When you think of Edinburgh most people think of the Festival, the Fringe, fantastic architecture, the Castle, Holyrood, Princes Street, Jenners and many others. The downside has always been expensive parking providing you are lucky enough to find a space, over zealous parking wardens, appalling roadworks and many traffic jams.
Well I have to say this had improved hugely on my recent visit. Everything flowed beautifully and though the traffic wardens were still plying their trade at 11 at night, they seemed to be scowling less. Perhaps the bonuses have been that good that they can afford a smile.
The proposed tram which has been a major bone of contention amongst Edinburgers looked to be progressing at a faster rate than usual. There was even a demonstration tram parked in Princes Street for people to board and look around. It looked smart and clean. Whether it will be worth the money and go to the right places, well who knows?
Lothian Buses, however really have got their act together. They went through a period of general dumming down where the smart maroon and white livery was replaced with some fluorescent colour and a logo which looked as if someone had thrown up all over the bus on a Friday night following a beer and pizza supper. But now they are very much on the up. The new double deckers have jazzy tartan seats which could well have been designed by Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen and there are enough cameras (I counted eight on the top deck alone)to make even the most nervous feel safe.
I picked my nose and regretted it as I saw myself in this unpleasant pose on the large tv screen down the front of the bus. Knowing bus companies, the images will be downloaded to a mainframe computer in their offices and lord knows where they may go from there on. I sat incredibly still thereafter for fear of my bogies ending up on You Tube.
Thankfully some things never change in Edinburgh. You are always accosted by someone demanding money. This time it was a person demanding money who had a sense of humour:
"Will you give me 80p?"
"What for? What will you spend it on?"
"Beer. I believe honesty is the best policy."
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Near Cat-astrophy
Being the master of experiencing bizarre coincidences,I had yet another.
It was on the morning after a lady in her fifties had been caught stroking a cat, picking it up and dumping it in a wheelie bin. So perhaps it was not surprising that the first time I have been a passenger on the local service bus that something unusual happened.
"Shit," shouted the driver as he slammed on the brakes. "I've just hit a cat."
The cat had leapt across the road onto a ledge. It seemed shaken but not worried. The driver must have just nudged it.
Another eight lives to go.
It was on the morning after a lady in her fifties had been caught stroking a cat, picking it up and dumping it in a wheelie bin. So perhaps it was not surprising that the first time I have been a passenger on the local service bus that something unusual happened.
"Shit," shouted the driver as he slammed on the brakes. "I've just hit a cat."
The cat had leapt across the road onto a ledge. It seemed shaken but not worried. The driver must have just nudged it.
Another eight lives to go.
Red Hot In A Cold Summer
I once walked down the street with a friend who is a psychiatrist at a major city hospital. Every corner we turned, he would suddenly bow his head, stare longer at the pavement than is usual and say in a hushed voice: "Know him - he's one of my customers". There were so many "know hims" and "know hers" that it appeared as if a large percentage of the city were under psychiatric supervision.
The impressive quality was that he managed to dodge any form of conversation.
It's different up North. You just cannot avoid people. They block the thoroughfare and won't let you past. A GP friend once told me that it was so bad that their family shopped out of the area. It avoided the dreaded and familiar phrase: "Doctor, could I just have a quick word in your ear and.............?"
No such escape for a bus driver. I was cornered by a strident local who had recently been on a club outing.
"I want a word with you. The old bus was awful"
"What bus?" I asked, feeling as if the joyous memories of France and Switzerland were being forced firmly into the background.
"The heating pipes under the seats were red hot. They wouldn't turn off. All the old folk nearly passed out. We had to move them all to the back."
I resisted the temptation of being controversial by saying how lucky they must have been to have some heat in a ridiculously cold August.
Instead I went safe and changed the topic to talking about the weather.
The impressive quality was that he managed to dodge any form of conversation.
It's different up North. You just cannot avoid people. They block the thoroughfare and won't let you past. A GP friend once told me that it was so bad that their family shopped out of the area. It avoided the dreaded and familiar phrase: "Doctor, could I just have a quick word in your ear and.............?"
No such escape for a bus driver. I was cornered by a strident local who had recently been on a club outing.
"I want a word with you. The old bus was awful"
"What bus?" I asked, feeling as if the joyous memories of France and Switzerland were being forced firmly into the background.
"The heating pipes under the seats were red hot. They wouldn't turn off. All the old folk nearly passed out. We had to move them all to the back."
I resisted the temptation of being controversial by saying how lucky they must have been to have some heat in a ridiculously cold August.
Instead I went safe and changed the topic to talking about the weather.
Monday, 23 August 2010
Les Vacances De Monsieur Bus Driver - 12. The Danglies Are Out At Wetherby
The clouds descended 10 miles from Calais and the 28 degrees quickly became 18.
"Is it like this in England?" I asked the ferry representative as we drove through the check in.
"Ooh I don't know. Maybe it is, but I hope not because I've left all me washing out on the line."
Boarding the boat, being greeted by the smell of stewed British coffee, deep fat frying and the smell of fruit chewing gum meant we were nearly home. The atmosphere had changed and it was as if we were back at the zoo. Surely it would get better the further North we went.
It didn't.
Wetherby services just happened to be the perfect halfway point for Sunderland supporters returning from West Bromwich Albion. The place was heaving with busloads of red and white shirts. The air stank of beer and burgers. The rubbish bins were overflowing. There was plenty of analysis of their team's 1-0 defeat, but they were generally well behaved.
This could not be said of the minibus full of men on a stag night who pulled into the car park as we were leaving. They rushed down the steeps. A couple of the walked crookedly over to the saplings and peed. The others just peed on the tarmac wherever they stood, regardless of who could see them.
My children screamed with laughter. " Loooook! I can see his danglies," said the youngest.
Welcome home, I thought. Welcome back to buses. Welcome back to the great British public.
Maybe.
"Is it like this in England?" I asked the ferry representative as we drove through the check in.
"Ooh I don't know. Maybe it is, but I hope not because I've left all me washing out on the line."
Boarding the boat, being greeted by the smell of stewed British coffee, deep fat frying and the smell of fruit chewing gum meant we were nearly home. The atmosphere had changed and it was as if we were back at the zoo. Surely it would get better the further North we went.
It didn't.
Wetherby services just happened to be the perfect halfway point for Sunderland supporters returning from West Bromwich Albion. The place was heaving with busloads of red and white shirts. The air stank of beer and burgers. The rubbish bins were overflowing. There was plenty of analysis of their team's 1-0 defeat, but they were generally well behaved.
This could not be said of the minibus full of men on a stag night who pulled into the car park as we were leaving. They rushed down the steeps. A couple of the walked crookedly over to the saplings and peed. The others just peed on the tarmac wherever they stood, regardless of who could see them.
My children screamed with laughter. " Loooook! I can see his danglies," said the youngest.
Welcome home, I thought. Welcome back to buses. Welcome back to the great British public.
Maybe.
Les Vacances De Monsieur Bus Driver - 11. Some Good Advice In Arras On The Homeward Leg
Like leaving France, leaving Switzerland was a wrench.
Being a sentimental old fool, the thought of replacing all the food, weather and ambience for a trip around the M25 began to make me depressed. But it wasn't that bad. We had a stay of execution, visiting someone in Alsace and stopping for one more night in a hotel in Arras.
Near Basel there is a shopping mall called Shoppyland. Perhaps England should adopt this name. Shopping is the No.1 pastime so what better name could there be? The Swiss had adopted an old English phrase on their road sign asking people to merge when joining the autoroutes, with the words: FAIR PLAY.
As a result of far too nice a time in Alsace, we didn't arrive at the hotel in Arras until after midnight. There was an English tour bus parked outside. The driver was standing on the steps, smoking a cigarette. I couldn't resist asking him how the world of buses fared.
We talked for twenty minutes. Inevitably the conversation came round to rude and obnoxious English children on school trips on the continent.
"We're too soft, us English drivers," he said. "I once had a German relief driver for one day during a trip in Germany. There were some nasty children on the trip and the teachers did nothing. So I warned the German driver.
'I will show you how to resolve this problem', he told me. So we gets going and we get to the outside of the town where he stopped in a lay-by outside a Lidl. He walked to the back of the bus and pointed at the worst behaved child and said to him:
'You will leave zis bus now.'
When the teacher complained he simply turned to her and said:
'And you will leave zis bus too.' He ushered them down the stairs, out through the middle door, shut it and drove off leaving the teacher and pupil standing by the sideof the road. It cost them 18 Euros for a taxi back to the hotel.
He was right. For the rest of the trip, we had no problems."
"I now have become tougher," he continued. I do a lot of school work and when I take them home after school in the Midlands, I know that I have the upper hand. They want to get home quickly so that they can buy sweets and cigarettes. So if they misbehave, I just drive round the same roundabout six times and they soon get the message.
I never have any problems."
Sounds like great advice. I'm going to try it. But wait a minute there aren't any roundabouts in the North Pennines.
Being a sentimental old fool, the thought of replacing all the food, weather and ambience for a trip around the M25 began to make me depressed. But it wasn't that bad. We had a stay of execution, visiting someone in Alsace and stopping for one more night in a hotel in Arras.
Near Basel there is a shopping mall called Shoppyland. Perhaps England should adopt this name. Shopping is the No.1 pastime so what better name could there be? The Swiss had adopted an old English phrase on their road sign asking people to merge when joining the autoroutes, with the words: FAIR PLAY.
As a result of far too nice a time in Alsace, we didn't arrive at the hotel in Arras until after midnight. There was an English tour bus parked outside. The driver was standing on the steps, smoking a cigarette. I couldn't resist asking him how the world of buses fared.
We talked for twenty minutes. Inevitably the conversation came round to rude and obnoxious English children on school trips on the continent.
"We're too soft, us English drivers," he said. "I once had a German relief driver for one day during a trip in Germany. There were some nasty children on the trip and the teachers did nothing. So I warned the German driver.
'I will show you how to resolve this problem', he told me. So we gets going and we get to the outside of the town where he stopped in a lay-by outside a Lidl. He walked to the back of the bus and pointed at the worst behaved child and said to him:
'You will leave zis bus now.'
When the teacher complained he simply turned to her and said:
'And you will leave zis bus too.' He ushered them down the stairs, out through the middle door, shut it and drove off leaving the teacher and pupil standing by the sideof the road. It cost them 18 Euros for a taxi back to the hotel.
He was right. For the rest of the trip, we had no problems."
"I now have become tougher," he continued. I do a lot of school work and when I take them home after school in the Midlands, I know that I have the upper hand. They want to get home quickly so that they can buy sweets and cigarettes. So if they misbehave, I just drive round the same roundabout six times and they soon get the message.
I never have any problems."
Sounds like great advice. I'm going to try it. But wait a minute there aren't any roundabouts in the North Pennines.
Les Vacances De Monsieur Bus Driver - 10. A Swim Makes You Horse
I find it amusing when the credit card reader at Swiss petrol stations instantly recognises which country you are from and issues instructions in what it perceives as the correct language. The person who wrote the software must have been German, I thought as the words; MOMENT PLEASE flashed across the screen.
This was day two of driving in Switzerland. How refreshing it was not to see so many drivers sticking their middle finger up or being annoyed when they saw that an English numberplate. It was relaxed.
Around the corner were two cars embedded into themselves and a lamposts, so I had to revise my opinions.
It was a beautiful day. Though Mont Blanc was still white, the snow had gone from the lower peaks. Lac Geneve glistened and gave off an inviting and warm turquoise colour. Lausanne looked at its best. The seafront parking was deserted as the tree surgeons were attending to some branches close to the Musee d'Olympique, where we were heading.
In my poorest French I asked one of the treemen if we could park.
"You have a disc?", he asked.
"No".
"Well, don't worry. You have an English numberplate. What can they do about it? They will do nothing. But we will watch."
The trip to the museum was therefore devoid of any nervous clockwatching.
Lunch at Vevey nearly ended in tears. The Hostellerie de Geneve is an excellent place to eat with a simple menu. The day's special was Steak a Cheval. Um, delicious, I thought, that's just what I'll order. I never got as far as even uttering the words to the waiter as there was an outburst at the other end of the table from my children:
"You can't, Daddy," they yelled. "If you order horse we will never speak to you again."
Oh well then. Shame. It was going to be the Steak Tartare.
After lunch I caused a stir in Vevey, outside the Musee de l'Alimentation, which is situated on the lakeside, where there is a huge metal fork sculpture embedded into the lake a few yards from the shore, which doubles as an advert for the museum and a piece of public art.
It was hot. So I stripped to my underpants and swam around this huge fork. The passing beautiful people of Vevey and the Nestle workers came walking past looking disbelieving. The water was clear and warm. It was a fine place to swim. When I turned around to swim back to shore, there were many people standing and watching me. A group of Japanese tourists were taking photos. An old man driving a yellow Ferrari stared as he drove past. They were fortunate that I had first thing decided to wear my tartan underpants.
"OOOOhhhhhh Daaadddddyyyyyy!" said one of my children who had just come out of the museum and had spotted me. "Not again."
This was day two of driving in Switzerland. How refreshing it was not to see so many drivers sticking their middle finger up or being annoyed when they saw that an English numberplate. It was relaxed.
Around the corner were two cars embedded into themselves and a lamposts, so I had to revise my opinions.
It was a beautiful day. Though Mont Blanc was still white, the snow had gone from the lower peaks. Lac Geneve glistened and gave off an inviting and warm turquoise colour. Lausanne looked at its best. The seafront parking was deserted as the tree surgeons were attending to some branches close to the Musee d'Olympique, where we were heading.
In my poorest French I asked one of the treemen if we could park.
"You have a disc?", he asked.
"No".
"Well, don't worry. You have an English numberplate. What can they do about it? They will do nothing. But we will watch."
The trip to the museum was therefore devoid of any nervous clockwatching.
Lunch at Vevey nearly ended in tears. The Hostellerie de Geneve is an excellent place to eat with a simple menu. The day's special was Steak a Cheval. Um, delicious, I thought, that's just what I'll order. I never got as far as even uttering the words to the waiter as there was an outburst at the other end of the table from my children:
"You can't, Daddy," they yelled. "If you order horse we will never speak to you again."
Oh well then. Shame. It was going to be the Steak Tartare.
After lunch I caused a stir in Vevey, outside the Musee de l'Alimentation, which is situated on the lakeside, where there is a huge metal fork sculpture embedded into the lake a few yards from the shore, which doubles as an advert for the museum and a piece of public art.
It was hot. So I stripped to my underpants and swam around this huge fork. The passing beautiful people of Vevey and the Nestle workers came walking past looking disbelieving. The water was clear and warm. It was a fine place to swim. When I turned around to swim back to shore, there were many people standing and watching me. A group of Japanese tourists were taking photos. An old man driving a yellow Ferrari stared as he drove past. They were fortunate that I had first thing decided to wear my tartan underpants.
"OOOOhhhhhh Daaadddddyyyyyy!" said one of my children who had just come out of the museum and had spotted me. "Not again."
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Les Vacances De Monsieur Bus Driver - 9. Is Switzerland Part Of Sweden Or Latvia
I am an internationalist.
I love the fact that the world is often never what it seems. So I am in seventh heaven when I find in our wonderful residence that there is a Swedish hostess, a Latvian au pair and British guests.
The food has been delicious in the extreme. We have had Swedish mushrooms, Latvian soup and omlette and Swiss meats and salads. How good is that?
We have talked, talked, talked. About Sweden, about Latvia, about Switzerland, about the World. As Lewis Carrol put it in 'the Walrus and the Carpenter':
"To talk of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.
And why the sea is boiling hot. And whether pigs have wings."
This is life.
I love the fact that the world is often never what it seems. So I am in seventh heaven when I find in our wonderful residence that there is a Swedish hostess, a Latvian au pair and British guests.
The food has been delicious in the extreme. We have had Swedish mushrooms, Latvian soup and omlette and Swiss meats and salads. How good is that?
We have talked, talked, talked. About Sweden, about Latvia, about Switzerland, about the World. As Lewis Carrol put it in 'the Walrus and the Carpenter':
"To talk of many things: of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.
And why the sea is boiling hot. And whether pigs have wings."
This is life.
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