Do Your Palms Ever Itch?

Despite being forty years old and a massive nerd, I had never in my life been to a fan convention.  Not for James Bond, nor Doctor Who, not one of those weird "Autograph Festivals" featuring Caroline Munro, Madeline Smith and the boy from George & Mildred.  I've not even been to a Star Trek convention, and I own a hoodie which is specifically designed to look like the Next Generation command uniform.  (That emotion you're experiencing right now is jealousy). 

So when my friend Jennie suggested we go to a Twin Peaks fan festival in London, I was a little trepidatious.  Twin Peaks is, of course, one of the finest television shows to ever grace the airwaves; three series and a film of comprehensive, insane headfucking, mixed with generous lashings of humour and sex.  I imagined it would be somewhat... unusual.  However, Jennie offered up the clinching factor: Sherilyn Fenn would be there.  Audrey Horne.

I loved Audrey.  I loved her fun, her cruelty, her intelligence.  She was astonishingly beautiful.  And while she was shortchanged by Twin Peaks: The Return, the opportunity to be in the same room as Ms Horne was too good to pass up.

It meant travelling to London, which meant using the Underground.  As I have posted many times on here before, the London Underground is my one true love.  I get a thrill just from using the escalators.  I find it all tremendously exciting.  Of course Jennie didn't find it quite so adrenaline inducing so on the Sunday morning, before the festival started, I got up early for a little bit of station collecting.

We were staying at the Travelodge on the Wood Green High Road, a resolutely unlovely strip of London commerce.  Sometime in the Seventies a great brick slab of a building, the "Shopping City", crashed into the centre of Wood Green and blocked out the light.  It dominated the street and the local district, sucking in all the chain stores and leaving the main road to be populated with pound shops and bargain stores.  It was a grim walk, the pavements still being scrubbed of the Saturday night's messes, and there was very little to rescue it.  Until the Underground came along.

Just a glimpse of roundel can raise my spirits, but Turnpike Lane did more than that.  It was a singular ray of joy after the grime of the High Road.

Turnpike Lane was opened in 1932 as part of the Piccadilly Line extension to Cockfosters.  It was designed by architectural genius Charles Holden and the care and attention to detail is obvious throughout.  Look at this subway entrance, for example:

It leads you into a small area beneath the roadway with this circulation space at its centre.  It's charming and well lit, with the glowing column to draw your eye and move you on to the station.

That takes you into the station proper.  Holden's signature design was the box - a high vaulted cube that housed the ticket office.  It made the station feel bright and airy, while also providing a landmark in the street to attract attention and passengers.  I'd been to another Holden Box station, Acton Town, and this was similar, but different enough to make it your station.  Churn out a series of identikit railway buildings and it becomes anonymous; the trick is put in enough slight modifications to make your station your station.

Light streamed in through the high windows, illuminating what could have been a dark space with a dramatic glow straight out of a Spielberg film.  It was joyous.  

I wafted my Oyster card at the ticket barriers.  I love the smooth electric swipe, the swift check and the clatter of the gates, but there's a little piece of me that regrets the loss of the Tube's passimeters, mainly because passimeter is such a fantastic word.  On the escalator I found another delight: uplighters!

I'm not sure if they're original or modern facsimiles but either way, they're beautiful.   It's weird how uplighters are such a simple, effective way of lighting escalator banks, but no-one seems to do it any more, favouring harsher strip lights instead.  Merseyrail would look a lot sexier with lighting like this.  It'd also stop idiots from trying to slide all the way down, unless they fancied getting their groin bisected by a pole.

One quick whizz on the Piccadilly Line back the way I came, and I was at Wood Green.  If Turnpike Lane is a glittering tiara, Wood Green is costume jewellery.  It's fine, and it looks ok.  These ornate vents on the platform, for example, are a delight:

And a combination roundel/Way Out arrow is something that will always make me cheery:

But the rest of it is just Holden standard.  Which is a very fine standard of course, one of the best, but still not exemplary.  When the bar is set so high, it becomes harder to clear it.

It does form a distinctive and attractive presence on the corner.  I headed back to the hotel, ready for a shower and the day ahead.  As I climbed the stairs I felt the rumble of an Underground train beneath my feet.  It'll never fail to thrill me.

P.S. Yes, pedants, these photos were take on two separate occasions; I forgot to take a photo of Turnpike Lane because I was too busy swooning.  Hence my completely different outfit.

P.P.S.  The Twin Peaks Festival was good fun, though marred by the fact that I spent much of the day wracked with anxiety which made it hard for me to enjoy stuff quite so much.  I DID meet Sherilyn Fenn, though:

...and I got her autograph:

Unfortunately during the Q&A she was kind of bitchy and sullen, which was a disappointment.  The rest of the panel were a delight.  Never meet your heroes, folks.

Swiss Movement

The train bursts out of the tunnel into monochrome.  The world is black and white.  Thick snow whirls against the windows.  The Stanley Dock buildings, normally a redbrick monolith, are just a grey blob in the distance.  The only colour is the bright green corporate branding of a BP garage, glowing through the weather.

I'm on my way to Southport for breakfast.  The wonderful Bob Stanley, Saint Etienne legend and lover of anything that can be given the description, "New Elizabethan", posted this on his twitter feed:

On the main road in Southport was the Swiss Chalet, a cafe straight out of a Cliff Richard film.  I knew I had to visit before it closed forever, so I grabbed a Day Saver and headed for the Northern Line.

The carriage smells of Doritos, thanks to a man working his way through a party sized bag of Chilli Heatwave flavour, and there's the occasional incursion of snowflakes through an open window.  I wasn't sure why the window was open on what seemed to be one of the coldest days of 2015 so far, but there was a woman sat right underneath it.  She clearly needed the air.

Sandhills seems deserted until the train came to a complete halt.  Then the doors on the waiting room slid open and bundled up humanoids shuffled on board, like the world's slowest zombie film.  Sandhills is aggressively chilly at the best of times; the wind whips across the Mersey and hammers at the viaduct, whisking at coats and umbrellas.  With snow too, it must be hell.

The seat across the aisle from me is taken by a teenage girl who is, at first glance, talking to herself.  Only when she shifts her head does her hair catch on her shoulder and reveal the slim microphone of a hands-free kit.  She begins what seems to be a monologue - I assume she's on the phone to someone; hopefully she's paying, because the other person isn't getting a single word in - that stops suddenly when two British Transport Policewomen push down the aisle and into the next carriage.

"Fuuuuuuuck" she hisses into the mic.  "The police are on the damn train."  I guess that the little chatterbox has declined to buy a ticket, and secretly pray that the police make their way back with an inspector.  We pass through Bank Hall, a white strip of platform against the black walls, and she bellows, "I just missed a call off Kevin 'cos I'm on the phone to you!"  A tap at her smartphone with her touchscreen enabled gloves and she switches to Kevin.  "Yeah, I know.  I'm getting off, like, now."  While I wonder if there's any call for a Scouse Catherine Tate, the rest of the carriage heaves a sigh of relief when she leaps off at Bootle Oriel Road.

Her replacement is a neat middle aged lady with enormous glasses, swaddled in a camel coat.  She immediately pulls out a 2015 diary from her sensible handbag and begins flicking through it.  Barely a month into the year and already the pages are defaced with squiggles and doodles.  She snaps through the weeks, sighing at all the jobs still to come.

The snow doesn't seem to be settling everywhere.  The roofs of Bootle are white, but the streets just look wet, and the playing fields of schools are streaked with green.  It tries to hide the heaps of rubbish abandoned trackside at Seaforth, but can't make it pretty; nor can it conceal the boarded up windows or the graffiti on the tower block.

A man, further down the carriage, seems to have a cold, or the early stages of one.  He coughs, hacks, sniffs, then clears his throat of a voluminous amount of phlegm.  I'm scared he's about to gob it onto the floor of the train and I'll have to stare at it for another half an hour, but he gets off at Waterloo and the spit goes with him.

Beyond Blundellsands the houses double in size.  Terraces are replaced by semis; there are gardens and driveways.  At Hall Road, the old engine shed has been demolished to leave what a sign advertises as a Development Opportunity; no-one is biting, and so there's just an expanse of concrete.  The coastal dunes appear, sandy heights, mixed with the sand traps of our first golf courses.  With no buildings or trees to stop it the wind barrels across Liverpool Bay and assaults our little train, hammering at it loudly, making me hunch up in my seat.

As we approach Hightown the woman across the way folds her diary back into her bag and clutches her head, suddenly panic stricken.  She closes her eyes for a while so she can think hard, then tips her head back and stares at the ceiling.  Her fingers play with the mittens in her lap.

Floodlights and high fences; the military firing range skulks between the line and the sea, red and white Keep Out signs every few metres.  The snow seems to be letting up.  Formby just looks damp, not frozen.  The platform is packed and a stream of pensioners board the train; one takes the seat opposite diary lady and pulls out a crumpled copy of The Times.  There's suddenly life on board.  Until now the passengers have been silent, but now there's a gang of old ladies gossiping at one end, and two workers in high vis jackets laughing boisterously at the other.

More golf courses, low rises among patches of flat, so artificial looking, with their tatty little flags hanging limply in the rain.  The woman with the diary gets off at Ainsdale, and then there are trees, high, regimented pine trees, dark and swaying and filling my window.  A pair of hardy walkers battle the winds with their tiny Jack Russell; he's wearing a little tartan coat.

There's a sudden smell of chimney smoke before Hillside, drifting in through that bafflingly still open window.  Fake flowers in tubs look ridiculous on the platform, the bitter darkness around them making their plastic blooms look cheap.  The computerised voice has started spluttering; her next station announcements are accompanied by a sharp crackle of static and feedback.  The heavy squeak of the brakes as we pull into Birkdale, wheels struggling with the wet and cold tracks, add to the feeling that this train is past its best.

The guard talks over the computerised voice to announce the end of the line, adding a "small reminder" for us to take all our goods with us.  The Times is folded away and the woman roots around in her handbag for her Concessionary Travel Pass - I must be one of the few people on the train with a paper ticket.

I barrel out of the station and straight down to Lord Street, not pausing, so that I could reach  the Swiss Chalet before it gets busy with lunch.  It's a tiny doorway with Grill Room above it, white on black, then a flight of steps upstairs.  I push up, nervously.  I have a prejudice against cafes on the first floor of buildings; totally irrational, but I'm always slightly afraid of what I'll find when I get up there.  By then it's too late, there's no turning back, and you have to partake.

Upstairs it's warm and clean and very, very empty.  I'm the only patron.  At the back, a little grey haired waitress in a very traditional black uniform is chatting to the chef.  His kitchen is fully open for us to see inside, and he leans on the counter, master of his domain.  I hesitantly slide into one of the banquettes at the side and the waitress spots me.  She hurries over with a menu, apologetic for not spotting me, and then leaves me to look down the page.

It's a feast of food you didn't realise restaurants still served.  There are six starters: soup of the day (mushroom, I've been told), grapefruit cocktail, prawn platter, tuna platter, egg mayonnaise and orange juice.  Just a glass of orange juice.  It's brilliant.  Further down there are lamb cutlets, gammon (with a choice of pineapple, egg or mushrooms), a mixed grill.  Omelettes, sandwiches - open and closed - and various things on toast.  I plump for a tea and a toasted sandwich.

"Do you want chips or salad with that?" she asks.  I go for salad.  "Aww, being good are you?  Well done."

The seats are leatherette, the place mats are decorated with herbs.  On the walls are pictures of French drinks (reproductions) and hefty pieces of tree bark to underline that Swiss Chalet feel.  I don't think it's been redecorated for at least thirty years, probably more.  Karen, the second waitress, bashes her way up the stairs and calls her hello across to her colleague.  Diane tells her it's been dead - "bit of snow, risk of slipping, they don't come."

I warm my cold hands on the stainless steel teapot as Diane offers the chef a drink.  He's Spanish, and he goes for "one of his Spanish hot chocolates"; she wanders behind the counter and busies herself with the steaming hot water.  She's barely served it up before my sandwich is brought over.  Toasted white bread and a pile of salad leaves and carrot shavings.  "Do you want any sauce with that?" she asks.  "Salad cream?"  I decline, and take up my knife and fork.

As I eat, a pair of pensioners stagger up the stairs, pausing at the top for breath.  They greet Diane by name and take a seat in the window.  She chats to them for a bit, then takes their order, two coffees and a toasted teacake each.  The wife snorts.  "I guess that means he's off his diet!"  In the background, Kate Garroway is taking hints for beating a cold on Heart FM.  "Chew a raw clove of garlic?  I don't think my husband would be happy about that!"

I'm suddenly sad this place is up for sale.  The owner is retiring and I doubt it'll be bought as a going concern.  It'll be ripped out and upgraded; the banquettes will be replaced by sofas and wooden chairs.  The grill hatch will be closed off.  They'll offer paninis and lattes and another piece of the past will quietly die.  I wonder where the pensioners will go for their teacakes.

I eat my sandwich - the salad is incredibly dry without any kind of vinaigrette; I should have taken her up on her offer of salad cream - then I wait by the till to pay.  There are postcards tucked into the top of it, from loyal customers no doubt.  Diane is busy talking to her regulars, but the Spanish chef spots me and calls out for her.  I over tipped, partly because I'm hopeless at that sort of thing, partly because I felt bad about her being put out of a job.

I went straight back to the station.  I'd been in Southport only the previous week, with my friend Jennie; we'd have gone to the Swiss Chalet then if she didn't have a pram with her adorable son Robin in it.  My train is waiting for me at platform 3 and I realise that it's the one I came in on.  The skies have now turned bright blue, a fact that had annoyed Diane in her chat with the old folks - "I'm covered in layers!"  I'm the only one in the front carriage until just before departure, when a distinguished man with a walking stick and a Metro under his arm clatters aboard.

The guard on this train is far more refined than the one on the journey in.  His voice is only slightly accented, as though he went to public school and had the Scouse forced out of him.  "I'll be making my way through the train as we work our way down to Liverpool; if you have any questions feel free to ask."

The sun's refracted off the water on the parked cars at Birkdale; it shatters into pieces and fills the carriage.  We pause a little longer because there's a teenager with a broken leg struggling to board.  The tannoy has been fixed - turned off and on.  Through a series of level crossings to Hillside, where a woman in an elaborate furry hat boards.  Behind her is a tiny brown spaniel.  I would never feel comfortable taking my dog on a train - what if it needs to pee?  She goes to the front of the carriage and the dog settles in at her feet, used to the trip.

At Ainsdale another swarm of pensioners board; their Reactolite glasses have turned black in the sun, making them look like the cast of Oceans 80.  They're talking about someone who's about to go in for heart surgery in frankly disturbing detail - "is it open or keyhole?" - and we're nearly at Freshfield before I realise they're talking about a dog.  In the seats opposite is a smart-looking man in a buttoned up wool coat; at his feet is a University of Liverpool bag.  He's bashing at his smart phone, tapping out a series of messages, until an expanse of golf course kills his signal.  He tucks the phone back into his pocket, but at the next station it's out again.  Across from him an old man reads the Racing Post.

The guard appears in the carriage, and it turns out he's something of a silver fox; a little chubby, but with a lovely smile.  He leans in the doorway and watches the scenery spin past.  Behind me, the old people are now talking about someone called Elsie.  They've lowered their voices and I can tell from the murmurs that Elsie is not getting a glowing report.

"Tickets and passes please."  To my surprise, the smart man looks suddenly shifty.  He looks up at the guard pleadingly.  "The man at Ainsdale told me to pay at my destination."  The guard doesn't seem convinced, but he tells him he'll have to pay in Liverpool and moves on.

Two women have clearly got chatting on the platform at Formby, and are now in full flow.  "I'm going to the Adelphi.  Three courses for six pounds."  They both oooh approvingly.  "There's usually a roast," the woman continues, "or a beef thing in gravy, but the veggies never alter.  Still, six pounds!"  They both seem blown away by this, even the one who goes there regularly.  It suddenly becomes clear why the Adelphi - once the jewel in Liverpool's hotel crown - will never stop being crappy and down at heel.  With a constant stream of pensioners filling its dining rooms, why change?

Another dog gets on at Hall Road; its owner keeps it well away from the furry hat lady's spaniel.  At Blundellsands, a Britpop refugee sits down across from me.  He's got huge sideburns and a tight leather jacket and looks very Paul Weller circa "Stanley Road".  He balls one hand into a fist over and over while across the way the smart man is talking loudly on his phone.  The entire carriage is horrified to learn that the Bristol office is DEFINITELY closing.  Britpop pulls out an iPod shuffle, and I choose to believe he's listening to a mix of Menswear, Kula Shaker and Elastica.

Racing Post gets off at Bootle New Strand, and is replaced by another Metro reader.  I don't like the Metro because it's taken one of the lovely parts of rail travel - people neatly folding their read newspaper and leaving it on the seat for someone else to pick up - and turned it into an irritation.  Now the train is flooded with copies of that day's paper with its wraparound cover advertising the newest drama on Sky Atlantic.

The train is really getting warm now; I suddenly understand why the woman on the journey up had the window open.  It's stuffy, filled with people who've overdressed for the weather, noses poking out of hoods.  There's a canal at Sandhills, struggling to look pretty in the midday sun, but too industrial to pass.  The wrecked viaducts on Pall Mall, the old lines into Exchange Station, beg to be put to some use, but I can't think what, then we disappear into the tunnel under the Echo building.  Britpop gets off at Moorfields, but we are joined by half a dozen other passengers.

I've decided to go to the end of the line.  While most of the train gets up and shuffles off at Liverpool Central, I stay seated, the same place I've sat for three quarters of an hour.  Someone smelling of chips gets on board - not chips, fries; they smell wet in a way that chips don't - and a woman with leggings printed with the sky holds an expensive looking carrier bag between her legs.  Behind me, someone is talking about their daughter - "Catherine was very overweight so they took her to Slimming World and she lost four stone!"  I wonder who 'they' are; I imagine some kind of intervention, with Catherine being bundled into the back of a van and driven to a church hall to be re-educated.

I look up for the gap in the tunnel that signifies the old St James station, as I always do when I come this way, and briefly fantasise about a day when there will actually be a Baltic station there.  A sudden deceleration and we drift into Brunswick beneath high sandstone walls.  The woman with sky-painted leggings gets off, and I see that her expensive looking bag is from Swarovski.  The train is silent again.  No excitable pensioners, no groups.  A girl stares at her phone as though willing it to come to life, then drops it into her lap, exasperated, halfway through the tunnel to St Michaels.  When daylight appears she snatches it up again eagerly.

St Michaels station needs an ALF, maybe two; one for the Festival Gardens, one for Lark Lane and Sefton Park.  As we continue onwards, the computer voice tells us the next station will be St Michaels; she gets stuck on that station for the rest of the journey.  Clearly her reboot didn't take.  Aigburth obviously makes me think of Robert, who lives within spitting distance of its platforms, and Cressington is as charming as ever.  A workman is painting the woodwork in corporate grey.  I'm surprised his tin of paint is from Dulux and doesn't have Colour Tsar Approved stamped all over it.

Furry hat woman gets off at Liverpool South Parkway; I'd forgotten she was still there.  Her dog was so well-behaved throughout.  I also forgot to look out for any remnants of the old Garston station, though I don't think there are any.  It's now a slow creep to Hunts Cross, a kind of extended sigh at having to go this far.  There are men on the tracks by the Northern depot and I try to remember the last time I came this way.  I've certainly never gone end to end on the Northern Line before, top to bottom and back again.

I head out of the station for a bottle of water, and return in the midst of a sudden, violent hailstorm.  I'm behind two Community Police ladies, knocking off their shift for the day, chatting about where they're going to go tomorrow morning.  We huddle in the warm waiting room - there used to be a coffee bar in here, but it seems long gone - while the hail batters at the windows.  A new train comes in and we hustle aboard along with a member of the "Train Presentation Team".  He whisks down the aisle with a black bin bag, completely missing the Nature Valley wrapper under the seat in front of me.  I am momentarily anxious that future passengers will think it's my litter.

There are already people on board; I suppose they just grab the first train they see, rather than wait at the station in the cold, and go to the end of the line and back.  The new guard is a woman, and she tells us in enthusiastic Scouse to change at Liverpool South Parkway for mainline services.  Ones like the fast East Midlands train that we're forced to let by at the flat junction outside the station.  We cross over to the local lines and sink down to LSP's Northern Line platform.  The computer voice tells us to change for long distance services, but she says "Birmingham" with a slight question in her voice - "Birmingham?".  A kind of, why would you want to go there?

A couple get on, already bickering.  "Don't shout at me, I'm not stupid," she snarls at him when he calls her over to an empty seat.  He lays out a cushion on the seat next to him and their tiny dog leaps up and makes himself comfortable.  She pulls off her scarf furiously and they sit in angry silence; I'm so busy watching them I miss Garston again.  My neighbour is a man with an upside down head - bald on top, beard on the bottom - who taps at a game on his phone.  His high forehead wrinkles with concentration.

Aigburth again, and a gaggle of nice ladies with handbags in the crook of their arms get on board.  My ears pop in the tunnel after St Michaels.  The angry wife now pulls her coat off, but she seems to have calmed down, perhaps taking her cue from her dog who is utterly unruffled.  A harassed looking woman whose hair has escaped her pony tail boards; she jabs at her phone so hard I can hear the crack of stylus on glass across the aisle.

At Brunswick, a rough looking woman with a tooth missing is fascinated by the dog on the cushion.  She starts talking to it then, when it unsurprisingly fails to respond, she turns to the owner and starts yammering to them.  We learn that the dog is called Filo, which immediately makes me think of pastry, and the woman starts calling his name.  Filo looks terrified.  She calls out "seeya!" as though the angry couple were old pals and jumps off at Central.  I'm not surprised that the wife says "seeya!" back before following it up with a roll of her eyes and a whisper to her husband.

I thought about getting off at Central, but the OCD part of me knew I'd have to cover that last little bit of line so I ended up back where I started from.  A fabulous looking old lady takes a seat with her leopard skin suitcase and an enormous handbag; she looks like a Lancashire Elaine Stritch,  I get up, my knees protesting now that I'm 38, and wait by the doors as we pull into Moorfields.  There and back.

Best Days

A-level results day inevitably prompts mixed feelings in me.  Feelings of nostalgia and regret.  It's eighteen years since I flunked my A-levels, denying me my first choice university (Keele) and sending me off to Edge Hill in Ormskirk instead.  At the time I was distraught and unhappy.  Now I see it as a blessing.  I've been to Keele, and it's a massive sucky hole of misery in the middle of nowhere (highest suicide rate among all UK universities, I believe).  Edge Hill was small enough for you to get to know people, to have fun and not be lost, and it had that wonderful Merseyrail line to take me off to Liverpool.

I fell in love with Liverpool, I fell in love with the BF, I fell in love with some of the best friends I've ever known, all while I was at Edge Hill.  I didn't make it to my first choice but I had a hell of a good time anyway.  The best time of my life, in fact; everyone should be a student.  It's three years of being an adult, but without any responsibility.  You get to drink and have sex and stay out all night and eat junk food, but you don't have work in the morning or a mortgage or kids or anything to drag you down.  It's half a life away - literally - but it still makes me smile.  My only regret is the one that's beautifully articulated in the song I Wish I Could Go Back to College, from Avenue Q: "I wish that I'd taken more pictures."

For some reason Edge Hill didn't shut up shop after I graduated; in fact it just grew and grew, like a giant academic fungus.  The campus is enormous now; what were sports pitches and the Rose Garden when I was there are now giant teaching centres with acronym names.  The boiler room has been replaced by a huge student complex with coffee shops and breakout areas - we had the bar and a vending machine and the Terrace Cafe, and you'd only go there if you wanted something to eat and you were really desperate.  It's a behemoth.  In a way it's outgrown Ormskirk itself; this tiny market town now has thousands of youths streaming through it for ten months a year.

Last week I went back to Ormskirk to meet Jennie (second from left above).  We took her adorable children Adam and Joy to the park, went on the swings, had a coffee, bitched about life.  The usual stuff 36 year olds do.  Coronation Park was on the way back to our student house in Cottage Lane; it was strange for us to be there without being just a little bit drunk.

At the station there was a real indication that Edge Hill dominates the town.  For many years, Ormskirk's Attractive Local Feature board was this:

Pretty typical for a small country town.  My latest visit revealed that the ALF had changed:

This pleases me for a number of reasons.  Firstly, I'm glad that Merseytravel and Merseyrail are still doing the ALFs; I was worried they'd been phased out.  Plus they kept the old colour scheme.  And of course I'm just happy to see Edge Hill getting some recognition, even if they picked a pretty bland building to represent the university.  I suppose they want to look all "modern" and "thrusting", but that building could be anywhere.  They should have used a picture of my beloved LRC (Learning Resource Centre, now unimaginatively renamed the "Library"), or the Venue, or a drunken student getting his stomach pumped after failing to handle all the alcohol in the "Around the World in Forest Court" booze crawl.  Next time, come to me for advice.

Now I'm off to have a little nostalgia fest: drinking cheap lager while I listen to Space and Gina G and Echobelly and Alisha's Attic and Terrorvision (Whales and dolphins, whales and dolphins, yeah!) and missing the old days.  

You've Got A Friend In Me

I'm a very good friend.  A wonderful, caring, lovely friend.  If you ask for my opinion, I'll gladly give it.  If you want someone to go to the pub with, I'm there.  If your boyfriend dumps you, I'll take your side and say all those rude things about him I'd kept quiet about.  And I'll never say nasty things to you, only ever behind your back, where you won't hear them.  I'm great.

This is my friend Jennie.  We've known each other for years, and she's now a lecturer, who occasionally has to travel all over the country to hold tutorials.  When she told me that she was dreading the long trip cross country to York for a session, I volunteered to accompany her.  This is because I'm basically a fantastic person.

NO I DIDN'T GO JUST SO I COULD COLLECT SOME STATIONS HOW DARE YOU.

After tea and toast in the lovely Me and Mrs Fisher cafe, where I derived great pleasure in listening to the ladies at the next table talk about internet dating ("He said he was in an open relationship, but I doubt he's told his wife.  It was only a fling anyway"), Jennie went off to the University and headed for a bus stop.  I was slightly hampered by York City Council's decision to not grit or clear the pavements; the trudging of Saturday afternoon shoppers had turned the snow into thick grey slush.  It was only a ten minute walk but when I reached the bus stand I had soaking ankles and damp socks inside my boots.  They wouldn't dry out all day.

I was headed for Poppleton, a village just outside the city which sounded like it had escaped from Winnie the Pooh.  I was able to watch the slow evolution of York as we drove away from the centre.  It's like a series of tree rings, each one marked by a particular era in its architecture and layout - the medieval core, surrounded by Georgian grandeur, followed by Victorian villas and 1930s suburbs.  Finally there were 21st century boxes, and we were crossing the ring road.

The bus dropped us in Nether Poppleton at 1:19, four minutes after my train had left.  It meant I had an hour to kill.  What to do?

It wasn't my fault.  The bus dropped us off right outside the Lord Nelson; it would have been rude not to.  I had a quick pint in the silent atmosphere of the village local.  There was no music, no tv blaring, just a couple of pensioners eating fish and chips in the "restaurant" part, not talking, just staring slightly past each other.  The only other patron was a young lad with blonde hair nursing a coke; he kept jumping up and peering through the window, nervously waiting for someone.  The air was thick with the fug of a deep fat fryer.  The dart board had a hand-written sign saying that flights were available for 40p at the bar; I could see them in a biscuit tin marked FLIGHTS in permanent marker.  It was a snug little place, a bit threadbare, not at all glamorous, but pleasant and warm.

After a quick pee in the tiny toilet I ventured outside.  The paths here weren't even sludge, just trodden down snow, and I took care not to slip, while being aware that I had to get to the other end of the village for the train station.  Main Street curled round a corner, brushing up against the Ouse, a bench ready for summer.

I was following a family of three, towing a sledge.  Mum pushed on at the front, briskly calling back instructions over her shoulder - "watch the path here!  Don't run!".  Dad was pulling the sledge, a little skip in his step, and the kid was resolutely unamused.  He was a porky little fellow, and I guessed that this was his parents' idea, to get him away from his Nintendo XBoxStation.  Now he was making everyone regret it, moaning about the cold and the wet.  The pink sledge probably didn't help.

Poppleton was really quite lovely.  A delicate stream, almost frozen, ran between trees and past houses; soft white gardens lead up to well-maintained porches.  The snow absorbed the sound, so all I could hear was the trudge of my boots.  There was a library, and a community centre; a sports field and a surgery.

I was already having good thoughts about the village, and that was before I hit Upper Poppleton, the second half of the settlement.  Then it developed into full blown love.  A wide open village green was bisected by the main road, looked over by a war memorial and church.  A pub, a post office, a red telephone box, and in the centre of the green, an actual Maypole.  It's the first time I've ever seen one for real (the one put up in the school hall at Juniors' doesn't count) and I was surprised by how tall it was, a stripy rocket bursting into the grey skies.

I passed the kids leaving the general store with a twist of sweets clutched in their hand and pushed on out of the village.  I only slipped once, but managed to stop myself from doing a complete somersault.

Poppleton station was a wonderful surprise in many way.  The station building was no longer in railway use, but they'd done something clever with it: glassing over part of the platform so that it created a sort of conservatory waiting area.

I've never seen this done before.  It's a brilliant idea.  It provides a secure, architecturally pleasing space for waiting, as well as some cycle racks.  It means a station structure isn't left to rot.  It'd be better if there was a ticket office in there (or even a ticket machine) but still - well done Northern Rail.

As the sign above indicated, there's a level crossing at Poppleton.  It's not got flashing orange lights or a siren or even automatic barriers.  Here, they do it old school.

A signal cabin.  Gates that have to be wheeled across the track, gates that I've never seen for real in my life, only in my Hornby railway set when I was a child.  When the time came, the grey haired signal man pushed them into place by hand to block the road.  There was something so quietly civilised about it.

Before I got my train, however, I had time to take a look at Poppleton's other claim to fame.  There was a time when railway companies had plots of land devoted to horticulture - growing flowers for stations, plants to shore up embankments.  British Rail slowly reduced the reliance on these, and privatisation killed them off completely; it's easier and cheaper to simply buy flowers in bulk.

At Poppleton, they've reversed this trend.  The local community have reclaimed the abandoned railway gardens and are slowly resurrecting them.  Their excellent website shows how these neglected patches of land, the greenhouses and sheds are now being turned into facilities for the whole village.  The coal yard alongside the station even retains an old wagon.

It's a wonderful idea, well executed, and my only regret was that I was seeing it at the very worst time.  I imagine it's a joy to see in summer.  I left Poppleton full of optimism, a smile on my face, a strange feeling coming over me: happiness.

Rebirth 2: The Northerning

Liverpool Central finally opened its Northern Line platforms last week.  I thought about visiting last Friday, when I was in the city for Skyfall, but the sheer amazingness of the film left me light headed.  I didn't want to risk over stimulation by going to a refurbished Central as well.

(By the way: GO AND SEE SKYFALL.  Thank you.)

Instead I waited until yesterday, because I was out in the city with my friend Jennie and her adorable children Adam and Joy.  We had a day of eating, art and shopping, and then headed back to Central so she could get her Northern Line train home.

There was an immediate problem - a queue for the lift.  I've never used the platform lifts at Central, so I hadn't realised what a tiny, confined space it sat in.  I also didn't realise just how popular it was.  The queue of parents with buggies and elderly women stretched right round the corner and into the main concourse.  It was also showing signs of fatigue already: clearly someone with a wayward pram had crashed into the wall and taken off a big chunk of yellow plastic.  I'll be curious to know when that finally gets fixed.

Eventually we managed to wheel Joy's pushchair inside the lift and whizzed down to the platform.  The first impression is how bright it is.  The Northern Line platforms are Victorian in origin, and there was always a cavern-like feel to the space.  The water running down the walls didn't help.  Those corrugated metal coverings are still trackside, but on the island platform itself, everywhere is white.

It means that the centre of the station somehow glows and seems even brighter.

A new circulating space has been carved out under the escalators by moving some of the mechanics; it means that the middle of the platform is much more open and can accommodate more waiting passengers.  With the new seating spaces upstairs, hopefully this will allow for more desperately-needed breathing room - though it seems the passengers haven't modified their waiting patterns yet.  They were still mainly hanging around the long tongue at the foot of the escalators, instead of moving into the new wide open area.

The new escalators now have funky little "no entry" lights at the bottom.  I wouldn't normally care, but it became a welcome moment of colour in amongst all that white.  Another welcome moment of colour is up top, where the entrances to the Wirral and Northern platforms are marked out with coloured arches and LED lighting - a simple but pleasing touch.

Disappointingly, there are still only three escalators.  The steps have been left in the fourth space.  To me, this means that there's still a "right" end of the station and a "wrong" end; one where it's easy to get up and down and another where it's more difficult.  I guess £20 million only buys you so much.

I headed for the Wirral Line escalator.  I'm assuming that there's still work to be done, because there are no signs telling you that's what it is; it's just a way down into the unknown at the moment.  Incidentally, as I took the pic below, the girl on the left was having a blazing row with her boyfriend, and was smacking him quite vigorously round the head; she saw me with my cameraphone and shouted "what's he taking a picture of?".  I made a hasty exit.

A couple of months ago, I was rapturous about the new look Wirral Line platforms.  Now they're complete, I'm going to have to register a couple of complaints.

First of all, they've taken away the line diagram on the tunnel wall.  I understand there are maps and line diagrams elsewhere but still, this was a useful addition to have.  

The second complaint is regarding the signs.  A few years ago the Colour Tsars introduced new yellow and grey signs across the Underground stations.  There were line diagrams, exit signs, and maps of the station.  These new signs have since been rolled out across the network - any time there's a new set of works (like at Hooton for example) the grey and yellow signs are in evidence.

I didn't mind these signs making their presence felt.  What I object to now that Central's been done up is that the rest of them haven't been changed as well.

White background, grey background, grey background, white background.  All above a white band.  It's a mess.  It offends me.  It looks cheap and temporary, and considering the station was closed for literally months that leaves me out of joint.  I want there to be consistency and elegance; I want there to be a definite corporate feel, one way or the other.  Not this ugly mish-mash of both styles.

Am I overreacting?  Being too OCD, too picky?  Absolutely.  It's tiny things like that which niggle.  It's little flaws that make you think that someone doesn't care.  I wanted to endorse the new look station wholeheartedly but I can't.  That stops me from declaring Liverpool Central an entirely flawless success.  That and the escalator thing.  It's close, but not quite there.

It doesn't stop me from looking forward to what they're going to with James Street though.