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'.