Field Trip

Day Whatever plus four, and by the time you set out across the green at the end of your road the rush hour, or what counts for it nowadays, has abated. On the becalmed stretch of the main Bramhall Lane between the Garners Lane Junction and the Woodsmoor Lane turn-off, vehicles on the thoroughfare are outnumbered by items of litter on the pavement- to whit: a plastic Lucozade bottle (standard size, orange flavour); a triangular package, also of clear plastic construction, which formerly contained a sandwich purchased at the Co-op (wholemeal, tuna and cucumber), and an empty, half-squashed silver-sheen packet of Lambert and Butler cigarettes (message from Her Majesty’s Government in bold capital letters on the front- ‘Smoking Increases the Risk of Impotence’).

In the driveways of the semi-detached section of Woodsmoor Lane, the internal combustion engines of handsome saloon cars lie idle, while their owners wrap up another week of Working From Home (or maybe also Lying Idle) in the upstairs spare bedrooms. A navy blue mini-single-decker number 372 bus, making stately progress along an-already-usually-quiet residential byeway it now has entirely to itself, fades out of view to crest the station approach and loop round Moorland Road then back over the level crossing, reappearing not two minutes later to pass you on the near carriageway- its destination display now showing ‘Stockport Town Centre’. Its only occupant remains the driver, white-haired, world-weary, and sporting the international springtime uniform of his metier: checky short-sleeved shirt, duvet-material bodywarmer, crumpled baseball cap.

Along the return stretch of your own lone, scheduled route, every untended area is an explosion of dandelions: a 20/80 ratio between yellow flower-headed ones and their cousins (parents, children?)- you know, the ones with stems topped by cloudy Afrocuts of a million tiny white seeds each. At the wide-paved junction of Woodsmoor Lane and Egerton Road, you pause by a six-yard square of municipally-owned communal lawn and count, between both varieties, eighty-eight of them. Doubting if you’ve captured every one, you move along to a more advantageous viewing point, and undertake a thorough recount: One hundred and two. A third, more painstaking exploration, utilising the ‘divide the area up into small, manageable, imaginary squares’ technique recalled from Geography field trips, reveals fully One hundred-and-Twenty-four. It’s no wonder, perhaps, that you only got a Grade Four CSE in Geography, back there in 1984. To say nothing of a ‘U’ (it meant ‘Unclassified’, which is what they gave you when you had more or less filled in your name at the top of the paper then fallen fast asleep) for Mathematics.

The near-absence of engine noise, along with the continual presence of promenading householders, conversing in twos or speaking alone into their mobile phones, combine to present optimum conditions for eavesdropping. Chance snippets of overheard conversation invite you to build their full, lurid backstories:

‘Oh Josh- that’s her boyfriend. I know! Still, it was all in the- the spirit of things- you know what I mean?’

‘Yeah- it was brilliant. Bloody brilliant. I’m doing Prestbury now- 10K. No mate- I said Prestbury.’

‘What did you say to him then?’ ‘Say to him? I said nothing, Didn’t even react. Not worth it.
’
Reaching the end of Egerton Road, the speckled-headed cat can’t stop for his usual exchange of views on the day’s headlines, given that he is being benignly pursued across a spacious frontlawn by a brother-sister pairing of giggling infant-school-age children. ‘Ah, this one is a friendly one!’, exclaims the girl, while her companion, who has his back to you so you can’t tell whether the full elite sporting kit he is wearing reproduces the colours of Newcastle United or Juventus (you hope the former, but imagine, in this district, more likely the latter) attempts to catch him by the tail. The cat, showing no immediate desire to strike up an amiable acquaintance with either of them, slinks off tail-high into the sanctity of a rosebush. A shame, because his views on the Prime Minister’s Continuing Reluctance to Articulate a Coherent Exit Strategy would surely have been illuminating.

Onto the homeward stretch of Bramhall Lane now, and into the twilight of what is now a traffic-free post-post-rush-hour, you make a tactical diversion onto the wider left-hand pavement opposite the train station, and regret doing so, as you find yourself hemmed in by a socially-distancing-but-still-a-little-too-close-for-comfort hungry-half-dozen cluster awaiting permission to enter the Mayflower Chinese Takeaway and pick up, first-pre-ordered, first-served, their Friday night dinner. Slaloming head-down between them and onto the empty thoroughfare by the traffic lights, you sidestep a discarded empty supersize packet of Morrissons Deluxe Range ridged crisps (Braised Beef, Real Ale and Caramelised Onion Flavour). Offering a silent thanks (to whom- you’re not sure) for the continued availability of such first-world riches during these troubled times, you head over the pedestrian crossing for home. There may be no exit route mapped out yet, but we’ll get out the other side of this particular field-trip, one way or another. Got to tell ourselves as much, in any case.

Comments

[kono]

The eldest boyo is a Real Madrid supporter while the youngest boyo supports PSG. I've often wondered what i've done wrong lol! I myself support the finest team in South London, that being Crystal Palace. I guess Alan Pardew makes us practically related. What really scares me about this post is that someone bought a pre-packaged tuna and cucumber sandwich, i was waiting for the point where you found them doubled up on the side of the road with, erm, intestinal issues.

[Jonathan]

I've got a definite softspot for Crystal Palace Kono, they may even be my favourite London team, what with their flamboyant red/blue/white/claret outfits (the diagonal-striped one of my youth never to be bettered) and their boisterous home support (of all the allseaters, theirs still has the feel of old school terrace, from what you can tell on TV anyway) and of course their cupfighting history. It was only the other Saturday night BBC here was showing extended highlights of the 1990 cup final when, Ian Wright inspired, they gave might Man Utd one hell of a shock.

[kono]

I've been to Selhurst for a few games way back when, sat in the Holmesdale Road end, it's always funny in the States when i meet anyone from across the pond and we talk footie, they're used to nothing but supporters of the big clubs and then they find out i'm Palace and are usually stunned. One of my best friends was from South London, he's the one who introduced me to the game back in 1996, back before the big push here in America, i absolutely love it, my eldest boyo is named Ian, though it was after Ian Curtis not Wright, lol! I almost pulled off the his middle name being Curtis until his mother caught on, might be for the best though, lol!