Menfolk Lore

I make every effort to uphold the age old tradition amongst menfolk of going for the Saturday newspaper first thing in the morning.

Effort is the operative word on a weekend there is a strong and persuasive urge to attempt to get a few more minutes in bed especially as my monday to friday, as in workday, routine involves a 6am start.

It was still dark this morning when I set off on the two hundred metre walk to the local Tesco Express.

I do try to champion a traditional Newsagent for the purchase of my print based media but that would involve a bit more of a trek down the main road.

I take a right turn out of my garden gateway, follow the curved path around a planted verge and then reach the broad pavement that leads past the Mosque and Police Station.

The front of our house is onto and overlooks a City Park and this is a popular short cut between two main arterial roads for workers on bikes, pedestrians and those heading for a night out in the local pubs and eateries.

Although I may still be a bit sleepy at the beginning of my Paper trail I am now very alert to the risks imposed by a hurtling, unlit shift worker cyclist, darkly dressed persons on foot and on occasion a few worse for wear form the previously mentioned evening of socialising.

Even if the Park is deserted at that early hour there are still the usual signs of activity.

I make a point of collecting up manageable bits of litter although have learnt, through sleight of hand to disguise that I have picked up a discarded can or spirits bottle just in case I give to other early risers the impression that I am a complete boozer.

There is a certain skill in up-ending a beer can in order to drain off any residual liquid and thereby avoiding an unfortunate soaking in flat ale.

The tendency to litter seems to be rather cyclical and very much dependent on the attitude of the target generation of drinking age. I have sensed that the latest up and coming generation are much more sober and civic minded in that there has been a gradual decline in the need for me to clear up after them.

I do come across a few familiar faces on my short route to the shop. After some six years of living in the Park I have reached the stage of engaging eye contact and nodding with most of them although in these inner city surroundings there does tend to be a high turnover of residents in the local flats, multi-occupied houses and amongst the population in general meaning that it would be difficult to progress to a verbal greeting or even a conversation.

Most constant are those walking their dogs but they tend to be further into the open Greenspace doing their own thing.

There is a narrow alleyway connecting the circulatory Park road to a cul de sac on the corner of which stands the Tesco store.

This ancient passage is between towering gable walls of substantial Villa type properties which I know are in flats from the concentration of pipe outfalls from sinks and basins, baths , shower and toilets that gurgle and gush as I pass by. Just above my head height are windows which will not have been part of the original Victorian architecture but later additions for rooms converted into the aforementioned amenities for the apartments. Some of these cast a shaft of electric light across the gap and I can, at that early hour, just make out the sounds of a kettle boiling or catch the smell of a cooked breakfast in preparation.

The connecting street is made up of more town houses.

I have a book which has a "then and now" photographic record of this very streetscape.

The sepia tinted early 19th century image, when the terraces were but a few years old, shows an attractive scene. It takes a few moments to attribute this to the complete absence of vehicles on the kerb side. It would be another fifty years or so from the date of the photo before the first private car would be seen parked in front, cluttering everything up.

I get to the sliding doors of the Supermarket.

It is a modern building replacing an old Petrol Station some 15 or so years ago and does stand out like a sore thumb amongst some very good Victorian properties including a Board School and Municipal Public Bathing House.

That shop is the equivalent in my life to a public house to others who seek community and interaction with others. I am known in there for my saturday morning custom and enjoy certain privileges for my loyalty including, most importantly, first choice of the bread and pastries that are freshly baked on the premises (or more likely, I suspect, newly warmed up from an earlier lorry delivery).

Having purchased the newspaper I make for home and the prospect of a cup of coffee whilst sat at the table wading through the thick pages and supplements.

The tradition continues.