Ashes, sunshine, blue sky and rainbows

To Plumpton Races on Sunday. As you can see from the race card above, it was a family gathering to scatter the ashes of my parents now that they were together. My father died ten years ago. He was a bookmaker for most of my life before he retired. Not an on course bookie but a turf accountant. He opened a betting shop as soon as they were made legal in the early 1960's and I have many memories of earning my pocket money on a Saturday, marking up the results for him.

My mother died in September this year and she had been preparing for this occasion for the past year. She had written to the Clerk of the Course at Plumpton in September 2005 inquiring about the possibility of her husbands ashes, which she had kept in her flat in a wicker basket on top of a dresser since he had died, being scattered on the course. She received a beautiful letter letting her know that this was a request that they always tried to accommodate.

The baton was taken up by my sister who then contacted the course and arranged for the scattering to take place for the pair of them. The 19th November was the closest date and being a Sunday it meant that most of us would be able to attend. My sister liased and organised with everyone to create the perfect day from our side. On the other side, there were good runners and the races were exciting. But the best thing was the weather which was a day of glorious sunshine and blue sky.

We had been asked to gather at 11am which is when the gates to the course were opened. My sister had to arrange for the Clerk of the Course to show us onto the course and he was most amenable for us to lay their ashes across the finishing line. We walked to the allotted position and gathered to organise the scattering. It had been agreed that the boys would do the scattering, three of us. The eldest brother present began to say a few words to mark the occasion and just as he began the course announcer came onto the tannoy to welcome racegoers to the meeting ! Any way, it brought a smile to our faces. There was a light breeze and we stood one the right side of the line. We scattered the ashes in silence and then took some photographs on the line to mark the occasion.

We all had tickets for the Grandstand and were able to watch the racing and the horses crossing the line. Our parents would have appreciated very much the way we were marking and celebrating their lives. Absent members of the family were also remembered.

The racing was magnificent and some of us won a lot of money and some of us broke even and some of us lost. But we all had fantastic fun and had a beer or two. One of us also had some jellied eels and by golly they were good. It must have been 1982 when I last had jellied eels, our youngest brother had ordered a whole basin full from Tubby Isaacs to bring to our parents golden wedding anniversary. One of us also received a tip from the Clerk of the Course which subsequently won. But she didn't think to tell us !

The sun shone on the prettiest of race courses all afternoon. Just before the last race a single rain cloud moved over and gave us a short shower. This created two beautiful rainbows over the course. Make of this what you want. But it brought a knowing smile to the faces of all the family members who were there.

Flaming Lips

To the SECC on Friday night to see the Flaming Lips. I had been introduced to them properly by my son after he had sent me 'The Soft Bulletin' for my fathers day gift. I had heard of them via their other popular album awhile back, about a Japanese girl defeating a robot. (you couldn't make this stuff up really could you ?). I loved it instantly. The music, melodies, storyline about saving the world. It was perfect music to drive to work with.

So when I saw the advert for their gig in Glasgow I sent a text to both my son and daughter. "Want to come and see Flaming Lips with me - my treat." I had an instant affirmative from both within minutes. They are regular music goers and probably have already notched up more live gigs than I have had breakfasts. In the 1960's we were a bit limited in the London suburbs and you had to consider travelling into the city for clubs such as the 51 Club, aka Ken Colyers, or to Les Cousins to catch the latest singers on the folk and blues circuit.

It felt good going off with my two wonderful adult children, well nearly and recently adult children, to share a gig that we all wanted to enjoy. It was a shock to my system. The SECC is like a barn with hi tec infrastructure that looks like the innards of a factory or air plane hangar. I should have realised when I saw my ticket number that we were to be among 5000 others. We arrived in time to catch the end of the support which was a really weird couple making 1970's experimental electronic loop music. I asked my son if he wanted a pint. This was a very significant question. I had tried subtley on a number of occasions during the past years to get him to bond with me over a beer. He never has. This night it worked. Yes, he said nonchalantly. Next I turned to my daughter and with trepidation that she was going to ask for a diet coke, she said "What sort of beer is it ?" Well you could have knocked me over with a boa feather. I told her it was just beer. "I'll have one then." Now, not having been to an event as big as a mini festival in my life, I was fascinated by the bar. They didn't have a beer pump or a button to press to servce a single pint. They had a mega beer machine that could fill a dozen pints at the same time. This commitment to getting the beer to the customer faster than you could pour a glass of water was absolutely stunning. So we stood, proud father and his children, supping pints of lager.

This is significant in more ways than one. It was in 1963 when I was introduced to my first beer at the tender age of 16. We were returning home from visiting my grandparents in Sanderstead, Surrey and my older brother asked my father to drop him off in Purley. My dad asked him where he was off to at 3pm in the afternoon. To a folk club he said. Why dont you take your brother ? Heres a10/- (ten shillings) note each, go and enjoy yourselves. I don't know if my brother wanted his younger sibling with him, but it came with a ten bob note. He took me to the Under the Olive Tree coffee bar in South Croydon, just down from the bus garage. Each Sunday afternoon they had a folk and blues club in the cellar. That was when I first came across Long John Baldry. Now known for his somewhat mushy soul songs that made him popular, he was standing alone on the small stage down below in this cellar and singing the blues. No accompaniment, just him and the blues for half an hour. He was stunning. And that was the start of my musical life. Forty five years later and I am still listening to the music of my roots alongside other stuff. Anyway the significance of this was that my brother took me off to a pub afterwards and bought me my first beer. A half pint of Red Barrel. He then taught me the rudiments of paying for your round. This was a rite of passage that I shall never forget.

I wonder if thats what happened for me and my children on Friday night ?

The Journey Begins

I could never understand why regular commuters don't do anything on the train. They look out of the window, stare around them, play with their gloves. If they have no companion they do not seem occupied other than with their own thoughts.

Why no book ? Or a newspaper ? Pen and paper ?

The moment I hit the seat I go into a routine. The journey, although an hour long, is too short. Each minute requires some discipline, whether it is reading or presenting the ticket, getting off and buying the newspaper, boarding again and greeting a companion, arriving at the destination and walking to the office.

Other commuters don't seem to do anything. But are they doing something that we have no clue about ? Or do they see the journey as something that is endured and not enjoyed ?

I have been blogging for over a year now and find it a real alternative to television.
Nearly all my creative thinking and chatter takes place on the train. At one point it became the vehicle of angst which found expression in a defunct blog called My Travel Blog of Woe. This was designed to vent my frustration at the appalling antidiluvian method of ticket selling and inspection on my train system. My frustration vented after I discovered the GNER to London which stopped at my station, Motherwell. My other blog of course is Down on the Allotment, my hobby and pastime for the past two years and a source of fun. For eight hours a day my work is accounted, reported, recorded and filed. But what should happen to the rest of my day and how will those stories and accounts of the past, present and future get put away where they can be found and shared ?

This question was answered for me ten days ago on the journey home. Two colleagues were asking me about Michael Marra, whose review had appeared in the paper that day. In the space of five minutes I had recounted my story about him and how I first met him. You should put it in your blog, my colleagues said.

And so the idea took to seed. And this is the result. And this is the beginning.

There is no objective other than to have a depository for stories and links which to all other purposes might be a diary. But no, this is a journal of daily ramblings. Ramblings on my daily train of thoughts, conversations and links to the information and stories that nail me to the mast.