Day Whatever Plus Six, and, managing to squeeze through the Garners Lane Joggers Passage without undue contact with lycra-clad humanity, you emerge onto the wide, leaf-lined, European-style boulevard of Bramhall Lane into the bright sunlight of another identikit suburban spring teatime. The double-decker number 378 bus making stately progress on the near-side carriageway is empty of passengers, and most likely will remain so as far as Wilmslow, if the past-What is it now, 6 weeks?- is anything to go by. The unsung, underutilised frontline worker at the steering wheel, who is sticking to the advertised timetable come what may, stalls for a good two minutes at the bus-stop opposite the closed-down Jolly Sailor pub, more in hope than expectation. When no rush-hour custom is forthcoming, the vehicle pulls out laboriously into the still-vacant thoroughfare, and wheezes off in the direction of the Woodsmoor roundabout, billowing thick black exhaust fumes into the newly unpolluted air.
Down Woodsmoor Lane, and you’re starting to recognise- or starting to think you recognise- some of the regular pavement-pounding teatime punters. The serious-looking, thick-set bloke in the crumpled white shirt and black-framed glasses for instance, who you’ve got down as a consultant at nearby Stepping Hill Hospital, on his way home from another punishing double shift. Or the wiry, track-suit-sporting fellow on the racing bike, who you definitely know from somewhere, until you realise he’s actually a cross between your Cousin Neil (you know, the one who drives lorries full of fertiliser in County Durham) and the ex-Manchester United winger Ryan Giggs.
At the far-end of the Woodsmoor Railway Station humpback, a miniature Royal-blue-backed roadsign contains the cartoon figures of a pedestrian and a bicycle, an oversized capital ‘H', and the wording: ‘Stepping Hill Hospital – 0.25 miles’. You head the way it’s pointing, then as the towers of the infirmary incinerator hove into view across the deserted playground of Great Moor Park, take the left up Norwood Road towards the Co-Op, where- this being Friday and therefore the start of the weekend, whatever a weekend is nowadays- you’ve given yourself permission to brave the bobsleigh-narrow aisles, but only for the time it will take you to locate the stock of own-brand Italian lager and avail yourself of two 660ml bottles, at £4 the pair. Forty seconds later you’re out of there with four of them, inside a Manchester City-coloured carrier bag of tenpence strength.
Back onto the main, Roman-straight drag, the carrier bag jangling to your step in the near-silence. Just for a moment, this stretch of the A6 is devoid of traffic as far as you can make out either way- until, the sight preceded by the sound of its wailing siren, a banana-yellow-striped Emergency Ambulance races up the hill and speeds past you towards the main entrance to the A & E, just out of sight. That’s become such a common occurrence you almost don’t notice. The same as yesterday morning on your shorter, pre-work walk, when, lost in reverie by the Esso Garage on the corner of Kennerley Road, you looked up to find yourself gaping at a coffin- then the bouquet adorning it, the hearse it was inside of, and- finally, the twenty-car cortege of black-clad mourners in its wake, as the entire procession snaked its way past the petrol pumps, and onto nearby Stockport Crematorium. Another one, biting the dust.
Over the level-crossing, up to the centre-point of your figure-of-eight route. A hundred tiny white blossom-fragments erupt at the touch of the breeze into sudden movement across the tarmac, scattering in concentric circles, like a village playground-full of angelic schoolchildren spied from distant heights. On the opposite side of the road, the thickly-built man in faded bootcut jeans posting a letter looks like a cross between the ex-Manchester United forward Wayne Rooney and a steak and kidney pudding. The two of you set off in the same direction along opposite pavements, and there is real and present danger you’re going to be stuck in precise marching formation together from here until the Egerton Road turn-off- until, in an unspoken but mutually understood gesture of intimacy-avoidance, he ups his pace ever-so-slightly and you slow yours down, pausing furthermore to stoop to one knee- ostensibly to tie your shoelaces, but actually to examine in minute detail the design of the manhole cover at your feet.
Satisfying yourself that you are in the presence of perhaps the immediate postcode district’s finest example of the classic, Stanton and Staveley ‘Centurion 600’ Model (large, charcoal grey, square-shaped with rounded corners, diagonal hinge, prominently texture-patterned with raised grid of alternately-upside-down ‘V’ shapes, approximate vintage 1950s), you head right along Egerton Road, and for home. The white cat with the black-speckled head is once again absent, which is a shame, as you would put good money on him sharing your close interest in the neighbourhood’s street furniture, and would value his opinion on the ascetic qualities of the Stanton and Staveley, as against those of (say) the AC Woodrow and Co (London) specimens to be found outside the Chinese takeaway opposite the train station (slightly smaller in overall square shape, more rounded corners, spaced-out grid pattern, double ‘letterbox’ style openings to one diagonal half of its two-part construction, presumably to facilitate lifting by patent tool or standard ‘jemmy’). It can wait though- it’s a long old haul this one, as is becoming abundantly clearer by the day- and there will be more than enough time to analyse how we got here, before we even start to plot the way out the other side.
You know i can't quite get the image of a human who looks like a combo Wayne Rooney-steak and kidney pudding out of my head.
Taking walks around my neighborhood has turned into that same tango of avoiding other walkers, dog walkers, joggers, and most of all, the filthy disease ridden specimens known as "other people's children", easily the most frightening thing i encounter. Of course know i may have to take notice of he manhole covers, i usually just watch the sewers and street drains as they are the favored paths of or brilliant and vicious raccoons. Those smart and evil bastards who look so cute but would just as soon eat your fingers and give you rabies. Though between Giggs and Rooney there may be too much United in this post, lol! Unless of course you count Wayne-O as DC United/Derby County guy and forget his sordid Mancunian past.
Posted by: kono | May 06, 2020 at 01:42 PM
I know, it really needed balancing out with a bit of City- and I did seriously contemplate describing the hospital roadsign as 'Stockport County Blue' instead of Royal Blue, but decided that would be too obscure/self-indulgent for my national/international audience.
Raccoons though. I feel jealous at our lack of them, although clearly we should be relieved they're not biting at our ankles from the drains. And yes- you'll be starting to notice manhole covers now whether you like it or not. There may be previously unnoticed beauty in your ones too (and do tell me if they are made by Needhams of Stockport, that would really make my day!)
Posted by: jonathan | May 06, 2020 at 04:00 PM
Hmmm...with my thieving magpie eye...
"Hove" -- must try to use that more often.
"Roman-straight" -- might pinch that for later use.
And yes, aren't manhole covers majestic items of street furniture! So bold and confident yet decorative too.
Posted by: looby | May 08, 2020 at 09:53 AM
The first one I think is probably peppered across this place quite liberally Looby, I've always liked a bit of hoving. Into view, usually (I'm not sure if there is any other sort). The second one is making its debut right here. Well, possibly the Ancient Britons got there first, but their online presence was truly shocking.
Anyway- you're welcome to both of them and in fact I would consider it an honour. I'm sure I'll be returning the compliment soon enough with a phrase or two making the return journey, a few have before now.
Posted by: jonathan | May 08, 2020 at 05:32 PM