Amateur Ramblings

Get off your horse and go to Tesco

What happened to all the milkmen?

We've been thinking about getting a milk delivery for a while, and now that Olive has upgraded from formula to blue-top, our family milk consumption makes it worth our while. But even with the assistance of the Internet, we have drawn a blank. It seems that no-one delivers milk to LS9.

My mum and dad always used to have a milkman. We were a Coop household. At Tibberton Close, Arthur delivered the daily milk (silver-top, with the occasional gold-top as a 'treat'); I remember that he also sold stamps, and collected for the pools. After they moved to Lapal, a different milkman delivered, although they stayed loyal to Coop. Today, the company appears not to do deliveries, at least not in Leeds.

When you're young, you seem to believe that the brands bought by your mum and dad are somehow 'right'. The products purchased by your friends parents are therefore plain wrong. So it was with Coop's main milk delivering rivals in Halesowen, Unigate. I was suspitious of Unigate. The odd name comes from the 1959 merger of United Dairies and Cow & Gate. But it turns out that it sold its milk and cheese business to Dairy Crest in he year 2000.

So, Dairy Crest then? Well, the company does deliver under the brand name Milk & More, but doesn't operate in East End Park. Gah! That leaves independents as our only hope. But the few companies that do operate in Leeds don't seem to go near our neighbourhood. I guess there just isn't enough demand in 2009 for home deliveries. Why would there be, when you can get cheaper milk from the supermarket?

Still, we'd like to opportunity to try. Alas, it seems we need to live in other postcode areas to benefit from the services of a milkman.

Timewaster

I've been enjoying the sporadic output of Robert Popper over the last few months (you'll no doubt remember my mentioning of his Radio Spiritworld broadcast a while back).

I especially like the work he does under the pseudonym Robin Cooper. Robin is the author if the Timewaster Letters series, and has recently taken to the telephone as his chosen media to register his mad concerns and queries. Here is a recent encounter with a telesales man:

Namesake

Three week catch-up

Gosh, I don't know where to start. It's been a while; it seems like an age since I last posted, but in reality it was only a fortnight or so. I'm like some kind of blogging bulimic - I seem to post regularly and with increasing frequency, even daily for a while, then neglect things for a couple of weeks.

'Hey daddio', I hear you ask, 'You been frisking your whiskers, or are you just whipped?' Well, I guess a little of both. Let me tell you...

Firstly, and mainly, Olive. She's growing fast these days, and I like to spend as much of the short amount of weekday time between coming home from work and her bedtime with her as I can. I actually think I'll post separately about her recent progress. Likewise, our increasingly distant trip to Madeira will still benefit from a post of it's very own (which I think might take the form of a photo-journal). So what else has occupied my time?

Well, for one thing, the recent mini-heatwave. If you live almost anywhere in the UK, you can't have failed to notice that last week saw temperatures reaching the high eighties. Of course, the country moaned and groaned as it mainly failed to cope with this altogether predicable weather event. For our part, we helplessly oversaw the temperature in Olive's room reach 29°C on Thursday. It's still only down to 23°C today. Olive didn't seem to mind the heatwave. I guess she must have inherited some kind of tolerance from me - I was born into the summer of 1976.

Another thing that has occupied my time recently has been the task of uploading a six-month backlog of pictures onto my Flickr pages. And I'm pleased to report that I am now mainly up-to-date. You can therefore see my recent efforts here.

The weekend after we got back saw us calling into Venture, a national chain of photography studios that specialise in expensive and contemporary-styled portrait work. Gemma's mum had won a free session and picture, and a significant minority of her family turned up to take advantage of this. The poor photographer was certainly tested, but managed to capture some pretty good shots (which we saw at a viewing session a week later).

After the posing, I dropped Gemma at a pub near Pugneys in Wakefield for an afternoon reunion with some of her university friends (who, due to Gemma's continued maternity leave, have overtaken her and are now qualified as nurses). Olive and I went on to Crofton to meet up with Andrew and Michelle at a 'carnival'. To be honest it was barely a fete, and we stayed only a short while before heading back to the Davies', where we were joined by Gemma  for takeaway tea. We slept over and had every intention of going back to Crofton in time for day two of the carnival. A car boot sale was also promised by the posters, but by the time we arrived late morning there was no sign of the carnival and the last couple of cars were packing up. We bussed over to Sandal, where another car boot was happening, but here too the event was packing away as we rounded the corner. You can read more about the weekend over on Michelle and Scarlett's blog.

The last Saturday of the month of June saw Gemma and her sister Neeley heading over to the Old Trafford cricket ground in Manchester, where the popular group Take That were performing. I understand that they enjoyed the show, although Lady Gaga, one of the supports, failed to show, and the crowd received a soaking from a pre-show shower of rain. My weekend was mostly taken up with listening to and watching the BBC's fine Glastonbury coverage. I've never actually been to the Glastonbury Festival; I reckon it's just too big for my liking. But via the excellent broadcasts over the weekend, I was able to catch sets by Neil Young, Franz Ferdinand, Crosby, Stills and Nash, Blur, Fleet Foxes, and The Specials. Over on 6 Music, Adam and Joe were presenting a number of shows. I'm not sure I really left the house at all.

I'm having continued troubles with our car, and Evans Halshaw, the garage from where I bought it as new less than eighteen months ago, are not showing any signs of being able to fix things to our satisfaction. Since last year there has been a leak in the driver's door, whereby heavy rain flows in through the speaker. The car has been into the garage at least five times previously, but the problem has not been resolved (despite promises). Hopefully, following two further days on the ramp, the leak has now been fixed. We'll see. Also, some paint underneath the driver's door as started to flake off. I don't think the two are related, but this second problem requires yet another visit to the bodyshop. I think I'll write to Vauxhall once all the lemon tendencies have been put right.

To Liverpool, for Deb's birthday. For the first time, we stopped with John and Christina, who have a lovely city centre flat, just two minutes walk from the new Liverpool One shopping centre. The weekend was to have featured a picnic. Sadly, the beautiful weather didn't last and unpredictably heavy showers forced us to seek an indoor venue. A lovely little pub called The Railway near to Deb's flat in town was deemed fit for purpose, and there we commandeered a couple of snugs. Olive's bedtime informed an early finishing time for Gemma and me, but we were able to meet up with everyone the next morning for breakfast, before we headed over to the Anglican Cathedral for a look round (we discovered a wonderful graveyard below the cathedral, in the vast pit from which the sandstone that was used to construct this massive house of God was quarried). After the inevitable coffee, we packed up the car and drove back to God's own county.

There now, all up to date. And don't we all feel better for it, as if we've all had a blog enema. A blenema.

Captive Market

Here's why I always try to stock up befre embarking on a motorway journey.

Eastender

I have been meaning to write about a celebrity encounter I had some weeks ago. It was when I went to the dog racing with my friends and colleagues from work.

It quickly became apparent, via the laminated signs scattered about the place, that our attendance constituted our agreement to possibly appear on film. And before long, we spotted a small film crew, and Johnny Allan. Or is it Don Beech? No, it was the actor Billy Murray (not that one).

He was filming his latest advert for InjuryLawyers4U, the unbelievably-awfully named no win, no fee borg-like network of solicitors. Sadly, this great work doesn't appear to have made it to the the firm's YouTube channel yet, so I can't look to see if I take an inadvertent walk-on role. There is also no word what the undoubtly upstanding compensation culture vultures think about being promoted by a man who's acting school fees were apparently paid for by East End thugs with a respectable facade, the Kray Twins.

First the Worst

It is with a strange mixture of regret and relish that I get to dust down this oft used title today. In the last couple of months I have experienced three separate incidents of poor bus driving or bad customer service, all from the drivers of First Leeds. And following this morning's baffling incident I have the pleasure of relaying my recent experiences to you now.

In March, I went to the dog racing at Kinsey with some people from work. Our minibus dropped us in town just after eleven, and just in time for me to catch the last bus of the evening that heads up York Road, the twenty past eleven o'clock 56 service. True to the timetable, the bus was sat at the bottom of Eastgate. When I got to within a couple of hundred yards of it I decided to run, just in case. I was literally almost within touching distance when the driver put his foot down and powered away from the bus stop. I carried on running in the hope that I'd catch up with the bus at the Playhouse, but the traffic lights were all set to green and my hopes of catching a bus that evening disappeared a bluish cloud of burnt diesel.

Only a few days later, the next incident was after the Richard Herring gig at the end of March. Gemma was driving us both home. Three parked cars on the opposite side of the road meant that we had right-of-way over the fast approaching bus. But the driver of the bus knew he had the bulk to bully his way through, and did just that, forcing us to an emergency stop. I complained about both of these incidents, and after receiving a slightly confused email from First that was meant for someone else (going on about using photographs without permission), I received a satisfactory apology and a promise that 'appropriate action' would be taken against the two drivers.

Third up is something that happened on the way to my birthday picnic a couple of weeks ago. Gemma, Olive and I were at the bus stop on York Road waiting for the 18 towards Temple Newsam, which we knew to contain Lee and Christina. The bus pulled up at the stop, but with the doors next to the shelter. As we were waiting outside (with reason - waiting inside a bus shelter with a pram, amongst other passengers also with prams, is a recipe for missing your bus), we had some difficulty boarding, a problem exacerbated by the drivers refusal to lower the suspension. When Gemma complained to the driver, he told us that we should have been inside the bus stop as this is from where he picks up passengers. Presumably picking up a fare waiting all of two feet away from this overly precise spot is beyond the wit of a man who's primary function is to drive in and out of town all day, stopping for passengers when required.

This morning's driver had clearly learned his customer service skills from the same textbook as the last. I boarded with my headphones in my ears (listening the Collings and Herrin podcast) and stated '£1.70 to town please', as is the custom around these parts. But then I noticed that instead of issuing a ticket, he was talking to me and looking annoyed. I released my ears from the comedy and listened to what he had to say. 'Why didn't you catch that other bus?' he inquired tetchily.

'Er...what?', I replied, not quite understanding why he was asking this. True, his bus was the second in a convoy of two, but I know from experience that this 68A service almost always has space seats, whilst the preceding 37 is most likely to be taking standing passengers only. 'Why did you stop me? What was wrong with that other bus?' he asked. 'I'll stop any bus I please', I explained. Then I laughed in his stupid bus-driver face and sat down. The reason for his apparent haste to get into town soon became clear. On Boar Lane, he stopped his bus outside of Greggs, and went inside to buy his breakfast (a can of Coke and a sausage roll).

Mmm, I feel another First-bound email coming on. I just so glad I don't regularly catch the bus these days.

The English Midlands

The two days bank holiday which top and tail the Easter weekend allowed us to get away to my homelands. We travelled down to my mum and dad's on Friday, amongst the rest of the holidaying public with their caravans and roof-boxes. The journey down the classic M1 / A38 / A5148 / A5127 / A4026 / B4138 / A4041 / A34 / M5 / A456 route takes longer these days with a baby on board. We generally have to stop to feed her at some point in the journey, and so usually make a scheduled break at one of the motorway service stations that litter the tarmac-arteries of the country.

And as I get to the front of the queue to pay for my meal and/or drinks, I am always astounded at the price I am being asked to pay. More than if I were in a town centre, for sure. And much more than I think anyone would consider reasonable, if they thought about it for one moment. It's not a regular thing, so I cough up the best part of £5 for two hot drinks, the slight bitterness of services coffee only tempered after adding sugar  to the paper cup and stirring it with a thin lolly stick until it has mainly dissolved (the sugar, not the stick).

But I digress. Once again, we had a lovely time visiting my parents. And they enjoyed the second visit in one month of their granddaughter. There was a semi-official occasion for the trip; a delayed family Christmas dinner. This took place on Saturday afternoon, and included my brother James and his girlfriend Annabel. James was abroad with work on 25th December last year and as well as being unavailable for traditional yuletide festivities, this was only the second time he had seen his niece (the first was a brief visit when she was just three days old).

 

Earlier in the day, a moment of chaos entered the house in the form of a robin. We're not sure how it got in, but it seemed terrified and perched itself on top of a cabinet in the lounge. This allowed my dad to capture it easily and release it back into the wild.

 

James and Annabel had to leave after lunch on Sunday to attend some kind of pie-off. We went for a walk along the Pensnett Railway, a disused line which branched from the Stourbridge - Dudley railway (itself no longer in use) and Wolverhampton.

 

Unfortunately we were forced to turn back around two-thirds from our destination, due to the way ahead being swamped by what appeared to be a great leak of water from a burst pipe (or perhaps even a sewer). My dad observed that the new river had been in situ since at least last year, when he and my mum last came by this way. Back we trudged up the one in twenty-four Barrow Hill Incline, and into the car we clambered for the short drive to our destination, The Crooked House.

This 'world-famous' pub was built in 1756 and was originally a farmhouse. As the industrial revolution crept towards Himley, the building became a pub called The Glynne Arms, named after Sir Stephen Glynne, who was the brother-in-law of William Gladstone and owner of the land upon which the pub stood. During the 19th century, mining subsidence caused the building to sink - up to four feet at the southern-side. Reinforced buttresses were built, but the building remained condemned until Banks' Brewery bought the pub and renamed it in the 1940's. I think you have to see it to believe it...

Then and now

Over at WebUrbanist, there's a swell article entitled Retrofuturistic Ads: Selling a Brighter Tomorrow. It's interesting to look back at how the people of fifty - sixty years ago thought the people of today would be living, and the way the people of then thought it appropriate to advertise this future.

Badverts

I find I am getting more and more annoyed at TV adverts.

Tonight I saw a slot for Argos, in which the voice-over invited the viewer to shop there in order to make the most of their money in these tough times. The item from the catalogue shown to illustrate the kind of thing someone looking to save money should be buying was a treadmill, costing something like £199.99.

I can never understand why anyone thinks they need a treadmill, even in economically prosperous times. Have people really forgotten how to walk? It's literally one of the most basic functions humans can perform, and I can't imagine how much of it you'd have to do to clock-up a bill of £199.99.