A Quick Reminder

Something of a flashback with the 17:15 train home from Manchester tonight. We limped into Oxford Road where suspicions were raised after we did not move for 10 minutes. Then the classic signs of trouble: driver emerging from his sanctum and walking up and down the train for no apparent reason and then the Grim Reaper himself - a fluorescent jacketed engineer clutching a torch and a screw driver. Hmmm.

But good news, the 17:33 has just pulled into the next platform and a mass exodous begins, although there has been no formal announcement from anyone. Just as the outpouring onto the platform begins, everyone starts to return to their still-warm seats. Everything is fixed, the rumour goes, and just after the 17:33 departs, we follow. Well, we get to Salford Crescent where the towel is thrown in and the train formally delared defunct.

Problems now for the Blackrod commuter. Although the 17:33 would have been fine, the 17:50 no longer stops at Blackrod, and we are faced with a long wait for the 18:10. I opt to board the 17:50 and arrange to be collected from Lostock where the train stops.

The good news about this is that it has been ages since we faced a number of problems and gaffes. And I decided to look up the records I took of November 2002 when things were at an all time low. If I were French, my response to a dire train service might have been to chain myself to the ticket office or to blockade one the entrances to Piccadilly somehow. But I am English, and my approach was to keep a spreadsheet in the knowledge that I could - but never would - use it as some sort of leverage or something.

Anyway, the spreadsheet shows that leaving from Blackrod in the morning that month, 0% of trains left on time and 88% within 10 minutes. Arriving at Piccadilly, 0% were on time and only 59% within 10 minutes. Coming home was even worse. One third of trains left on time and only 35% arrived at Blackrod within 10 minutes of schedule and 0% on time. This month included the famous events of November 4 when we pulled into Blackrod two hours late. Not bad for a 35 minute journey.

Things seem to have improved since then. Usually, the trains are vaguely on time, both in and out. Perhaps the new company, Northern Trains (motto: same staff, same trains, new ties) has something to do with this. Anyway, touching wood, hopefully the events of this evening will remain rare.

Brown Alert in Blackrod

Most people are familiar with the system employed by the United States Department of Homeland Security to convey the likelihood of a terrorist attack in that country. I am not too familiar with the precise designations of colours and threats, but it goes something like this. Green Alert means continue to go about your life in a normal and wholly unthreatened manner, with all foodstuffs available. Yellow Alert suggests that the occasional look over the shoulder is warranted and the removal of certain comfort foods such as Horlicks may be required by Federal representatives. Orange Alert causes all ketchups and other food accoutrements to be removed from supermarket shelves by the FBI and the internment of anyone with a 'funny name' or those driving non-SUVs. Red Alert means impending Armageddon and a forced national diet of celery. And run for the hills. Apparently a Puce Alert was considered as an intermediary step, but extensive research confirmed that no-one actually knows what colour puce is. Except women.

Presumably if things went Red in the United States, the people of Blackrod would be immediately informed using the Internet, automated telephone services and a notice in the window of Spar (£2 for a fortnight). However, a mild winter's day can be of even more concern to the Blackrod commuter and a possible Brown Alert. Let me explain.

For those of us who opt to walk to the station, the preferred route is usually down the hill, across the A6 and through the land which was reserved for an 'equestrian centre' at the same time as various contractors required space to dump huge quantities of unwanted soil and other waste at the time of the building of the Middlebrook development. And they would pay - allegedly. Let's just say that dozens of Blackrod horses remain untrained, galloping in an inconsiderate manner and still unsure as to which one is the fish knife. It turns out that this route is not solely used by the weary commuter, wending his or her way to the station in order to make an honest crust. No, the same path is used by people euphemistically 'exercising' their dogs.

Sadly, the people of my new home town, Blackrod, have not embraced the notion of 'scooping the poop' as enthusiastically as the residents of my other home town, Whitley Bay. In fact, although pottering on the beach on the north east coast with a plastic bag in the pocket was formerly a cause of embarrassment, it is now positively a situation for pride. As a regular visitor to the Whitley Bay beach and promenade over the years it seems that this transformation happened in the middle of the 1990s. It is not clear what brought this about, but nowadays it is not uncommon to see a confident oldish lady striding along the prom with a dog lead in one hand and a swinging plastic bag in the other. Of course, the size of the arc of the swing is usually proportional to the size of the dog – surely the purest form of simple harmonic 'motion'.

So whilst the good burghers of Whitley Bay can go about their daily activities on the sea front without fear or dread, the same does not apply to the 6pm hill climbers in Blackrod. Things are generally acceptable in the morning, even in the winter. At 8am the light is sufficient to pick out the unwelcome mounds, although obviously a little steam from a fresh one is a helpful beacon. But on a winter's evening, things are a different matter and even the powerful searchlight-like council lamp-posts with their 20 watt majesty fail to assist. On nights like these, the commuter is left to play a strange game of Russian roulette, desperately calculating the chances of getting to the other side of the faecal minefield. Of course, it is mild winter weather which is the enemy of those wishing to make it to the front door with clean shoes. The summer months bring evening sunshine and easy navigation. The cold winter nights bring a reassuring solidification of all matters underfoot with the old size 10s meeting with a hearty crunch rather than a gut-wrenching squelch. But the dark yet mild evenings call for commuters to walk up the hill in pairs of threes, with the unfortunate at the front as a lookout, peering through the dark and steering a clear course for the others. Soon Spring will be with us and the good evening light will allow us to take our annual break from Blackrod's own version of 'tip-toe through the tulips'.

The Bridge to Nowhere

First post has to go in honour of our marvellous Bridge to Nowhere, currently featuring at the north end of the station. In the week the European Space Agency lands a probe on Titan, we can gaze at our new bridge and ponder the size of the Meccano box which they must have used to put up our wee creation. Scaffolding poles as bannisters? Ingenious. There has been a rumour circulating around the Manchester platform that the opening of the new bridge has been delayed because the required member of the Royal Family is currently 'busy on other engagements'.


Back to the old bridge which is now shrouded in a mysterious blue net device. It is not clear if this is to catch bits which fall off the bridge, or as some sort of support during that well-known Blackrod sport – bridge skating. Very popular at the station when the temperatures fall after a rainy spell. Martin received a maximum 6.0 for his recent performance across the icy felt, which was something of a cross between Torvill and Dean's Bolero and Michael Jackson's moonwalk. Quite beautiful.