Category: life

I’m on the last leg of a 900-mile railway journey. I’ll soon forget most of it, but not the man I sat next to under the Channel Tunnel. He was in his seventies, twinkling with fun. We chatted for two hours. He had been a professional musician all his life. Somewhere near the Kent coast, he told me he’d had a hard time finding his way through the station to where he was sitting, as he could not see very much. He explained he’d lost most of his vision a few years back. He wasn’t ready for a white stick; he didn’t want to be perceived in that way. He had asked a lady which platform the London train was from, and she’d pointed to a sign that he could not see, he’d sensed a bit of unkindness in her.  

We talked about his music. I had a look on YouTube; he was surprised to know that his songs were on there. I told him if he uploaded them himself, he might be able to get some income from them.

He was proud of the cousin who was going to meet him. With difficulty, he found a photo of him stood in front of his house. I had an hour between trains, so I asked him if he’d like to follow me through the station when we arrived. He said “no thanks, I’ll be fine.” He was a proud man.

We waited for the carriage to empty. I made to carry his bag, but he wanted to do it. I walked ahead; he paused at the door. I told him how many steps there were and that there was a big gap to the platform. He passed me his bag, and I held my arm out to him as he stepped down.

The platform was teeming with people, all going in the same direction. I didn’t really know what to expect myself, as it had been ten years since I used this station. I offered my arm, but he said “you walk in front, I’ll follow your feet.”  Despite that, I felt a hand on my shoulder a few times.  

On the escalator, I told him it was the kind that has steps, not a slope. At the bottom, I told him when it was time to start walking. He told me he had nothing to declare customs-wise. 

As we reached the arrivals area, I recognised his cousin from the photo. A nice-looking man a little younger than me, he beamed at us, recognising what was afoot. We shook hands, all of us, and I left them to it.

Dog walkers are always making grim discoveries. I was 18 when it happened to me.  

I was with my terrier. I saw a small car in the distance. It was out of place, far from the nearest road. 

I wandered over, curious. The windows were all misted up, the engine was ticking over. I could hear loud music playing. I circled around it, not getting too close in case it was a couple.  

There was a garden hosepipe coming out of the exhaust. Someone had tried to seal it in place with red insulating tape. I took a step closer. There was a man in the driver’s seat, his forehead almost touching the steering wheel.

This was 1998. I had no mobile phone. I shouted “Help” and paused, holding my breath waiting for a reaction. There was none, nothing from the man in the car and not a sound from anyone else. I could not see another soul in any direction. I felt I had to do something. I pulled the hosepipe out of the exhaust. At least things could not get any worse now.  

I tried the door handles. All three doors were locked. The passenger window was cracked open to let the hosepipe in.  

I kicked the glass as hard as I could, connecting with the flat of my foot. Nothing happened.

I found a hefty stick. The window smashed to pieces the first time I hit it.  

I reached in and unlocked the door.  The air was hot. It caught my throat even though I tried not to breathe. I leaned across the man’s shoulders and unlocked the driver’s door.  I walked around to his side and opened the door. He was cherry red, unconscious, floppy. He had been sick on his lap. He had no seatbelt on. I took his arm and pulled. I’d never been around an unconscious person before. The way he fell to the ground was disturbing – he behaved like an object rather than a person. He landed on his side. I rolled him onto his back.  

I slapped his face gently. His eyes were fixed, unfocused. I gave him a few chest compressions whilst I thought about what to do. I’d never done that to a real person before. It felt horrible, violent. There was froth coming from his mouth, so I decided against any mouth-to-mouth.  

The CPR wasn’t doing anything, and there was nobody else around. It felt wrong to leave him by himself. I knew if I went to get help, it would take too long by the time I took them to him.  I decided to try and move us both closer to the main road.  

I tilted the driver’s seat forwards and dragged his upper body back towards the car. Somehow, I bundled his torso into the space behind it. He was a bit bigger than me, so I couldn’t get his legs in. He ended up on his front with his face resting on some of the broken glass. As I put the seat back down, I felt resistance; I think that was his arm. The windscreen was still steamed up on the inside, and the wipers didn’t help.  I didn’t want my dog cutting himself, so I kept him outside on the end of his extendible lead. The gearbox and pedals were different to what I was used to. I found first gear and let the clutch out, slowly, with lots of revs. I had to go about a third of a mile around a ditch to get towards the road. I was hooting the horn because I couldn’t really see where I was going. I noticed a flattened cardboard box on the passenger seat. It had once contained a car foot pump. I would read it later; it said “to whoever finds me.” The handwriting started off very neat but by the end it had faded to a scrawl.  

I stopped just near where my own car was parked. A couple were just about to start their afternoon walk; they looked frightened. They soon realised I needed help and ran over. She was a nurse or a midwife; she was much better at the CPR than I had been. A small crowd started to form; someone must have had a phone, and a 999 call was made.  

Within a few minutes, the ambulance arrived; they took over. The defibrillator didn’t make any difference, and after a while, they stopped; they put a red blanket over the man. 

The police came. There was a sergeant in his 30s, plain clothes. He asked me to show a young PC the place where I’d found the man. The PC told me not to blame myself. Until he said that, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.  

I gave my details, and they said I could go. 

A few weeks later, a retired policeman from the Coroner’s office came to see me at my mum and dad’s house. He took a statement. 

I had to go to the inquest. I went on my own. I found myself sat next to the man’s wife as we waited for it to start. As a sixth former, I didn’t really know what to say to a lady whose husband had died like that.  

I didn’t read my statement as such. An official had a copy of it in his hand; he read it out as a series of questions that I could agree with. That was it; they said I could go; I never heard any more.  

I’m 46 now. Every day, I still think about the car in the distance and the man inside it. It didn’t do me any harm, but my life was different after. I’ve carried on doing my best to do the right thing and not to look the other way. I’ve had some good adventures doing that. 

If you feel you are affected by the issues raised in this post then please speak to the Samaritans, click here to visit their website or call 116 123.

I had a spare summer in between university and starting work properly in the new year. I needed a job; I knew I didn’t want to work in a shop or an office. I was intrigued by an old-fashioned-looking advert for a “driver’s mate.”  

I was interviewed by the matriarch, a grand lady called Pamela, well-spoken, pencil skirt, heels, pearls, lipstick, good hair. She had married into the family who gave their name to the business. She seemed ever so slightly dissatisfied to find that this was her life.  

The pay was £3.70 an hour between 7 and 3 and time and a half between 3 and 5. I was issued just the one liveried polo shirt; I got a bang of the previous wearer’s Lynx as I pulled it on.  

I arrived early on the Monday. There was already a short queue of three guys lined up to clock in. They each found a small piece of card with their name on it and inserted it into the slot of a machine for stamping. I copied them. It felt a bit dehumanising and undignified.  According to a sign, stamping someone else’s card would be treated as gross misconduct. Much later, in my petulance, I found that it made no difference whether you stamped your card or not; you still got paid just the same. They must have chucked the cards in the bin.  

The other men seemed much older to me. I was 21; they were probably in their forties. I can still remember most of them. 

Tony was one of the forklift drivers. His teeth were the right size, but his face was too small for them. Slender, just over 5ft tall. Leathery, olive skin. A salt and pepper handlebar moustache. Furtive, busy eyes. Oil-stained blue jeans. The configuration of his teeth and face caused a whistling when he spoke; it was not an unpleasant sound, though you could not often say the same for his conversation. I realised he was close to the bottom of the social hierarchy.

Reggie was the longest-standing driver. Probably in his fifties. Blonde, thinning hair but still enough of it to style with a comb. Red face, high blood pressure. Mouth set into a sneer. Angry eyes, belligerent. He had utter contempt for the firm and especially for the other drivers. He reminded me of a fox. 

Malcolm – he drove the other forklift but only when needed. The rest of the time, he did short drops in one of the vans. He had a baby face, short, greying curly hair. I could never work out if he was a young-looking old person or an old-looking young person. He lived with his Mum. His nickname was Pigeon because he once shat himself. 

The warehouse used to be in the neighbouring town. After they moved it, the owners let the drivers use the vans to travel over. The pecking order was such that Reggie drove. Another wagon driver would be up front, Malcolm and a few others used to ride in the dark, stinking back. 

Flash – he was a nice guy. He drove the “N” reg Mercedes lorry, the largest on the fleet. I was to work with him at first. A family man, he’d started out as a driver’s mate like me and worked his way up. He communicated mainly through impressions of other people or phrases from TV shows. Every day, as he drove through the high street, he would look for a fat person and then declare it to be “A day of fat people” in absolute genuine amazement.  

7am – stamp card.

7am – 7:30 load the wagons. A mad half hour, both forklifts nipping in and out of the warehouse non-stop. Wagons queuing up waiting their turn. Drivers smoking fags, mates fastening curtains, checking paperwork, lifting cardboard boxes of crisps and pork scratchings.  

7:30 – head out for the day. You could be going anywhere within the county or the two either side and even into London. The drivers knew the routes. Conversation was sparse.  

On arrival, the driver would try and park as close as possible. They would go in and find the licensee. I would open the sides or the back and start loading up a sack barrow.  

A load could be anything from ten aluminium barrels of beer to a slab of coke cans and some crisps. In exchange for cash, the stock would be rotated in the cellar, keeping the fresh to the back.

Most landlords would offer us a pint, both of us. 

We ate lunch in between drops.  

2 p.m. onwards – arrive back at the warehouse. The next day’s orders were waiting for us on clipboards.  

The driver found their favourite spot of floor and stood still, calling out the orders in batches of what they considered the mate should be able to grab in one go. It was a memory game, not only of what had been called out but also, where it was stored.  

We used blue sack barrows, like a large capital L. They had pneumatic tyres and a hook halfway up the back that you could drop over the lip of an 11-gallon barrel. If you were good, you could get two 11-gallon barrels side by side on the bottom, and another one on top.  

They sold wine as well. There was some sort of unspoken collective trauma about that because now, only an actual manager was permitted to select wine and hand it to the driver.  

3 p.m. – that was it. Each driver had created an island of pallets, one for each destination. Produce all cling-filmed into place. Clipboard laid on top, ready to go. 

For reasons unclear, we all had to hang around for another two hours, for which, as I said earlier, we got overtime.  

Almost everyone sat in the bait room drinking cups of tea, eating gone-off snacks, chatting rubbish. It wasn’t really my kind of thing. After a while, I slipped away and found myself a bit of a den in amongst the produce where I could sit and read my book.  

I got paid in cash for the first two weeks. Something to do with not wanting to go to the trouble of setting up a bank transfer until I’d sunk or swum. One of the office girls used to fetch it down for me every Friday in a little envelope. A small handful of notes and a few coins. Tony always managed to be there when the girls came downstairs. He snatched the envelope from me, pressing it to his nose and inhaling as he asked her, “Has that been in your pocket?”  

I gather he’d once been caught sniffing their stuff upstairs; he wasn’t allowed in the office anymore. He told me it was because he’d wiped his knob on the lady owner’s telephone in relation to some dispute or another. He talked a lot of nonsense. He was fond of reciting “Mary had a little lamb” limericks; they were funny the first time.  

It should have been quite a jolly, happy place really, but it wasn’t. The owners were the second or third generation; there was no evidence of any passion for the business. I got the feeling they were trapped. There was a permanent cloud of decay and gloom; it was clearly not going to last long into the new century.

After a few weeks, I started to notice extra items being loaded. A pallet of cans of coke, a couple of barrels here and there.  I didn’t say anything. I realised some of the drivers were making a bit of extra cash. It was a shame, but I guess they felt it was their way of correcting their petty grievances. The owners must have known about it.

I knew it was time to move on when 9/11 happened. There was no internet on mobile phones then, so it was a case of turning on a radio and listening. It had started to break as we headed back into the yard that afternoon. I was horrified; nothing like this had ever happened in the world of my 21-year experience. Nobody else seemed affected or even particularly interested. They carried on talking about tits and moaning about the firm as I sat in the cab of a parked lorry listening to the world changing. 

I gave my notice at the end of that week.  

I’m neurodiverse. I am oblivious to many things that stand out to typical people, but yet there are other, almost invisible streams of information that shout at me. 

People would say I can’t read the room. But that’s not true. Reading the room is addictive, narcotic, exciting; I love doing that. Computing how to behave, how to stand, where to look, what facial expression to adopt, what’s safe to talk about—that’s hard. But I don’t complain; I’m lucky. I’ve learned about myself. 

On the 0802 to Birmingham, I was hyper-aroused. Trains can be chaotic, dramatic, bursting with vignettes if you’re curious enough to look. 

A man in his thirties, tattoos around the side of his neck and across his throat. Four-five days of stubble, a shaven head. Grey tracksuit bottoms, baggy, dirty. No name trainers, white socks. 5’7 or so, about 10 stone. Angry, very angry. Also, afraid. Black rucksack on his back, one strap only. A cheap rucksack, thin straps; the black fabric had a white/grey tinge to it. Stuffed full, the fabric drum tight. Carrying/dragging another suitcase that came up to the middle of his thighs. Walking quickly, jerky, stabby movements, his eyes working, staring through the electric door into the carriage beyond, scanning for what? For who?  As he reached me, I saw he also had an extendable dog lead with a small, black bulldog on the end. The lead stretched taut, the dog an unwilling passenger, ears back, tail down, front legs braced forward.  

You get a fresh cast at every station.  I was watching. The tip of a white stick flicked left to right, left to right, coming closer to me at less than a walking pace. The movement— deft, skilful, like how a bricklayer’s trowel becomes a part of them. The stick belonged to a woman; I could see slim legs wearing grey tights. Suede boots up to the knee, a black skirt with a cardigan. Three rows in front of me, she stopped next to two empty seats to her right. She stepped into the space between the seat cushions and the back of the row in front, her face pressed up to the feeble LCD display that tells you the seat number and whether it’s booked or not. She was confident, independent, far from helpless. An undertone of defiance.  

A second lady followed her into the space.  Older, sixties maybe. Grey hair. Kindly, maternal, a bit worried. Speaking to each other, not sitting down yet. They made no eye contact with any of the other passengers who were looking their way. Something about the angle of the younger lady’s shoulders and a little nod of the head told me she was the decision-maker. They sat, the older lady in the aisle. They just had handbags, no suitcases. I could only see the older lady now; she too had a white stick, she folded it away into her bag. She held her iPhone to the tip of her nose, took it away again, and took a small, black microscope from her handbag. She held it between her eye and the screen of her phone; it looked uncomfortable.  

Another station, more new faces. A lady, late fifties, arrived from behind. Sensible, sensible shoes, a calf-length dress, a tote bag. Straight grey hair. Glasses. She was reading off the seat numbers to her left; she slowed as her peripheral vision told her that her seat was taken. She slipped into the seat in front, took her phone out, and shuffled around getting the right app open. She looked back and forth from the phone to the seat numbers, but only for a second. Her mouth set into neutral; a decision made, she sat where she was. Took out a Sudoku book on sand-coloured paper; a biro scratched away at the pages. 

A male voice, ever so slightly louder than the background chit-chat, confident, authoritative.  Coming towards us. He had found the right volume and cadence of speech to switch his passengers on; tickets and screens were ready and waiting. He stopped at the pair of ladies, studied the screen of the older lady, and asked if there was a pass to go with the ticket. She rummaged. An arm appeared from the window seat, clutching a plastic wallet. The older lady said they were not sure if they were in the right seats. Screens checked again. The guard looked back over his left shoulder, “One of you there, and the other where you are.” But this wasn’t an instruction; his voice was soft, unthreatening; he was just explaining. He said he would keep an eye out, and it would be fine. One of the seats had been booked from the station before anyway. The other lady raised her head from the Sudoku book and said, “Oh, that was me actually, so don’t worry.”  

I was so invested at this stage; I gave her an involuntary beam, so did the ticket inspector. Something, I don’t know what, I could see no faces, but something told me that the passengers around me had all been holding their breath a little; a millisecond of silence ended, the tension burst with this release of kindness.  

I felt the familiar prickling in my eyes that comes with shared emotion; I felt good; I was amongst kind, sound people; we had all shared a little moment together on the 0802.  

I’ve always wanted to take the Southwold ferry.

It’s a 100ft boat crossing from Southwold to Walberswick, a fine alternative to the 1.3-mile walk around via the bridge.

We finally did it on Monday.

The ferry is a large rowing boat operated by one man who rows from the bow. A sign on board says ‘Maximum 12 passengers.’

You reach it via a wooden jetty leading down from the road. Another sign instructs passengers to wait at the road until called forward. 

So we did that. 

The ferryman rowed over from the far side to collect us, and congratulated us on obeying the sign as he tied up.

He was about 60. Wiry, tanned, and with a twinkle in his eye. He had the air of a part-time poet.

He was very confident as he told us how to step down onto the boat one at a time and where to sit. I was wondering when to pay, but he had his patter off to a T as he said, “May I take your fares now, please.”   It was £2 each.

He pulled away. I asked him how many crossings he does a day. He said they do a four-hour shift and that can be up to 40 crossings. We were impressed. 

My mum remarked, “You must be fit.” 

“Not really,” he said. “But you do need a certain amount of low cunning.” 

I processed his words, wondering what he meant. He was reading my face well, and he explained that you have to be able to judge exactly how to position the boat depending on the tide, wind, and load.

As he spoke, he angled the bow upstream of the landing stage – what kayakers call a ferry glide. The current carried us sideways across the harbour while he maintained our angle with subtle adjustments.

He added that he had to make 32 crossings whilst the harbour master watched before he was permitted to work the route.

I noticed a small outboard motor on the stern with a life ring hung over it – clearly not required under normal circumstances. I asked when he uses it.

“It can be useful sometimes,” he said, offering nothing more.

As we approached, he angled the boat further into the flow. The oars came inboard and the current laid us alongside the landing perfectly. All without breaking his chat.

Two quick flicks of rope and we were tied off. He helped us out, steady and kind.

My mum asked how far away the bridge was.

He looked at her with a cheeky wink. 

“We do not speak of that here.”

It’s about 7 miles cross country to the closest viable pub. So I don’t go there very often.

There was football on. A group of lads stood 2 deep at the bar, making micro adjustments so they could maintain vision of the TV on the far wall.

A bulky couple sat on bar stools, not watching the football. Her top was tight, dark in colour. It didn’t quite reach the waistband of her blue jeans. She had her back to me. I wondered whether she could feel the draught when the door opened. Maybe not. He wore a plasticky looking fleece, the zip only went down to his sternum. His head was square, his torso oblong. He reminded me of a child’s pencil drawing of a man. A favourite uncle perhaps. They were nice people, kind faces, she reached a friendly hand towards my dog. He wasn’t feeling very confident, or maybe that was me projecting. He ignored the hand and pressed his hip a little closer to my calf, his tail not only down but folded neatly underneath his belly. He much preferred the journey to the destination.

I felt a bit the same so I ordered a pint of Wainwright and made my way outside. It was dark and about +1 degree but still preferable.

I split up the remaining treats and put small pieces on my knees and the surrounding benches whilst William licked his lips. “Go on then”, he hoovered them up in adoration.

The lady from the bar stool walked over. She had a cigarette in her hand as she came out of the door. She watched me and my dog for a few minutes then asked me about him. He didn’t much care for the conversation, his spine arched a little, I could tell he was feeling the cold. I tilted my torso back a bit and made my thighs into a lap so he could climb up and then wrapped my arms around him as we spoke. He felt lovely.

The conversation started to falter and I turned away. A thudding sound made me jump, the poor woman had missed the bench with her backside and was laying on the floor. I stood up to help, she was up instantly, face flushed. We were both embarrassed, she said she was ok. We laughed nervously, she finished her cigarette and went back in.

It was her partner’s turn for a fag. They must have been taking it in turns so they could keep control of the barstools.

He was the more extroverted of the pair. He immediately commented on the falling over that had just occurred, he said “the dog walker saw it”, reporting it back to “him” in the third person.

He told me about his dogs. Over ten of them. He’d always had dogs. As a child, his Dalmatian once found a whole bag of pound coins. And ate them. He said he had to follow it around the yard with a hosepipe the next day, washing the shite off of them. He gathered them all up. His grandad didn’t want them back after what had happened, so he spent them in the sweet shop.

My lift arrived, and I left the remaining questions behind.

It must have been the trace of urgency in her voice that caused us all to hold our breath and look over when she said “manager to checkout three please.” The poor girl seemed a little self conscious as she held up a dripping ten pack of Pepsi. “I need another one” she said, to nobody in particular.  

A guy with a ponytail and a heavy metal T-shirt stepped out of the queue “I’ll grab one?” He struck me as someone who worked there. His partner was having none of it, she muttered something to him and he meekly resumed his bag packing. 

A skinny man approached. He was in his thirties, wearing a collared shirt. I took in his black earpiece attached to a walkie talkie via a curly cable. I nodded at him in approval. He had a brisk, efficient energy about him and he did not reciprocate. I sensed a feeling of relief all around me – earpiece man would sort this out in no time. 

He spoke into his radio and tilted his head a few degrees listening to the reply. “Sorry that’s the last one” he said. 

All eyes turned to the customer and the cashier. The cashier looked embarrassed. A gruff voice from somewhere behind me said “give her a discount.” The cashier raised an eyebrow and turned to the manager “30 percent?” He gave the slightest of nods. 

The cashier turned to the customer, a rather genteel looking lady. The customer paused for a moment before saying “Aye, go on then.”  

We all exhaled at once, there was a wave of relieved happy chatter and nervous giggling. The whole corner of the supermarket had been fully engrossed in this wholesome drama. It was certainly the highlight of my day.

I originally published this on the Dull Men’s Club, some of the comments were very generous and encouraged me to do a little more recreational writing.

Link to the original post here 

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this story, I’d love to hear from you — just drop me a comment below.

The office was behind a plastic framed door, the white UPVC lost underneath black fingerprints. The floor was now a mix of brown and green. If you so much as rested a mop on it, you would need to chuck the whole bucket of water away. The air was visceral — a mix of hot metal, oil, and sweat.

A corridor led to the hangar with a serving hatch in the wall on the right so customers could interact with staff in the manager’s office. The hatch was protected by brown, varnished, horizontal, wooden bars. They seemed out of place, but I guess metal has a greater value in a place like this. The ends of the bars had neat corners; the centers were stained black and rounded by countless forearms and fingers.

The manager was in his late twenties, wearing glasses, and neglected hair. His baggy cargo trousers were exactly the same hue as the old office chair that he seemed to be fused with. His face — expressionless. He let me wait at the hatch for 10 seconds or so before looking up. No greeting.

“I’ve got some farm scrap, a bit of lead, and some copper.”

A skinny guy was resting in a brown leather armchair. He glanced up from his phone and back again, his face registering slight contempt. I was brought up in the south, and my accent marks me out as an outsider even though I have lived here a long time.

The manager’s voice was surprisingly high-pitched and scratchy as he sent me to the roller door around the side in as few words as possible.

I drove around avoiding the potholes. An eager-looking lad in his mid-teens was waiting. His demeanor announced his status as the victim of the scrap yard social hierarchy. Two of his fingers had dirty black plasters around the knuckles. The metal of his steel toe caps was through the rubber of his boots.

I gestured to my trailer and said, “All this to weigh.” His eyes widened, and he paused before saying, “And the trailer too?”

“No, I’ll hang on to that. Just what’s in it, please.”

He seemed momentarily embarrassed before giving a hint of a smile, perhaps grateful that I had answered him with more kindness than he was used to.

I handed him an old bucket full of copper. He placed it into what looked like the battered bed of a wheelbarrow; it was actually a set of scales. 7.2kg. We did the same with some lead (5.8kg), brass (6kg), and some stainless steel (3kg). He touched a magnet to the stainless before accepting it, satisfied that there was no attraction.

I drove onto the weighbridge and waited for his pale arm to emerge from the booth with a thumb up. I found a corner of the yard and dragged everything from my trailer. An excavator with metal jaws was nibbling away at an old school coach, delicately sorting the bodywork into separate piles. There were numerous vehicle gearboxes and engines laying around, old lawn mowers, transit vans, even a trampoline. I could have spent a whole day wandering around this amazing place.

I reluctantly drove back onto the weighbridge some 300kg lighter. Back in the office, the manager already had a docket in his hand. His fingers moved quickly across the keys of an old Casio. Without looking up, he raised his empty, meaty hand toward me. I decided to wait for the courtesy of some words from his mouth. After a second or two, he turned his face toward me. His torso and shoulders remained facing the desk. There was no eye contact or expression.

“ID and bank details.”

I handed them over; they looked iridescent in this setting. After copying what he needed onto the docket, he passed everything back to me. I was delighted to see a total of £129 at the bottom of the page in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

All in all, this was an excellent day out on so many levels. I’ve been back a dozen times or so, I highly recommend it to you.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this story, I’d love to hear from you — just drop me a comment below.