journey home

It’s bank holiday Sunday night, I'm on my way home.

I have been to visit a very good friend of mine and have had a number of items left over from a car boot sale bestowed upon me. I have so many prizes - a large mirror tied up with carry handles and a cumbersome bag full of good quality miscellany, that it would have been sensible to get a taxi. I, however, have chosen to negotiate public transport, carrying my loot, practically wrenching my shoulders out of their sockets.

A Man speaks to me. I can see his lips moving but I am listening to my walkman so I can't hear him. I take my earphones out.

Me – ‘Sorry?’

Man – ‘do you know what number that bus is behind us?’

Me – ‘No, sorry’

I put my earphones back in.

The Man speaks but I can’t hear due to my walkman. I take my earphones out.

Me – ‘Sorry?’

Man – ‘Oh sorry love’

I put one earphone back into my ear just incase the man speaks again.

He does.

I take the remaining earphone out.

We have a conversation about the number 50 bus, the number 16 bus and how the bus we’re sitting on (the number 4) goes right through to Pudsey. We talk about how good the bus service is but that very occasionally the last bus doesn’t run and that he’s been left stranded before, in Burmantoffs, and it’s £17 in a taxi to get home from there.

Man – ‘have you got a pet in there?’(nodding towards my bag which I am clinging on to to prevent it’s contents spilling out)

Me – ‘No, it’s just some stuff left over from a car boot sale - but there’s a giraffe in here’

I produce a wooden giraffe. The man is amused and seems interested in the contents of my bag so I show him the books, the pyjamas, the towel rail, the lamps, the decorative tea light holder, the lemon squeezer, the crystal dishes, the mirror and then finally a free standing cd rack.

Man - ‘Where d’you get yer CDs from? – The market? – they’re cheap in the market, yer can get all sorts - that’s where me Son gets ‘is from’

And the Man tells me all about his Son and how he’s a musician and that he earns £300 a night at Christmas and that he lives for music and that 'he’s got so many CDs that he’s got nowhere to store ‘em all so he puts ‘em in an old broken down fridge'.

Me ‘Ohhhhh – what a good idea’

The Man’s attention turns to the person sitting behind me. This person is asleep. He’s had too much to drink and has dozed off.

I try to wake him up. He opens his eyes but can not comprehend his whereabouts. The journey continues for five more minutes. Then the sleepy drunk person realises that he’s going in the wrong direction and that he missed his stop twenty minutes ago. He stumbles to the front of the bus and the driver lets him off.

reality dodgers

Leeds has always cultured its own brand of reality dodger. You know the type – those people who are not quite ready to submit to the norm and all its trappings, the ones with personalities that fail miserably at conformity, the ones that just feel ‘different’ but don’t know why.

As I transformed from child to adolescent I witnessed the transition from Punk to Goth in the shopping centre in town. Leeds became the ‘Goth Capital’ and was over run with gaunt, ghostly looking youths that I would stare at, wide eyed, as I walked by.

On the way to the bus stop after our shopping trips my Mum, my younger Brother and I would pass a mysterious doorway emblazoned with ‘Le Phonographiqe’ and my eyes would widen even further. At that age I was familiar with the word ‘pornographic’ (how – I do not know) and had confused the two. The doorway yielded to steps that led underground and as we walked over the top of the club buried beneath us the bass of the music and the sound of muffled laughter would permeate the walkway.

The mysteries of ‘Le Phonographique’ would later make themselves known to me. Goth transcended into ‘Crust’* and I opted in to that particular trend. ‘The Phono’ in its formative state served my under-age drinking years (50p entry on a Saturday afternoon) well. But then ‘Crust’ gave way to ‘Grunge’ and I abandoned my cause, the hormones of my impending adulthood taking hold.

Now there’s another club in town that attracts a certain kind of people.

‘Emo’ is the alternative choice amongst the new youth. But in this club there’s a whole set of people who opt out of this category and have devised an alternative to the alternative. There’s no name for this set. They’re too cool for that. The only rules are that it has to be ‘Retro’. It doesn’t seem to matter which era so long as it smacks of the past and has a little bit of 50’s or 60’s blended in. There’s a sound track to accompany their weekends, a musical pastiche of bygone days, courtesy of the friendly DJ.

The coolest of them all is leather jacketed with straight legged jeans at just the right length for a little bit of white sock to be on show. He has dainty feet tied up in good quality brogues, hair slicked back, and a chain from belt to pocket. He’s one of the T Birds, a Rocker, a Mod and ‘The Fonz’ all at the same time. He leans against the wall next to the DJ’s mixing desk with a live fast, die young, rock ‘n’ roll, rebel without a cause pretension.

If I were still an ultimate-fantasy-escape-seeking youth I may well have spent a whole day searching out an appropriate vintage frock to wear in an attempt to catch his eye.

* ‘Crust’ = ‘Crusties’,‘The Levellers’, para boots and other military attire, dreadlocks, Glastonbury, ragged, dusty appearing clothes (actually clean and quite expensive) – remember?

Northern Creative

northern creative
urban drifter
finds beauty
in unlikely places
knowledgeable amateur
dreams big dreams

do you know what you really want?

‘if you can be honest with yourself about what you really want, and what you really like and dislike, you’re much better able to decide if the grass is greener elsewhere, or whether it just looks that way from a distance’

(thanks to JJ for the words of wisdom)

Love Thy Neighbour

I know that the people of the Gurdwara directly opposite where I live are very very nice. I know this because of the decorum of their en masse worship on a Sunday morning.

Normally on a Sunday morning I worship my own deities, namely my duvet, pillows and pyjamas. The worship takes place in my bed and involves a lot of sleeping. To sleep I need quiet and quiet I get.

In fact I’m often surprised when I emerge at 2pm and fling open the front room curtains to a sea of cars and people and a hive of activity over at the Temple. They’ve been there since mid morning and have managed to drive into and make neat and tidy parking formations (of almost breathtaking beauty – really) on the graveled car park in complete none-sleep-worship-shattering-silence. I’ve not heard a single car door slam, I’ve not heard a single beep from one of those automatic locks, there has not been a hint of the sound of an accidentally activated alarm or the crunch of any gravel. To top this off they’ve managed to usher their well behaved children into the temple and retain them there so that their activity does not disturb the other occupants of the road. They make great neighbours.

Which is why I was only too happy to return a jolly ‘Hello’ (or at least that’s what I think he said) to the elderly Sikh gentleman who I encountered the other morning walking along the other side of the road. I’d have guessed his age was somewhere around 80. He looked like he was wearing pyjamas and had a long grey beard and a twinkle in his eye. I was feeling a little glum on this particular morning but he wasn’t having any of that...

Sikh Man : ਸਤਿ ਸ੍ਰੀ ਅਕਾਲ

Me : (Mary Poppins type sing song voice) Morning !

Sikh Man : ਹਾਂ ਜੀ

Me : Yes, very well thank you. Are you?

Sikh Man : ਨਹੀਂ ਜੀ

At this point the man began to smile at me and he raised a hand. I began to wave back then realised there was a house behind me and that he may have been directing his attention to it's inhabitants visible in the window so I turned right round myself to check. There was no one at the window. The man started to laugh, his eyes sparkling. His laughter was contagious and I started giggling too.

Me : Byeeeee (waving enthusiastically)

Sikh Man : ਸਤਿ ਸ੍ਰੀ ਅਕਾਲ

We both stood there laughing at each other for a few seconds. Then we parted ways.

Free ride (part 2)

It’s 10.30am on a Sunday morning and once again I am awaiting the arrival of the number 42.

The vandals have dismantled the entire bus shelter by the bus stop at the bottom of Copley Hill. They must have done this during the day in full view of the passing traffic as they have ASBO curfews that restrict their night time activity.

‘The Crown’ has come back to life. The darts and dominoes plaque has been reinstated and there’s another one now that boasts ‘Under New Management’ & ‘Tetley’s £1.60 a pint’ scrawled on in permanent marker. From what I can see, it looks like ‘The Crown’ has been given a lick of new paint but the ‘cheap deals all day long’ will be what really attracts the punters.

I am joined at the bus stop by one of the residents of ‘Wortley Heights’ and his companion. The former, bearded, dusty and odorous, in a pair of dirty nylon trousers that hang off him. The latter ambles down the path towards me wearing an old addidas tracksuit and a pair of crutches as accessories. He has no trouble walking whatsoever. At no point do the crutches make contact with the ground or bear his weight.

As they take up their positions in the queue I spot a familiar character scuttling off somewhere all huddled up in a black bomber jacket and a peaked cap. It is my Muse. For a moment I am pleased to see her, apparently safe and well, before she disappears under the bridge and out of my sight.

The two men in the bus queue spot her as well.

Crutches man : oy, look at that whore

Dirty nylon trousers man : oh yeah, that’s ‘50p a go’

Crutches man : eh?

Dirty nylon trousers man : yeah, she can’t work at night when the other girls are out, they beat ‘er up ‘cos she's really bad for business ‘cos of ‘er cheap prices

Crutches man : ‘50p a go’?

Dirty nylon trousers man : that’s what they call ‘er

The bus pulls up and the man with the crutches skulks off to the back of the queue. The beardy nylon trousered man flashes his travel pass at the driver then makes his way to the top deck of the bus. The man with the crutches hovers at the end of the queue until his friend drops his travel pass out of one of the top deck windows. He then retrieves the pass from the pavement, flashes it at the naïve bus driver and drags himself and his crutches up the stairs to join his pal.

Bingo Wings?

I am 29. I'm 5 ft 4 inches tall, of medium build and have a big bust (though not excessively large). I have auburn shoulder length hair which is naturally curly.

I don’t wear much make up but cleanse, tone and moisturize religiously to stay as wrinkle free as possible. Ever since I had a gold crown inserted I’m extra conscientious about my dental hygiene. My pearly (only slightly off) whites are exactly that.

My dress sense is ‘eclectic’. I’m not into fashion but I’m not terribly out of fashion either. I kind of fade into the background when it comes to clothing. I’m subtle. You could even say ‘Classic’ on a good day. I like to think of myself as being slightly bohemian, one of those ‘arty’ types.

I'm not a teenager any more but when I walk past younger twentysomethings and do not have one of the flyers for the local nightclub that they’re being paid to hand out thrust at me (I’m clearly too old for that kind of thing) I no longer lament. I have come to terms with the fact I'm no longer a student. Really, I have.

I have a steady job that pays my bills and share a duplex ‘apartment’ (well that’s what the flat agency called it). I’m no high flyer but I nestle comfortably within the realms of ‘Young Professional’

Which is why I was especially surprised last night when, as I rummaged in my purse for change for the bus, I was told, by a young man concerned for my safety, to put my ‘bingo winnings’ away.

According to him I resembled one of the over 60s who were spewing out of MECCA bingo following that evening’s session.

Free ride (part 1)

7 or 8 months ago

I was waiting for the number 42 at the bottom of Copley Hill at the bus stop next to ‘The Crown’. In more prosperous times the inhabitants of the near by Clyde Tower Blocks would have whetted their thirsts in 'The Crown' but on this Saturday morning the hallways of Clyde Court and Clyde Grange stank of urine, the windows of ‘The Crown’ were boarded up and the ‘Darts and Dominoes’ plaque hung from the wall by one screw.

I was not alone.

Her hair had been dyed so frequently that any length had snapped off, leaving her with an uneven, boyish ‘do’ that was bald in patches and had been touched up with pink. The rest of her was brittle too. She was scrawny and had bad posture. When she turned to face me I was surprised by the dryness of her skin, her cracked lips, decayed teeth and the age of her. Bobbing up and down on the spot, anxious for the bus and more, she did not have the composure you would expect from someone of her years. Her tiny frame and choice of clothing were also misleading. Here Mutton made a poor attempt at dressing as Lamb in a cheap crop t - shirt and leggings.

A few others joined us in the bus queue. The number 16 surfaced on the horizon. The bobbing up and down became more frantic. The bus pulled up, doors opened, people started to get on.

Head bowed my Muse flashed a ticket at the Driver as she boarded.

‘Get back ‘ere with that love’

The Driver knew what a new travel ticket looked like and hers was dog eared and yellowing.

‘Yer ticket’s out of date, pay, or get off’

My Muse got off the bus and made her way past the queue.

‘Can anyone lend us a pound?’

The queue shrugged their shoulders, or pulled their hands out of their pockets indicating skintness, or just ignored her.

I stood by and watched as she graciously accepted their rejection.

The queue filed onto the bus. The last person was standing in front of the Driver’s compartment scrabbling in her purse for change. The doors were still open.

My Muse, whincing slightly, glanced up and down the road hoping to find someone new to ‘tap a pound off’ before the bus departed.

I pulled out my purse, found a pound coin and handed it to her, quick as a flash.

‘Thank you.’

Before she scuttled off we made eye contact.

For a split second I saw right into the depths of a kind, gentle soul.

Love is...

I had arrived far too early. I was in seat 2, row F, right at the end next to the walkway and steps. I had to gather up my belongings, stand, allowing my seat to flip up behind me and squash myself back into the space that had become available numerous times as the other members of the row arrived and shuffled awkwardly past me.

I empathised as I saw an old man trying to maneuver his way across the platform a few rows in front of me. He and his already seated wife would have been more at home in a traditional Theatre which incorporated leg room between the seats rather than the unstable, creaking, pack ‘em in, stack ‘em high, multifunctional, wheel it in, wheel it out auditorium arrangement for this performance.

He was bent over. His back was all stiffened up and had to shift his whole body round just to look behind himself. The people sitting on the row he was about to negotiate were not so accommodating as I had been for my co-row-sharers and had simply turned their knees sideways rather than getting up and out of the old gent’s way. I held my breath as he began slowly edging himself along. Lurching forward, staggering slightly, almost loosing his footing he glanced up, panicking, reaching for his wife who immediately became upright and threw out an arm to stabilise him, calmly guiding him to safety.

As the lights came down the old man, his wife, me and the rest of the audience settled into our seats for act 1 of the evening’s performance.

During the interval I rushed to the bar for a sip of water and to scribble a few notes into my notebook. In retrospect I wish I had observed the couple more closely.

I made my way back for act 2 and went through the same rigmarole of clutching at my hand bag and making myself as small as possible as those who were assigned seating close to mine jostled past me.

The auditorium platform creaked and swayed as the rest of the audience filed in. My old couple were making their way slowly, carefully and in good time, down the steps holding on to the hand rail for support. Looking ahead of me I noticed that their row was empty. For a moment I was relieved as I would not have to watch the old gent struggle for a second time but then I saw him draw himself up, a look of recollection crossing his face, panicking again he turned to his wife.

‘Where’s my coat?’

His wife became animated. For a moment she considered that perhaps they had not taken the missing coat to the bar with them and it had in fact been left behind prior to the interval but the backs of their previously occupied seats were not obscured by the absent jacket.

Her expression was one of exasperation. Not angry though. A gentle, resigned exasperation. The speedy resolution of the matter would reside with her, the slightly more agile out of the pair. This was agreed between them with nothing but a glance and no words spoken.

His Wife’s attention turned towards the door at the top of the steps, she paused a while, quickly planning her route through the fast approaching audience before hoiking up her maxi skirt and putting her best Clarke’s comfort clad foot forward to head back out the way she had come in to locate the missing garment. The force employed to project herself quickly up the stairs jolted the semi-permanent auditorium with every step.

I was so busy watching her leave that I didn’t see her Husband’s decent into his seat. Turning himself around in his chair to keep an eye on the door through which she had exited and would re enter.

There was something so vulnerable about this Gent. His head sitting on those stiff old shoulders, the slowness of him, the stillness of that anticipation, he did not move his attention away from the place where he would witness the re-appearance of his wife. Forlorn anxiety emanated from him, this man had become immediately lonely the instant his beloved partner had left the space. Without her, he was lost.

His concern that she might not make it back in time to take her seat before the lights went down was immense. And he would not be reassured until she was seated safely back beside him. I was on the edge of my seat, caught up in this private little drama. My heart was in my mouth and I too would have been inconsolable had she not returned in time for the beginning of act two.

Thankfully his wife came back, coat in hand, just before the lights began to dim. Determined that his wife’s transition back to her seat would be as problem free as possible the old man had picked up her jacket to prevent her becoming entangled in it on her return and clutched it to his chest, his knuckles whitening.

He did not take his dewy eyes off her until she was firmly installed next to him.