Dropping Bombs
Entry posted by caldrail
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In some ways I'm lucky. I'm just old enough to remember seeing steam locomotives working mainline services on British Rail. Steam engines have this animistic quality which endures despite the nerdy image of those who like them. As for me, I've always had a soft spot for this powerful works of art that belch smoke and hiss and chuff... Well, you know what I mean. The distant sounds of whistles still draw my attention. I remember this forgotten world. All those sounds behind rows of trees, the exquisite paintings in books illustrating locomotives from around the world, or the little Hornby trainset racing around a circle of track on the living room carpet.
It's often said that every small boy wanted to be an engine driver. Actually I didn't - I wanted to join International Rescue, launch Fireball XL5 off it's ramp, or plunge to the rescue of Seaville. Oh all right... I admit it... I wanted to be Batman too. Adam West has a lot to answer for.
A few days ago I watched a documentary about the railways of Britain during World War Two. That opened my eyes. I once stood on the footplate of a small restored steam locomotive in New Zealand and admired the hard teamwork of the crew as they ran up and down the line. Imagining that but with bombs dropping everywhere is something else.
As a small boy, dropping bombs was something on the boxlid of an Airfix kit. I simply had no idea of the real effect a high explosive bomb could do. Probably just as well. The Russians were pointing something even more powerful at my home town during my childhood years.
Confrontation of the Week
Last night I opened the window at the back of the house and looked out over Swindon. There was a faint residual warmth from the day, but a cold breeze. Along the alleyway the local cat was on patrol, making sure his territory was still safe from other cats. He spotted movement, a bird, about twenty feet away and landing on the branches of a tree growing out of the disused college grounds. The cat immediately followed the bird, looking up intently, patiently waiting for the bird to make a mistake and stop low enough for that fast sprint to a prize to please his owner.
So intent was he that he failed to spot the ginger cat waiting in the car park. The tension mounted as the cat jerked to a standstill in suprise. Both cats watched each other from a dangerously close distance, neither keen to give way. For twelve minutes these cats sat there warily until a man walking his dog upset the equilibrium. Both cats wandered away looking behind them.
Mark my words - this ain't over yet. The War of the Alleyway has begun.
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