Redemption Song

Amongst the many good things that Santa brought this Christmas was the biography of Joe Strummer "Redemption Song" by Chris Salewicz.

Its an excellent read, and though Salewicz clearly admired and respected Strummer, he has steered away from an over sentimentalised tribute and produced an objective study that reveals much about one of the driving forces behind the music revolution of the late seventies. I have to admit to being a little bit biased as along with the Sex Pistols, Sham 69, and various other bands that seem to have slipped my memory, the Clash were rarely off my turntable in those heady days. (Until the Police came along!) To hear "White Riot", or "London's burning" takes me back to that awkward but anything is possible time of my youth. I have been re listening to their first two albums and the good news is that the younger BW's like them. The bad news is that I expect cd's to disappear shortly along with all the other good "old peoples" music that they like. Time to dust off the turntable maybe?

The only worrying thing is that as I read the book I realised that though I lived through the punk revolution in the late seventies, I was doing A'levels and went to Uni, I can barely remember any of it. Maybe its like the sixties. If you can remember it you were not there.

A Brief Respite from Work

Managed to grab a few minutes between clients so I nipped upto the Goyt. (Where else!) It was very cold but the winters sun made up for it. The edge of the pond was rimmed with ice. There was no wind, and no sound. Perfect.

Sunday Morning Stroll

I took the youngest Birdwatcher with me to the Goyt this morning. The incentive for him to drag himself out of his warm bed early on a Sunday morning was the promise of snow. It has magic effect on him. One second a sleepy head buried under the covers, the next, alert, eyes shining, pulling on clothes. "Give me half an hour" he said. "Twenty" I countered. He agreed. Well I had to agree to put his readi brek in the micro wave!

It had been snowing overnight and we could see the snow lying on the hills to the north and west. As we arrived at the Car Park it started to snow again.

It was steady rather than heavy, but with a strong breeze whipping it into my face it stung uncomfortably. After five minutes plodding along the track, I realised that my walking trousers were not water proof. The Snow continued for most of the walk, but struggled to settle. The ground is saturated at the moment. The ground oozes water from every pore. There was nothing and no one else about. Anything with any sense was inside or under cover. Anyway Alex has found another thing that Dad's are useful for (its not a very long list) Sheltering behind when its snowing.

As we got back to the pond, I noticed a pile of flowers by the waters edge. A woman's body had been found there earlier in the week. There were no suspicious circumstances according to the newspaper report.

Welcome Home........Top House Keeping Tips

At last Mrs Birdwatcher has returned. I went to pick her up from Macclesfield station. Whilst I was gone the Young People had agreed to do a bit of last minute hoovering, just to tidy things up a bit. No complaining!

When we arrived home they had been true to their word. They had hoovered the hall. As a finishing touch they had sprayed furniture polish "about a bit". The hall floor is laminate. Furniture polish and laminate flooring don't go well together. I know because I slid across the floor in an undignified sort of way. As I did so I noticed through the open kitchen door the big "Welcome home Mum" card. What could I say?

Do not read this before you eat........

I am having a bad week. Mrs Birdwatcher has gone off on a course (Creative writing) so I am in charge! The young birdwatchers think that this is great, because as my daughter keeps on telling me "Dad you can't keep control". The cats think this is great, because I forget to keep them secured in the utility room at night, so they get to sleep in the sitting room.

On Monday morning, I was struggling to get the young people up for school. Mrs B never has this problem, they just do what she says, admittedly there is a lot of muttering, but they do it. I popped down stairs to the front room and noticed a strange smell. The sort of smell that cats make when they have been locked in a room overnight! They were lying guiltily by the radiator. I could not see anything. It was early and my brain was not working properly yet, but I knew that they had done something! It was only when I got in to the kitchen and glanced down at my slippers that I realised that I was right and that I had stepped in it!

The young people found this very amusing. The cats decided that they would be better off popping outside for a bit. I had some scrubbing to do.

And then there is the washing machine. Don't get me wrong I am quite capable of using it and do so quite regularly but.......why does the contents of the laundry basket have to be sorted out into so many different piles? When I lived alone, I used to just put everything into the machine turn it on a low heat and let it get on with it. Nothing shrank and nothing came out looking pink! Now it all has to be sorted. And there does not appear to be any logic to it. If all the light coloured things and all the dark things went in separate piles I could understand. But its much more complicated than that. Not all dark things can go with any old dark thing, and you can't just sling it all into the dryer now. How can you tell which can and which can't? Mrs B says its down to practise (plenty of it) and being able to interpret the funny little signs on the labels. I think its a con. Life is too short, so I shall take a chance and go back to my old tried and trusted ways.

Monday evening.

I don't believe it. I have just gone into the sitting room. Both young people were sitting on the sofa, well sort of slouched, heaped amongst the cushions. They were watching something on the telly. I asked them what it was. I think they said "Simpson's" but I had stopped listening to them. My attention had been taken by the large orange and brown stain on the arm rest of the cream coloured sofa.

I pointed at it. "What the fucks that" I wanted to say. But they are still young people so I left the "the fucks" out. "What's that?" a slightly hysterical note to my voice.

They both looked at where I was pointing. Fourteen year old daughter, for it was she sitting / slouching nearest to it, shrugged her shoulders and said "Its nothing, just a few drops of juice that got splashed. We have cleaned it up!" This last a defiant challenge.

"Well that's not good enough, it needs to be cleared up properly." I said

Sound of slamming door preceded by "Your so unfair....."

Only four days of me "not being in control" left. But the damage is mounting. Perhaps if I got all the washing done it would make things better?

Global Warming Update

Mrs Birdwatcher has just come in from the boggy morass that laughingly passes for our garden to tell me that the daffodils are coming up. I almost fell off my chair. Its not even half way through January yet! We don't normally see any sign of them until the end of Feb early March and they never flower before late March early April. Is this just a one off or is it a taste of the future? I have lived here for the past eighteen years and I cannot recall so mild a winter. Mind you its not over yet. Some of the coldest, snowiest weather we have had in recent years has been in March. We shall see.

Great British Breakfasts

I agree with Jay Raynor in the Observer and felt gladdened that Little Chef has been saved for the nation. To be honest I have not eaten in one for five years. But in the bad old days when I used to leave the Peak District early in the dark, cold, rain and snow, and travel South, it was the thought of an Olympic breakfast at a Little Chef that kept me going. And they were Olympic! So named I presume because you had to undertake some Olympic sport to burn off the calories. As breakfasts go I have only had a better and bigger one once. That was in a sleepy little village called Bellingham whilst "doing" the Pennine way. I was on this epic trek with my mate Malcolm, we were going North to South and were still recovering from the day and half that it took us to cross the Cheviots. We had arrived at Bellingham the previous night, tired and weary and had been refused hospitality at all the bed and breakfasts, something to do with it being un-natural for two blokes to be travelling together and seeking shelter. I said the place was sleepy, it was also locked into a 1950's time warp. So we had to resort to putting up our tent. An evening spent being followed round the pubs and Inns by the local Morris Dancers did not improve things. So it was with a jaundiced and unflattering opinion of the place, that we packed up our tent and promised ourselves a quick get away after we had found some breakfast. Breakfast was found in a little quiet teashop. One that had a bell that tinkled when you opened the door. Inside there were maybe half a dozen people all eating in a reverential silence. We sat down. As if by magic a pot of tea and a plate of toast appeared. "Would you both like the full English?" We agreed that we would. The words full English do not do it justice, they merely teased, misinformed and left us unprepared for what was to follow. It was said that the best place to have breakfast on the Pennine Way was at Middleton on Teesdale. It did not bear comparison. To describe the Bellingham breakfast as Olympic would be an understatement. I seem to recall three rashers of bacon, three large locally produced sausages, two fried eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread and beans.

It took some getting through. And at regular intervals fresh toast and tea arrived. The ridiculous thing apart from the amount that we both eat was the paltry price. I cannot remember exactly how much it was but it was well under three quid

Needless to say we lingered in Bellingham. Saw it in a new light, and it was with some reluctance that we eventually set off for Hadrian's Wall. But it did the trick that breakfast. We did not want lunch, did not even give it a moments thought. And at the tantalisingly named Twice Brewed we could merely pick at what I am sure was an excellent meal at the local pub.

So I for one am glad that the Great British Breakfast will still be found alive and well at Little Chefs across the country. All I need now is the excuse to go and have one.

Back to Work.......

My job requires me to be understanding, sympathetic, tolerant, even nice to people. When you look like the man who dipping his hand into the box of chocolates hoping for a chocolate fudge ( his favourite) and finds instead that he has popped a coconut surprise (brings him out in a rash) into his mouth then you will understand that when it comes to making favourable first impressions and putting people at their ease, I have a bit of a hill to climb before I even think about opening my mouth. So I thought I would keep my New Year resolutions simple this year. Just go for a happy counterance, and try smiling a little bit more and not assume that everyone I am going to meet is a congenital idiot. My first client on my first day back at work was a happy, smiley, isn't life one big joke, sort of guy. I was to be tested straight away! I gritted my teeth and smiled. After exchanging pleasantries he says to me;

"I do a really good impression of an extractor fan, would you like to hear it."

How can I break this gently to him?

"Oh really" I grimace. "Fascinating ....."

"Yes" he goes on "I can't stand Massey Fergusons anymore."

I stare at him. My mouth moved. I could hear the sound of my New Years Resolutions standing up and leaving the room with as much dignity as they could muster.

Mr Grumpy was back, beaming from ear to ear.

"Is that it?" I asked?

Apparently it was.