I'm not sure that friend is the right word but that line from Simon & Garfunkel seemed appropriate. When I was little we lived in an old stone cottage. In an alcove in the hallway stood a big solid austerity wardrobe where my mum kept her rarely worn posh going out clothes. It was dark in there and I hurried past it because I knew that behind the wardrobe was a tunnel where undefined monsters lived. They had only one aim, which was to get me. I didn't know what they would do to me but I knew it wouldn't be nice. I believed that my mum was trying to protect me, but my dad was in an alliance with them.

I once confided in my big brother about this, then immediately regretted it as he, unsurprisingly, scorned me for believing in bogeymen.

We moved from that house when I was 13. By then, of course, I no longer held that belief, but I still preferred not to linger in the hall.

Since then the bogey that has threatened my well being has had a name, Depression. It has grabbed me and dragged me into it's lair halfway through each decade. The last time it got me right inside the tunnel, so that I thought I would never get out, was the mid 1990s. That was 30 years ago. The bogey has grabbed me since, but I have learned ways of fighting it off. Writing about it is one of them.

I started to feel it's claws  in me last week. I started to feel increasingly gloomy . Yesterday I woke up and felt totally powerless. In my normal life I work hard to make changes for the good. My focus is on trying to use whatever skills I have to make the world a little bit better and a little bit more likely to survive for future generations. Some may think that silly selflessness, do gooderism, denying myself the enjoyment of the many things that are available to consume. in our brave new world. Some might think I would do well to jet off to Thailand or somewhere, at the expense of the next generation, and have a good time. In fact, I find what most people see as a good time just boring. I enjoy my life, except when the bogeys get me.

 When this feeling comes on me I feel like everything I do is a waste of time, but what else would I do? Everything is futile! Nobody understands. What's the point?

I start to go on about the curse of Cassandra. Cassandra's curse, in Greek mythology, was that she had the gift of true prophecy, but nobody would believe her. In 1973 I learned about the greenhouse effect and the Limits to Growth report. I decided to live more simply as a result. I sort of hoped that everyone else would catch on, but the promise of infinite happiness in the never never future through more and more consumer goodies was too powerful for most people. Many still attack viciously those who point out our real parlous situation, such as the brave young Greta Thunberg. 

50 years after learning about these things we are on the edge of global tipping points. If we go over them our planet will be plunged into an unliveable hothouse. The billionaires who are driving our suicidal economies are digging themselves survival bunkers in the Arctic.

My big dilemma has been, where do I go from here. My life's work has been saving a collection of wooden boats and trying to put them to work on jobs that are in some way good for the Earth and/or people's well being. Now I wonder if I should give that up and concentrate on trying to save the planet. There will be no use for old wooden boats, lovely as they are, if we collectively go over a tipping point. Perhaps I should get political and campaign to keep the oil fueled loonies of the Right out of power.

I'm not a natural campaigner, more of a digger and knocker together of bits of wood, so I'll probably carry on as I am, despairing of the stupidity that seems to be ruling the world at the moment.

I think a lot of people who feel as I do deal with it by consuming alcohol or drugs. I can see how tempting it must be to imbibe a substance that takes away the despair, even on a temporary basis. I'm lucky that I've never had that temptation get hold of me. I find it hard to spend time with addicts as they seem like people who have just given up on life. On the other hand, genuinely recovered addicts are often inspiring. However, I have used a little pill that helps to keep the bogeys away, St John's Wort. A herbal compound that helps to stave off depression.I now have a problem. A side effect of St Johns Wort is to thin the blood. Now I've had a stroke I'm prescribed blood thinning medication, so I can't take my worts lest my blood becomes too watery. 

I'm wondering if that's the reason for my current low mood.

Following the Green victory in the Denton and Gorton election my right wing friends seem to be concentrating on attacking the party for its rather liberal drugs policy. Let me preface my comments by pointing out that I do not have skin in this game. I am not dependent on mind altering chemicals legal or illegal. I do however live in a town where chemical abuse, including legal alcohol , is obvious and linked to health issues and petty crime. The war on drugs seems to have been lost here.

Let's scroll back to 1996. We kept most of our boats at the Boat and Butty yard in Runcorn. The Boat and Butty was set up by the wonderful Peter Shrubsall, Shrubbie, and his partner Marion. Unfortunately Shrubbie died in about 1985. Marion carried on the business but did little more than call in every month to collect mooring fees.

Our boats were occupied  by young people who kept them afloat and formed a loose community.   After "Forget me Not"s launch in 1994 I moved there and lived on "Raymond". There were other people living there on their own boats, including Ginger.

Nobody really disliked Ginger but he was shuffled away to the far end of the moorings because of his need to stick needles in himself. His partner, Linda, had a similar need to fill herself with alcohol. I remember seeing her getting into a taxi to go for rehab. I have actually seen healthier looking corpses.

Ginger needed to be in Runcorn because it gave him easy access to the drug dependency unit in Widnes. This supplied most of his needs. Because of the War On Drugs it was closed down. The only way that Ginger could get what he needed was to engage in the retail trade for illegal substances. A continual stream of sad shuffling people started to call at Ginger's boat. Unoccupied boats on the moorings were broken into.

 Retailers need wholesalers, who arrived in a black BMW.

Ignorant of what was actually going on I challenged these people. They claimed to be plain clothes police but could not prove it.  I said that in that case I'd call the real police. They said that if I did that they'd kill me. I don't give in to threats so I rang the police. I asked them to be discreet. 

The police were soon there, sirens blaring. They leaped out of their car, truncheons drawn, shouting my name. Discreet I said. The BMW had gone.

Usually when someone says they're going to kill you they don't mean it literally. It was pointed out to me that these people probably did mean it. Being stubborn I stayed on, spending each night in a different place. The nice friendly community evaporated. Most people kept their heads down. There had been several drug related murders in Liverpool recently. One person started a campaign of vandalism against me, damaging my possessions. I believe that he sank "Raymond" while I was away. I later learned that he had been told to make the place safe for the drug dealers with threats against his daughter as an incentive.

All hell was let loose. The criminals ruled the boatyard and the police seemed happy to let it go on as long as only hairy hippy boat dwellers were affected. All night cars and motorbikes were coming and going providing a delivery service. 

The man who was damaging my property was actually in touch with someone well known, who I can't name but some people will be able to guess, who put it around the canal grapevine that I was funding the boats by drug dealing. If this had been true we might have them all restored by now.

We started making plans for moving our boats out of Runcorn. Luckily we'd been invited to move them to Portland Basin.

Suddenly things calmed down. I read in the local paper that 3 men from Kirkby had been arrested in Widnes outside an industrial unit. Inside the warehouse was the biggest indoor skunk growing farm busted up to that point. The 3 men were in a black BMW.

Friends of Raymond took over that boat. Sometime later I delivered some of her fittings to one of their members at Braunston. He opened his front door and, when I announced who I was, he took a step back and looked scared. I hate to think what he'd been told about me. Canal gossipmongers can do a lot of harm.

All the above happened because of the WAR ON DRUGS. It was similar when they banned alcohol in the USA. More people died of alcoholic poisoning, crime increased and the only people to benefit were the Mafia.

In my view the only political party with a sensible and responsible drugs policy is the Green party.

The political world is in complete turmoil at the moment. The two parties that have had the field to themselves throughout my lifetime are both deeply unpopular but we still have an undemocratic 'first past the post' electoral system which makes it possible for a party to take full power even though the majority hate them. We also have most of the "free" press owned by right wing billionaires, who also own the social media platforms. Add to this the avalanche of hate stirring AI generated memes from Russia and it's hardly surprising that the public space is so discordant. Rational debate is replaced by name calling and point scoring. People aren't listening to each other but trying to undermine each other.

At various times I've been a member of both the Green Party and the Labour party, and I haven't liked either, though my political sympathies lie in that red/green axis. 

People support particular political factions for all kinds of reasons, not all of them rational. It may be that they find a particular candidate attractive, or they have a hatred for a particular social group. It is often that a party represents their short term interests, or pretends to.

To me, the obvious starting point is to ask what sort of a society would I like to live in. Since you ask. I'll tell you!

First of all it has to be sustainable, globally. There's no point in living a perfect life, whatever that is, if it's going to lead to a population crash through global famine caused by climate breakdown. Even if we don't expect it to happen in our lifetimes, most of us care about the next generation. "Well, it'll see  me out" is the most irresponsible phrase I hear, and I hear it often. Frequently from people who have children who they profess to love!

From the above follows the need for fairness. As things stand most of the worlds resources, be they land, money or industrial facilities, are owned by a relatively small proportion of the global population. Whether they are the 1%, Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos et al, or just someone who owns agricultural land or a factory in Bangladesh, their income is derived passively from other people's efforts. The majority are trapped into working hard for somebody else in order to pay rent or a mortgage for somewhere to live and to buy food that they don't have time or space to grow for themselves.

Those who live by owning wealth have sometimes worked hard to attain that position, others have got there by lucky gambling but the vast majority have simply inherited wealth. Sometimes they've managed it well, sometimes not, but the fact remains that their comfortable lives rely on others having less comfortable lives.

Now, the status quo regarding wealth distribution may be alright if it was possible for everlasting economic growth to drag everyone out of poverty. The theory is that because the sum of wealth keeps inexorably increasing the eventually those who now work hard for a dollar a day or less will eventually drive SUVs and fly halfway round the planet for their holidays. By then, the owners of everything will be flying in private starships and enjoying their superyachts on the Martian canals. This is the theory of economic growth, but its pursuit has already run up against, or beyond, the capacity of our planet to sustain it. Most of the world's population still live in poverty.

In my view, we all need to live simply,so that others may simply live. That's not a message that most people want to hear. They have been trained to equate greater wealth with greater happiness, but it is not necessarily so.

In order for everyone to enjoy a comfortable life it will be necessary to redistribute the wealth, not just money but, in the words of the old Labour party, the means of production, distribution and exchange.

Clause 4 of the Labour party's constitution, so triumphantly expunged by Tony Blair and his pals, was often referred to as a nationalisation clause, but not necessarily so. There are many ways to skin a cat, if skinning cats is your thing. I am more of the Kropotkin/William Morris school of socialism rather than the Marxist/Leninist school. One of my more right wing friends insists on referring to me as his favourite communist. I know he means well, but it's highly inaccurate. Although the original Communist vision was one of liberation, I can think of little worse than the centralised bureaucratic nightmare that the Soviet Union became. Even worse is the unashamedly National Socialist surveilance state that the People's Republic of China has become.

In general, people of the left have a rosy view of human nature. Those on the right tend to believe that everyone is out for him/herself and continually in conflict with one another. Both are wrong, but often people feel the need to behave as though they are jungle dwellers because that belief is so widely promoted in our culture. In fact our species has only risen to prominence on our planet by its ability to co-operate and to devise rules to live by.

We all tend to assume that other people are pretty much like we are. In fact people vary widely. That's OK. If I need a brain surgeon I need someone with enormous specialised knowledge, very precise motor skills and a calm disposition. That's not me, but I can build them a very nice boat. Our different traits complement each other.

The difficulty comes with the 1% who lack compassion. This is to do with an undeveloped part of the brain. If treated well as children they often develop the ability to co-operate and find a suitable niche where they do good rather than harm. They often make good brain surgeons! If brought up in a dog eat dog culture they can become axe murderers, CEOs or dictators. Such people, commonly known as psychopaths, mostly lean to the right politically, but will actually adopt any ideology that they see as giving them a route to power. Mussolini began his political career as an anarchist.

Revolutions have a problem. Overthrowing the unjust system and replacing it with something better seems a good idea, but there is always resistance, often armed, from the status quo. To organise a fight the revolutionary group needs strong leadership. which is usually taken up by a psychopath, be it Napoleon, Lenin or Mao. These people develop a cult following that empowers their followers to behave without compassion and negate the original objectives of the revolution in order to keep the glorious leader in power. As the Chinese say, "he who fights the dragon becomes the dragon."

More peaceful transitions can also lose their way. Unfortunately the Labour party took their excellent clause 4 to mean Nationalisation, which is a very distant and indirect form of common ownership. In 1945 they had a once in a lifetime chance to change over to common ownership, but they blew it. Instead of giving core industries to the the workers they nationalised them, keeping the same boss/worker conflict and making them easy for the Tories to privatise again. I think the reason that the Labour party took the route of Nationalisation rather than worker ownership was that it retained well paid roles for powerful individuals and for trades unions, which would be redundant if the workers owned the company and elected the management.

My MP is Angela Rayner. She gets a lot of flak for everything she does. A lot of this is clearly mysoginistic or classist, relating to her humble beginnings. She's made  some mistakes regarding her slightly unconventional housing arrangements, but those who criticise her for this are actually experts at getting away with dodging tax. I like her, though I don't always agree with her.

Angela came up through the trades union movement which is, quite rightly, devoted to improving wages and conditions for workers. During her short period of access to the levers of power she got legal improvements to these things. These changes have been heavily criticised for making small businesses unviable. No mention is made of the fact that many small businesses are paying crippling rents to those who live by owning rather than by working. Often that rent money is being sent abroad and so is lost to our economy. The media never mentions the drag on our economy caused by high rents. Wages largely go back into the local economy.

Trades unions have been declining in influence throughout my lifetime. Essentially they are part of capitalism, a necessary voice for workers confronted by the immense power of capital. The problem is that capital is now global but unions are national. The bosses can say 'If you don't like it we can relocate to China". We need global trades unions to defeat global capital. The only one of these is the Wobblies  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Industrial_Workers_of_the_World who are seen as a threat by most unions, who seek compromise with capital rather than overthrowing it. The Wobblies are still active, and actually growing in Britain. https://iww.org.uk/

I feel that the current Labour Party leadership, with Morgan McSweeney as puppetmaster, have worked a con trick on the British public. The biggest threat to democracy and the well being of ordinary people are the handful of people who own so much of our planet's resources that they are actually wealthier than many nations. Our allegedly socialist leaders have done secret deals with them in order to gain limited power. Don't get me wrong. The Labour government are slowly sorting out the mess left by the Tories and will do better for ordinary people than their predecessors, but, they're not interested in tackling the ownership of resources. They're happy that the rest of us pay rent to the owners of everything rather than taking back ownership. Did you know that the pipes delivering gas to your house are largely owned by a Chinese billionaire. We get the crumbs left over after the tax free rents have been paid.

One of the things that I have learned about recently is the exsistence of cults in politics. Like most people, I used to see cults as things like the Moonies, The Scientologists or the Branch Davidians. In fact there are many unrecognised cults that play a huge and unhelpful part in politics. MAGA is an obvious one but they exist on the left as well as the right. How do you define a cult. Perhaps a good definition would be 'a set of beliefs held tenaciously even to the extent of denying or refusing to consider evidence to the contrary'. If Trump tells his followers that prices are going down they believe it, even if eggs are costing more. Along with cults goes the idea of a magic man. Someone who is infallible and goes against conventional thinking because he's such a genius. Brexit was a cult and Farage it's magic man. Devotees still will not acknowledge what a disaster it's been or that Farage is no more than a conman. Through Reform UK Ltd he's now leading another cult based on the fallacy of white English superiority.

I could never wholheartedly get behind Jeremy Corbyn. Corbynism got too cult like for me. I recall a vicious attack on Facebook by some Corbyn devotees of a rather vulnerable lady who dared to suggest that the Blair government did some good things. It did, and overall it was better than the Tories, but, by using PFI for almost everything we ended up paying more rent to global financiers. Jeremy Corbyn was an unlikely cult leader but the left made him one because they wanted a magic man who would solve everything. In fact he did not have the management skills to lead a darts club, ran a clueless election campaign and walked straight into the antisemitism trap set for him. I disliked his support for dictatorships, just because they were left wing, and could never understand his apparent fondness for obvious psychopath Vladimir Putin.

Today is the day of the Denton and Gorton byelection. It's a first past the post contest and currently Labour, Green and the Nazis , call a spade a spade, are pretty much level pegging. I live in the next door constituency with similar demographics. If I had a vote I would use it to support whoever was most likely to defeat the Nazi. It's hard to know who that is because the polls put them all so close. The danger is that the Nazi will get in with 1/3 of the vote, while 2/3 of the voters can't stand him. That's first past the post for you! In 1933 63% of voters did not support the National Socialist party. They didn't get the chance to vote again.

I worry about what the makeup of Tameside council will be after the May elections, I expect Labour to do badly. There are already some independent councillors, about whom I have mixed feelings.  Perhaps we'll get some Greens but, in view of the amount of casual racism locally I fear we could get an influx of Fascists.

I don't know if anyone has noticed but I've been rather quiet so  far this year. The Happy New Year greetings had barely faded into the void when I was struck down by nasty flu virus. Emuna was determined not to catch it so I was banished to the spare bedroom. She  gingerly pushed food and drink through the door and carefully disinfected anything that I'd touched.

By 7th January I was beginning to feel better. I was declared no longer a biohazard on the 8th and allowed to get up and do the washing up. I thought I'd return to work on the boats on the following day.

At about 1pm I suddenly decided to leave the washing up and go through into the living room. I forget why. As I walked through the dining room my right leg suddenly gave way. I grabbed a dining chair with my left arm to avoid falling on the floor. I soon realised that my right arm was limp and useless. It began to dawn on me that I was having a stroke.

Emuna was upstairs so I called her. The sound that came out of my mouth was unfamiliar to me. She came downstairs and I explained in my distorted voice that my arm and leg weren't working. I realised, to my horror, that I was dribbling.

Em said "I think you might be having a stroke". "Corse I'm avin a bloody sthroke" I blurted, "Geranambulance". Emuna dialed 999. The operator said she'd make me top priority but we may have to wait 50 minutes.

I was still clinging to a dining chair so Em fetched her wheelchair. Between us we managed to manoeuvre me into it.

The ambulance arrived in 15 minutes, along with 2 cheerful and efficient ambulancemen. They carried out the necessary checks to ensure  that I would survive the journey, then wheeled me up the ramp into the ambulance, still on Em's wheelchair. She followed on with her stick and we were all strapped in.

I'd never thought much about strokes. I'd imagined that my risk was pretty low. Here are two things I didn't know about them. For an older person like me the risk of one quadruples after a bout of flu. When you've had one your emotions become amplified and sometimes uncontrollable.

Emuna is good at humour, we share a sense of it. She tried to cheer me up. Consequently, as the ambulance rushed through traffic, sirens blaring, I was laughing fit to burst.

They took us to Stepping Hill hospital at Stockport, the main stroke facility in our area. I was rapidly wheeled through corridors. When we entered the stroke unit the staff immediately went into action. It was like a well ordered military operation. I was fitted with a canula, checked over, taken to have my head scanned, about time some would say, then, when the doctors were satisfied that they understood my condition, thrombolised. This is when they pump a cocktail of drugs into you via the canula to break up the blood clot and prevent further damage. The sooner this is done after a stroke the less damage is likely to occur. I was lucky. I later  met someone who had been lying on the floor for 2 days and 2 nights before he was found.

We were taken to a side room to await a bed allocation. The staff were clearly busy. One nurse said it was the busiest  day she could remember. We wondered if it was linked to the flu that had been going round, from which some patients were clearly still suffering. I was thirsty, but every time  I asked for a drink I was told they had to check that I could swallow first. Another thing I didn't know was that strokes often take away one's swallowing reflex. Food or drink will go straight into the lungs.

Eventually a nurse found enough time to check my swallow reflex, then make me a cup of coffee.

I was moved to a ward and started to remember how congenitally uncomfortable hospital beds are. Em had an adventurous bus journey home in a blizzard, including tentatively descending a long,dark, deserted and icy flight of stone steps when changing buses in central Stockport. Later that night I was moved to another ward and settled down for a restless night. The natural discomfort of the bed made worse by the fact that my right arm and leg were just immovable dead lumps of meat.

As I blinked into wakefulness after a fitful night's sleep I started to realise how lightly I'd been let off. Several people had tubes feeding them through their noses. Some were confused and would pull out their tubes, bleating constantly for water, which they couldn't have. On the second night a man came in who was so connfused that he thought the nurses were attacking him. The little movement I had in my leg meant that I could walk with two people supporting me. 

A big moustached South Asian man came to scrub me to within an inch of my life, He looked like he would be more at home riding a white charger across a desert wielding an immense bejewelled sword. 

The doctors on their rounds were like the United Nations. The head doctor reminded me of Henry Kissinger, partly his looks but particularly his East European accent. Other doctors included a very tall young Sikh, a beautiful Muslim woman wearing a hijab and a colourful dress and a smart young African man. Thank God for immigration.

I've heard it said by my more right wing friends that nurses spend lots of time drinking tea and chatting. I've never seen that. On the stroke wards they are rarely still. Their shifts are 12 hours and they rarely get a break from the constant demands of patients.

Hospital food is not wonderful, though, to be fair, it's improved since last time I was in. Nevertheless, there was still too much refined starch and sugar to be healthy. Em visited every other day. A friend started bringing her. She brought wholemeal sandwiches with tasty and healthy fillings, bagels, fruit and sugar free cake. I got visits from therapists, speech, occupational and physio. I was given tongue twisters to practice. I was taken for a walk the length of the ward.

I'd been promised a transfer to Tameside, nearer for Em. The problem was finding a bed, then finding an ambulance to take me. Suddenly, one night, two young ambulancewomen appeared at my bed to whisk me away. As we travelled I enjoyed intelligent conversation about life, the universe and everything with the young Northern Irish woman who sat in the back with me while her colleague drove.

At Tameside it was a similar routine. The man opposite me was pretty much totally paralysed, though he could eat if spoon fed. Others were nil by mouth and some were deeply confused. The daily doctors round was similarly diverse, though less colourful. Three of the chief nurses were little Indian women, so similar that they could have been sisters.

Each day I looked forward to physiotherapy. Very soon I was able to walk to the gym with a quad stick. I was soon moved to a room of my own. After one night I was moved back because someone came in who needed to be isolated because of an infection. After a few more nights I went back to the single room. It seems the infected patient, who was nil by mouth, had been crawling out of bed and trying to drink from the sink. I enjoyed having my own space where I could practice moving about without well meaning nurses intervening.

It was lovely having visitors, with one proviso. Having a stroke makes you tire easily. Having visitors is tiring. One day I had thee visitors. I enjoyed seeing them all, but I was shattered by the end of the day. I felt sorry for some people who had hordes of family visiting all day. I know that sounds ungrateful, but that's. how it is. 6 weeks after the stroke, I still have to conserve my energy.

At last, after about a month, I was released. I'm waiting for some rails to be fitted by the stairs but my walking has got good enough that I can carefully move around the house. My arm is making less progress but I'm confident that I'll get it back eventually.

I wonder how much this would have cost in America!

I've just finished reading The Breaking Wave by Ian Marchant. Ian was, apart from being a very excellent fellow, patron of the Wooden Canal Boat Society. The book was his final novel, published just a few weeks before he died from cancer. He had been determined to get it finished.

                         I'm not a great reader of fiction, though I suppose this is more Faction as it's based around actual events and actual characters in Ian's life. A couple of the characters echo aspects of himself. It's central theme is the re-creation of a band that broke up acrimoniously in the 80s. It finds the different characters from that band, now all living very different lives, and includes a romantic element. It would actually make a really good film. In the last few pages there are links to actual recordings of the band that inspired it. 

I was puzzled about musical genres though. Music is something that I don't know much about. I like it, almost any of it that stems from a genuine creative impulse rather than just the desire for wealth and fame. I don't have strong views, though I suppose I feel more comfortable with some genres than with others. My dad put me off classical music and, particularly opera, by constantly telling me that it was superior to the rock and pop that I liked as a kid. A childish sort of my music is better than your music game, akin to the Beatles v Dave Clark Five arguments that flourished in junior school. I was of the Beatles camp (and history proved me right). Nowadays I'm even beginning to warm to opera. 

As I lived most of my teenage years in the sixties I have a particular affection for the music of the time. I ceased to follow musical fashions when glam rock came along.  In the mid 70s the whole hippie vibe that had made the previous decade so wonderful was overturned by a a new youth subculture that seemed to love harshness, discord and spitting a lot, ie  punk! I hated it and all the NO FUTURE negativity that seemed to go with it. 

I knew Ian as a writer and entertainer. The only music that I observed him performing were comic pisstakes, along with his friend Chas Ambler under the name Your Dad.  I knew that Ian used to be in bands, but for some reason I thought they were punk bands. I'm not sure now what gave me that Idea. Perhaps early ones were, but The Breaking Wave, certainly wasn't. Possibly it was something that Ian said that gave me that Idea. I knew our musical tastes differed. His tastes were very clear cut while I could listen to almost anything (though I can't stand modern manufactured pop). Perhaps it was our age difference. He was 5 years younger than me, a big difference in younger times. Ian would have been about 17 when punk reared its ugly snarling blaspheming head. 

Anyway, I've referred to Ian having a punk past a couple of times recently, and now it occurs to me that that might be wrong. Perhaps someone who knew him as a young man would like to comment. 

The book is good and should be the basis of a film. Something like Four Weddings and a Funeral springs to mind.  It combines exploration of characters with a band movie theme, romance, an underlying tragedy but it would be a sort of feelgood film. Any film directors reading this?  

Read the book (but don't buy it from Amazon as Jeff Bezos already has enough money)  Sorry the photos aren't very good. 

I wasn't sure what to call this piece. My first thought was The Curse of Cassandra, closely followed by What's the F*****g Point.  I settled on a derivation of the phrase The Elephant in the Room. That seemed most appropriate because it's dealing with a subject that is so big and scary and bound to change our lives fundamentally that most people prefer to ignore it, or claim that it doesn't exist.

I must admit that I have a tendency towards depression. Some people will use that last sentence to dismiss all that I say, but no, there's a lot of factors behind my occasional mood disorders, one of them being a tendency to face and try to work my way through problems rather than shy away from them. Despair and depression come from an inability to find a solution. Kitten videos just don't work for me.

I woke up this morning full of things that I was going to do today, perhaps too many things, but my mind was also working away at apparently unsolvable problems. Strangely the last straw was to find that we'd run out of toilet paper, a very unusual problem as Em usually stocks up for about 6 months ahead. I could simply have gone to the corner shop to get some, but instead I lay down in the spare room and wrapped a duvet over my head.

Back in 1973 I had a job driving a little van for TV hire company Multibroadcast. My friend Geoff Monaghan also drove for them. I'd already pretty much rejected the usual path through life, career, mortgage, marriage, 2.4 kids etc and had my concerns about what our species was doing to our planet. I came across 2 things that underlined my concerns. One was the Club of Rome. Limits to Growth report, one of the first major computer modelling exercises that concluded that, unless our species controlled growth in population, pollution, energy use, etc etc, sooner or later everything would screw up and we would suffer a population crash. The other was that our species was churning out carbon dioxide into the atmosphere faster than the plants and oceans were absorbing it.

I told Geoff about this. He didn't believe me. I didn't know what the consequences would be but I could see that they wouldn't be good.

 The Limits to Growth  report was a warning. It should have been mailed to every person on the planet. Instead it was hardly mentioned in the media, dismissed, ridiculed and ignored. In the 50+ years since its publication the actual graphs of uncontrolled growth have closely followed the doompath projected by those old computers if we were to change nothing. 

Being aware of this, I've tried to live my life with a pretty low impact on our planet. Now, people may think this would make me miserable. I have admitted to a tendency to depression, but I believe that I would have that I would have that same tendency even if I lived in a mansion and travelled in a private jet. So many rich people I have met who live sad lives of tension and conflict in spite of, perhaps partly because of, their wealth. Happiness and contentment come from within, provided that you have the basic needs of life.

Some people may say that my efforts to live simply, so that others may simply live (Gandhi) were futile. Perhaps so, but at least I don't have being a big part of the problem on my conscience. 

Humans are good at solving problems. Remember the problem about fridges causing a depletion of the ozone layer that would cause us all to get skin cancer?  All the countries of the world got together to ban the offending refrigerants and replace them with something less harmful. The ozone hole is still there, but it's shrinking.

Remember acid rain killing Europe's forests? I recall being at a talk about acid rain. The lecturer pointed out that the first sign of acid rain damage was "a sudden outbreak of blindness among foresters", ie, they just didn't want to see it. That's an important observation. By international agreement coal fired power stations now have scrubbers to remove the offending chemicals from their chimneys. In Britain we no longer use coal for power generation anyway.

So, what's the big problem about tackling the climate crisis?   For most people it seems too big and its consequences too dire for them to dare to take their heads out of the sand. It also threatens their ambitions. Rich people want to get richer, poor people want to get rich and the destitute want, quite rightly, to stop being destitute. They're all in competition with each other and the fear is that, by stepping aside from that competition they'll slide back down to destitution again. This is particularly so in countries, even rich ones like the USA, with no viable support system for "losers" in the fight for wealth. 

Everyone is locked into a struggle for resources. As John Lennon put it, "There's room at the top they're telling you still, as long as you learn how to smile as you kill". Of course, for most people it's not as stark as that, but everyone knows that the people who 'get on in life' are often the ones who are good at networking and buttering up the boss. Yes, I know, working hard (or getting your staff to work hard) to get results helps too. The result of this is people wearing themselves out, mentally and/or physically to be cast aside when they can no longer perform.

The same thing happens between nations, trapping their citizens into a rat race and often fostering distrust and hatred of those living in other lands. I grew up during the Cold War. The Americans and the Russians were competing to build more nuclear warheads than the other, even though they could each end life on Earth several times over. During the Cuban missile crisis I was 8, and terrified of what was likely to happen. Happily, they pulled back from the brink and I've lived to be a septuagenarian. 

Some limited sanity in this area came along when Ronald Reagan watched a film called The Day After. This shows how getting out the true information rather than the propaganda can change things. Reagan's military top brass had been telling him that they could win a nuclear war, because their careers were boosted by him believing that. 

https://collider.com/the-day-after-ronald-reagan/

This conversion of Reagan led eventually to the SALT talks etc, scaling down each country's nuclear arsenal. However, a major factor in the Soviet Union agreeing to reductions was that it did not have the economic capacity to carry on competing militarily with the USA. Capitalism had shown itself to be capable of superior economic growth to the USSR's command economy (masquerading as socialism). 

Here's the big problem, which I don't have a solution for. Economic growth is bound to make our planet uninhabitable, but, our planet is divided into nations. If any nation eschews economic growth it will become less able to manufacture or purchase the latest weapons. Without the latest weapons that nation will become unable to deter and defend against aggressor nations. This is currently being demonstrated in Ukraine, where the greater resources of Russia has allowed it to gradually take over large parts of Ukraine, in spite of fierce and brave resistance. To many politicians, aware of the dog eat dog nature of international affairs, stopping economic growth would be suicidal, but so is carrying on with economic growth.

Strangely enough, Margaret Thatcher (who I despise) was one of the first major politicians to raise the issue.

Of course, then there's business. The rich want to keep on getting richer. They own the media and so control what information is shared with the rest of us. In the short term they can make more and more profits by selling us more and more stuff. They've got most people convinced that if they buy things that are bigger and better, if they fly away on holidays and cruises that are further and further away then they will become happy. Of course, to afford these things we'll have to work harder and harder (for them). In order to prevent change that may threaten their short term profits they pour vast amounts of funds into lobbying governments and promote online memes spreading disinformation about  what David Cameron famously referred to as "green crap". This has led to politicians consciously moving away from the very solutions that could save our collective bacon even though they clearly understand how vital a transition away from fossil fuels is.

I don't get it. Oil company bosses are not stupid, though they may be a bit crazy. They understand the science. They have children and grandchildren. Perhaps they think that somehow their wealth will protect them from mass extinction. Certainly it is rumoured that the world's richest person has a bunker in Alaska. Talking about crazy, he seems to live in a sort of Dan Dare version of reality where escape to Mars while the Earth boils is a possibility.

The climate crisis seems to have become the issue that dare not speak its name. Frustratingly it's become a political issue between left and right, with the right currently gaining traction.  I don't understand how atmospheric physics can possibly be a matter of political debate, any more than gravity or electrical conductivity can be. These are things established by scientific research and mathematical equations. I am clearly of the left, but like to maintain friendships among people of all political persuasions, as long as they're not actually promoting hatred. You may note that the two politicians that I have cited are right wing, but they accepted the evidence.

The most powerful person in the world claims to believe that climate change is a Chinese hoax, despite his own scientists having done much of the work on understanding it. It's a very personal thing. I have a friend who apparently understands the problem and lives a low impact life. He sometimes gets work on dairy farms and does not believe that bovine emissions are part of the problem, and yet the evidence is solid on this. Belief is a problem. I don't believe in belief. When someone says you just have to believe they mean that you should suspend all rational thought. I have friends who regularly fly, who drive everywhere, who go on cruises ( the absolute most polluting form of holiday) and yet I say nothing. Many of them understand the science but clearly think that somebody else should deal with the problem. How can I constantly be criticising my friends lifestyles. 

If I talk about climate change, particularly if I mention the need for immediate action, I'm seen as a Jeremiah, a spoilsport, a party pooper etc, and yet, how can I not talk about it when it hangs above us like a tidal wave about to break and wash away our secure and comfortable lives. The dinosaurs didn't know the meteorite was coming. We know what's happening, but choose to pretend otherwise.

I plant trees, partly to replace the ones I use, partly to absorb a bit of carbon. I wonder what the point is. Probably they'll die in a catastrophic drought or get burned in a forest fire, but I have to hope that my little bit will help.

I just found this article lurking in the deep crevices of my computer. I think I wrote it for Waterways World but i don't think it ever got published. At the time Forget me Not had no engine so Southam  was towing her as well as Lilith. 

I miss the recycling trips, I think a lot of people do. Unfortunately they had to stop because of covid and it's not been possible to re-start them. Nowadays we are having to turn donations away at the door of the charity shop sometimes. i think this is because so many similar shops have closed for lack of volunteers. 

“Southam”s fore end was now crammed with people. Someone had taken the
initiative to make tea for the masses. It was time to get people organised.
Sitting on “Southam”s roof I gave the obligatory safety talk, then selected
people to steer “Forget me Not” and “Lilith” (which were to be towed) and
work various lines as we set off. People moved to their action stations and I
went to “Southam”s engine room to fire up her huge old BMC Commodore.
I suddenly remembered the cat. Celebrity canal cat Captain Kit Crewbucket

had been following me around and trying to trip me up since I arrived. He
wanted his breakfast, but, had I fed him earlier he would have then gone to
sleep in one of the boats, only to wake up in a strange place, panic and
potentially disappear into the bushes. I picked out a sachet of catfood and
squeezed it out on to his dish, before giving last minute instructions to the
crews, untying “Southam” and putting her into forward gear.
The propeller stirred black mud and white carrier bags from the depths of the
arm as it pushed the boat forward then, as soon as she was into the main
canal, I engaged sterngear to avoid hitting the other bank. Moving the gear
lever to neutral position, I walked up the roof and used the shaft to swing the
bow to face in the right direction. “Southam” is very good at towing, having a
powerful engine, but, being a motorised butty, her manouverability is limited.
With the stern against “Forget me Not”s bow I take her line and shout “OK,
untie everything” to the boat crews before taking a turn on the T stud and,
with one hand holding the line and the other holding the tiller, I use my foot to
push the gear rod forward, a little grunt from the engine acknowledging that it
is properly engaged. As “Southam” moves forward I slip the towing line to
accellerate “Forget me Not” without a snatch. As she starts to move someone
walks back along her length with “Lilith”s line. As they hand it to the steerer I
move the gear rod to neutral and drift while they tie it on to the dollies. As the
steerer stands up and “Lilith”s line tautens I engage gear again and the boats
straighten into a line along the canal and past the new flats. The boats follow
dutifully as “Southam” swings round the first turn to enter the narrow confines
of Walk bridge.

It was busy at the boatyard. It's been quiet there for a while as Dave has to spend more time looking after his wife and Kim is sometimes away at his Spanish casa. I've been struggling to get the place sorted for ages, slowly but carefully getting stuff organised, weighed in or sold. Now Tony has got involved with this and I know he's frustrated by my careful sorting of everything. He's done a great job sorting out the non ferrous metals though. We just need the van back on the road so that we can weigh it all in. 

After a bit of a mix up about dates and times Geraldine and Helen showed up. I had planned to ask them to sort out nuts and bolts and screws but, as time had passed, they got on with cutting up all the brash from the foliage clearance and putting it into bulk bags. Dave has been repairing a stove and Kim was processing reclaimed wood for various jobs and painting Forget me Not's deck boards

There seems to be some progress on getting our mooring arranged with CRT at last. We seem to have a bit of a team working on it, including a civil engineer. The big problem has been that they just keep coming up with hoops that are very hard to jump through if you don't speak civil engineerese. 

MOT time for the charity's van is always a bit of a worry. Big vans are expensive even when they are quite old, but so are repairs. Repairs are getting particularly tricky as vehicles get increasingly complicated and full of electronics. Our Transit is 17 years old and it's little electronic brain had a nervous breakdown long before we got it. It has about 180,000 miles on the clock

We've had the van for 2 years, and it's due for its second MOT in our ownership. Last year I took it to a chap in deepest Lancashire who often does repairs for us. He doesn't rip us off and he does a good job. I asked him to get it MOT'd. It had a few minor issues which he dealt with, no problem!  

I thought I'd do the same this year. I drove it to the relevant place and left it in our mechanic friend's capable hands. Next day he phoned me with a long list of faults, lots of welding needed, there was an oil leak that would involve dismantling the engine to fit new oil seals and it had failed on emissions. Emissions is a big one. Worn old diesels get dirty and it's very difficult and costly to get them to run clean again.

I contacted our trustees to explain that we were going to have to spend a few thousand pounds on a replacement van, then got a bus to the little Lancashire town to pick up the vehicle. 

When I saw the fail sheet from the MOT station I began to wonder. The oil leak was an advisory, not a fail. It had actually had that leak as an advisory on the last two MOTs and it hadn't got any worse. I wondered if the engine had been properly warmed up. Cold engines are smoky and it pays to have a good drive round before an MOT.

Next day I called at a local MOT station that I've used before and explained my dilemma. They told me to come back in an hour and they'd do an emissions test. I drove about to get the engine warmed up and lo, the engine did pass.

My conclusion is that our mechanic friend in deepest Lancashire had simply driven the short distance to the MOT centre and had it tested with it's engine still fairly cold. He then bigged up the faults, I suspect because he didn't fancy doing the welding. I don't blame him. It's not a job I've ever done, or ever wanted to do. Grinding out rusty metal with bits falling on you, then welding in new metal in awkward corners, with hot bits falling on you, doesn't really appeal. I'd rather be pecking wood.

Of course, passing an unofficial emissions test doesn't get us an MOT. All the other faults need to be rectified, but, if we know it can pass on emissions then they're worth doing. 

I took the van to see Canis. Our new trustee rejoices in the handle of Canis Fortunatis, latin for Lucky Dog. He has long experience of vehicle repairs and seems to revel in rejuvenating rustbuckets. He had a look under the van at the faults noted on the MOT sheet and declared them perfectly repairable. Today I delivered the van to him loaded with likely bits of metal from the boatyard and a bottle of CO2/Argon mix for his mig welder. I backed the van on to his ramps then cycled home from Chadderton. Fingers crossed for a successful MOT test sometime soon.

The van is a vital tool for the WCBS. We use it most days for ferrying stuff between the boatyard and Portland Basin and it's essential for our charity shop, collecting and delivering furniture etc. We could do with more van driving volunteers, especially for shop deliveries and collections. Don't worry if you're unable to carry furniture. We have a couple of hefty lads to do the hard work, we just need drivers.

                                                        Any offers?

                                                                             Let me know.

Yesterday there was a terrorist attack on a synagogue in a suburb of Manchester. Two men, plus the perpetrator, died. Others are seriously injured in hospital. The media, quite rightly, are full of condemnation of the atrocity. They talk of an upsurge in antisemitism. I saw a video where a young Jewish man claimed that it was all Keir Starmer's fault for recognising Palestine, which he saw as an act of antisemitism in itself.

I must admit that I've been going off Keir Starmer, but he seems to be the current scapegoat for everything, including the failings of his predecessors.

I don't know how many civilians in Gaza died yesterday. The total since October 7th 2023 is over 66,000. Some put it higher. The average is about 91 per day. Lets say it was 91. 

Stalin once said "One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic". Stalin was a psychopath. 

The three deaths in Manchester yesterday were tragedies. They left grieving friends and relatives. I very much doubt that the perpetrator will be met in Paradise by 72 fawning virgins. 

Are the 91 who died from hunger, bombs and bullets in Gaza yesterday merely statistics. I suppose if you polish off the whole family at least there's no-one left to grieve!

I imagine the man who carried out this attack was motivated by the genocide (call a spade a spade) in Gaza. How he came to imagine that killing some Mancunian Jews would change anything is beyond me. 

How did all this hatred between Jews and Palestinians start? Well, after the right wing genocide of Jews in Europe, survivors sought a Jewish homeland and, based on a vague declaration by Lord Balfour, they headed for their ancient homeland of Palestine. Their ancestors had been ejected from here by the Romans after a rebellion. Since then, Jews had lived in many lands and faced much persecution. The wish to set up their own state in their ancestral land, which was reluctantly administered by the British,was understandable. 

Just one problem! The land was already settled by people whose title deeds were granted by the Ottoman Empire, who ruled here pre- 1918. 

To be honest, no-one came out of the establishment of Israel in 1948 with a lot of moral credit. Jewish terrorists and militias had already been fighting the British, who basically gave up on refereeing the conflict.  To quote Leon Rosselson  (who is Jewish) "By theft and murder they took the land, now everywhere the walls spring up at their command".  750,000 Palestinians were ejected from their homes and land. They call it the Nakba, which translates as catastrophe. You can understand them being pissed off!

Over the years more wars have happened between Israel and the Palestinians, sometimes supported by surrounding Arab states. Israel has the apparently unlimited support of the world's greatest military power, the USA. The electoral make up of that country makes it almost impossible for a president to get elected without the Jewish vote.

After the war of 1967, Israel essentially had control of the whole area. Some parts were occupied but not officially annexed by Israel. Instead, they allowed settlers to illegally, according to international law, take land for themselves. The old Ottoman title deeds were seen as invalid. A friend of mine went and worked in one of these settlements in the 1980s. He told me that the life of a Palestinian was regarded as "not worth a light". 

Foolishly, in my view, Palestinians have tried to fight back with violence. Sometimes this is kids throwing stones at soldiers, and getting bullets in return. Suicide bombers, knife attackers, plane hijackers, home made rocket launches or, as on October 7th 2023, a large scale attack on civilians and taking of hostages. 

In order to have a war you need to dehumanise your enemy. You have to portray them as demons with no redeeming human characteristics. The man who wielded the knife at the Manchester Synagogue was not thinking he was killing people with friends and lovers and families. He was thinking he was ridding the world of vermin. The same dehumanisation takes place when Israeli fighters shell schools and hospitals.

The old testament lays down the rule of "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth". In other words, revenge should never be disproportionate. The attack of October 7th was awful and dastardly and wrong, even if it wasn't as extreme as the Israeli media machine has made out. The response has been far more than an eye for an eye. Jesus said turn the other cheek. Gandhi said "an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind".

It has to stop!  The Palestinians have to have their own land where they can live peacefully, but to do that they have to accept that the state of Israel is a reality that will not go away. Violence against it is futile as it is now a great military power (they have an 'iron dome' missile defence system that our islands lack). Israel has to accept that most of the world finds its behaviour towards Palestinians repugnant. Their genocide in Gaza has been the greatest spur to antisemitism in my lifetime. It has to withdraw to its 1967 borders, close down the illegal settlements and help to rebuild the massive infrastructure destruction that it has carried out in Gaza.

How this can come about I don't know. Recognising Palestine and condemning the genocide for what it is is a first step. Some in the Israeli government actually believe that God has promised them the whole of Judea and Samaria of old testament days. Israeli citizens and Jews around the world need to understand that the recent actions of Israel have made it a pariah state, rather like apartheid South Africa. 

I recall that the IRA started negotiating after their own supporters were horrified by the killing of two children in Warrington and the noble reaching out to them by the father of one of them. Perhaps, just perhaps, all this psychopathic killing will spur on both sides to come together and find a solution. Both sides are made up of human beings, even if their leaders seem to lack any kind of human decency.

I like diversity. I don't see why some people have a problem with it. 

There used to be a takeaway in Ashton run by an elderly man from Pakistan. I used to like going in there for a kebab or a bhuna. In the evenings, between customers, he would sit with his friend, who wore more traditional clothing, watching Pakistani TV. As I waited for my food I would lean over the counter to watch the TV too, trying to work out what was going on as I don't understand urdu. Occasionally one of the men would make a derogatory comment about one of the politicians in the news. 

One evening as I waited the friend became animated. He stood up to leave, turned to me  and said "why people tell me go home back where I come from? I serve 20 years in British army. My father served in British army. My grandfather and my great grandfather serve in British army. We risk our lives for this country and yet these people who do nothing say this is not my home". 

I don't know what prompted that outburst. Presumably he had encountered some racist abuse. 

One evening I was waiting for my meal when a white man of perhaps 40 came into the shop. He wore shorts and a T shirt, had a slight belly, short hair and a ruddy face. You could sum up his appearance with the word gammon, though he bore no flags. To my surprise he ducked under the counter and went into the kitchen where he was greeted fondly by the old man. After a while the young man left. The proprietor of the shop smiled as he handed me my meal and said proudly "my son in law".

Just to add to the diversity. for a long time the shop displayed a poster for a local Hindu guru.

Recently a disabled septuagenarian went out for lunch in Ashton with a much younger friend. The old lady's skin is white, her friend's skin is black. They went to an excellent cafe on Penny Meadow which is run by the daughter of Pakistani immigrants. You can get Asian food there or you can get English food, and the cakes are delicious. The full English breakfast is served with turkey rashers rather than bacon to ease dietary sensibilities. 

After they had eaten the two women made their way down to the marketplace, mostly fenced off for construction works. The older lady was limping and pushing the wheelchair that she sometimes needs to sit in. 

As they passed MacDonalds a man with two fighting dogs on leads started shouting at a Muslim family. The woman was wearing a hijab, which seems to rile some people. The shouting man clearly was under the illusion that the family had recently arrived by boat and had been given a house for free, whereas he was homeless. He kept shouting EDL, EDL, EDL. 

Most people were very British about it (don't get involved) and pretended nothing was happening. The old white lady (herself the great grandchild of economic migrants) had a good anti fascist upbringing from her mother and a Jewish headmaster. She knew not to turn a blind eye, so she took out her 'phone and started to video the incident. The Asian family left and the noisy man turned his attention to the two ladies. He wasn't so bothered by the white woman, but turned his venom on her young black friend. His prejudices told him that she too had arrived on a rubber dinghy and was a burden on the taxpayer. He kept shouting that there was going to be a civil war.

Terrified by the dogs the young woman ran into a shop, followed by her hobbling older friend. Two big Asian lads barred entry to the troublemaker and, being unable to carry on bullying, he went away. 

The young black woman works as a carer, looking after disabled people. She used to often take her clients out for a coffee in Ashton town centre. Now she says she is afraid to go there. 

I like Ashton. I wasn't born here. I'm a foreigner from Warwickshire. I choose to live here. In my daily activities I meet people of virtually all races and all religions. I like this. In all races and all religions there are lots of good people, and a few complete tossers. Sadly, it's often the tossers who get noticed.  Of all the white people on the market that day the most noticeable one was the nasty, loud, bullying dog man. Sometimes I ask people about their backgrounds. It's interesting. The other day I was serving an Iranian woman in the shop. If she was in Iran she would have to comply with a strict dress code. Here she can wear what she likes. She says she is lucky that people think she is Spanish (that doesn't have the stigma of refugee).

They say that if you don't learn from history you are doomed to repeat it. 

After the great war the population of defeated Germany felt humiliated. They thought they'd been cheated. In 1917 the Russians made peace and handed over huge areas of land. Early in 1918 German troops made a huge advance into France, only to be overrun later in the year. There were good military reasons for this, but to most people it was a puzzle. How could that happen? 

The victors of that war imposed crippling reparations payments. The currency collapsed. There was mass unemployment. It must be somebody's fault!

A charismatic orator came along. He wasn't too worried about what was true, only about what would stir people up to violence. He said he could make Germany great again. He said the people's troubles were all the fault of the Jews. They were parasites leaching on and betraying the good German people. He encouraged people to attack Jewish property. 

Hatred suddenly became socially acceptable.

Those who stood up for decency were pilloried. Most kept quiet. People quietly dropped their Jewish friends. The great leader's  party won an election. Killing Jews became government policy.

It didn't end well for the gentiles or the Jews!  Millions died and the great leader ended up killing himself in a bunker surrounded by Soviet troops.

You may think I'm exaggerating the dangers.

                                                                           I'm not. 

People keep asking me when Hazel will be back in service. I had hoped by the end of the month, but, with only a week to go that's looking a bit unlikely. People wonder why it's taking so long. Here's my excuses.

1)   I keep being diverted on to other tasks. It would be nice if there were more volunteers to do the other tasks. It would be even nicer if they were self organising volunteers. A lot of the time I end up spending more time explaining how to do a job, finding tools and materials and checking its being done properly than it would take me to do it myself. I'm also still spending a day every week running the shop so that Christine can have a much needed day off.

2) I'm doing the job properly and carefully. The electrical cupboard was rather thrown together when it was first made as we were under pressure to get the boat into service. Whilst getting the boat back into service is important now, I intend the work that I'm doing to outlast me. I reckon that Hazel will need a comprehensive renovation sometime around 2045. It should last until then. It's conceivable that I'll still be around then, aged 92, but I won't be doing much boatbuilding.

3) I'm insisting on having a day off every week. Well, sort of. I've chosen Wednesday, so that I can attend Latihan, but most Wednesdays I seem to spend catching up with office work and writing.

4)  I put a brave face on it but I'm still not very well. I get tired easily. I put it down to Long Covid. Whatever it is, it's a blasted nuisance.

Anyway, having got my excuses in first, what have we been doing? Nessie has largely repainted the interior. Currently he's putting trims round the windows where we've bulked up the insulation (because of hot summers rather than cold winters). The trim is made of strips of copper cut from an old hot water tank that was donated as scrap. The extended central heating is nearly ready to be tested. The LiFePo batteries are now charging off the sun and running all the electrics. I'm just finishing off the woodwork around the electricity cupboard, which will now include shelf space for tools etc, and more accessible fuses, switches etc. 

The windows.

The electrical cupboard.

I haven't been posting much because, well, nothing very exciting has happened. I've been plodding away at repairs and improvements to Hazel. Just lately this has mostly been in the electrical cupboard. This is under the foredeck and it's where the batteries and all the fuses and switches go. I was never very happy with it as the woodwork was rather thrown together (under pressure to get the boat finished) and the fuses etc were very inaccessible. The need to replace the batteries gave an excuse to rip it all out and do it better.

The new LiFePo batteries are now installed and charging nicely off the solar panels. The switches and fuses etc are being re-fitted in a much more ergonomic manner. There will actually be more storage space inside the cupboard too. 

Joe the Tree Surgeon has finished docking his boat Benevolence  at Guide Bridge and has tied her next to Hazel while he returns to Cumbria where he has work. He's looking to base himself aboard Benevolence  half the time and try to get work around Greater Manchester. 

Joe the tree feller bought himself a wooden narrow boat called Benevolence. She was built in 1938 by Nursers of Braunston for John Green of Macclesfield. In the 1980s my late friend Martin Cox was given the Keay Award for his work on her, but, since then, she's been rather neglected. Joe brought her from Oxford to Ashton, narrowly missing getting stranded by the breach at Bosley.

This week Benevolence has been on dock at Ashton Packet Boats. Joe said he was just going to have a look, put some patches on leaky bits and measure up for future replanking. Instead he ripped out a substantial length of rotten plank. I wondered if he was going to be ready for launching on Saturday, but, today he let in a substantial length of temporary pine plank. He's still cutting it fine, but Joe is a grafter! 

When he gets back to his native Cumbria, Joe will be looking out for some nice big oak trees that need felling. 

Once upon a time Lancashire was packed with cotton mills. Each one had a huge steam engine to drive the looms via cotton ropes and line shafting. One of the main traffics of the Ashton canal was short distance runs of coal from local pits to feed the boilers of the mills that lined it's banks. Tropical plants grew in the water because of the amount of hot water flowing out of the mills. 

In the 1950s and 60s, one by one, they closed down.  Amazingly, in the deepest Lancashire village of Haslingden one survived in production, steam powered, up until 1979. The engine and one of the weaving sheds are still there and are being restored and developed as a museum. Yesterday I paid it a visit. The weaving shed wasn't open but I got to see the magnificent mil engine and the exhibition of bikes, cars and smaller steam and internal combustion engines .It's not a highly polished professionally presented museum but a reflection of the volunteer's love of old engineering. I rather like that. It's only open once a month, but well worth a visit.  Here's some pictures.

I've just come across some photos of Southam  on a recycling trip in summer 2012. Work on resurrecting her is currently paused while we concentrate on Hazel,  but will soon resume. 

Sorry! I'm afraid I haven't been posting much lately. To be honest, I've been a bit down and depressed. Usually irrepressibly optimistic, all I've been able to see is all the things that are wrong, starting with me, not having the energy that I used to have, and going out into the whole world, which seems to be increasingly run by psychopaths intent on destroying eveyrthing that is beautiful.

While my pessimism may be, as pesseimists always claim, mere realism, staying in that mindset is counter productive. You drive all the positive people away and find yourself surrounded with Eeyors. 

Nevertheless, we've been making good use of the sunny weather to get on with work on the boats. 

Work started on fitting Southam's  missing top strake.

We started boarding Southam's  Conversion.

Tony and Nessie got the plank fitted.

Unfortunately further stripping uncovered more problems with the conversion.

Tony has mostly been working on Forget me Not, particularly painting.

The sitting room window had been leaking on Hazel  so that was taken out and refitted.

Joe the tree surgeon moved his boat Benevolence  to Knowl St, Stalybridge. He winded above lock 7 and backed the rest of the way to the boatyard.

The electricity cupboard under Hazel's foredeck had to be stripped out. The wood was deteriorating and has to be replaced and the main batteries need renewing after 10 years. The opportunity is being taken to make it a bit more ergonomic as the switches and fuses used to be very inaccessible.

Nessie set to work removing the cabinside by the bathroom as some of the wood was getting soft. 

The side bedroom window had been refitted and well sealed. Extra insulation was added to the inside. 

The old AGM batteries had lasted well. They were removed from the boat to be replaced by LiFePo batteries.

The gaping hole in the side of the bathroom was a bit of a surprise for Helen when she came to stay.

But it's now been filled in.

About every 3 months we run a short trip so that a man with a long squirty pole can clean the windows at Cavendish Mill, which is now flats. There's no towpath access since the retaining wall started to collapse in 2002. Since then CRT (previously BWB) and Tameside council have been arguing about who should pay to repair it. For the most recent trip, on Thursday, John Tickner came to take some of his excellent photos. As the gearbox is stil not quite ready I had to shaft the boat there and back.

On this occasion, Matt, the window cleaner, forgot to turn on a valve in his van, so I had to climb out over a spiky fence to turn it on for him. I'm not complaining but it may occur to some people that it was the 72 year old cancer survivor who did the climbing. Anyway, here's John's photos. They're his copyright.

Emuna alerted me to the fact that a traditional Pace Egging play was to be performed at Heptonstall on Good Friday. "Let's go" I said, so we set out over the Pennines, passports at the ready, into Yorkshire. For those who don't know about pace egging, let me explain that it's a form of messing about in silly costumes that goes back into the sands of time.

https://www.timetravel-britain.com/articles/history/pace-egging.shtml

On our way we stopped at Todmorden, another lovely stone town, for coffee and cake. This turned out to be a mistake, though the coffee and cake were nice.

        We're taking a break on work on Southam to get Hazel ready for the summer. There's a motorway bridge that makes excellent shelter for working on cabins, painting etc at Guide Bridge. We moved Hazel there so that we could work on the cabin.

Unfortunately, a day or two beforehand the pump on the central heating failed. I ordered two replacements, one as spare so that I could do a quick change if another failed. I get them from a company called Solar Project in Lancashire. https://solarproject.co.uk/  . I used to use Chinese made pumps which were about half the price, but noisy and used twice the amount of electricity. I was a bit disappointed that this one had only lasted two years though.

The pumps arrived and I fitted one, but struggled with leaks. Nessie fixed the leaks the following day. The downside of being under the bridge is that we need boatsitters every night to make sure nobody messes with the boat or our tools etc. Helen Kanes stayed for a couple of nights which was very helpful.

Part of the reason for staying under the bridge is the anticipated visit of Kira to repaint the name on Hazel's  stern. She arrived on 25th March and immediately set to work. Like many of our volunteers, Kira is camera shy, so only her reverse side appears in the photos!

Life was getting complicated. We're short staffed at the shop after Mike left (he got a job driving executives around in posh cars (he says), but it always seems to be at night, Mona Lisa springs to mind). Anyway, the upshot is that I have to run the shop one day a week and do deliveries in the van another day.

Joe Hodgson is a tree surgeon from Cumbria. He helped us to get some of the oak for rejuvenating Hazel . Since then he's been trying to get established on the cut. After several false starts he bought the 1938 built Nurser motor Benevolence from Oxford. After a journey of several months, including sinking once and getting held up by stoppages, he finally arrived.

Benevolence seems to be pretty good but has an iffy plank on the waterline (hence the sinking). She had lots of work done on her in the 1980s by Martin Cox. If I remember rightly, Martin was ousted from the job by others who offered to do it cheaper. Being a generous spirited person, however, he told me they'd done a good job.

Joe had to return to Cumbria, but he left me the code to the lock and permission to use the boat for towing.

Battery technology has moved on and the replacements are Lithium Iron Phosphate batteries (LiFePo). These have the advantages of lithium but without the risk of thermal runaway (which is a posh name for fire). We have to extract the old batteries, which will probably have further use on Southam, then insert the new ones and rebuild the woodwork around them, making it all rather more ergonomic (and properly sealed). Most of the wood used will be reclaimed mahogany rather than T&G. At present, changing a fuse or checking the state of charge is very awkward, so that needs to change,

One problem with being under the bridge is that if we need to work on the other side of the boat we have to take her to the winding hole, wind, then bring her back. One day, when I was working at the Knowl St boatyard, I asked Nessie and Aaron to do this. As Aaron shafted the boat under Hanover St bridge on the return trip, Nessie noticed that somebody was throwing our stuff into the canal. He made a death defying leap to the bank and ran round to confront the culprit, a man in his forties.

Nessie is no stranger to physical confrontation. He met the man at the top of the steep wooded slope that leads down to the canal side. He er, persuaded, the fellow to return to the scene of the crime and help to bring back our power tools and firewood from the bramble bushes where he'd stashed them. The man claimed that two others had run off with our generator (the good solid old fashioned one).

Over the decades Nessie has learned to moderate his anger, and so the man lived to steal another day. It was tempting to tie him up and throw him in the brambles,  but, aware that false imprisonment is a serious offence, he was let go. It was then that Nessie spotted some yellow metal lurking in the water and managed to fish out the generator.

I stayed on the boat that night but, the following night, the boatsitter, hearing of the aforementioned incident, decided not to stay "in case he came back". I had to go there at short notice.

On Wednesday April 2nd I spent most of the day meeting potential new volunteers before returning to Hazel to boatsit. I cooked myself a nice meal then just fell asleep, exhausted. April 2nd 2025 would also have been the 40th birthday of my son Dylan. I had intended to spend a little time sitting in the woods remembering his short life, but it didn't happen.

Now, all the boats are back at Portland Basin. I have so many jobs on the go that I don't know whether I'm coming or going. I think some people imagine that when they can't see me I'm at home with my feet up. Chance would be a fine thing!

When you live and work on and around the water you always have an awareness of rats. Long long ago when I was living on Forget me Not on the bank at Guide Bridge I had a long term battle with the rodents. I used poison to begin with. A terrible smell developed in my cabin, which I eventually traced to the decomposing remains of a poisoned rat that had crawled under my bed to take its final breaths. When I saw a rat dying from poison I resolved never to use it again. I don't like rats, but I've no wish to see them suffer like that. I decided that using traditional traps that rapidly smack them over the head was preferable, I despatched many in this way, but each one left the raiding rights to my cabin to a relative in its will.

When I first became romantically involved with Emuna I was living in the monstrosity of a back cabin built by a previous owner. For insulation I had lined it with old carpet. The first time she stayed over, in the middle of the night, I heard a rat scrabbling about between the carpet and the roof and started punching the carpet to get rid of it. After that, if I wanted to spend time with her, I had to cycle over to her flat in Royton!

At Portland Basin we've never really had much of a rodent problem. For many years Captain Kit Crewbucket, our resident cat, saw to that. We sometimes have had a problem with mink. Tackling one of these once resulted in Kit having an expensive trip to the vets. Since the Captain moved to Emuna's home for aged cats, and later on to pussycat heaven, we did have some of the vermin living in a brick shed on the wharf. They didn't stray on to the boats and were dealt with by the council.

Wherever I go I like to grow some of my own food. In recent years I've been growing potatoes in upturned road cones at the boatyard. To facilitate this I take all our kitchen waste there for composting. For many years the boatyard has been the happy hunting ground of many local felines. In fact, whenever I entered the yard they stared indignantly at me as if I were trespassing. Just lately they seem to have disappeared. I know some of their elderly "owners" (nobody owns a cat) have died. Possibly surviving cats have been rehomed.

This has caused a problem. My compost bins have turned into rodent feeding stations. I bought some rat traps, but these rats seem to be wise to these. I think they've learned to use a stick to spring the trap before enjoying the bait. I was at a loss to know what to do, but, suddenly, all evidence of rodent activity ceased. Today I discovered why. Basking in the sun on the roof of the woodstore was a fine big tomcat. I've no idea where he lives, but, I'm going to encourage him to spend time in the boatyard.

Apparently this week is Long Covid Week. The idea is to raise awareness but it looks like the activists are too knackered to do anything.

The only reason I know about it is that someone rang Any Answers on Radio 4 to raise concerns about how the government's targeting of the post pandemic long term sick would affect Long Covid sufferers. The big problem is, when you're knackered all the time and find it hard to get active, it's all too easy to be written off as a lazy bastard. This is particularly galling when you're actually feeling really frustrated by your inability to get anything done, I feel like I'm a lazy bastard if I don't get out every day and do a bit on the boats. Luckily I'm past the age when I'm expected to earn my keep. As far as I know, the government has no plans to cut my pension, but I feel like I'm being lazy, and letting people down, if I don't do my bit.

I don't even know for certain if I have Long Covid, or even if I had Covid. My conspiracy minded friends say I have vaccine damage, but then, some of them don't even believe that viruses exist (well, I've never seen one!)

Starting in 2018 I had to have 2 years hormone therapy to combat prostate cancer. This leached the testosterone out of my body. making me feel a lot weaker and short of stamina than previously. Prior to that I used to enjoy bowhauling a butty through a flight of locks when people half my age struggled to haul a single pound.

Just as the pandemic was starting in early 2020 both me and Emuna had something. We don't know it was Covid because there was no testing, but it probably was. It actually wasn't too bad. I had my final hormone injection in the spring of 2020 and through the summer I was looking forward to getting my energy back. It didn't come.

While I've never been super athletic, running marathons etc, I used to be pretty fit. I walked tremendous distances exploring the hills. I would cycle 100+ miles in a day. Now, the mile from Portland Basin to our house had become a daunting walk and, while I still cycled, my range was down to a few miles and I struggled with the smallest hills

Other symptoms persisted, aches and pains, getting out of breath, tinnitus, brain fog to the extent that some people started saying I had dementia. It comes and goes. Sometimes I think it has gone away, only for it to come back and hit me again. Sometimes people suggest it's my age. Now, fair enough, I can't expect to be able to do things I did when I was 25, but I don't think this is to do with age particularly. There are too many odd symptoms.

Today has been a really difficult day. It actually started with a really nice dream in which I had a load of problems but people rallied round to help, unasked. I hope that was predictive as I'm feeling in need of help right now. I struggled to get out of bed and was aching all over. I took most of the morning to have my breakfast and send a few messages on Facebook. About 11 I went to the boatyard and cut a bit of firewood, but I couldn't seem to get much useful done. As I hadn't made myself any butties I decided to go home for my dinner. Emuna was busy cooking and so restricting access to the kitchen. I lay down to read the excellent book she gave me for my birthday (Tales from the Tillerman by Steve Haywood). I was actually too tired to read much. I fell asleep for several hours.

It's now ten past six and I'm awake again, but feeling I've wasted a day. I think I'll carry on with that book, if I can remember where I've put it!

Having been on Earth for 72 years I decided to have 2 days off for my birthday. On Sunday I opted to go for a ride on the Keighley & Worth Valley Railway over in Yorkshire. Unfortunately Emuna was having a relapse from her ME so couldn't have a full day out. I could have gone on my own, but I enjoy it more if I'm with someone likeable, so I invited Helen Kanes who loves steam trains and is good company.

We caught a 409 bus from Ashton to Rochdale, then got a train to Hebden Bridge. I like Hebden Bridge. It's one of those places where strangers smile and start pleasant conversations with you. There was a 40 minute wait for the 'bus so we explored the path by the river, busy with walkers, runners and cyclists.

The "Brontebus" from Hebden Bridge to Keighley was waiting when we got back. The driver was a young woman who hardly looked like she was out of school yet. That's my age talking. She's probably someone's granny! She was certainly skilled at 'bus driving. The steep road up to the delightfully named Peckets Well was made for pack horses rather than 'buses, Nowadays it is lined with parked cars and vans. There's scarcely room for a 'bus to pass. At one point some cars had to reverse quite a distance to let us through.

Over the moors the 'bus rattled and banged over the rough road before descending into Oxenhope. Here there was a narrow 90 degree bend with inches to spare for the 'bus. We debussed on Station Road and walked down the station approach. The ticket office was small and dark with a coal fire burning in an open grate.

The diesel train had not long departed and there would be a bit of a wait for the steamer. We had a look in the museum. which is really a store for stock that is out of service. Much of it was taken up with the Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway coaches that form the vintage train set for the summer season. Of locomotives there were an 8F, a 'jinty', an LMS 4F, a standard 4MT tank and a Lanky 'pug'. That sentence will mean nothing to the uninitiated!

A tannoy announcement brought us scuttling back to the platform just in time to see the steam train arrive.

The locomotive was that stalwart of the line, number 41241. I remember her as station pilot at Leamington Spa, shunting parcels vans etc, in the mid 1960s.

I discussed the coal situation with one of the engine crew. I had chosen not to visit the closer East Lancashire Railway as they are having their steam trains pushed by diesels to conserve coal stocks. There are now no coal mines in Britain. 41241 was burning a mix of coal from Kazakhstan and ecocoal. The ecocoal, which is briquettes made from a mixture of anthracite dust and crushed olive stones, doesn't burn too well on its own. The Kazak coal is of variable quality and sometimes clinkers up badly. Clinker seals up the grate and stops the fire getting enough air to burn well.

After a while the engine moved to the end of the loop to run round its train, watched by an embracing couple.

We climbed aboard a BR Mk1 open second and remarked on the surprise of sinking into the old sprung seats, very different from modern plastic foam. Soon we were trundling down the valley to Haworth. My stomach was telling me it was feeding time and, though we'd both brought butties, it seemed sensible to leave them for later as it looked like we'd be quite late back. Opposite the station here there's a nice little cafe, so we got off the train and walked over there to enjoy some lunch.

We waited on the platform to see the steam service pause on its way up the line to Oxenhope, then waited some more for it to return, Keighley bound, The day was dull, the wind cold. I explained to Helen that the whole purpose of Yorkshire was to keep the wind of Lancashire. I'm not sure if she believed me.

Oakworth is the station where they filmed The Railway Children starring a young Jenny Agutter. There's a huge stone mill straddling the river, part of its roof fallen in. Damems is a tiny request stop. Ingrow West is home to the Vintage Carriages Trust museum, Sadly, we didn't have time to get off and explore that.

It's Ingrow West because there used to be an Ingrow East. This was on the Great Northern line from Keighley, through tunnels and over viaducts to divide at Queensbury (of boxing rules fame) into routes to Bradford and Halifax. This closed in the 1950s. As we trundled down the valley towards Keighley the trackbed of the old route was visible, descending steeply from its high moorland way.

At Keighley the train terminated. Electric trains whirred in and out of the Network Rail half of the station as the engine ran round, took water, then backed on to its train again;

Our seats were now in the leading carriage. As we started off I went to the vestibule and opened the window to enjoy the barking exhaust of 41241 as she hauled her train uphill round the tight bend out of the station. Helen was sitting in her seat, so I beckoned her over to have a look. She was entranced by the experience, so I went to the opposite window to get my share of the action. Here I stayed for most of the ride up the valley.

By the time we reached Oxenhope the light was beginning to dim. We left 41241 to be admired by her many devotees and caught the last 'bus back to Hebden Bridge, repeating the morning's journey in reverse. It was a lovely day out.

Today is my actual birthday. I had a day off, or tried to! I got a sweater, a T shirt and a book! Emuna took me out for lunch in a cafe in the nearby community centre. As I went to get more coffee and cakes a well dressed little woman came over and asked to pay for them. She said that for lent she was doing something nice for someone every day. Why she picked me I don't know. I told her about Hazel. Afterwards we planned to head for the moors. We both enjoy moorlands, We drove the pretty way through Park Bridge and got stuck on a steep hill of unmade road. Eventually we got as far as Greenfield, but Em had started to feel poorly so we headed home. ME is a bugger like that!  I started to read the book, Tales from the Tillerman by Steve Haywood. 

Nessie started work on the cabinsides. This was started pre pandemic and got stalled by that catastrophe. He then put his foot through the roof. I knew the roof needed renewing at the fore end but, unfortunately, it looks like we'll have to do the whole lot. When Nessie started removing the old roof, guess what! We found that the rot had spread into the other side, last renewed in 2010. Looks like that will need replacing too. "Oh it all makes work for the working man to do". 

The team have also started fitting the greenheart top strake that was prepared back in 2019.

We're doing all this work as economically as possible, using up stocks of wood, donated wood and reclaimed timber, but we still have to buy sealants, screws etc. It's amazing what that can mount up to nowadays. You can help by donating to our Go Fund Me.

https://gofund.me/9f6c11ab 

Here's some photos.

The range in Forget me Not's  back cabin obviously needed repair so we took it out.  When we moved it, it fell to bits. I believe new ranges are still available, but they cost thousands, so I asked Dave to rebuild it. Not possible he said. I left the bits in a wheelbarrow for over a year, then asked again. Dave seems to like declaring something impossible, then doing it anyway. Dave and Kim are now busy reconstructing the range.

For as long as I can remember there's been a lovely cherry tree at Portland Basin. One day I arrived to do some work and found tree surgeons busy cutting it down. Apparently it's roots were interfering with the nearby new flats. Well, the tree was there first! 

There was nothing we could do to save it. Nessie had already blagged the branches for firewood (not that we're short). I was more interested in the trunk. I'm well aware of how cherry is sought after by furniture makers etc. The tree surgeons agreed to give us the trunk as well as the branches and we moved Forget me Not   forward so that we could load it all on to her deck.

It's sat there for a couple of months, but now it's in the way. We couldn't move it whole so I got out the chainmill to plank it.

Unfortunately the chainsaw suddenly packed up part way through the job (probably expensive) but we cut enough for now. Today me and Nessie took the planked pieces up to Stalybridge to be stacked and seasoned. We've kept the branches too as these will be of interest to woodturners. In a couple of years we'll advertise it all in the hope of selling it to woodworkers.

Southam came out of the water on 28th December. As I write this we have  1 more day before she returns to her natural element. This phase of work is virtually done now. Next we have to install the engine and rebuild the cabin.

The main job so far  has been to strengthen up her stern end so that it will last, perhaps another 10 years, before we have to bite the bullet and rebuild it. Southam is a heavy boat and tends to sag over the blocks when taken out of the water. Last time she was out, in 2019, we replaced 4 straight sideplanks, but, as she emerged, there was a crack and the side bulged out at the point where the forward bulkhead of the back cabin used to be.

Southam is a 'Big Ricky', built as a butty in 1936 for the Grand Union Canal Carrying Company. In 1965 she was converted and motorised in 1965. We bought her, sunk at Hillmorton, in 1992. By co-incidence, she's named after the town where I went to school when I was a kid.

 Since then she's been a very useful boat, but with periods out of use awaiting repair. Her latest period of disrepair has been about 10 years. We started work on her refurbishment in 2019, but completion was stymied by the covid pandemic and its aftermath.

For some time she has been in the arm at Portland basin, with fellow ricky Elton sunk alongside her. I thought she was trapped by the sunken boat so it seemed urgent to raise it. Again we failed. Again it was because one of the pumps wouldn't work. Lilith had to spend a couple of nights breasted up to the CRT work boat whilst we tried to raise Elton.

Nessie reckoned he could get Southam out. This he succeeded in doing. Southam is now free and waiting to go to Guide Bridge for slipping just after Christmas.

She looks a mess. She is a mess, but work is starting on her again. We just need more people to come and work towards her renaissance so that she can become a really useful boat again, towing, providing accommodation for volunteers, visiting waterway events and possibly becoming a mobile craft outlet.

                                                            MORE VOLUNTEERS NEEDED.

More money needed too-

https://gofund.me/b1cd6613 

Here's a picture of Southam in happier days. With your help  she'll soon be up and running again and doing a useful job.

It's usually October when we cut the hedges at Knowl St. This year it really needed doing, but, the complications of life got it put back to the very end of October.

Brian, Tom, Hayley and me set to work with all kinds of implements of destruction. As well as doing the front we removed the ivy etc that was spilling over on to the woodshelter. This revealed how dilapidated the woodshelter has become. It wasn't intended to last this long really, but we lost a few years with all the difficulties of 2016 to 2022. Never mind. Things are looking up again now. The woodshelter will get covered with a big tarpaulin for the time being.We could really do with a regular volunteer to pop in weekly to look after the garden and keep it looking nice though. Any offers?

I recently had a bit of time to wait for a train at Manchester Victoria, so I spent my time taking some arty farty photos of trains and people. So here they are.