a tip off. A large number of drugs were recovered. the bus never made it to the concert.

A Dial N' Go bus was also run. It never went anywhere because there was no mobile phone reception so nobody could dial the driver. After an initial row, I used to see the bus parked in a field on top of a hill, with the driver asleep at the wheel. Though there was now reception, still nobody dialled.

50 And It's All Downhill From Here

2012-01-31T01:44:00.000-08:00

You know when you turn 50.

Apart from the cards and messages of sympathy, funny things seem to happen. I spent my birthday with a taxidermist. I was there on quite another matter altogether, and not discussing the quality of embalming fluid which could be used on me if I so desired to be stuffed.

I did once sit next to an extraordinary old lady at dinner once. Pompously and trying to elicit some small talk, I asked her:

'And what do you do?'

'I stuffed Lenin,' she replied. And that was that. My small talk in the area of stuffing Soviet Communist Leaders was non-existant. I therefore spluttered and turned to the lady on my right, avoiding the question: 'and what do you do?' just in case the reply was equally out-of this-world.

Turning 50 allows you the luxury of doing what the hell you want to do on your birthday. I think it is the first time I have done that since I was 4. the usual strange things happened as I was driving along. I passed a horse and rider, whose right hand clasped a mobile phone to his ear and his left hand was wrining something down on a folded notepad. Where the hell the reins were, it was best not to think about.

Around the next corner there was a traffic jam. A bus had embedded itself int the back of a post van. Or the post van had pushed its rear into the front of the bus. I do not know which. Either way, it meant that there would be a delay to delivering the mail that morning. My mail. My birthday mail.

In hindsight I wish it had been delayed for longer. I received five cards with the number 50 printed on the front in large, glittery raised type. Two cards with the word 'OLD' prominently written. One with a badge with 'I am 5', several with various cryptic remarks and one which pronounced in pastel colours: 'With Deepest Sympathy.'

Victor Hugo compounded my happy day by writing: 'Forty is the age of youth. Fifty is the youth of age.' Just what I needed, a Gallic attack on your birthday.

I think he will be proved wrong. I am looking forward to my twilight years. Probably because that medical science will be so advanced that I will live to a great age, with the occasional visit to the garage/hospital for something similar to an oil change and filter replacement.

Watch out. Here comes the first 100-year-old bus driver.

Life On An Ocean Wave - No Thanks

2012-01-29T04:33:00.000-08:00

It's not been a good year for boats.

'It's a ship, man, a ship,' an irate ex-navy man once yelled into my ear on a crowded underground carriage when he overheard me talking with a friend.

The trouble with being stuck on a tube train is that you are packed together like sardines and it was impossible to get away from this man's ire.

'What's more it's a she,' he went on. 'She's NOT an it'

Boats have never been an area I've either been very good at or enjoyed at any time in my lifetime. In fact I had prior warning when I was 2 1/2 and was sitting on the wall of the very upmarket and sometimes snooty Bembridge Yacht Club on the Isle Of Wight. My poor father, not being a sailor had drawn the short straw and had to do the babysitting and we sat watching little dots on the horizon with sails on top racing each other. One of these dots contained my mother, who was equally not a sailor but had been carted off by a more capapable cousin.

Back on land, as I was devouring the flake on top of the 99 cone father had bought to keep me quiet, a Rear Vice Admiral in full and pristine white uniform ill advisedly walked past.

'Oh look, Daddy,' I said in rather too loud a voice. 'It's a painter.'

An easy mistake. Anyone could have mistaken the whites of one of the commanders of the Royal Navy for the overalls of a decorator. He didn't see the funny side though and we were evicted. So I never did get to see my mother's surprise triumph in finishing second in the race.

From that moment on me and boats just didn't mix.

I used to get seasick watching the Oxford and Cambridge boat race on t.v. So being on a ferry was a terrible mistake. I was probably the only person to be sick on the Dover-Ostend Sealink ferry before it had even left the port. In Bremerhaven whilst the DFDS ferry was gently bobbing on the dock and friends and family were waving and happily talking to each other between deck and quayside, the atmosphere rapidly descended into horror when a green faced Brit retched and threw up over the side. Amongst the shouts of 'Mein Gott', 'Scheisse' and 'Das ist unglaublich', the ship and the dock emptied and I was left alone, feeling wretched.

It was little better on the Boulogne ferry in a Force 9 gale. I actually rather enjoyed it and was feeling fine until another passenger was sick on my shoes. The long trip to Santander was better and worse, thanks to a rugby club from Sussex, on a tour of Spain who terrorised the ship. An hour after leaving, they were singing. Two hours, they had drunk the boat dry. Three hours they were rampaging around the ship and all the crew were so frightened that they had locked themselves in the broom cupboard. The next morning I went on deck to find fifteen grey faces staring out to sea, saying nothing.

On inland waterways, my experiences were worse. My first trip on a narrow boat in the Regent's Park Canal ended in my first boat crash. As we were ambling along at less than 3 m.p.h, another boat came hairing out of a tunnel on the wrong side of the river at an equally hairy 3 m.p.h and we had no option but to ram into the towpath and the front of the boat lodged there and all us passengers were flung to the floor with flailing arms and legs in the air. When another boat came to tow us off the riverbank, we began to sink.

I learnt from the experience, because some years later on a barge holiday on the canals of Alsace, I was the cause of a bateau mouche in Strasbourg having to take evasive action and smack into the bank. I was driving. What a mistake that was. We had all just had a particularly good lunch, washed down by many bottles of Pinot Gris. That aside, no one told me that as we were sailing through strasbourg, we were near the Rhine and the currents became stronger. Also no one told me that there was a strict traffic light code at various intersections which all river traffic had to adhere to.

I blindly ignored all the red lights on one sharp corner to suddenly come face to face with an enormous bateau-mouche, crammed full of tourists. Even through the glare, the blind panic and the pleasure boat driver's sunglasses, I thought I could see the whites of his eyes. He spun the wheel like Captain Jack Sparrow, slammed the throttle into reverse and still managed to utter some French obscenity and shake both fists, raising the middle fingers as he did so. There was a horrendous crunching sound and then silence followed by a roar similar to the sound of people celebrating the winning goal at the FA Cup Final.

I looked up to see we were wedged together. We were regrettably wedged together in the busiest part of Strasbourg, where on this beautiful summer day, the cafe's were heaving with lunchtime folk. They had never seen anything like it. And they would probably never see anything like it again.

I have to be thankful for three things. One, the Gendarmes seemed to be on their lunch break. Two, the skill of the bateau mouche driver managed to get us disentangled and we went on our separate ways. And three, the bateau mouche was sealed and air conditioned - otherwise I felt the driver would have got out and punched me on the nose, he was so angry. One hour later, still driving around the Strasbourg canals, we met again.

'Yoo-hoo' yelled all the girls on our boat and waved heartily to him. The same two middle fingers were visible as he pushed down hard on the throttle to get as far away from us as possible.

The news of the Italian cruise ship is just a reminder of how perilous the sea can be. My Grandmother was killed during the war on the SS Empress Of Britain. In my lifetime I have seen the Torrey Canyon, the Exxon Valdez, the Herald Of Free Enterprise and the SS Estonia, to name but a few. When in the Philippines I remember thinking if the boat I am on goes down, I will make a good snack for a shark. I have been to a funeral of a sailor of a Polish boat which sank in the North Sea.

The Costa Concordia is just another. The trouble is that everything is being built bigger and bigger, so if there is a disaster in the future, there is a possibility of large number of casualties.

Me - I'll be sticking to the pedalo at a pond in South Shields. With my seasickness record, that will frighten the ducks.

Where Has All The Flowery Language Gone?

2012-01-28T02:52:00.000-08:00

It has taken one whole week to realise that the letter from Uganda might have been a scam.

It took me another week to realise, for certain, that it was.

It was thanks to a letter I found at the bottom of a drawer. Sent fifteen years ago by a friend who had been scammed by a guy from Zaire.

He loved the man's gall and use of language and gall. He had obviously been sitting writing this letter with a copy of Who's Who on one side of the desk and the Oxford English Dictionary on the other. Remember it was before the days of Google. He has misused the dictionary splendidly. Perhaps by now he is a scriptwriter for a soap opera. He deserves success.

The letter goes:

Dear Sir,

I beg to come near your honour to wish you birthday and to ask you help.

If anyone deserves a Birthday (10 December 1925) Bright with happiness and cheer. There's no doubt it's you dear Sir Leviathon Pinkerton Frobisher Brabinger, Happy Birthday, happy year. Light all your Birthday. And good luck all your pathways. Bless in some delightful way. That you may feel life's worthwhile. To greet with sunny smile. Happy Birthday 10 DECEMBER 1996.

Kindly absurd me that I tell you concerning my miserable person. I'm married and father of one daughter. I'm disgraced in life, fit in by exhilerating garb and hyps, alimentation, a bag full with grass where my body finds pause, my studies missed by penniless and less of sustenance. All this life dwelling into charity.

Wishfull to brighten up, josteled by the wind, I have no hope in the future. Dear sir, I am disarous to proceed with studies and to find speedy financial possibility that can help me to calm famine. Then after more difficulties to whom I can't meet I call over from your willing assistance with:

- 500 £ and CAMERA plus Zoom (sending will be recommended with acknowledgement to avoid theft).

I expect to hear from you favourable because you're shrewd. My piteous request should raise up to you sympathy and altruism.

I very much appreciate your interest at me and hope that you will not hesitate to let me know if I can be of any additional assistance.

Truly yours.

Nelson Bloggs
P.O.Box Zaire

(Names, dates etc you may have suspected have been changed)

I was sympathetic until he asked for a camera. Not just any old camera, but a camera with zoom. But regardless of whether it is true or a scam, the thing I like best is the flowery use of language. It highlights the boring state of the English language today. Whenever you turn on the television or radio there are people speaking in clinical language about 'fatalities', 'inappropriate behaviour' and general other stilted forms of slang, text speak or officialese or pseudo-American and Australian phrases as 'Hiya' and 'I'm good thanks'.

That's enough of a rant from an ageing grump. Nothing you can do about it. Language is always evolving. I guess if you can't beat them - join them - so see ya. ciao ciao, mea culpa and hasta la vista baby.

Uganda And The Mystery Of The Aircraft Shower

2012-01-16T03:24:00.000-08:00

Still with the memory of the flight home, I opened the first letter, addressed to my dead father, which had been lying damp on the doorstep, which was from Uganda.

A holiday? A friend who had moved to Kampala?

No such luck. My deep suspicious mind were aroused and alerted when I began to read:

'Dear Fellow Christian,
Greetings to you in christ's name. I praise God for this opportunity to write and share my problem with you in christ,s name.

I felt sorry for the guy. He said he was an orphan. His parents and two sisters were burnt to death in a house which caught fire at night. The doors had been locked from the outside. The killer was still at large. Petrol had been poured onto the house.

He and his brother had escaped the fire as they had been visiting their 86-year-old grandmother.

Now he needs his school fees paid. Two semesters at £950 per semester = £1900...and money to pay for the shock of it all.

I know how he feels.

But it is a sad state of life, that however much I might believe him, it would be wrong to send any money. Would it really go do the right place? Is it an elaborate scam? How did he get my father's name and address? He hadn't been reading the death columns, which seems a flippant and callous remark. But these days Uganda, with the intrnet is no backwater and can check worldwide matters.

I returned to the thought of my return journey home. It looked suspiciously like the same aeroplane in which we went out in, and showered me when we landed. I had the same seat but this time the front lavatory was 'Out of Order' and everyone was forced to use the one down the back. When we landed I did not receive a shower of liquid.

Then my mind started working overtime. Water ...broken lavatory ...

No it couldn't have been. I couldn't have been sprayed with the liquid from the broken .......

I'll take the train the next time.

On The Border, Lost In Time

2012-01-16T02:58:00.000-08:00

Border towns around the world are often the same.

Years of wars, moving boundaries, feelings of distrust, discomfort or just downright hatred have moulded many of these places. You've only got to go to Longtown or Berwick-on-Tweed on the English/Scottish border to feel the angst which still bubbles just beneath the surface.

The Czech/German border seemed equally gritty. It was a grey place and you could feel the coldness of forty years of Communism. Where there is now just a road and a bridge, you could still feel the spectres of the old customs blocks and watchtowers.

Border towns seem to attract border businesses. If you look at the old Western films, even in the 19th Century, there usually seemed to be a Chinese business in a Dodge City or Tombstone. So, surprise, surprise, the first restaurant I saw in the Czech republic was the Asia Restaurace.

All the border towns I have been to have businesses with glamourous names, often belying what is really inside. Style Island and Pall Mall promised more than they offered.

Try it the next time you go to a border town. See if you can find the names of the business which are full of promise. It makes a pleasant change from the multi-national chains you find on our High Streets.

Snow Tubing - German Style

2012-01-16T02:45:00.000-08:00

Yes the Germans have it organised.

When there is not much snow there are still multiple chances to do yourself some injury. Snow Tubing is in fact something you can do in Britain. If you go to Bracknell or Norwich they will give you a rubber tyre and you will be able to fly down a dry slope at high speed. They call it Sno-Tubing in Bracknell, possibly to try and hide the fact that that there is no snow, whilst in Norfolk they describe it as 'one of the fastest growing winter sports' and 'a cushioned ride as you glide down the slope.'

Even the Americans, who seem to be a little more extreme and have real snow, tend to go down the hill in a straight line, similar to a slide at a soft play park.

In Germany, things are different. They are more raw.

'If the hook comes off the T-bar ... for christ's sake bale out,' were the encouraging words from my friend as I wedged my ample bottom into the rubber dinghy. 'Last time a lady didn't, when the hook came loose near the top and she gathered speed and flew into the fence at the bottom. Stupid woman. She was badly bruised.'

At that moment I felt the strain as the rope went tight. It made a protesting noise and the rubber ring with me inside it reluctantly took off up the hill. The protestations continued the whole way up. When the rope wasn't groaning, the hook was trying to detach itself and the ring was veering to the left and the right, in what seem an attempt to dislodge me.

Ha Ha, I thought. No chance. I'm well and truly wedged.

Then the realisation that I would end up wrapped around the fence at the bottom began to dawn as I would not have an earthly chance of baling out.

Then I was there. At the top. The hook detached itself. The ski lift continued, but I went over a steep drop and started my descent down the bobsleigh track. The tube soon picked up speed. Alarming speed, aided by my vast bulk. I accelerated round the first corner faster...faster...faster.

At each bend, the snow tube and I went higher and higher. The second last bend I headed into thin air, before being reunited with the track. I wet my knickers.

Then it was over. It was absolutely brilliant. If it had not been for the indignity of having to have three people pull me out of the tube. There was a brief moment when I thought the operators were going to seek some butter and a crowbar. But then I surprisingly was free, accompanied by a mixed sound which was like a sloppy fart and a champagne cork popping.

Will I do it again? Like hell I will, but only in Germany. It would be too tame anywhere else.

Perhaps it is the luge next.

Knedliky To Knodel - The Same Route To The Stomach

2012-01-16T01:57:00.000-08:00

One of the good things about going skiing in the North of the Czech Republic is that you are not too far from Germany. Christmas in Germany is special. It is magical and seems to be the perfect antidote to British over commercialisation, the fear of offending someone and the general, steady deterioration of taste when it comes to Christmas lights or decorations.

Nothing flashes, the lights are predominantly white or yellow and soft. Decorations are tasteful and carved

Even the snowmen exude a certain style and German-ness. They do not look as if they have arrived straight out of a box from a factory near Guangzhou.

'You can tell a Chinese Christmas decoration a mile off,' a vicar, who also had been a missionary in China, once told me. 'It's all in the eyes. The Chinese designers cannot get the eyes right. Father Christmas often looks a little like a taller and more rotund Chairman Mao.'

Of course, there is a certain eccentricity in German design too. This is the main decoration outside Altenberg Bahnhof. Though it smacks a little of 'Anthony Gormley does Christmas', it is tasteful and does not leave you contemplating what the message is.

I love Germany. The Germans do things properly. 'Urggh - why are you going there?' asked a friend before I went. 'The food is absolutely reeevolllllltting ...' she said, enjoying the moment and pulling a face, I presumed in case I had not got the message.

More fool her, I thought. I've always thought the food was good. You can still get veal. The salads were the best I have had and the Schwein Schnitzel was twice the size of the one in the Czech Republic and the drinks are wide and varied. Excellent german white and reds, gluhwein, glogg, beers and finished off with the local Altenberger Gebirgsbitter, a mountain schnapps made from bitter herbs.

And how can you beat a Hot Chocolate like this? Everything fresh. Everything simple. Everything with taste. It's sure to be like that back home.

Um...where's the microwave?

Guest And Fish Stinks At Third Day

2012-01-13T06:21:00.000-08:00

Czech food is meaty. It is heavy to some. A difficulty if you are looking for kosher food. Even harder if you are a vegetarian. Below is about as vegetarian as you can get. Potatoes cooked in six different ways. Actually fried in six different ways - chips, hash browns, rings, croquettes, pommes duchesse, and one I had never seen before. On top of this is some coleslaw, some potato salad, some red cabbage and a couple of salad leaves.

But who's complaining?(apart from the vegetarians those who have to eat kosher food). I like Czech food. It is very tasty. Pork schnitzels, Serb pork, Moravian pork, pork with cottage cheese, pork with sauerkraut and dumplings. All excellent.

Every morning at 7am, I was awoken in our guest house by a pungent smell. It was a family run b&b and the elder members of the family did the cooking. I woke to the smell of goulash soup being freshly made with strong garlic overtones. Rather like the Bisto Kid, I dreamily sought out the source by patrolling up and down the corridor in my dressing gown, eyes three-quarters closed.

The only trouble is that old greedy guts here has scoffed so much that I will be four kilos overweight on the way home. The Viet Cong always said that American troops and other Westerners smellt like rotten meat and could be sniffed from several miles away. that's what an old Australian Special forces veteran told me. they would use it to their advantage and when an American patrol went through, they would hang back and hide. Sure enough, more often that not, a group of Viet Cong soldiers would follow. The ambush was set.

So pity the person who has to sit next to me on the flight home. With little other food than pork inside me - I don't even want to hazard a guess about what I smell like.

The Romas Of Usti Nad Labem

2012-01-13T05:39:00.000-08:00

Usti nad Labem sounds a romantic place.

Well the station is clean, the buses are new and there is an attractive castle on the hill, which overlooks the wide River Labem or Elbe. It should be a beautiful town due to its location.

As I contemplated in the darkness,whether it was or not, an enormous Policeman breezed past and grabbed a dusky looking man standing further up the platform. Perhaps he was a member of the Roma community who were in Usti in relatively high numbers.

Oh well, I'm only changing trains here and the Teplice train is due in 10 minutes.

Until that is, the sign changes and announces it is running 20 minutes late.

And 20 minutes soon becomes 50.

Just as it flashes up to 50, the burly Policeman returns and is aiming purposefully at a group of suspect looking youths. It is time to give up on the train and get out of here.

Taxi! Taxi!

To Pee Or Not To Pee - That Is The Question

2012-01-13T04:46:00.000-08:00

Strange how language twists and turns through history.

Everywhere you go on the continent seems to be a blast from the past when seeking out a lavatory. WC seems to be the standard description. I bet most Europeans don't realise that W.C. stands for Water Closet.

We on the other hand have rejected WC and turned to the word Toilet, related to the French word 'toilette', maybe, but who cares?

When you are in a hurry, verging on desperation, it doesn't matter what the hell the thing is called, so long as it is open for business - Latrine, khasi, dunny, thunder box, shitter, netty, washroom, john, public convenience, loo, lavatory, office, foreign office, throne room, crapper, outhouse, can, dookie, men's room, boys' room, ladies, gents, rest room - rr, comfort room - cr, commode, potty, biffy, privy, midden, cess pit, donicky or even riding a porcelain bus.

The Czech loo was closed. There was a very detailed notice about the Christmas opening hours and how much you had to pay the attendant in the kiosk.

This was the second time in a week that I had been taken short. Both were at railway stations. In the UK, luckily it was quiet and there was a hawthorn bush close to the railway sidings. No doubt I will be on CCTV, but I pulled my cap as far as I could over my eyes, in the unlikely event that the cameras had iris recognition technology.

The Ladies were open, however, in the Czech railway station. My daughters came rushing out with hoots of laughter as they grabbed my camera and hastily went back in, saying:

'You won't believe this, dad. It's this sign you see.... it's odd that it is above the wash basins in the ladies....

Something has been lost in translation, perhaps.

Czech Railways - It Restores Faith In The Train

2012-01-13T03:50:00.000-08:00

When you see smiling, smart ticket collectors on a train, similar to the lady in the poster above, I seriously considered taking up trainspotting as a hobby.

Oh how easy it is to run down Britain and the overpriced, overcrowded, oversold and over-almost-about-everything-else rail network. The Czech railways seem to work mostly, apart from the apparent unwillingness to replace light bulbs in many of the carriages.

But I can live with that.

Clean trains. regular. Reasonable prices. Not too crowded, and above all else a train in which you can open the door and windows by yourself. It was a joy to be away from the usual sweaty cigar tubes, regurgitating the stale air and pumping out freezing cold air conditioning.

Even the ticket collectors smile as they come into each compartment. It was reliving the romance of my youth where comfort was paramount on the railways.

It wouldn't work at home. Health and safety would stop doors and windows being opened. And the train companies would never allow compartments as they would dent their profit margins and fewer sardines could be crammed into their tin cans.

The stations in the Czech Republic all seemed to be manned. Staff came out and waved discs. There were porters, interesting shops, good food and coffee.

It actually made the inglorious performance of public transport quite enjoyable.

Toot Toot.

Beer Makes Beautiful Bodies

2012-01-13T02:53:00.000-08:00

Are the Communists still in charge?

Looking at the above tower, it could easily be mistaken for a Warsaw Pact watchtower. Frighteningly it looks remarkably similar to some of the new Affordable Housing being built in the North of England as well.

But it's not.

It's just some local politician in the Czech Republic's attempt to encourage tourism for the region. The main problem, regardless of the design is that there is no huge benefit to climbing the tower, as the view is not much different from that on ground level.

It has had the desired effect and tourists flock to see it.

It's mid-winter and the apple trees are still laden with fruit. It is warm. Unusually warm and therefore it is consoling to find that climate change is not just confined to the UK. What is refreshingly different is the peace of the place. Here is a village where little stirs. The smells of the countryside are not spoilt by traffic polution. You can walk along the roads without fear of some idiot deliberately driving at you.

You can go to get fresh milk at anytime. Just take a jug to the dairy farm and they will fill it up - fresh from the cow.

We arrived at four o'clock at the local bar. On the gravel outside were laid out two dead and gutted wild boars and a badger. The hunting season was in full swing. Inside the bar sat the hunters, next to the poachers, next to the local policemen. Everyone knew everyone. They had obviously been there for most of the day.

In the middle of the beer and Becherovka drinking males sat a local farmer's wife who was a collector of anything to do with cows. Having passed around the Christmas presents she had received, varying from playing cards to key rings, she stood up and said:

'Now boys, you've gotta see this,' (in Czech) ... at which she stood up, took her jacket off and revealed a new t-shirt. Her front was covered with the head of what looked like a smiling Guernsey cow on a blue background.

The associated throng seemed to be more interested in what lay behind the cow's head. Time for another piwo.

A Frenchman In The Czech Republic, A Lightweight Subaru And An Airline Bath

2012-01-03T16:03:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered what a Frenchman in the Czech Republic would look like?

Well you do now.

In no way does it capture the romance and mystique of an American in Paris, our man in Havana or an Englishman abroad. In fact you might well think that he is a local Czech tourist, out on a Sunday afternoon stroll on the way to the bar, as he seems to blend in so well to the local landscape.

He should do. He has lived in the Czech Republic for nearly twenty years. He speaks the language like a native and has embraced the culture with both arms.

His taste in cars may be eclectic. You don't often see these little Subaru people carriers around. Possibly this is because when they are filled with large Europeans such as myself who have just devoured large plates of Moravian pork, the enging tends to struggle to get the overburdened vehicle up the Bohemian hills.

His wife is fortunately a very good artist. An artist who is beginning to go places (even in a Subaru people carrier with a two stroke engine). Remember the name, Nikola Novakova http://www.nikolanovakova.com/
She will be sought after one day. Her paintings, I mean.

So this is who I am staying with in the Czech Republic. It will be a blast. It always is.

Though this was not the first blast I had received in the Czech Republic. I had already had a blast on the outward flight from the UK. Having once watched Air Crash Investiigation on the Discovery Channel and having had seven close shaves whilst flying from missing the runway, an enging falling out of its casing and being close enough to an Air India jumbo jet over Bristol that you could see the passengers faces, makes you a little more observant when boarding a plane. It has never stopped me flying. If you are going to go, then youare going to go and there is nothing much you can do about it. Statistically speaking, it is less likely that it will be on an aeroplane.

This particular plane looked old. There were rust marks and the odd crack on the outside. Inside the plastic pannelling was ill fitting in places and coming away from the wall in other areas. So I suppose it wasn't a great surprise when the plane touched down on the runway at Prague, a spray of cold water splashed down on my head. The more the plane breaked the stronger the shower of water was.

'Oh that's not nice,' said the stewardess matter-of-factly. 'And they've just repaired it too.'

Vitejte v Ceske republice.

Ahoj!

Christmas Memories Of German Bombs

2011-12-23T14:56:00.000-08:00

Christmas is a good time to visit St Andrew's Church, Bolam, situated about 16 miles North West of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, on the way towards the Scottish border. Not only is it is a hidden Saxon Church of great simplicity, beauty and peace, but it also was subjected to an attack by a German bomber in the Second World War.

One night a Luftwaffe bomber was following the railway line which the pilot thought would lead to Newcastle, where he could drop his bombs. But either because he was being pursued by a Spitfire, or was just lost in the clouds, combined with the fact that it was the wrong railway line conspired to put the pilot in an unenviable situation. As he came out the fog at zero level, his windshield was filled with the shape of a church spire.

The only way he could avoid a collision was to drop his bombs so that he could rapidly gain height. He did and he missed.

My father, a little boy, was in bed in a nearby house when he was awoken by the explosions. The vicarage fared worse and had all its windows blown out. The vicar went down to check the church without a light or torch. In the darkness he tripped over something cold and solid. An unexploded bomb.

There is now a stained glass window showing where the bomb came into the church.

The pilot came back to apologise in 2004. My father met him.

This year is the first Christmas without my father. It is important to remember the stories and the delight he had in telling them. They were always interesting. Often funny.

So the Accidental Bus Driver is vacating England for a few days. To the Czech Republic. A few days of Borovicka, carp and knedliky. Not a glimpse of a turkey or a soggy roast potato.

Paradise. A true white, frozen Christmas. Thank you King Wenceslas.

The Power Of Christmas Or Lack Of It

2011-12-21T05:04:00.001-08:00

Just when you thought it was safe to come out of doors. When the dreaded orange smiley faces had rotted on the compost heap. When the little devil masks and witches had been binned ....

...then this happens.

But this year everything seems to be refreshingly different. The biting of recession has made for a happier High Street, or so I think. There are less people and less useless things to buy. What there is out there, is so heavily discounted. The traffic seems less as are the queues.

It has been an interesting run up to Christmas.

An Air Ambulance flew over the house last week. It was the most exciting thing to happen for a month. It flew around eight times. It was lost, searching for the spot where someone had unfortunately fallen over on the ice and damaged their hip. It turned out later that a colleague had been running around on the frozen lawn wildly flapping his arms in an attempt to catch the pilot's attention.

It seemed to be the most exciting event in the Valley for many people. Joggers stopped running. Cars pulled over on the verge. People got out and stared. It was a major excitement and source of chatter as to who the victim might be.

It was the shape of things to come.

It certainly was.

As the weather worsened the power lines became overburdened with ice and the conductors snapped, plunging us all into darkness. For hours. For a night and a day. There were so many electricity company vehicles around that the area resembled a NATO winter exercise.

And as luck would have it, the company missed their imposed customer care deadline and gave us all a gesture of goodwill. £54 of goodwill to be precise. Except for a householder who had the word 'Farm' at the end of their address and were paid £108.

'It's Christmas come early,' said an over-excited neighbour, not latching onto the reality that the £54 plus some more would shortly be going back to the electricity company, as a result of the extra useage over the Festive period.

But still, it is the thought that counts. Or ... Det ar tanken som raknas ... as the Swedes say.

Is This A Future Bus Driver Of The Year?

2011-12-21T04:43:00.000-08:00

It is possibly the third most dreaded road conditions of any bus driver. This is behind black ice and snow. High winds would be a close fourth. When it rains all the gunk comes down onto roads and they can become slippy and aquaplane pitches.

There is also the fear of water coming up through the air vents which can cause the engine (in my technical speak) to blow up. It has happened on numerous occasions to others. Fortunately not to myself. The worst I have had to contend with is having to take off my shoes, shocks and roll up my trousers to wade through a deep puddle.

The water held no fear for our local bus driver. The floods left him undeterred as he sped through them as if he was driving in normal conditions.

Maybe his bus company should enter him into the UK Bus Driver Of The Year competition. It is unlikely there will be floods as it is held in Blackpool. But you never know. It has known to be stormy along the Golden Mile.

Will I be entering? ... What do you think?!

This Is Not The Weather For Ducks

2011-12-21T03:33:00.000-08:00

Why should anyone be surprised? The heavy rain combined with the melting snow tends to make the rivers swell and roar. 'The weather for ducks' said a weather presenter on either the TV or the radio.

No it isn't.

They would be foolhardy yet fast ducks. Extreme sport ducks, white water rafting on their webbed feet down the speeding waters, out of control, before being launched off the top of the waterfall to almost certain death on the jagged rocks below.

In fact there hasn't been a duck flying all day.

They must be sensibly holed up on some more sheltered pond, cowering in the rushes.

It will be a few days before they are back. It is a pity that the local motorists do not do the same and keep there cars in the garages. They take no heed of the copious quantities of water on the roads and drive at their usual breakneck speed.

As I walked the dog along the road, there came another well known local. He'll slow down for the pedestrian I misguidedly hoped but in no way expected. He sped up, waved and disappeared around the corner having driven through the adjacent puddle.

Oh well. At least that will be my bath for December.

The Trouble With Snow - It Melts

2011-12-08T15:46:00.001-08:00

Just when I was getting used to the crisp, snowy conditions, the bloody stuff decides to melt. The crisp cold has been replaced by a windy blast. The sort of wind from which you can never hide and as a result you are permanently shivering.

I had just got used to the clear days where the sounds of the wildlife. And talking of wildlife - what's that smell.

Urrgh.

It's some dog dirt, which like a submarine seems to have resurfaced after a long stint under the ice. And guess who's stepped in it.

The First Snow Of Winter

2011-12-04T15:23:00.001-08:00

The last of the unseasonal weather has passed. The freak autumn heatwave which made the spring bulbs rise four months early has finished. This morning was the first snowfall of winter. The bulbs withered and looked shocked at the ferocity of the drop in temperature. They had been lulled into a false sense of security.

Even the stone sculpture looked shocked. The water had ceased to spurt out of the fish's mouth.

The roads were surprisingly treacherous. Slippery and skiddy. The higher up the hill, the more slippery it became. The gritter had not been along the road, so it was perfect for practising a few manoeuvres and getting acquainted with driving in the snow again. I've missed it, I thought as the rear wheels tried to overtake the front ones.

The industrial landscape took on an eerie beauty. The dour grey slag heaps were unseen. The first snow of winter hides a multitude of sins. This is just the beginning - early December. Winter could last until May. Come to think of it, in these parts, it has been known to snow in every month of the year.

Ho Ho.

Bah Humbug - No More Bribery

2011-12-04T12:18:00.001-08:00

'Bah Humbug, Royal Mail bosses warn staff not to accept gifts greater than £30 after introduction of Bribery Act,' wrote the Daily Mail. 'Customers who tip more than £30 warned they could be drawn into an investigation if there is a complaint the payment is corrupt.'

Well.

Oh to be a postman.

£30. It's unbelievable. Maybe I'm just a Scrooge-like bus driver, but it's hard to believe that anyone gives their postie such a substantial tip.

In the season of goodwill, where the proliferation of chunky men in red suits, often accompanied by attractive female elves, I suppose anything is possible. But my suspicious mind wonders if it is a well aimed press release to encourage people to give a larger tip.

Perhaps it will work for bus drivers. Tipping is a hit or miss business on the buses. Maybe the average donation can be upped from the general 50p with a carefully placed notice above the exit door:

'Give Your Driver At Least £1 Or You'll Not Be Dropped Within Walking Distance Of Your House.'

That will test the Bribery Act. Though maybe Alexander Pope was more on the ball:

'Alas! the small discredit of a bribe
Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.' ...

...or in this case the bus driver.

No Jobs. Low Jobs. That Won't Stop The Humour

2011-12-03T01:18:00.001-08:00

Times are tough. Times are very tough.

If you live in the North East of England, this is nothing new. Times have always been tough, the only variant being the different degrees and interpretations of toughness. Everything always seems to be 'below the the national average'.

As you can see from the above pub, there is a sense of downwardness. Is the pub sign describing the general state of Northern haute cuisine or is it the usual Northern sense of humour, consistent in the face of adversity and more prevalent during this worldwide depression?

It's the latter, of course. Northerners have always shown their true grit, despite everything being thrown against them. The loss of lead mining,coal mining, shipbuilding, smelting, steel, farming, glass making and other heavy industries have not thwarted them.

This street sign is pretty well reflective of current times everywhere. The next street, though, is called High Jobs Hill, giving some sense of optimism.

The optimism is short lived, as opposite is High Wheatbottom, which sounds like the need for a doctor's appointment.. But, of course, it doesn't take long to find the state of humour in the North East.

Just take another look at the road sign ...

...on the other side...

...you will see...

Hope ever springs eternal.

Oh Flower Of Scotland - No Flower Of England

2011-11-18T13:41:00.001-08:00

It was a day of flowers.

Strange flowers.

Can't be bothered flowers.

No flowers.

It often irks when you have to leave somewhere you love. It is a trick of the mind because, yes indeed, I was leaving Scotland which holds commands the romantically delusional side of my soul. But I was also returning home, to the North of England, which is equally lovely in many ways.

How nice to be in a no-lose situation. But the mind plays tricks and I tried to cushion the blow of leaving Scotland by stopping in Banchory and filling the car with loaves of Chalmers' Balmoral bread, some Lorne Sausage and bags of Pan Drops.

The morning had started strangely in a floral way. The mild November weather had put Nature in a tizz. The roses were in bud and looking as if they were about to flower. The gorse was half out, giving the roadsides a yellow hue and even some of the snowdrop, crocus and daffodil bulbs seemed to have shoots breaking the surface.

Meandering over the bonnie road over Cairn O'Mount, the pass which connects Deeside with the North Sea Coast and was used by Edward I's army on its return to England in 1296, was a delight on such a clear day. You can see for miles in all directions. The Grampians behind. Angus, Montrose, Arbroath and Dundee in front.

I stopped, at the parking space at the summit, expecting peace. There was also a white van driver there, but his engine was turned off and he was asleep, with a lopsided copy of The Daily Record lying on his dashboard. There were no other cars, yet it was far from peaceful. The noise was quite deafening. An unusual noise, like a child's toy windmill on a sandcastle.

I traced it down to some flowers, still in their cellophane, laid in the stone cairn. In fact there were several bunches and clumps of plastic lilies and Christmas roses. I call them the 'can't be bothered' flowers as they still have the supermarket wrapping paper and the price on them. They must have made someone feel better, that they had done their duty and paid their respects, even if it was in a shoddy way. I always think even picking some dandelions from the verge and making a little posy would be more meaningful. But each unto their own.

So to arrive at a hospital in the North East of England to find that there was a 'No Flower Policy' as they might spread germs, was something which gave off mixed emotions. On the bedside table of the person I visited, there were a bunch of flowers, sent unbeknowingly by a well wisher from the other end of the country. Hidden. Hidden because they were covered in a cloth, awaiting a porter to come and dispose of them. At first I thought 'how bloody ridiculous', but after a while it was refreshing to see no cellophane as recently, in the hospitals I had been too, the nurses were too busy to start unraveling flowers, and they remained in their wrappings.

'Dinna worry,' I heard a nurse say. 'They'll get sent to Maternity. They haven't banned them there, yet'.

Great.

Vignettes From The North East Scotland (Part 4) - Eating Out

2011-11-16T11:27:00.001-08:00

Scotland's favourite cigarettes seem to be John Player Special Blue. This is based on my casual observation while walking the dog along several roads around North East of Scotland and only finding these scrunchled up packs of cigarettes thrown into the verge.

There were no other brands in any verge. And I walked some verges, too.

This was on the way to lunch in the Alford area of Aberdeenshire. It didn't augur well as we passed such places as Corse and Bogend Cross Roads. Lunch was looking like deep fried haggis, lorne sausage and Mars bars.

The pub looked as if it could be 'either way'. The pebble dash and the advertising of a family room had the potential of one of those highly coloured chains offering awful microwaved and pre-cooked food.

But it was far from the case. The Muggarthaugh Hotel was superb. The most delicious bowl of Cullen Skink (creamy smoked haddock and potato soup to those who don't know it) followed by homemade burgers of Spartan size was quite delicious.

No - it wasn't Masterchef. But it was simple and good. All I can say is - go.

Vignettes From The North East Of Scotland (Part 3) - The Hidden Sights

2011-11-16T10:38:00.001-08:00

It was an unnerving sight.

Demonic looking, brutish, yellow sheep. I thought for a moment that I had one whisky too many last night.

But here they are. Photographic proof. Perhaps Stephen King has been hasty in leaving the horror genre and writing sci-fi novel instead.

No, this is all fully explainable. The bulkiness - well that is the nature of the breed. The yellow fleece shows that they have recently been dipped. The green eyes are just a result of my poor photographic skills.

This old Massey-Ferguson 525 was hidden down a back lane. It would probably be a sought after sight to all combine spotters.

The hay stack was being propped up by wooden planks. It was precariously close to collapse.

It gives me an idea. Maybe there is a gap in the market for a different kind of agricultural tour. In the North East of Scotland there will be no shortage of things to see.

First stop Aberdeenshire.

Vignettes From The North East Of Scotland (Part 2) - The Tourist View

2011-11-16T09:51:00.001-08:00

Autumn and early Winter in the North East is stunning.

This year it is exceptional. The colours are more pronounced than usual. The roses are in bud. The gorse is flowering and the verges give off the occasional burst of colour as some wild flowers emerge amongst the dead and dying grass which is more usual at this time of year.

The beauty of the hills at dawn are a sight to behold. The mist rises gently from the glen floor and the colours gather strength as the sun rises.

Little by little the valley begins to stir. The sound of cars, logging trucks, tractors and school buses whose revving engines shatter the silence. People begin to gather outside the shop several hundred feet below. What they do not realise is that sound always rises and even at this high and far away distance, it is possible to hear every word they say.
The strong and urgent Doric tones floated up to where I was standing:

'Aye, aye. Mechty me. Fit yer deen? Ye're a better door than a windae.'

'Urrgghh,' was the reply. And that was the end of the conversation.

Vignettes From The North East Of Scotland (Part 1)

2011-11-16T03:00:00.001-08:00

Yes. I am back in Scotland again.

It is as beautiful and fun as ever. The local newspaper billboard champions the latest good news. The straths and the glens are green - far greener than is usual in November. The Christmas Fairs are again in full swing, but with the mild air, mince pies and mulled wine does not seem to taste the same.

The life in Aberdeenshire is slower. The waitress in the local tea shop slowly comes over to the table when the bill is requested. She has her hair tied up in a bun, with two stakes, sticking out of the brunette mop, similar to a Geisha Girl.

But this is Scotland. They are biros not bamboo. The waitress reaches into her hair, pulls down one of the biros and starts totting up the bill on the white carbon paper.

'My boss is a little wee bit wary of me,' she says. 'I've lost that many of her pens, that she is considering giving me a wage reduction.'

The ensuing visit to the garage is an experience too. The forecourt has the usual 'For Your Safety' - but in reality 'we hope that if we swamp the place with signs that you won't sue us when something goes wrong' notices. But the experience changes when you go into the shop to pay for the diesel.

There are the shop assistant and a customer in deep and animated conversation. The air is punctuated with:

'He said to her ... and she said th him ... ooh ...really? ... och noo ...I dinna ken ..' and seemed to just short of the Victor Meldrew-ism 'I don't believe it.' They continued with their chitter chatter and as I wasn't in a hurry I didn't have the heart to distract them.

At last they saw me standing in the air. Both leapt in the air. The customer rushed out of the shop and the shop assistand blushed.

'I'm awfy sorry,' she said. 'But I don't see her that often.'

Now you see why I love this place.

2 Year Olds Liven Up Any Journey

2011-11-13T15:34:00.001-08:00

A relative once wrote about his two-year-old daughter:

'Her favourite thing in the car is to spot buses, and wherever we go we hear excited shrieks of 'Bus! Mummy. Daddy, bus!' The trouble is that she also considers vans and minibuses to be full-blown buses, so the novelty wears a bit thin after 50 miles.'

The unpredictable nature of children's remarks are sometimes enough to make you nearly drive off the road. My daughter nearly made me, when she was aged 2, on the way to some Playgroup.

'Oh my God,' she said.

'You can't say that. Say goodness or something like that,' I stupidly replied.

'Oh OK.' Silence fell but I could see she was thinking.

After a few miles she said:

'Does that mean I can't say bugger either'.

I have since tried to freshen up my responses when a green light mysteriously turns amber.

Bridge Leads To Troubled Waters

2011-11-11T07:58:00.001-08:00

Bridges. The bane of bus drivers' lives (and truck drivers too). These days there are so many road signs littering the road which act as an information overload for drivers of big vehicles. It is not surprising then, that occasionally accidents happen.

Sure enough, while I was away there was a news story about a double decker which for some reason went under a low bridge. The driver is facing dangerous driving charge.The miracle was that no one was killed, which seemed to be down to the quick wittedness of the children who realised what was about to happen and ducked.

I can't talk.

I've driven a double decker bus into the depot doors. Not with any passengers on, I might add. But the doors were bent sideways and the bus needed some new paint, but luckily the top window did not break and was marked with multiple scratches. On another occasion I scraped some narrow gates with such force that the large stone ball moved and at one moment looked as if it was about to detach itself fully from the gates.

Double deckers are hard to drive. There are many things to think about.

My contretemps with stationary objects was not confined to buses. Once whilst driving a truck in Poland, disaster struck. It was in the centre of Torun, while following another much more experienced truck driver, thaat we both hit the railway bridge and put large holes into the top of our trailers.

Strange, we thought. We had looked at the height restriction sign and were not expecting any problems. All hell broke loose as we were surrounded by Polish Policemen and the main North-South highway was shut whilst we were interrogated. It turned out not to be our fault. The road had recently been tarmac-ed, meaning the height had lowered, but no one had thought of changing the sign.

It was an expensive morning. The fine was several thousand zloty. Rough justice, I suppose.

Paris Or Paisley?

2011-11-11T04:45:00.001-08:00

There is the old joke about the man who went into the travel agents and asked for a holiday.

'Where would you like to go?' asked the agent.

'I dinna mind,' was the reply. 'Whether it's Paris or Paisley, it matters nae to me.'

So, true to form, the Accidental Bus Driver has also ended up in Paisley. I'm delighted. It is a fascinating place in many ways. There is the grand Paisley Museum - with the history of the Paisley Shawl and the Paisley pattern.

Paisley has a variety of unusual churches. There's the beautiful Paisley Abbey, with its magnificent French organ. The Thomas Coats Memorial Church which is sometimes described as the 'Baptist Cathedral of Europe', which in addition to its wonderful architecture, has a remarkably well preserved Doulton & Co blue and white porcelain Victorian loo. And there is the Oakshaw Trinity Church which has Europe's largest unsupported ecclesiastical ceiling, meaning there are no pillars holding up such a large ceiling.

But what's best about Paisley is it's Imagine campaign on how to make a difficult shopping climate look good. In this recession, many councils have let their town centres go to rack and ruin with boarded up shops and whitewashed windows.

Not Paisley.

They have had the imagination to paint their empty shops with optimistic and bold visions of the future.

The shops looked fantastic. Whether or whether the fantasy will be met by an equal reality in the future is another question. But it doesn't really matter. It has had the result of creating a bustling town centre. The charity shops which surround these beautiful creations are good too.

What more could you want from a town.

If it's a choice between Paris and Paisley next time ... it is tempting to swop the Cafe Royale forCardosi's Contemporary Italian Cafe.

Scotland Signs A Better Future

2011-11-10T02:25:00.000-08:00

I went to one of my favourite places in the world yesterday.

Scotland.

It rained most of the day, the traffic was awful, it was dark and dingy - but I was the happiest I have been for quite some time.

Why?

It must be down to the warmth and generally carefree attitude of the people. And that it has retained a truly Scottish identity with people who are proud to be Scottish. In England sometimes, I feel people are embarrassed to be English, failing to celebrate their many great characteristics.

Scotland is by no means perfect. It has many oddities. One of which I found whilst driving up the motorway.
All the signs were lit up. All contained advisory and precautionary messages. It was exhausting. By the end of the trip, I had felt I had read a book. It was particularly more tiring in the dark.

The signs read:

Drive Carefully

Drive Efficiently

Drive Safely

Drive With Consideration

Think About Car Share

Save Money By Car Sharing

Observe Speed Limit

Tiredness Kills - Take A Break

Tiredness Can Kill

Check Tyres Regularly

Keep Windscreen Clear

Use Correct Child Seat

Is Your Car Ready For Winter?

and ... Red X Is Mandatory

It certainly had the desired effect. On a boring motorway, it gave me something to keep my mind on. I began to look forward in anticipation of what the next sign might say. Perhaps, in the future there will be smart signs which will identify specific cars and drivers ...

You. Yes You. In The Red Car. Stop Picking Your Nose. Hands On Wheel.

Dog Day Afternoon

2011-11-06T02:39:00.000-08:00

'The more I meet some people
The more I like my dog'...

was a sign my father used to place on the shelf above his desk. Some people were visibly rattled by this forthright piece of information and they would fidget uncomfortably in the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

'Which one am I' - you could usually read into the furrowed look.

I rather agree with the saying, as you probably have already gathered from my writing. Dogs have a habit of seeing through the disingenuity people try to keep hidden.

Take Cedric, pictured here, for instance. He walked into someone's house the other day, took an instant dislike to the coats people had left on the hallway floor, cocked his leg and did wee wees on them.

Though it was not a pleasant sight, and it was an even more unpleasant clean-up operation which had to be performed - I strangely had a secret admiration for his brazen behaviour and disdain for some not so nice coats. At least he was honest.

Take the place I visited the other day. There were signs all over the place telling you what not to do. nothing new, you may say. It is something we are all subjected to everyday. But this place can only be described as overkill and the disengenuity shines from every corner.

For your own safety? I don't think so.

A more apt sign should have read:-

'Do not climb on barriers or hand rails as we know that some of you b%**%**£s will see this as a chance of making a fast buck by suing us for whiplash and all other ills.'

Then again, some of this Health and Safety lark has its plus points. Can you imagine how transformed the world would be if the above sign was mandatory across the board. There would be a lot less stressed looking adults.

And as for Cedric. He would have many happy hours looking out of the window, identifying which rabbit to chase, which postman to harangue or which coat to cock his leg on next.

It's All Greek To Me - A Bus Driver Returns From The Writer's Graveyard

2011-11-05T05:59:00.000-07:00

Life is upside down.

Not just mine. But most people I speak to seem to be in one quandary or another.

The world seems to be upside down.

Shakespeare was centuries ahead of the game, when Casca said:

'...but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for my own part, it was Greek to me.'
(Julius Caesar Act 1, Scene 2).

My mind was thrown in this odd direction when I drove past a new Greek restaurant in Whitley Bay, appropriately named It's All Greek 2 Me. As I drove past the commentator on Radio 5 was discussing the Greek bail-out and what the Greek government were up to, so it all came together nicely, in a coincidental sort of way.

Aren't you just fed up with all the doom and gloom spouted by the media? It is as if they are willing the financial world to teeter over the edge so that there will be something gritty to write about in the future.

So now seems as good a time as any to launch my own personal brand of 'Blue Sky Thinking'. Not the dreaded corporate motivational kind, but more how to buck yourself up when there is so much dour speak around. Even though my own personal life has taken a temporary downward turn, it pays to look on the bright side.

Take the Greeks, for example. My everlasting memory of Greek behaviour is of the day I rolled up in Cyprus in the 1980's. I was collected on a showery day by a blue-bereted UN soldier in a mini-bus. Little more than twenty minutes into the journey, we were standing in the rain arguing with the Greek we had ran into the back of, neither understanding what the other was saying, but by the increasingly animated hand gestures and arm movements, it became apparent that the situation was escalating to a dangerously high level. The wretched soldier had come round the corner to find a car on the same side of the road reversing. With the roads being greasy, there was no option but to let the Toyota minibus skid into the back of the car.

There was a lot of noise and some bruised pride, but no injuries.

What saved the situation was a crash on the opposite carriageway. This was caused by another Greek motorist who had stopped his car in the middle of the road, got out of his car and was watching the heated argument out of curiosity, when another car slammed into the back of him. This momentarily diverted the attention away from our crash and in the chaos when our victim rushed over to the other side of the road, we were able to sneak away and drive off. We watched an increasing amount of motorists gather in a circle and look as if they were soon to come to blows.

In this Eurozone financial crisis, the way forward may be suspiciously like the Cypriot car crash. The world may crash. Everything might become volatile for a while. But then it will all settle down again.

Quite similar to this blog really.

I'm back again. This time there will be more writings. Now either you will feel this is a good event or you will have the Tremoloes hit from the sixties - 'Silence is golden, golden' ringing inside your head. And as for the Greeks ... well, I can just hear them muttering ...

... 'either dance well or quit the ballroom.'

Is My Bath Water Like Swimming In The Thames?

2011-09-23T01:28:00.000-07:00

Now here's a topic which has been on my mind. Have you checked the state of your bath water recently? It was something I've never really bothered about, probably due to the fact that the country air, spring water and my general hygiene did not cause much discolouration of the dirty bath water.

On returning from a trip to London the other day, the water turned black. Shock horror? No not really, well I suppose. Though being a bus driver, it should not have been a problem. There have been many times when an oil slick has appeared on the top of the water. It resembled an environmental disaster when the yellow plastic duck stopped floating and sunk to the bottom, with black streaks lining its body.

It is impossible not to bring oil and grease back into the house when you are a bus driver. Some depots are dirtier than others. There are diesel spills. Some buses leak more oil. Sometimes it is impossible to return home looking anything other than a Victorian child who has been forced up a chimney.

I always admire Stagecoach and other bus and coach drivers. They always look pristine. It is one of the mysteries of life. How come? Even the cleanest of bus depots cannot escape the odd greasy patch. They must wear protective clothing.

It makes you realise quite what an astounding feat David Walliams' Thames Swim was. Aside from the fact that that it is a notoriously difficult river to negotiate, it smells, the sewage is regularly dumped and there is a chance that you will be attacked by a swan or a hungry pike, it used to be said in the old days that the tap water in towns beside the river had been through ten people's stomachs by the time it had reached Windsor. David Walliams obviously has an iron stomach as he was only minorly inconvenienced by 'Thames Tummy'.

Years ago I was walking on the South Bank between Battersea and Vauxhall Bridges when there were screams that a man was in the water. The person I was with managed to haul him out. He was most indignant and upset to be saved.

'I wanted to die,'he shouted. It was like a scene from a Hollywood movie. Until that was I overheard what the ambulancemen were saying in low voices.

'His wish might be granted,' said one.

'Yeah,' said the other.

'It's 30/70 that we save his liver.'

'Yeah. No one who jumps into the Thames comes out with their liver intact.'

Bow even further to Walliams. Superman. Super stomach. Immortal liver.

The Shape Of Buses To Come

2011-09-20T03:42:00.000-07:00

This is a curt reminder as to the sensitive relationship which exists between bus driver and passenger.

You can imagine a disgruntled and fed up driver, standing on a bench, late at night after a grueling shift, defacing the bus stop.

Remember the motto a colleague used to espouse - 'a happy bus is an empty bus.' It is an undercurrent I have felt amongst drivers I have met throughout the industry. The companies try to institute customer care courses, which work to some extent. But at the final analysis, no amount of training is going to stop human nature. Grumpy Bus Driver Syndrome automatically kicks in when an aggressive, rude or violent passenger comes on board.

Maybe the future will hark back to the past. With greater usage of cards and less cash, the driver will be cocooned in a cab, similar to an old London Routemaster double decker driver. There will be no communication with passengers, except by microphone. There will be an ejector mechanism to push off the bus anyone who hasn't inserted the correct card into the machine, or is drunk, or antagonistic. There will be happy, smiling drivers safe in the knowledge that they are in no danger and do not have to strike up some conversation with someone they have no desire to.

Wishful thinking?

Of course. And if you happened to watch the film on ITV last night - Children Of Men, it is more likely, in view of the way the world is going, that bus travel might end up in the same apocalyptic way. Buses struggled along streets which were war zones as a result of the breakdown of society. The only bright spot was that the doors seemed to be permanently open. Brilliant. The bus wouldn't smell like an old bus anymore and it would be easy to evict someone if necessary. A simple stamp on the brakes at the right moment would be enough.

My fantasy was ruined by a voice. I must be near waking up. 'We are near awakening when we dream we are dreaming,' the German Romantic Poet, Novalis once said. This voice was a monotone to be precise. A monotone wearing a crimplene jacket and holding a clipboard: 'I'm very sorry, but you can't do that...not having the doors closed at all times whilst the vehicle is moving is an infringement of regulation 8642HG/2/11...besides your insurance is invalid...'

I will go back to dreamland.

Observation Is An Old Man's Memory

2011-09-18T15:47:00.000-07:00

'Observation is an old man's memory,' said Jonathan Swift.

Well quite possibly, but it is one of the pleasures of life. Seeing things. Noticing something different. Knowing what is going on in life. That's all part of the excitement of observing the things around you and it's a key part of one's life, particularly when you are a bus driver and spend so much time on the road.

Some would call it nosiness. I'd like to call it progressive knowledge collection and an ability to comprehend the environment where you live and work.

That sounds like a load of bat guano, but I do believe observing things can make things more fun. Take this 'For Sale' sign I saw in a local town. Quite innocuous usually, but when balloons are tied to it, it inspires some thought.

Is it about to be sold? Is it a marketing tool to try to attract potential buyers in this stagnant market? Is the house owned by a magician? Or is there a children's party taking place? It could be something else.

And look at this sign in the children's playground. the teenagers have taken the words literally and splattered it with mud. Open for fun. For sure - the youths have obviously thought.

Underneath the playground sign was a window. Inside were the offices of the local youth club. They had posted a sticker in the window which advertised 'Free Condoms' The window, as you will see has been painted in mud and looking like a Braques abstract painting.

Now either the condoms were no good, or there was an unlikely explosion of artistic talent. The real reason was probably boredom. An analyst would have many questions.

The powers of observation. Utterly useless really, but interesting. I feel I know the true psyche of the local area where I. That can be good and bad.

Don't Bend Over Orwell!

2011-09-16T05:17:00.000-07:00

Nothing is what it seems. Take this tranquil picture of a foggy autumnal morning. Al seems quite normal. The grass is green. The sky murky. The trees are looking tired but normal for this time of year. Expect one ...

... an unexciting tree which looks tireder than the others. Yet there is a glint of strong colour emanating from somewhere within its trunk...

... the strong yellow notice leaps out against all the other countryside colours. It is a warning sign of some sort. Maybe it says 'Beware Of The Bull' or 'Danger Deep Slurry' or 'Caution Mud On Road'. But no... instead it says...

Now at first reading I felt a fraction taken aback. You don't expect to come across urban type signs in a rural idyll. I briefly look round for the CCTV cameras, before realising that it is just the farmers' version of a Neighbourhood Watch. We are fortunately an area where the net curtains (in houses which have them) rustle at the slightest hint of the abnormal or the irregular.

The area is occasionally targeted by thieves. A horsebox, a trailer, a transformer, some Victorian fireplaces...the odd thing has been stolen. So this is a good sign to remind the ne'er-do-wells that they have a good chance of getting caught. The eagle-eyed locals and the fact that the Police helicopter can be up above in ten minutes is a great deterrent. Once it is up, the chances of getting caught in the getaway car heighten, as there are only four escape routes out of the place - easily covered by a whirlybird.

Bus drivers are increasingly on camera. One driver was spitting with rage about the eight cameras he knew about on his bus.

'They're spying on bloody everything,' he said. 'It's all very Big Bruvver-ish. These bloody smart cards. I swipe it when I get into the motor and then it moans at me all day. It tells me...'Yer've breaked too hard'...'Yer've left yer engine idling too long'...'Yer've done this'...'Yer've not done that'... and yer get back to the depot and yer've gotta swipe the doors to get in, swipe computers, swipe bar codes.......'

He went silent, before looking pale and irritated,

'It's got to the stage where I'm frightened to bend over because someone might come and swipe my arse.'

Not very Orwellian.

Chill, Danger, Smugness And Itchy Bracken

2011-09-15T05:41:00.000-07:00

It's the first true day of autumn. Following the rain and the winds of the good old British summer, some semblance of peace, stability and order has returned to the valley. The clear blue skies come at the cost of the cool air, almost frost-like and as a result the windows are fogged up .

Perhaps it is a good time to reflect about the casualties of the storm. The North East of England has had its fair share.of deaths as a result of falling trees. In May a sixth former was killed whilst driving her car. The day before yesterday exactly the same fate befell the volunteer driver of a minibus. Terrible luck.

Several times I have been in close shaves during a storm. Driving buses in high winds is not fun. It is a case of gripping the steering wheel and gritting the teeth whilst the bus sways and rotates all over the road. This day it was particularly bad and the bus felt as if it could roll over at any minute.

A wood was visible on the horizon. I put the foot down and gripped and gritted harder in the hope that we would seek shelter from this typhoon. More fool me. As the bus entered the swaying trees, there was a crack, a bang and a tinkling sound. A branch had snapped, slammed into the windscreen and smashed the mirror. The reflective glass was dangling by a shard.

'That'll be yer mirror,' the passenger in the front seat helpfully observed with a smug grin.

I stopped in the next lay-by which was conveniently situated in the wood. As I struggled down the steps to check the mirror, the wind swept me off my feet and I ended up, flat on my back in the soggy green bracken by the side of the road.

'Is it windy, then?' asked the same passenger, with the same smug grin, who had stood up and was leaning out the main door.

I decided not to answer him. I needed my energy for a). removing the itchy bracken from somewhere under my flapping shirt tail and b) to think of how I was going to deflect the mechanic's take on losing yet another mirror, when I returned to the depot.

'Waht have you broken, now?' were his first words. 'You are a .....'

Wind What Wind?

2011-09-12T10:18:00.000-07:00

Not more scaremongering, I thought as I watched the lunchtime news. The world was going to end in the next few hours, but before that, all the trees were going to be blown over.'They're much more likely to uproot,' said one weather reporter. 'It's the leaves - makes them heavier and more susceptible to falling over.'

Ha, ha, I thought. Another exaggeration, as I went out the door and promptly fell on my backside. It was a strong wind. Must have been to lift a 17 stone 1 metre 99 lump upwards. I came down with a bang. Thanks to the last few months of rain, there were no injuries except to the grass. A buttock sized indentation remained as I pulled myself up. I made a mental note that it might need re-seeding next week.

As I looked around there was devastation of the floral kind. The trees had dropped branches. The rose frames were across the other side of the garden. The autumn crocuses were flattened, looking like the aftermath of a gladiatorial contest.

And then there was the joke...the joke which nearly had me ... it was not possible ... the wind couldn't have been that strong to...

... lift someone off their feet and put them head first into a dustbin. Then a smiling child's face confirmed that it could not have happened. Though the wind was strong and though reports were coming in of difficult driving conditions, there was no way it was that bad.

A caravan had been flipped over. Caravans are always the first casualties. Whether it is design or driver or a combination of the two, they turn over in high winds, block the carriageway and force the road to be closed. The bus drivers were reporting their buses weaving all over the road. I was glad I wasn't driving. It would not be much fun. You are always fearful when the bus starts to wander that you will lose all control.

The winds are forecasted to get worse. If that's true, spare a thought for the driver of the night bus.

There's Still Hope In Humanity But ...

2011-09-12T01:49:00.000-07:00

These days all is doom and gloom.

The press make it worse by putting an even gloomier slant, even on happy and good stories, usually by adding the word 'but'. 'Manchester United won the match but they could have played better.' 'So and so raised £X thousand, but it could have been £XX thousand if the hurricane had not intervened'. 'The restaurant gave a delicious dinner but there wasn't any tomato ketchup'. And so on and so on ... you get my drift.

It is hard, when this negativity is all around you, not to get sucked in and adhere to the old proverb ... if you can't beat them, join them. I try not to. I tell myself and my friends ... 'it could be worse' or 'look on the bright side' or 'perfect'. It has the effect of pulling myself and others momentarily away from the mire with a brief smile or a laugh, before they deem me to be profoundly irritating and we all head back from whence we came.

So imagine the consternation the other day when a friend from 'across the pond' lost her wallet somewhere in a city centre. The fun day we were having was turned upside down. The atmosphere blackened and the winds of anger, fear and self-blame weighed heavily in the air.

Having retraced our steps without success, asking every shopkeeper, tour guide and publican along the way, there was no sign of the purse. Gloom became gloomier as the realisation of what was in it - which amounted to a substantial amount and would take many calls and time to cancel items such as credit cards. It is everyone's worst nightmare. The only thing left to do, was to go to the Police Station and report the loss or theft. Then at least, life becomes easier with insurance companies when you furnish them with a crime number.

And that was the last we all expected to see or hear of the wallet. And if we did, it would be dragged soaking out of a shrub, minus its contents. My friends flew home.

Two days later they were woken at 6am by an international call.

'Is that Mrs Irma Fozzpitt?' said the gentle tones from somewhere in the North East of England.

'Yes'

'I've found yer wallet. It had fallen down the Coke cans in my sweetie shop.'

The lady had found it, seen that it belonged to someone in North America and had set her daughter onto the computer with the task of tracking her down. A phone number was found and the lady rang. The contents of the wallet were intact. All was well.

Doesn't it give great hope to know that the country still possesses unselfish and honest souls like this lady ... and plenty of them, hidden behind the aggression, cynicism and general bad news we hear everyday? If this story makes the news, expect to read: 'a kind lady found and returned a wallet but....'

A Mere Coincidence? Yes. No. Maybe.

2011-09-06T04:50:00.000-07:00

The window display in the local Christian bookshop seems to have overdone it on putting together the window display, using as many signs as possible. But at least the vendeuse had a sense of humour and you can read anything you like into the close proximity of these signs.

I was on my way to the local Chinese restaurant at the time and felt that they might well be a warning to the forthcoming black bean sauce.

It turned out that the 'welcome' and the 'blessed' aspects were particularly short lived and the 'stressed' and the 'toilet' were .... no I won't go into details. The message in the shop window was so correct, that I decided to look at the display in the other window on the way home.

Ha, Ha, I thought. Very funny - no way will I experience or need a miracle.

But I did.

The water pump packed up in the middle of nowhere, on the drive home. Steam hissed and rose steadily from under the bonnet. The engine stopped. We were stranded. few cars would be coming along the road and there was a family of four sitting like stewed prunes. The children had to be at school in two hours and the situation seemed hopeless.

Then, around the corner, returning from a trip to the Lake District, came the garage owner. He stopped and gave us a tow to his garage, before driving us home. Extraordinary.

I will be paying particular notice to the next window display at the Christian bookshop when it changes. I hope there are no Tarot Cards.

It's Showtime. Time To Swerve Around The Slumbering Bodies

2011-09-06T04:19:00.000-07:00

It's showtime.

The great agricultural shows of the Wear Valley in County Durham are in full swing. They are great events. St. John's Chapel, Wolsingham, Stanhope happen in quick succession in the first three weeks of September.

They are accompanied by a travelling funfair which camps in the centre of town for a few days.

The only downside is having to drive through these towns at night, after the show. It is damned dangerous, as often there is a drunken soul weaving his way back home after a heavy day's drinking. You see them at the last minute and swerve at any glint.

Often the glint is a pair of weasel's eyes or a hedgehog spine lurking in the bushes, but you can never be too careful. Last night I only saw one weaving person. There were two, however passed out on the road, using the grassy verge as a pillow. They had a curious grin of satisfaction in their slumber.

Happiness is ......

Autumn Is The Closest Britain Gets To Being Italian

2011-09-06T04:04:00.000-07:00

Autumn is here early this year. It was early last year too, but is even earlier now. The winds are chilling and the colours are deepening, probably due to the great amount of rain we have had this summer. 'Wot summer?'

a person waiting at the bus stop spat out with venom, when I stupidly mentioned the weather. There is a general air of depression around that summer has passed without any warmth and now it is the beginning of the long haul until next May or June, before it gets warm again.

But actually, we are heading to the traditionally most settled part of our unpredictable weather. October is always the best month. Longish and warm days. The light is Italianate and the smells of damp rotting wood and foliage are fresh and pleasant.

Already there is a striking beauty to the landscape, in between the torrential downpours. The wind has hastened and seems to be warning that it is time to stock up the log shed and check the coal cellar. Winter is very much on the way.

Execution Of Litter Collection Has Not Bin Too Clever

2011-09-06T02:22:00.000-07:00

Taste is a much discussed word. Everyone has an opinion on what they think is good taste and what they consider bad taste. Sometimes they are undecided.

Functionality and taste are often at loggerheads, as is trying to be too avant garde, hip or trendy which is sometimes at taste's expense.

Take the British love affair with the litter bin. A very essential part of our lives, because we eat and drink so much and need somewhere to deposit the contents. If we didn't have these invaluable bins, we would soon begin to look like the ditches in China, which are full of multi-coloured plastic bags and other such disposables.

Now here is the dilemma. Look at Durham City, for example, who have spent millions upgrading the city centre to meet the requirements of having a World Heritage Site in their midst. Pavements have been removed, roads re-tiled, new drainage has been put in, statues moved, bollards inserted, new stone seats have been added and there is a new number plate recognition camera system to implement the £2 Congestion Charge.

There has also been a spawning of new stainless steel litter bins. Someone thought they would be trendy, but the reality is that they look cheap and as if the council have spent thousands rather than millions in carrying out their master plan. They look better at night when they are not so noticeable. In daylight the stainless steel is tinged with a brown stain, either from tea, nicotine or mud splats. The tops are blackened with stubbed out fags.

The same day I went to a local beauty spot, which is close to a river and has become a preferred picnic spot for families. Blow me down, there was a Wall's ice cream litter bin, close to the gate. Its fluorescent orange clashed wildly with the soft greens, browns and purples of the countryside colours. 'Feed Me' it proudly announced under the logo, like a quote from an alternative Alice In Wonderland.

But there is hope. When I returned to Durham, one of the stainless steel bins which had been so badly sited that it narrowed the road width substantially, was bent double. It had been hit by either a truck or a bus. Several days later, when I visited again, it had been removed completely, hopefully forever. Then they will be 'has bins'.

Are You A 1p Sort Of Guy?

2011-08-31T08:28:00.000-07:00

'Now I've seen it all,' said the motorist at the next door pump in the garage. 'What are you doing? Are you testing your camera? I've never seen someone taking a picture of a petrol pump before.'

I was taking a picture of the digital display on the front of the pump to illustrate an annoying point. Whenever I fill up I try to make the amount a round number like £20. But for some reason it always goes over by 1p. So in this case it became £20-01.

It has got so bad that I have now to carry round a cash bag of 1p bits. I have given up trying to make up the round number. I am convinced the petrol pumps are rigged to run over.

'No, no, dearie. You are wrong,' said the lady cashier, who war wearing blue pebble glasses. 'It's very simple. Either you do or you don't. Either you are or you aren't. You are just a 1p sort of guy.'

It's nice to know one's value in life.

King Billy And The Lonach Highland Games

2011-08-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

There are some sights and sounds which make the average person shiver and tingle. The pips and drums are my personal favourite. Mix that with a seven mile march of Forbes and Wallace clansmen and it gets even more emotive.

That is what happens at the Lonach Highland Gathering and Games in Strathdon. It is one of the great tourist sights. It is a friendly games with the usual great spectacles like tossing the caber, the tug o'war and the sword dancing.

But there is another attraction. The worshiping of King Billy - Billy Connolly, who lives at nearby Candacraig and is a big supporter of the games. He is quite literally mobbed by adoring spectators, all keen to get his autograph or just shake his hand. Yet it is all very ordered. No crush or rush, just very peaceful. Billy reciprocates the love and affection, taking his time to walk through the crowds, stopping to talk or shake hands with many.

One parent hoisted his child onto his shoulders so that he could catch Billy's attention when he was sitting in the Grandstand. Unbothered by the adulation, he signed the little boy's programme. If only other celebrities were so congenial as the Big Yin.

The arena is filled with colour and noise as the clansmen march in. They control the fact that the numerous dram stops have altered their co-ordination. The marching was a little out of step, the pikes were a little lower than they were at the start of the day and the faces were redder.

But, no worries. If anyone were to fall over, there was emergency provision in the form of a pony and trap following along behind, ready to pick up any stragglers or passed out folk. All is perfection.

An English Or A Scottish Show? Spot The Difference

2011-08-31T04:25:00.000-07:00

Can you spot the difference between a show in England and Scotland? Yes and no.

There was a Hook A Duck stall at both. There were fairground rides at both. There were Bouncy Castles at both. There were many other similarities.

The paying public, however were different. They had different attitudes and agendas. The way they behaved was radically different and as a result the atmosphere in Scotland was lighter and happier.

There were more smiling faces and laughter. Now this may have been enhanced a wee dram or two. But it was an altogether different experience.

The dress, too was noticeably different. hoodies and jeans against tweeds and tartans. A broad and sweeping statement but one was more colourful than the other.

The differences were apparent when we travelled back to England and reached the border at Carter Bar. On the way to Scotland there were blue and white flags flying and welcoming signs. On the other side of the road towards England there were no flags. One empty flagpole, the second snapped in two and some dreary signs. It was as if there is a lack of pride and a fear of announcing you are English. No reason really to be like that. It is an equally great country.

So I suggest you get yourselves to a Highland Games .... fast. I have been back a day and the words: 'Haste Ye Back' which are visible all over Scotland are ringing in my ears. It won't be long.

A Cracking Day At The Agricultural Fair: Doggy Bags And A Thirtysomething Hyacinth Bucket

2011-08-31T03:45:00.000-07:00

I love the local agricultural shows. Health and Safety, Defra and modern day local thinking with a wide spectrum of personal viewss of how such a show should be run, have tried hard to close it down.

But it has survived. Not perhaps in the shape or form of its glory days when everybody but everybody who lived within a ten mile radius would be there. They would come to see the main spectacle of the parade of champions - a variety of cows, horses and every other sort of animal. This, of course, since Foot and Mouth disease, has ceased.

It is a great tribute to the organisers that these shows are still going, be they in slimmed down form.

The animals may be fewer. But they are still there. Mainly in some sort of plastic or synthetic fur on some of the sideshows. The Hook A Duck stall, the various other charity stalls were crammed with cuddly toys. If other parents are like myself, they will have a house crammed full of furry animals.

But there were a large amount of dogs on leads. Some on their way to the dog show. Most on the arm of their owners, who were either enjoying the day out or refusing to pay the fees for a dogsitter. There was every breed, evrery nature - aggressive - fighting - gentle - kind. Multiple bottom sniffing, barking and the occasional growl and snarl resonated around the showground.

My own Patterdale/Lakeland Cross 7 month old terrier puppy, Cedric disgraced himself. In the middle of the arena, he decided to try and do his business. He assumed the position and I dragged him as fast as I could towards the hedgerow. But too late. He must have dropped a couple of items as we headed towards the bushes. Before I knew it, my path was barred by a young-ish lady in an astroturf green and flowing dress.

'Do you have a doggy bag?' she demanded in brusque Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet) tones.

'Er, no..' I said, feeling a little unsure about this overwhelming presence of do-gooding modern motherhood, standing in my way.

'Thought not,' and she thrust a handful of miniature black bin liners into my hands. She then grabbed me by the arm and led me over to where Cedric had let the smallest of pellets drop.

'Yes...I think there is one here... and here...and....here....and one over there.'

She was quite right to point out Cedric's misdemeanour. And I had no problem in picking up the mess - I always do. It was just the domineering way she did it - as her self-importance got the better of her. It is something I find I see more and more of - modern day Leninism - where there is someone hiding behind a lamppost, ready to jump out and tell someone what or what not to do. Usually they say...

'You can't do that. It is inappropriate behaviour.'

Then again - it must be a generational thing. I tugged my cap down over my forehead and decided the appropriate thing to do was head off to see the Dancing Sheep display. They would be less critical.

On the way I stopped at the Cumbrian Wrestling arena. To men, stripped to the waste were grappling each other, their legs intertwined. As they fell to the ground, there was a sound like a rifle shot being discharged. One of the contestants had broken a bone in his leg or ankle. It was a good thing for the show as it provided the best attraction of the day as the Air Ambulance circled several times over the showground, searching for a place to land.

It was free and as one farmer said as we left, ' a cracking day was had by all.

Around Scotland In One And A Half Days

2011-08-31T02:46:00.000-07:00

You have some American friends staying. The weather is dire. The midges are starving and are biting hard. It is the usual damp/wet/cool August in the North of England.

What do you do?

Well, there's only one possible option. Head for Scotland. I'm biased, of course. I love the place with such a passion that any excuse to pop over the border I grab with gusto.

Here was a chance to go round Scotland on a personal tour of self indulgence, showing off the best bits and the hidden treasures of my favourite place. I felt as if I had won the lottery. Through rose tinted spectacles we set off and sure enough, by the time we had reached Glasgow, the clouds had lifted and there was rarely another drop of rain during the trip.

A large chunk of Scotland in one and a half days. Paradise or Purgatory. No doubt you will have your own views. In a nutshell it was:-

Gretna Green - Glasgow- Helensburgh - Loch Lomond - Inverarary Castle - Oban - Connel Bridge - Glencoe - Fort William - Loch Ness - Inverness - Grantown-on-Spey - Strathdon - Braemar - Perth - Dunfermline - Edinburgh - Leith - Thirlstane Castle and Carter Bar.

We saw castles, monsters, ghosts, plague victims, kings, queens, princes, princesses, warriors, highland dancers, caber tossers, gamekeepers, shooters, smokers, kilted guzzlers, hoodie wearing youths and a drunk woman in a leopard print dress standing outside a bar who we mistakenly asked directions.

'The mill? Now let me see - it's thataway,' she said, waving her arms and pointing her finger in every direction through a 360 degree angle, before weaving her way along the pavement.

'I guess it's all part of the Scottish experience,' one of the guests observed.

'Naturally,' I said.

Love Scotland. Love the people.

Stuart - Fastest Postman In The North

2011-08-10T02:55:00.000-07:00

Rural areas are fortunate to have such amazing services. As you saw with Philip the milkman, we are surrounded by an extraordinary collection of people who go beyond the expected job description to be as kind and hospitable to people on their rounds.

Take Stuart, out postman. He has been on the same route for twenty or so years. He knows everyone and everything. He knows who's in and who's out. Who will pass on a letter to whom when they are out or away.

He is our unofficial policeman. He is invaluable and loved by all.

In these days were it is trendy to knock the Royal Mail, Stuart is a shining example of the brilliance of the organisation. How lucky we are to have such a service.

It is something buses should do more of. People rarely use the network of bus routes to send anything. When I first started driving I used to deliver things all over the place. One service I was a paper boy, stopping and throwing the rolled up papers in peoples' driveways. Another would require delivering car parts to a garage.

Some used to take it to the extreme. One driver who ran a pub would take the bus in the rest period to the cash and carry, filling the seats and the lockers with boxes of crisp and small bottles of soda water, tonic and bitter lemon.

'You can't sit there,' he once told a sick girl who was sitting in the front seat. 'go down to the back. I need that seat for me pork scratchings.' She groaned and hobbled off to the back of the bus.

In the days of buses and conductors, things used to be tied to the roof. Once, in mid winter, a driver thought he heard the conductor ring the bell and set off. Half an hour later he stopped because there was no sign of the conductor. He was found in a frozen state on the roof clinging on for grim death. Someone else had rung the bell.

The Bus Is On Fire

2011-08-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

This is the remains of a Go-Ahead bus, stolen out of a Sunderland depot in the early hours one night in June. It is becoming a less rare sight. Take the riots at Tottenham - a double decker bus was set on fire and the picture of the remains are remarkably similar to the above photo. One burnt out bus looks like another.

Why do I mention this?

Well, it was something I came up against in many conversations with other drivers in the coach parks. There were tales of drivers being without a job when their bus depots mysteriously caught fire in the early hours of a particular morning. The buses which were destroyed in the fire always seemed to be the old buses. The new ones were either parked outside or out on another job. How convenient it all was. The insurance would cover the cost of some new buses.

One driver said that his bus company had been targeted by another company. Some shady characters had stood outside the depot gate and had stopped the drivers, who were on their way home and asked them if they would come and drive for their company, as they were short of drivers. They warned the drivers that if they refused, they would have to face the consequences.

Sure enough, the drivers who did refuse, returned from a long shift to find that their cars had been burnt to a cinder. The Godfather occasionally ventures into the bus world.

A Dog's Life Is Not A Cheap One

2011-08-07T04:47:00.000-07:00

Don't you think dogs tell you what's going on in the world, in the simplest ways. If only us humans would sometimes behave in the same way. Life would be a lot more open and easier.

Now I am not advocating that we should follow all canine habits. Sniffing each other's private parts, crapping behind the curtains and howling when left alone might raise some eyebrows.

But there is a lot to learn from watching the behaviour in the dog world.

This is Cedric. He looks fed up. He might well - he has just returned from the vet minus his balls. The vets are very nice - so they should. They seem to be the local 'Beverley Hills' vet, charging Beverley Hills prices and offering a Beverley Hills service. I haven't been to a vet's surgery for several years. My, how things have changed.

Now you have to sign consent forms, release forms and other forms. the marketing of expensive specially formulated medicines, foods and vitamins is extremely strong and there is a strong feeling that the sales reps have just left the building.

Having said that, the staff are pleasant, the service is excellent and the vets are thoroughly professional. So who's complaining. Me - just a little about the size of the hole in my wallet.

But that's life.

A Bus Driver's Wishful Thinking Through Signs

2011-08-07T04:25:00.000-07:00

Over the past few weeks there has been plenty of time for sitting in a corner and contemplating about life. Knowing me, I started trying to pull myself out of the negative side of grieving and all the dreadful things associated with my current circumstances, by concentrating on the message my father lived his life by.

He had this sign screwed to the wall by a mirror above his basin. He would have viewed it every morning whilst he shaved.

I remember him having this sign hand painted when I was a child, sometime in the mid1970's. It was years before the phrase became a national institution when Eric Idle wrote the song for the 1979 Monty Python's Life Of Brian.

I began to think laterally. What sort of sign would a bus driver wish to have above his seat, if everything in the world was possible? I could only come up with one possible sign which would encompass what is going on in most bus drivers' minds, behind the professional facade........................

Now that's not very nice.

It Takes A Child's Antics To Re-ignite The Humourous Soul

2011-08-04T17:05:00.000-07:00

'Children make you want to start life over,' Muhammad Ali is reputed to have once said.

Well that is debatable.

A seven hour car journey can be a trial for even the most patient. For an eleven-year-old it should have been purgatory. But no, it was the opposite. She sneakily took my camera and started taking artistic shots of whatever she found.

It was only several days later that I found these shots on the memory card. They made me smile. I admired the simplicity and inventiveness of how to amuse yourself in dull circumstances.

What I liked best was the fact that it made me laugh for the first time in six weeks, owing to the heavy events which had swamped my life in recent times. Laughter - the finest medicine in the world.

Grief is a strange thing. It leaves you poleaxes. Paralysed and wallowing in the slough of self-pity.This goes on for quite some time and life tends to drag. I did some unusual things I've not done before. I started watching Coronation Street, I stayed up late watching the late night poker games or roulette tables. I developed a craving for hummus and drank copious quantities of rose.

Then my daughter snapped me out of my lethargy. So here I am back again. In a different and temporary form. There is no bus driving. possibly not until September, due to the somewhat overwhelming duties we have to perform. But that doesn't stop me writing about the things which happen around me. So I will continue to post some gleanings. Bus-less missives, but nonetheless with the same sense of the bizarre things I see in life.

Expect the best, prepare for the worst. Either way it's good to be back.

Accidental Bus Driver Suffers His Greatest Accident In Life

2011-06-25T00:31:00.000-07:00

I was walking along the sands on a beach in East Lothian several weeks ago, when I came across this extraordinary object.

It is an unremarkable jellyfish, washed up on the shore. But as you will notice, its internal organs seemed to be in the shape of a cross. A purple cross, in fact not far removed from the St Cuthbert's Cross that you will see in Durham Cathedral, a place which I have strong connections with and feel is like my second home.

You can read what you like into this. A sign? A coincidence? Just a jellyfish. It will mean something different to everyone.

The day before yesterday my father was killed in a car crash.

It has been a torrid time for me, my family and all who know me. It has been cushioned by the most amazing outpouring of shock, grief, love and humanity to which me and my family have been privileged to witness in our lifetime. I cannot walk outside my door without someone appearing out of nowhere with a hug or a squeeze, some tears, or some flowers, and words either verbal or written.

I am truly grateful for two things.

1. Having a magnificent father who was loved by all and leaving a legacy of kindness and respect.

2. Living in an area and a country where the people are so caring, loving and kind. In all the bad press we read about, there is still an underlying greatness and warmth in Britain,.

So, that's enough of that. I am writing to all my kind readers to say that the Accidental Bus Driver is taking a small break. You will not want to read about the day to day happenings of someone going through a legal process rather than driving buses.

But I will be back. With more of the same. It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks.

A bientot.

Philip - Fastest Milkman In The North

2011-06-22T08:34:00.000-07:00

This is Philip.

He is the milkman in the valley, in an era when it is a dying trade.

He is a hero. He deserves to be honoured. He is out in all weathers, all Bank Holidays and never lets anyone down.

He is always cheerful. He is adored by everyone. He knows everything about everything, everyone and everywhere. He always has something interesting and fun to say to you. He is always pleasant and kind about people. He loves his horseracing and his football. When you see him running earlier than usual, it is always the sign that their is a local racemeeting or a Newcastle United football match.

Aren't we lucky? Philip is the great face of the North of England. May the milk round continue for many, many years.

Tug Of The Heart Strings When The Children Fly Their Nests

2011-06-22T08:23:00.000-07:00

It was a big morning.

It was the famous school trip - off to the north of the county, with the Year 4's for a two night stay in a castle.

The excitement was immense. the children were calm, the parents were less so. They were chewing their fingernails.

It was a momentous occasion. the children were nearing the end of their first school education. This was probably the first time many children had been away on their own in their lives. No wonder there is nervousness amongst the excitement.

The bus arrived. The children and luggage were loaded up. The whole school were leaning over the railings to wave the children off. They drove past to a crescendo of noise and waving. The parents turned away and got back into their cars. It was a symbolic moment. It was as if their children had grown up and flown the nest.

It will be nothing of the sort. They will be back in two days.

Air Of Financial Insecurity Along The Bus Route

2011-06-22T08:03:00.000-07:00

Every year has its own catch phrases, which you hear repeated time after time. they could be: 'I'm loving this', 'flexible rostering', 'wake up and smell the coffee', 'blue sky thinking', 'I hear what you are saying,' and so on, and so on. You usually hear them from the mouths of politicians before they filter down to the general public. Often it is some form of American management speak or some form of corporate lingo which has been discovered on some training course.

This year seems to be different though. It seems to be more human. Whether it is because of the financial difficulties or not, I don't know.

On the buses, people have started saying: 'I can't take it (money) with me, so I'll ...' I seem to hear it every day.

'I can't take it with me,' said a lady, 'so I've splashed out on a new bath towel mat.'

'Oh my God, yer what?' yelled a student. 'All that money and she goes and spends it on a cruddy old bath mat.'

'Spot on,' said a voice from the back, using the second most used phrase of the year, and the one which seems to have replaced 'Champion' and 'Cushti'.

There does seem to be an air of financial fear around at the moment. All along the bus route there are shops shouting SALE with varying flags and banners, mostly in scarlet or shocking pink. Even the shop which permanently had CLOSING DOWN SALE had shown heightened urgency by CLOSING DOWN NEXT THURSDAY. That was two weeks ago and the shop is still open, but it is the thought that counts.

As I was looking at the shop windows, there was an audible clearing of the throat close to my left ear. That was a sign that a passenger was getting nervous I was going to drive past their stop. I sped up a fraction. enough to hear the pleasing result of hurried stomping down the aisle and some high pitched remarks like a novice cowboy on a bolted mustang:

'Whoa ... whooaah ... WHOOOAAAAHHH.'

I stopped at the bus stop and the passenger straightened his baseball cap and tracksuit.

'Spot on, mate,' he said as he vanished into the Cumbrian rain.

Turbo Ted And Albert Scuttlebucket Meet On The Back Of A London Double Decker Bus

2011-06-19T23:00:00.000-07:00

It is strange how things pan out in life.

Only in the last post, you will remember, I was extolling the best of British design in the form of buses and especially how the bus used in the Italian Job looked so much nicer than the clinical modern day buses,

Well blow me down, as I drove over the hill to Durham, there was this row of vintage buses parked in a line in the Park & Ride. There were many people milling around, eyes bulging with delight and people wistfully shaking their heads and muttering, 'I remember when...'.

Who should be on the end but the boss. He had brought the old Bedford down to the rally. He had brought one of the retired drivers down too. He had driven for the company until well into his eighties and had brought down a photo album to show people about his life on the buses. Though many of the photos seemed to be of a kissogram girl at a past birthday party.

Turbo Ted was there too. He was another occasional driver for the company who had a passion for restoring old London double decker buses. As we sat on the back seat of the Routemaster, talking, an enthusiast came on and started firing questions. They became ever more personal.

'What do they call you?' he finally said.

'Lord Tom,' I said.

'Turbo Ted,' said Turbo Ted.

'Albert ... Albert Scuttlebucket,' said the boss.

The man looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights, not knowing twhat the truth was, before ,making a speedy retreat.

Hang On A Minute, Lads, I've Got A Great Idea

2011-06-17T09:06:00.000-07:00

Some good news from The Times. The De La Warr have commissioned one of our best known contemporary sculptors, Richard Wilson. He is going to recreate the final scene from the Italian Job, where the coach, loaded with gold bullion is teetering over the edge of a cliff.

This sculpture will be teetering over the Marina in Bexhill-on-Sea, voted Britain's third best seaside town to live in, in 2007. It is part of the London 2012 Festival, the finale of the Cultural Olympiad.

As an ignoramus I find it a great idea, and not surprising that something retro has to be done to show off the best of British design. Just look at that bus. Isn't it like a Rolls Royce in comparison to some of the insipid modern day designs? Perhaps there will be life size figures of the driver in the film - Big William and the gang leader Charlie Croker (Michael Caine).

This could be the start of a sculpture trend. Aeroplanes flying through bridges, trucks crashing into famous landmarks, cars upside down in flower beds ... the possibilities are endless. No doubt the Olympic cultural budget will be bursting at the seams to make this possible.

I look forward to more.

Farewell O' Vallium Run.

2011-06-17T04:55:00.000-07:00

Farewell O' Vallium Run. Will I miss you? Not really. Eleven hours of trundling up and down the road, carrying the odd passenger was sometimes akin to watching paint dry. Then again every job has its down side and there were plenty of plus points. The characters on the run, the beautiful countryside where the light and the colours of the landscape were constantly changing.

It started out wet and dull, but very green ...

then the clouds lifted, the rain stopped and the sun came out ...

It was the usual Northern day. Four seasons in one day. Cold, warm, wet and dry. The only constant was the chill of the June wind, which varied from shivery to icy.

The passengers seemed sad to see the end of the bus route in its current form. They complained about the replacement service which would be a pale imitation of the current service. The introduction of any new service is always problematic, but this one with different times on different days, some buses roll up, some have to be booked and some only run as per demand, was challenging even the passengers with the most active brains.

It will sort itself out. There is no other option.

As a passing shot, one of the passengers is intent on giving a graphic description to their last visit to the dentist:

'He puts putty in my mouth. It's a nasty feeling. You see, he gets a large lump of putty and he rams it in my mouth ... that's when me arms and legs are waving all o'er the place. Then it gets worse ... he sticks ...'

Fortunately the passenger's stop comes up fast and it is not possible to complete the story.

So on my last run in the evening, I bid farewell to the Land That God Forgot, past the fields of buttercups which cover the redundant slag heaps and mine workings, past the caravan which never goes anywhere, the lay-by where some rubbish has been illegally left and the bus shelter where the pony is rubbing its backside against.

Will I miss it? I query again.

No I'll be driving through it on Monday, on another route. Through it. Without stopping. That's the best way to see it.

My Wipers Are Knackered - It's Just The Newness

2011-06-17T04:24:00.001-07:00

'You're late,' said the cross passenger.

'Yes I know, but I'm only eight minutes late.' I replied.

'You're very late,' she continued not letting me off the hook.

'I had an excuse. I had to swop buses because the wipers broke and I couldn't see a thing.'

Silence.

'And,' I went on, 'it's not a good thing to go around in a bus when it's raining and being unable to clear your windscreen.

Silence.

'And, and, and ...' I haven't the faintest idea why I kept trying to justify my lateness. I really couldn't give a fig. It was the last day I was going to do this run and if there was a complaint against me, well, quite frankly ... bad luck.

The complaints came thick and fast. The passenger would not let up. It was therefore satisfying in a childish way to find that there was a large clump of nettles by the bus stop where the moaning minnie got off.

The wiper had been fine earlier. It had been raining all morning and the windscreen had been clearing fine. I was in one of the older buses, when for no apparent reason one of the wipers started behaving erratically, increased speed, went round full circle before disappearing off the bus windscreen and started trying to clear the water off the passing trees on the verge.

The other wiper worked for a bit, before becoming confused and giving up the ghost. The rain did not stop and it became harder to see out. I had to slow down and therefore was running late.

I rang the office. 'It's not been your week,' said the boss. 'First you broke the tyre when you had a puncture, then you had the dent in the side and now it's the wipers. Whatever next?'

I dread to think.

Find The English Teachers Responsible And Fire Them

2011-06-17T03:34:00.000-07:00

On my walk round check of the bus yesterday, before setting off, I discovered the above graffiti scrawled into the back of a seat with an indelible marker pen. I would not have been greatly pleased if I had found out who the culprits were, and would probably have handed them a cloth and some detergent for them to clean it up.

What struck me more was the rubbish English they had written, badly spelt and verging on illiteracy. I thought the bus company should write a letter to the Heads of the school which may have been responsible and ask them to sack the English teacher, who is failing miserably.

If not there may have to be extra curricula lessons on the school bus in grammar, spelling and how to remove graffiti environmentally.

Fat chance.

Northern Bus Drivers Just Love The Olympics. Will Other Northerners Love Them Too?

2011-06-17T03:19:00.000-07:00

It sounded a great idea.

Being a bus driver at next year's London Olympics, it was intimated, was that dream job, according to the spiel which was put out asking companies to pitch for contracts.

Feeling guilty that everything at the 2012 games was bound to be London-centric, attempts have been made to make it look like a UK-wide 'aren't we all lucky to be involved in this historic event' type of thing. Looking under the gloss and veneer, this was really just a way to develop and regenerate an unattractive part of London and using sport as a way of paying for the new housing which will undoubtedly follow in the years after 2012. I feel this because, if it had really been about sport for all, then the amount this folie de grandeur is costing, would easily have paid for a new all weather floodlit pitch, tennis or basketball court in practically every town and village in the UK, giving the whole country a shot in the arm and potential for future gold medals.

But, no. It was not to be.

Anyway, where was I before that rant?

Oh yes ... Olympic bus drivers ... dream jobs ...

Some North Eastern companies have won the contract to supply buses and drivers for the Olympic Park. This is good news. The rumours though are flying around the coach parks in the North. Drivers being paid £900 per week. Two drivers for each bus. A luxury liner being moored up the Thames for the drivers and other staff and volunteers to sleep. Accommodation is free. Accommodation is not free. As one of the sponsors is a fizzy drinks manufacturer, then any bus driver found drinking a rival brand will be liable for instant dismissal. On and on it goes.

£900 is the figure which is noticeable. That is a good wage for a North-Eastern bus driver. Probably three times the average. It is probably 1.5 times the average for a London bus driver. They will want their pound of flesh for that money and I suspect the shifts will be long, arduous and overrun the advertised time. But it is a once in a lifetime experience.

The alarm bells start ringing when you compare the bus drivers from Vancouver Winter Olympics last year to the proposed London drivers. In Vancouver, they seem to have been mostly volunteers (I would have applied if they had asked for volunteers. Naively, it seems to be more part of the Olympic spirit. I would have been fired too, for drinking some Chinese herbal jelly drink, too.) The large wage bill has already alerted the Unions and they have in many cases negotiated large wage increases or special payments for the Olympics. Following a deal securing a 10% increase over two years and a £500 one-off payment for 10,000 Network rail staff, the unions who represent the Underground and the Buses are lining up for similar deals. The British Olympic Association hit the headlines yesterday when they announced their wage bill had risen by 17%.

There is a danger that the costs of the Olympics could spiral out of control. We will be paying for this two weeks of great sport for decades. Poor old North of England won't have anything to show for it - except for some happy bus drivers.

Why am I such a pessimist?

Because people have such short memories. Remember the Athens Olympics in 2004? You only have to look at the state Greece is in now. Hosting the Olympics hasn't helped them.

Will we be the same?

Death Of The Small Independent Bus Company? Maybe, Maybe Not

2011-06-16T23:53:00.000-07:00

Stop and think about what has happened to the bus industry in Britain, and you may want to fling yourself under the nearest bus.

We had the finest public transport network in the world. British made buses, smart drivers, conductors, routes to everywhere and an interesting industry full of different companies, colours and ways of doing things.

All, however, were of the same view that they were there to run the best possible public service.
1986 put paid to all of that. The deregulation of the bus industry had similar consequences to Beeching's cuts on the railways. The result now is that the service is adequate in most areas, but in rural areas it is being cut to the bone.

The car has taken over from the bus and many people have made it quite clear that they will not swop, regardless how hig running costs and fuel prices go. The bus companies have not helped themselves either. They have not upgraded their equipment, in line with the high standards expected by passengers. If you are going to lure them out of their cars, comfort, wi-fi, smart corporate image etc etc should be a priority. But there is a lack of will, money or desire to do this.

Hence Britain is left with a mediocre bus industry, which is steadily being reduced into four big conglomerates who will run everything. So much hot air has been expended by the politicians from all governments of the past twenty-five years.

Everything else, such as rural transport is being reduced or farmed out to charities. Everything is in a downward direction - less services, lower wages, smaller buses.

'Stop complaining,' said a local civil servant, 'otherwise you won't have any bus service at all.'

The truly sad thing is that none of the public, apart from the odd few, really give a damn. Life has changed. mediocrity has become acceptable. Everybody wants things to be cheap, a bargain or free. The councils have therefore spotted an opportunity to spend as little money as they can. They know, at the end of the day, the moans will be few and far between.

'I know, it's truly awful,' a passenger said to me. 'We're losing our bus, we're getting a rotten service as a replacement, it's going to cost more, none of us want it ...but what can we do?'

Now where's the nearest wall I can bang my head against?

Just Another Normal Day: Australia, Thailand, Kilmarnock and Carlisle

2011-06-15T22:38:00.000-07:00

The freshness of the moorland tops was, for once enticing. The road was crowded with grouse chicks eager to make their maiden flight. When the car came over the brow of the hill they took off into the unknown and flew for twenty-five yards.

The smells changed as I descended into the valley. The rained on bog myrtle, heather and moss were replaced with a more humid aroma of manure. It was the season of muckspreading. Still. This year seemed to go on forever. Even the gentle country smell of horse or cow manure had been replaced by the rather more unpleasant pig and chicken. The bus still stank one hour after it had arrived at its destination.

It was one of those mornings where all fare paying passengers only had a £10 note. I have seen some drivers become apoplectic with rage. But I don't carry much change and tend to rely on other passengers further down the route paying with coins. When I have enough change, you walk to the back of the bus, take the £10 notes and give the passengers a mountain of change which will weigh them down for the rest of the day. They never do it again.

I went into a supermarket for my breakfast and handed the check-out person a £10 note. He looked disturbed and shouted for his manager'

'Machine's playing up.' he said. 'It won't tell me how much change to give the customer.'

The manager scratched his head and went back to his office. In a few minutes he returned with a calculator, tapped the buttons and announced, 'Give the customer £1-61.'

Well I never, I thought. Imagine if that happened on a bus. The bus would never get anywhere.

I returned to the coach park where there was a youngish spiky haired driver, chewing gum and spitting as he walked to his bus. He jumped in, roared the engine, quickly looked to see if anyone other coach driver was watching him and sped towards the exit. It nearly all went very badly wrong as he nearly smacked into the barrier. It didn't phase him and he went even faster. Ah, I thought, another sign of the times.

I went as quickly as I could for my lunch at Carlisle market. The thought of this delicious food, simple and freshly cooked in front of you has mad the day much more pleasurable.

On the way I went to the Gents. Standing by the basin were the long established cleaner and an eighty plus man in deep conversation.

'I'm off to Australia for the first time next month,' said the old man.

'Well good for you,' replied the cleaner.

'Aye it cost me £742 for the flights and £300 for the insurance.

'Well that's great - anyway remember - money - you can't take it with you.'

'Aye'

'And when you're dead, they'll just come and nick it out of your coffin.

'Aye...' I left them to it and went off to the Thai food bar.

I sat down at the counter and my steaming hot curry came along, with plate of rice and bowl of extra raw chilis in fish and soy sauce. I was becoming a regular as it was just put in front of me.

As I took my second mouthful, the mobile rang.

'What do you think of Kilmarnock?' said a voice. It was the boss.

'Well it's very nice.'

'Good. That's where you are going. Rail replacement job. Wait for my confirmation call.

There were several confirmation calls. First the job was on. Then it was of. On. Off. On. Off and finally off for good. Instead I walked back to the coach park. School was out. There were three aggressive young boys riding their bicycles and playing chicken with the coaches. As I came out one bike swished past and I missed it by a whisker. The boy stopped, looked up and grinned.

'If you do that again,' I said leaning out the window, 'you'll get flattened.'

His smile turned to a scowl. 'Why don't you f.....' His words became lost as they were drowned out by a passing ambulance siren.

Day Trip To The Scottish Seaside: 3. It's Nae Easy

2011-06-14T09:21:00.001-07:00

I should have realised. Things were going far too well. The return journey was so trouble free and peaceful. There was little traffic and we meandered back through the hills towards England. We were only fifteen minutes from our proposed stop, so that the ladies could have their traditional supper stop and leg stretch.

I should have taken the warning when I passed a Scottish truck with: 'It's Nae Easy' written on the trailer. Because three minutes later a car started driving erratically around the bus.

'What's he up to?' said one of the ladies. 'I think he is drunk.' He drew alongside, unwound his window ann yelled:

'TYRE'

'BACK'

'BACK TYRE'.

I pulled over and sure enough one of the tyres had lost all its air. I unloaded all the kladies onto the hard shoulder. They lay on the grass and milled around. It looked like a picnic on a hot summer's evening.

'More like one sandwich short of a picnic,' said one person, bringing it back to reality with a jolt. Here we were stuck on a motorway, 24 ladies and 2 men, with trucks thundering past at 55 miles per hour. After urgent consultations with the boss, it was deemed better to try and limp off the motorway at the next exit. Limping at 20 m.p.h is not exactly much fun.

The ladies remained cheerful. 'Don't worry,' one said. 'It could have been worse. We could all be dead.'

We made it. 'What do I do now, while we wait for help to come?'

'Oh you'll think of something,' replied the boss. 'Tell them to sing some Karaoke songs, read them a story or ... or ... or ...I'll leave it up to you. You'll be very good at thinking of something ... tell them I will give them a free trip ... no on second thoughts tell them they can have you free but they will have to pay for the bus.

It took nearly two hours for help to come and put a new tyre onto the wheel. The recovery guy was great he worked fast and received a warm round of applause from the ladies when the had finished. the ladies were amazing. they never complained at the boredom of sitting on the bus.

'In all the years, we have been coming on these trips,' said one lady, 'this is the first time something like this has happened.

Some slept, some chatted, some had a cigarette break outside the bus on the verge. One major help was when one lady, who had obviously bought a job lot of nail varnish from a shop in Ayr, started offering a service for the others. It was not long before half the bus had shiny purple finger and toenails. The upside was that the air on the bus was heady with the lingering aroma of nail varnish, that it seemed to go straight to people's heads and most were in a happy mood.

Every cloud has a silver lining and as we set off again, there was a sunset which you only ever usually see descending across somewhere like the Masai Mara.

'You see,' I teased. 'If we hadn't had that puncture, you would never have seen this sunset.'

'Hummpf,' came one response.

'Shall we go home now?' I asked.

'No, no,' replied one lady. 'Can we keep going until the diesel runs out.'

'Hummpf,' said the others.

Day Trip To The Scottish Seaside: 2. Pure Dead Brilliant

2011-06-14T08:14:00.000-07:00

'What's happened to Andy?' came the question at regular intervals throughout the journey.

'Andy who?' I asked lamely.

'Andy Murray, of course. We want to know how he is getting on at Queens.'

The ladies chatted the whole way up. About everyone and everything. When we were close to the Ayr coastline, the clouds began to lift. The chatter in the back of the bus became more intense at the realisation that the long drive up the twisty road of the long gone Scottish coal mining industry was coming to an end.

As we drove into the centre of Ayr the traffic increased. At a roundabout I got an uneasy feeling about the car fast approaching from one of the side roads. The driver did not seem to be concentrating and did not look like stopping. He saw the bus at the last minute and stamped on his brakes. Just as I drove off the roundabout there was a loud bang from somewhere towards the back of the bus.

'What the bloody hell was that?' one lady said loudly.

Streuth, that damned car has hit me, I thought. But there was no feeling of a collision. I stopped the bus on the dual carriageway and rushed round to the back, fearing the worst. After Gretna, how would I ever persuade the boss that two accidents on the same day were not down to me. It would be an unenviable task which would result in weeks of teasing. But there was nothing. No cars embedded into the back of the bus. No marks, no scratches. No damage to frame, or tyres, or wheels or enging. A mystery.No other cars had crashed into each other. So I drove on, dropped the passengers and headed for my Mancini ice cream at the Royal Cafe.

It's times like these that happiness is a job like a bus driver. Following a little cleaning of the bus, the afternoon was mine. And to think that the hardest decision would be whether I would have my usual vanilla cone or venture out for a more adventurous Scotch tablet, Pink Panther, Heavenly Hash, Erotica or Blushing Bride. Life can be cruel.

Spending an hour cruising the shops, seeing the architecture and walking along the beach is just my sort of day.

Ayr had changed and remained the same. It was still beautiful, full of history and lots of interest. Still pure dead brilliant and able to deliver the occasional surprise.The demographics had changed and I found myself queuing in a shop behind the family from hell. The man was drunk. He had a face which was black and blue and looking suspiciously as if he had been in a punch up. The woman was equally drunk or drugged. The children were out of control and running around the shop stealing things. The uncles, aunts and cousins were all standing around issuing different instructions. they were after money. It was like a scene from Rab C Nesbitt. The counter staff giggled when the family left.

One of them looked at me and muttered 'low life'. I felt at home. Of course it takes one to know one.

I returned to the beachfront where the bus was parked for the last half an hour

'Ice cream, darling?' said the lady behind the stall.

'No thanks, just a drink,' I replied.

'Irn Bru, darling? That'll be £1.' She took the note which was folded in my hand, before I could argue. Her dog watched me with a mixture of emotions but let me retire to my bus without any aggression.

The passengers fared better in their eating. 'Lovely, it was,' they said. 'We found a place which advertised a Pensioner's Special for £3-99. Lovely it was.'

And with that we headed home.

'But what's happened to Andy?' repeated the same voices.

Day Trip To The Scottish Seaside: 1. Whit's Fur Ye'll No Go By Ye.

2011-06-14T06:56:00.000-07:00

Whit's for ye'll no go by ye is an old Scots saying which basically means - what's meant to happen is going to happen.

I felt this would be the case as I drove obver the fells to the bus depot. It was dreary. The mists swept low over the moors, hiding the tops of the hills. The grouse chicks, who were taking their maiden flights, looked miserable. The only saving grace was that it was relatively mild, a a northern English sort of way.

Today was the ladies club trip to the West of Scotland. To Ayr, to be precise. The weather forecast was iffy. It could be fine or it could be wet and blowy. It was a risky choice as there was a three hour plus drive to do. A nice drive. Beautiful in all weathers.

The group I was taking were my favourites. They were a local ladies' club of veritable age. But they were some of life's great enthusiasts. They would talk and laugh all the way there and all the way back. They would know precisely where they were going and what they wanted to do. Their high standards never wavered. If you did not do something they had asked for, they would be direct and tell you. They were fun to take. I was looking forward to it, and to the chance of going to Scotland, one of the loves of my life. i was salivating at the thought of a Mancini's ice cream in Ayr.

We left on time and stopped at various pick-up points before trundling up to the Old Blacksmith's Shop at Gretna Green. Great choice, I thought. Very sensible to hit one of the biggest tourist destinations in Britain, Popular with the Japanese and the Americans, Gretna had cleverly made the shop look like Fortnum & Mason. There was tartan, whisky, golfing memorabilia emblazoned with the St Andrews logo and Loch Ness Monster furry toys in every nook and crannie. Pipers were playing in different locations. So to arrive there at around 10am should be good enough to beat the rush.

But it wasn't.

I turned into the coach park to see rows of already parked up coaches. Streams of tourists were disembarking. I picked a space close to a Dutch bus, leaving a gap because the entry door was on a different side to British buses and he would need the room for his passengers to board.

As I was sitting on the railings, waiting for the passengers to come back from their tea break, a bus came into the coach park at full speed and headed for the space between the Dutch coach and my bus, also at full speed. The space became narrower and narrower. The red faced driver seemed to be puffing and panting, possible in the alarming realisation that he was not going to make it. And he didn't. The bus only came to a halt when his wing mirror connected with the door of my bus, chipping off a lump of paint.

The driver then had a knock on his door from the driver of the Dutch bus. His passengers could not get into the bus as the gap was too narrow. There was only one thing for it. He had to reverse out and find another space. He did. He inched backwards, gaining in confidence as the millimetres became centimetres and he gathered speed. Unfortunately he reversed straight into the back of another bus which was also reversing at the same time.

When I went to see the driver about the paint chip, he was busy swapping insurance details with the other bus driver who he had rammed.

'I'll be with you in a minute,' he said in a surprisingly cheerful manner.

'Aye. It's been a bad morning,' he said later when he came to examine the damage he had done. He shrugged his shoulders, gave me his details, laughed and walked off.

The day couldn'? get any stranger, could it?

Duck Day Afternoon

2011-06-12T09:55:00.000-07:00

The annual duck race is as good a way as any to relax on a Sunday afternoon, even if it is the usual cool British summer temperatures. But hey at least the rain more or less held off. In other parts of the country, events were suffering due to the heavy rain; Andy Murray has been sitting in his dressing room all day, being unable to get onto court to play the final at Queen's. There were the odd spills at the Moto GP at Silverstone and various cricket matches were abandoned.

Nothing was going to stop the ducks. The crowd was large and they waited as the yellow plastic ducks were unceremoniously dumped out of a black bin liner into the river. They should have floated gently downstream, flopped over the waterfall and swam over the finishing line in an orderly fashion, so that they could be netted and reacquainted with their bin liners. But these were Northern ducks. Plastic ducks with attitude. They headed straight for the bank and refused to budge. Only mass kicking and eventually, picking them up by hand and hurling them back into the middle of the river, seemed to further their progress. One hour later they had reluctantly crossed the winning post.

They ducks' behaviour had mirrored what had been happening in the local area over the past week or so. There had been fights, arrests, thefts and vandalism. The resulting publicity had not been good, making the headlines in several papers. It made the place look like Dodge City.

So it was nice to see a family day out and a community at peace. People picnicing by the river, watching their children mess about in the river, getting soaked chasing the badly behaved ducks. All went well until a small boy did not like the look of an older girl's wellies. He threw them into the river and they filled up with water and sank somewhere beneath the spray of the waterfall.

That's blown it, I thought. The glare the girl gave the little boy was piercing. He sensibly ran away, knowing that an enforced dive into the river was imminent.

It was time to go. Go and prepare for a trip I'm taking to Scotland tomorrow. I feel I've received some good pointers from how the ducks were rounded up. I don't think the elderly party will be so compliant.

We'll see.

Unchristian Christian Down The Road Less Travelled

2011-06-11T01:31:00.000-07:00

It is that time of year. There are animals all over the roads. Hundreds of horses and caravans are returning from Appleby Fair. The traditional way is to take days driving them back across the hills. There are electronic road signs everywhere warning other drivers of horse drawn vehicles. It seems to be the right policy as there don't seem to have been so many accidents this year.

The roads are hazardous. The rain has made them slippery. It has also made them narrow for a large vehicle like a bus. The branches of the trees have lowered into the roadway, due to the lashing they have received from violent showers. It is odd weather for this time of year. Four seasons in one day. One minute cold, one minute warm. Dry with a cold wind broken by a sudden tropical downpour.

'Biblical,' said a passenger sitting behind.

It was an opportune remark, because as I turned the corner on a single track road, there, parked badly and partially blocking the way was an old car. It had parked between a thorny hawthorn tree and a tarpaulin which someone had dumped on the verge. The car had advertising written down its side. It read:-

www.godsholysomethingsomethingsomething.com

'That's not very Christian,' said a cynic sitting behind.

So what do you do? Something or nothing? Blow the horn and hope someone comes out of one of the houses?

No point. It was just as productive to get out, move the tarpaulin and gently scrape the side of the bus down the hawthorn tree, hoping that if it was slow enough, it wouldn't damage the paintwork. And it didn't.

On the return journey, the car was still there. The same thing happened.

'Must be giving a very long sermon,' said the cynic above the screeching noise of branches meeting glass.

Shut That Door

2011-06-10T05:30:00.000-07:00

Doors on buses are often awkward things. They all have their quirks, and when you drive different buses every day, it is a case of trying to remember which doors do what.

Some open quickly, some slowly. Some open outwards, some inwards. Some are noisy, some silent.

It sounds like teaching granny to suck eggs, but the odd pensioner has been known to be sent flying, head first down a bank, because a particular door has opened the wrong way. It is also interesting when you find yourself close, up against a tree and find that the door opens not in the way you expected or hoped.

Therefore it was comforting to see that other bus drivers have the same problem. The other day I spotted this door of a bus (pictured above) which must have been particularly troublesome and caused for the extra instructions to be handwritten above the 'what to do in an emergency' instructions. This bus was of similar appearance to some of the buses I drive; the ones which are dual purpose, school runs and service buses which get some very heavy use.

As Victor Hugo said: 'He who opens a school door, closes a prison.' If he'd been writing today, he might well have inserted the word, 'bus' between 'school' and 'door'. No doubt the door on this bus had been used by unruly schoolchildren at some stage in its life.

Coach Parks - Are They A Sign Of The Times?

2011-06-10T04:59:00.000-07:00

Is it just me or are coach parks and car parks becoming a nirvana for signs? they have been creeping in over the past few years, but now there seems to be an avalanche.

It shows the exciting life of a bus driver, that I have the time to go around places counting signs. Take Carlisle for example. in many ways they are have an excellent city council who do their utmost to attract visitors by offering plenty of coach parking and, unusually it is free.

A by-product of this seems to be a sudden increase in the number of barriers, railings, speed bumps, cctv cameras and signs. So now there are:-

1 Lorries - No Parking

2 'Out'

1 Coaches Turn Left

6 Maximum Stay With A Disabled Badge 3 Hours

1 Toilet

7 CCTV Zone

1 Have You Paid And Displayed

1 Coaches Free

3 Pay And Display (accompanied by long and involved instructions, rules and fees)

1 DANGER Overhead Live Wires

2 Police Park Mark (Safer Parking) Advertisments

1 No Entry

1 Littering Is Illegal

1 To Leave Car Park When barriers Closed Drive Slowly Towards The Barrier For Automatic Opening

1 Danger 400 Volts

2 Welcome To...

1 Cars only - Left, Cars, Coaches, caravans - Right

2 Recycle Now banners on lamppost

1 Area Liable To Flooding - Environment Agency

That's 36 signs in a smallish area. That's ignoring direction signs, street signs and various markings written in white paint on the tarmac. This seems to be prevalent everywhere I take the bus. There is so much reading of signs to do. Miss them at your peril, because most contain some legal clause which tells you what to pay.

The lawyers have been busy in other places too. I remember when it all started in the mid-1990's. I saw a new notice from the Council's legal department in one town. It more or less said - when you park here it will cost you £100 unless you put the correct money in the machine for the designated amount of time. Very clever. Instantly they had the ability to issue £100 parking fines to anyone who overstayed their welcome.

That's why I like Carlisle, ignoring their love affair with the common sign. There is no pressure. The parking wardens and council workers are always helpful and friendly and they seem to want tourists to visit.

Other greedy councils who charge extortionate coach parking charges should send a deputation to the city to see how things should be done properly. Then there wouldn't be the problem of buses sitting in lay-by's around the perimeter of their towns.

Bus Drivers Talk To The Suitcases

2011-06-10T04:11:00.000-07:00

According to the Times (Thursday 9th June 2011) there was an amusing story about buses to come out of Madrid:-

'Two men have been charged with robbing a tourist bus in a series of scams reminiscent of the film Ocean's Eleven (Graham Keeley writes). The alleged thief, 5ft 9in (1.70m) tall, squeezed into a suitcase that was loaded into the luggage compartment of a bus from Girona airport to Barcelona and had 90 minutes to break into other bags.
Police were tipped off after an employee noticed a man speaking to a suitcase.'

Now this highlights a couple of issues. As a bus driver who sometimes drives on the continent, nothing surprises me anymore. Having been conditioned to lock your bus everywhere you stop, for the fear of having an illegal immigrant or two leap on and hide, and then face a possible £2,000 mandatory fine per stowaway, this story is not out of the ordinary. For anyone who has been to Spain this is just another inventive scam, one step up from the gangs who hover around the markets fleecing tourists with their 'Spot the Lady' games, where a ball is placed under one of three upturned cups.

The really intriguing bit, I find, is the fact that someone worries about somebody talking to a suitcase. This would not be a factor in England because bus drivers are always talking to their suitcases, frequently shouting or swearing at their bulk and weight. Over the last decade, we have taken a leaf out of the Americans book and have invested in larger and larger cases. People start packing 'big' now from an early age. The average schoolchild on a two day trip to an outward bound centre tends to pack more for a two week stay.

So the next time you see a bus driver talking to a suitcase, don't worry. It's all quite normal. His mate won't be inside the case. That is unless he is taking his wife on holiday.

Turning To Trainspotting

2011-06-08T22:40:00.000-07:00

What does an average bus driver do when, having cleaned the bus and waits for the return journey? The answer is not a lot. Books, radio and other media sources. DVD's are now out, as it means having to run the engine so that the battery won't go flat, thereby wasting diesel.

So, today, as there are tropical showers and the coach park is next to a railway line, I have turned into a train spotter. It is difficult to sleep. As soon as you have dropped off, an express comes whining through. The loudest train is the Tesco train (pictured above) where they proudly trumpet that they are using less CO2 emissions.

No doubt there will be someone saying ... every little helps. Not for a sleeping bus driver it doesn't.

The Seagulls Beat The Germans To The Picnic

2011-06-07T22:22:00.000-07:00

The German bus rolled into the coach park. It was huge. It was pristine and it exuded confidence and smartness. The driver sneered as he saw there were no coach bays left so he parked in the car park, swallowing fourteen car spaces.

The doors opened and down the steps came fifty German pensioners. They were like their bus, substantial, immaculately dressed and coiffured, and exuding self confidence.

'Wo ist die Toiletten?' The tour guide had selected me as a helpful candidate to know this essential piece of information. As they trotted off to the far corner of the car park where the lavatories were situated, the driver emerged and opened all the lockers on the bus. He took out tables, flasks, bottles and many coolers full of food. This was an upmarket picnic. It's what I expect when I see a German bus. They do things properly when they take bus tours around Europe. They've paid good money and therefore expect nothing less than the best. Oh how different to the British approach.

Today, however the Germans were a victim of their own success. Their picnic was so good that they attracted every seagull within a thirty mile radius.They were everywhere, circling in the sky, sitting on top of the bus and waddling around on the tarmac. They were waiting for the tourists to make an error. It didn't take long. A lady with dyed 'Martian sunset' red hair left her ham roll on the wall. It was swiftly removed by a bird. The lady was not pleased and much discussion. The tables were put away, the doors hurriedly shut, the tourists ran onto the bus, the engine roared and the bus left the car park in a hurry.

It had been a mischievous sort of a day from the first moment I arrived and parked the coach. A lady peered through the open door with a slightly disappointed look.

'Is this the bus for the women's club trip?' she asked.

'Depends where you are going,' I replied unhelpfully.

'Liverpool.'

'Oh certainly not.' She looked taken aback. 'We never go anywhere near there. You might not come back.'

She thanked me and walked off pensively, not knowing whether I was serious or not, though she was relieved as a shiny new bus with the name of the women's club clearly visible in the back window swept past. She began to break into a jog.

Confusion reigned as the second bus with our company logo arrived in the coach park. The market day service was filled with regulars who always made this trip. Part of the unwritten law was that the bus door was left open and they could venture on and off when they felt like it. It was like a taxi service. Supermarket trolleys would come and go, bags would be carried on and left on the seats. Woe betide any other passenger who sat in anyone's seat. That just wasn't done.

The addition of a second similar looking bus made life difficult. Half of the passengers sat on the wrong bus. They had sorted themselves out by the scheduled departure time. All that was left on my bus were some sweetie papers, some earth and some green leaves scattered across the floor.

Someone had dropped a geranium.

A New Broom Sweeps Through The Drivers Routine

2011-06-07T14:47:00.000-07:00

'What have you broken now?' said the boss as I returned, with a resigned sigh. I held up a window cleaning squeegee and the rubber became detached from the plastic claw and fell to the grimy floor.

'Last week it was the mop,' he went on, being accompanied by plenty of sighs.

'And the week before it was the bucket,' the sigh had become one long, continuous blast.

There was some valid excuse. A new regime had been instituted by the other boss. Because of the high diesel prices, buses were to have to park up, usually in a lay-by rather than returning to base. And as we were being paid to sit in the county's finest lay-bys, a light bulb had gone off inside the boss's head and he came up with the ingenious idea of making the drivers clean the buses while they waited. So we were equipped with their own personalised bucket, mop, squeegee, dusters, bottle of Flash, can of Pledge and various rubber and plastic implements which I hadn't a clue what to do with them.

If there was the remotest chance that we would forget the bucket, our names were written on in large letters, written in black indelible ink. The buckets were then placed in a line on a bench near the duty roster sheet. It meant that it was physically impossible to walk past them without feeling embarrassed.

The idea was right. The execution was not so good. They were so cheap and badly made that they caused consternation. It took an age to put the mop together. When it was assembled, it wobbled and fell to pieces. The only way, I found to keep it together was to use some brute force and push it downwards onto the floor. It snapped.

I never thought I would take pleasure in looking at other people's cleaning equipment. But I was so enthralled to see a proper wooden brush (picture above) on a boat the other day. That was until I read the writing on the wood. 'Toilet Brush' it read. I moved away a little.

Maybe the crap brushes on the buses were not so bad.

6.55am - The Few Minutes For Reflection And Tranquility

2011-06-05T04:27:00.000-07:00

This is the view I face every morning on the way to work. How lucky am I? Birds singing. This morning there is a cuckoo somewhere nearby. Sometimes there is a red squirrel. Sometimes some woodpeckers, goldfinches or pheasants.

It changes all the time. The tulips are still out. The bluebells too. The azaleas and the rhododendrons have survived a bashing by the wind.

It is 6.55am. The service bus has just gone along the road. I do not need to look at my watch. The service bus is regular as clockwork and always passes at the same time. It's tired old engine struggles up the hill. Soon it is gone and only the sounds of the birds can be heard again.

The peace is about to be terminated again as the diesel engine of the Ford tries to splutter into life. These first few moments are precious moments. A time for thought. A time for reflection. No passengers anywhere to be seen - just you and nature.

But I have to go. I can't sit around thinking all day. The passengers will be waiting. they don't like to be kept waiting. They won't understand what George Harrison once reputedly said:

'When you've seen beyond yourself, then you may find, peace of mind is waiting there.'

The passenger did not care about deep quotations from the ex-Beetle. One ranted:

'What yer doin', man? I'm late for work. Get a move on.'

Back to the old routine.

Every Dog Has His Day

2011-06-05T03:51:00.000-07:00

Back to reality with a bump.

Back to the cold winds. The temperature had halved. The mist had descended. Yes, you've guessed it, I'm back in the Northern hills of England. My bias towards Scotland will be misplaced as it will most likely bee cooler and wetter up there.

'Count your blessings,' a local said to me irritatingly. I know where you can shove your blessings, I thought un-christianly. This was the same person who had said, a couple of days ago, that it was too hot and hadn't liked it when I begged to differ.

I am a fish out of water. having spent too long in hot climates and warm places, developed a liking for hot food - the more chilis the better. The Northern English hills are the complete opposite. The people who live there in the main, adore the winds and the coolness. They loathe the heat. And they like simple, plain food.

Grumpy bus driver syndrome was fast descending. There was no excuse for it as it was the last days of the holidays. I was not due to drive any bus. But everything seemed to be wrong. The cold weather ... grrr, the armie of purple lycra clad cyclists ... grrr, the enforced avoidance of the local town because it was hosting the tackiest of fairs ... grrr, so much to do - so little time ... grrr, the Tote was sold to a bookmaker ... grrr, the postman delivered the wrong letters appeared through the door ... grrr, my big toe hurts ... grrr ...and on...grrr ...and ...grrr

I took the dog for a walk and thought it could be worse.

And it was.

On the way back a mini-bus came round the corner on the wrong side of the road and I had to manoeuvre the car into the ditch. I had just enough time to spot the company logo - a local company, and clock the driver - someone I had met before, before feeling the car bounce on the unearthed drains. My head hit the roof of the car.

Grrr ... and double Grrr ...

I looked to the side of the road and there was a man, leaning on his shovel, looking at me. he had stopped digging and was roaring with laughter. I looked at him blankly. Then I began to laugh. My dog jumped up and licked me on the nose. I disregarded the fact that he had just licked the insides of a dead rabbit which had been lying on the path, and I hugged him.

Every dog has his day.

When Scotland Looks Like Malibu And The Mediterranean

2011-06-05T02:54:00.000-07:00

'Aye, aye. He disna' pee the bed the noo,' said the landlord of the rented cottage in a similar fashion to Private Fraser, when he used to say 'We're doomed. Doomed. All doomed' in an episode of Dad's Army

That was a childhood memory of my wife's and it was brought vividly back to life thirty something years later by my sudden desire at 3 o'clock in the morning to get up and have a pee. This was a near physical impossibility as I was lying prostrate in a tent on a cliff top, somewhere on the East Lothian coastline.

I was petrified. Having kicked her several times already in the early hours, having scratched all night because of the midge bites and having leapt up because of severe cramp in my calf and by doing so I had kicked the wife again, put a hole in the top of the tent as I stood up and successfully managed to uproot some of the skewers and guide ropes securing the tent.

You will therefore understand my nervousness at having my popularity meter lowered even further into the mire, so I sat and suffered, until I could bear it no more. For a time the midges became a welcome distraction. I finally summonsed the courage and made it out at 4am. It was bright sunshine, warm and so nice that it was far too good than to go back into that rotten old canvas thing.

I went to the nearest clump of fir trees. It was the only option as the route to the only lavatory meant having to go through the main room of the log cabin which was crammed with young people in sleeping bags. They wouldn't thank a clumsy middle aged man with Size 15 feet and a total lack of poise, balance or finesse. It would have ended in disaster as, at best I would have trod on one or two but more likely I would have overbalanced and crushed many.

As it happened I disturbed a rabbit which was lying in the undergrowth. Whether it was the Size 15's or the sound of a fountain of water, it had the effect of terrifying us both. The rabbit shot off between my legs and sought sanctuary under a gorse bush.

Happy days. Camping in half-term at a 21st birthday party. The tent was a small price to pay. Having only had to suffer the discomfort of cold, cramp and backache half a dozen times in my life, I consider I have got off lightly. It was an extraordinary time. The cloudless skies and humid warmth made Scotland look quite unlike Scotland. The azure blue sea was Mediterranean. The beach was Malibu or Bondi. The smells were tropical and like a garden in Kuala Lumpur. Even the jelly fish washed up on the beach exuded colours of the rainbow, such as I have never seen. One even had the shape of a purple Celtic cross within its translucent body.

And the party was good. Young people relaxing and enjoying themselves. Some sunbathing, some talking, some swimming, some playing rounders or a game involving frisbees. Perfection. A temporary moment in time that all is well with the world. Not a grumpy bus driver in sight. Only a grumpy wife. there'll be no room in the tent next time. It will have to be the back seat of the bus.

Oh joy.

Are Seagulls The Avian Equivalent Of Bus Drivers?

2011-06-01T10:49:00.000-07:00

A long, long time ago, I was given a piece of pottery from the USA, from Delano Studios, Setauket, Long Island, New York. They produced ceramic items, right up my street, sense of humour-wise.

So after a year of having to suffer this blog, I am finally trying to add the odd picture here or there. Here is my first attempt. It could all go horribly wrong and you will be stuck with my rotten prose.

This Delano Studios dish made in 1962 is my avian doppelganger. The Grumpy Bus Driver and the Grumpy Seagull - so what's the difference?

Know the bird, know the man.

Moaning Oldies On The Ocean Wave

2011-06-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

'Oi, you,' a passenger once shouted.

'Me?' I meekly replied.

'Yes, you. The one who looks like a bulldog sucking on a bumblebee.'

I thought about this in the strangest of places. I was on a boat, crammed together with many other tourists on the way to the Farne Islands, near the Scottish border. It was half-term week and the weather was fine for the first time in three weeks, meaning every Tom, Dick and Harry was heading for the islands to see the varied bird life at nesting time.

It was the moaning old couple sitting close who brought back this unhappy memory. I overheard their less than polite conversation. In fact they were verbally knocking seven bells out of each other, in a similar way to how the passenger had spoken to me on the bus all those years ago. Hard comments still hurt.

'To think I've got to spend the whole trip sitting next to someone who looks like the back end of a bus,' said the man. In the ensuing silence I couldn't do anything other than stare at the woman, in morbid fascination to see if there was any resemblance of truth in what her partner was saying.

It was hard to tell as most of her face was hidden by a knitted woolly hat.

'It's better,' she replied slowly and deliberately,'than having to be with someone who looks like an eider duck's arse.' Amazingly an eider duck flew over the boat as she said this. her partner went quiet and he resembled a flamingo's nether regions as he blushed. The surrounding passengers looked out to sea and tittered silently.

The partner clenched his fists and began to stand. I thought he was about to throw her overboard. He was thwarted by the pleasure boat captain's announcement:

'I am slowing down so that you will be able to see the seals on the left of the boat,' he said. All the passengers began to rise out of their seats 'DON'T all stand up and go to the left hand side of the boat for chrissakes,' came the voice over the loudspeaker. 'We'll bloody well tip over.' Everyone sat down and the boat slowed its violent side-to-side rocking motions.

Landing on the island it was like a scene from a Hitchcock film. Tourists wearing a variety of headgear were being dive bombed by the angry Terns who were protecting their nests. In the middle of the carnage I saw the couple who had been so abusive to each other on the boat, running along the path, waving their arms in all directions as they received multiple pecks on their heads. I never saw them again.

They were replaced by another moaning couple on the return trip.

'Don't think it was very good value, those Farne Islands, not very good value at all,' said the man.

'No,' said the woman. 'I hope that we won't catch any diseases or something as I got pecked on the hand.'

Oh ... Lord help us ...

Multiplying Ducks Drive Many Quackers

2011-05-30T02:33:00.000-07:00

'If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, looks like a duck, it must be a duck,' goes the old proverb.

Talk about the problems of the world being based around the great population explosion and the fact that there are too many people inhabiting this earth. I don't think so. As I drove the school bus this morning, the thought struck me that the inhabitants in our neck of the woods are now outnumbered ten to one, by ducks.

Yes, yes, I know, the rabbits with their advanced breeding habits are in the proportion of 100 0r even 1000 to 1, but they are wild animals and nature has a way of dealing with them, aided by the local farmer and his gun.

The Northern hills have recently seen an influx of incomers whose only desire is to become hobby farmers and the majority seem to want to breed ducks. They want them as pets and unfortunately due to their fluffy bunny/feathery ducky duck beliefs, there is no way of controlling the population. It is getting out of control. The local farmer did try and he had a duck shoot, but he was nearly ostracised from the community and viewed as a mass murderer. You take your life in your hands if you even mention Beijing, plum sauce or anything to do with oranges.

I narrowly missed three ducks this morning. Two Mallard and a Muscovy. They seemed to have a suicide pact as they scuttled in front of the buses front wheels. I came to an abrupt halt and let them cross. It was not a charitable act because perched on the adjacent stone wall was a white fluffy pussycat, who had been stalking these birds for quite some time. The cat leapt but missed the first two ducks. He landed on the third duck's tail and managed to grab some tail feathers before landing in a heap on the tarmac road.

Ironically the cat landed beneath a sign which announced the whereabouts of a Buddhist community. The cat lay there before slowly getting up and walking away, maybe to consider how he could attain perfect enlightenment.

Tis The Season For - Grumpy Bus Driver Syndrome

2011-05-30T00:31:00.000-07:00

Grumpy Bus Driver Syndrome season has descended and is in full swing.

'No one gets past me,' said the driver with the fearsome record. He was renowned for being tough on passengers. So tough that they regularly wrote letters to the local newspaper complaining of his antics.

'He sneaked by me on the journey down,' he continued, looking disappointed. 'But not on the way back.' His face lit up. 'And I've heard that he had to walk for six miles and cadge three lifts too.' A large smile broke over his face, like the fast rising of the sun at dawn.

There was another driver wandering about the depot loudly muttering and being grumpier than usual. It was hard to hear everything he was saying due to the high winds which were rattling the steel frame of the building. In between gusts you could just make out:

'Fookin 'ell ... who the bloody 'ell ... left that there ... fookin brakes ...fookin bad parking ... fookin ... fookin ... fookin ... bloody 'ell ...'

But I could talk.

There was a gaggle of drivers talking about general topics of the day. They were looking over in my direction, talking about my own grumpiness.

'Have you heard? 'E's spat the dummy out.'

'Aye. He spat the dummy out.'

I suppose I had. It had been a bad day. There had been a breakdown in communications and my plans had gone awry. I had snapped and growled at another driver murmuring something about him ruining my day and it was all his fault.

'Don't blame me,' he replied in slight shock. He was half my size and I had cornered him between the falling down drivers lavatory and the diesel tank. To an outsider it may have looked like a school billy pinning his target up against the wall. 'It's not my fault,' he went on and then promptly left the building.

Bus drivers are gossips. Most cannot keep their mouths shut and before long rumours and Chinese whispers develop are multiplied by ten, then spread far and wide. I knew my name would be dirt within minutes.

It was.

'Why did you want to attack poor old Simpkins?' said the boss the next time I saw him. But contrary to the bus industry's poor habit of gossiping, the good side is that there is little emotion banded around and things seem to vanish as fast as they arose.

'He's over it,' said another driver.

I returned to a dark corner to continue bein grumpy ... alone.

Its A Magical Time - It's Appleby Fair

2011-05-29T12:14:00.000-07:00

I'm excited.

It's that time of year again.

The roads are full of gypsy caravans on their way to Appleby Fair. It is a fascinating time, the annual gathering of gypsies and travellers. You drive round a corner and on one side of the road there is a rag tag collection of vehicles and caravans. On the other there are tethered horses; piebald and skewbald cobs. There is a plume of smoke wafting skywards from the recently lit camp fire.

It is life in the slow lane. The old ways still holding their own against the new. But it is fraught with danger. Over the crest of the hill flies a 4WD car in a hurry. At the last minute the driver sees the slow moving caravans. He doesn't have time to jam on his brakes. He overtakes. Only to see there is a bus coming the other way.

It is me.

I hit the brakes and the car pulls back onto the right side of the road. Having seen the gypsy caravans earlier, I had cut my speed, expecting something like this to happen on one corner or another. It always does. Every year.

I can't wait for next week. It is one of Britain's finest sights. The horses being trotted at full pelt up and down the road at Fair Hill, the washing of the horses in the River Eden often ridden bareback by children and the field full of caravans, fortune tellers and stallholders selling everything but the kitchen sink is pure magic.

Long may it go on.

Soaking On The Way To The Swimming Baths

2011-05-26T23:16:00.000-07:00

The obligatory school baths run should be a cinch. It usually is. It was today, apart from the fact that I was wet through, miles before we were anywhere near a swimming pool. Of course, I was driving the Flying Pig and there happened to be some heavy storms around. When I parked her, I couldn't follow the boss's advise and park facing uphill so that the water cculd run down the back and escape out of the boot.

It had accumulated above my head and deposited bucket-loads onto me everytime we hit a bump. There was something ironic, I thought, about being the only truly wet person on the bus - possibly in both senses of the word.

It gave the children something to laugh at and diverted their attention from being sick. It had not been a hopeful start as the teacher had announced to the children that he always felt travel sick on any bus he went on. Great. In my mirror I could see the nods of approval from many of the children, who had now had the seed of probability sown into their heads. I drove doubly slowly, even though it meant being showered more.

When we got there, the other waiting bus drivers made predictable comments like, 'Been for a swim' and 'Is it a bit damp in there?' One even started singing the old Split Enz song 'Six Months In A Leaky Boat', substituting the word boat for bus. It was the normal standard of bus driver banter.

The evening required another run from another school. The children were fired up by some kind of stage act and came onto the bus in over exuberant mood. The Eastern European child was in potent form. Aa a car passed us, perilously close, he shouted,

'Go on. Hit him. You must crash into deez car.'

'And why should I do that?' I naively asked.

'Why not?' he replied. 'No problem. It is not your car. So you can crash into it.'

He could be an interesting adult, I thought.