Infinite sky, reflections and an empty nest

27 to 30 May 2015

The pyracantha flowers were beginning to open on the way to the river on Wednesday morning. The tiny white flowers and pearl like buds looked like a wedding bouquet. When I reached the riverbank there were no swans but it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the river began. The morning sun slanting through a host of tiny clouds created an illusion of infinity that made me dizzy.

I did did manage to tear my eyes away long enough to spot a little flora along the boardwalk. The oak sapling the railway people keep cutting down has survived against the odds, the colours of the new leaves looked quite autumnal. The ragwort has started to go to seed, producing silken pom-poms to ensure plenty more flowers to come. Then my eyes went straight back to the river where Suki II appeared to be floating on the sky.

With one last longing glance at the never ending sky, I left for the office and a day of meetings and plans. Lewis had forgotten to book a meeting room and everywhere was full so we ended up whispering at one end of the office. Luckily it was mostly about depot visits and the logistics of making sure everyone got to see all the depots without leaving the office short staffed. As this had to factor in shift patterns, holidays and who gets along with who (or can be trusted with who) it took some time.

On the way home the river had decided to be river and the sky had decided to be sky again. Half way along the boardwalk I could see swans on the shore and what looked like a nest. It seemed an odd place to build one, so close to all the passing walkers and cyclists. When I got near enough to see properly (which is pretty near given my eyesight), I could see from the patches of dark feathers and light bills that these were last year’s cygnets, not adult swans at all. Even so, there was definitely nest building going on. A young pen sat in the middle of an untidy pile of grass, leaves, feathers and twigs. She and an equally young cob were carefully arranging and rearranging the debris. It seems they were playing house, practice for years to come.

I came home to a rather cross Commando. The council had failed to pick up our old mattress even though we’d followed their instructions to leave it in clear sight of the road. Just after six in the morning, when he got home from work, Commando had dragged the mattress out of the shed and put it at the top of the driveway. It was still there twelve hours later.

He’d called the council to complain. They said the collection team had been but couldn’t see the mattress. Even so they’d taken our money. He asked when they would be back.
“I don’t know, Missed Collections organises that,” they said. “They’re closed now but we can ask them to call you.”
“When will they call?”
“I don’t know, could be tomorrow, could be next week or longer.”
“Can I have their number?”
“We don’t give that out.”
“Can I speak to a manager?”
“I can get her to call you.”
“When will that be?”
“She’s on holiday for two weeks.”

After a bit of thinking and a bit of Googling, not to mention a photo of the mattress on the driveway, I fired off an email to the four local councillors asking if they thought this was acceptable. I may have been a touch on the sarcastic side. If the collection team couldn’t spot our matress on the driveway (I included the photograph) perhaps they shouldn’t be driving a big van. Commando thought I was wasting my time.

An hour an a half later, as I was making my lunch for the next day, there was a knock at the door. A man I didn’t recognise, in jeans and a scruffy jumper stood on the doorstep. I wondered what he was going to try to sell me.
“I’m your local Labour councillor,” he said. “I got your email and I can see the problem. To be honest it’s happened to me, the collection team are useless, they probably went to the wrong road. I’m having some work done on my house and I have a skip, as I live just round the corner I thought I’d come and pick your mattress up in my car and dispose of it for you.”
Now that is what I call service!

On Thursday morning a thin veil of cloud and a gentle breeze kept the sky and river apart and the cygnets were back in their usual spot by the big stones. the play house nest had been abandoned. Obviously the game was not as much fun as they’d thought. Hopefully when they build a nest for real they’ll choose a better place.

The day had a déjà vu quality about it as I planned the itineraries for the depot visits. Back in the Dream Factory days planning educational visits was always an ongoing project. It felt odd to be working out travel plans, plotting visits, sending out invitations and moving names from one trip to another again after so many years. It was a skill set I never thought I’d use again but, once learned, never forgotten I guess.

“That looks like a logistical nightmare,” Lewis said. Peering over my shoulder at a screen filled with lists and charts. “Rather you than me.”
“This is a piece of cake compared to trying to arrange flights, hotels and excursions for a hundred or more travel agents,” I laughed. “At least I won’t have nightmares that someone will turn up without their passport.”

The walk home was all about roses. Every garden seemed to be brimming with fresh blooms. The scent followed me along the road and I had to stop myself taking photos of all of them. One yellow bud edged with red came complete with wildlife in the form of greenfly and an ant farmer.

Yet again I came home to a cross Commando. The council collectors had arrived in the morning and woken him up. He watched them from the window, wandering about scratching their heads looking for the mattress. Eventually, he went outside and told them it had already gone. So much for phone calls and rearranging appointments.

The sea and the sky were hard to tell apart again on Friday morning but this time because both were flat and grey. The first of the blackberry flowers have finally opened, petals like crumpled tissue paper around a wild tangle of stamens. A few drops of rain started to fall as I passed Suki II and the wind began to get up. It felt as if a storm was coming.

Climbing towards Horseshoe Bridge I spotted rowers out on the river and wondered if they’d make it back to the rowing club before the heavens opened. Come to that I wondered if I’d make it to the office. Even so, I did stop to look at the mass of oxeye daisies on the bank by the bridge. A few days ago they were button buds.

Luckily I made it to the office before the rain started in earnest. It kept raining all day and, around midday, just as I was thinking I might take a wander to the shop, it turned into a torrent, hammering against the building so hard we could hardly hear the phones ringing. Rivers of water ran across the car park and I decided to stay inside after all.

It felt like a long day. We were busy with the normal Friday traffic issues and lost property but for some reason the hours dragged. The highlight of the day was a lady who rang four seperate times to complain that she wasn’t allowed to use her OAP pass before nine thirty. She didn’t think it was fair she had to pay if she went out before then. Each time she was told the same thing. The council makes the rules not us and they’re made to keep the rush hour buses free for people going to work. Why she kept ringing is a mystery, perhaps she thought one of us would tell her something different.

The rain had finally stopped when I left for the walk home but everywhere there were huge puddles. Still, only my feet got wet which was a bonus. The red haired brothers were back when I crossed the boardwalk. Head down I hurried past but this time they didn’t shout or throw anything at me. I shall have to be on my guard from now on though.

By Saturday morning the rain was gone although there were still threatening looking clouds. Mindful of the red haired brothers, I decided to avoid the boardwalk and headed for Cobden Bridge instead. My reward was roses in the gardens I passed. The river, when I reached it, seemed black and brooding, as if it held terrible secrets. The boats under the bridge sat on their own reflections and it seemed for a moment that there might be another world there under the water, a mirror of the one I walked in.

It’s odd how there are days when every calls seems to be the same. Saturday was one of those. My first four calls were from people complaining their bus hadn’t arrived. Each time it turned out the callers were mistakenly looking at the weekday timetables not the Saturday one.
“It’s not Saturday today!” one man said when I told him his bus wasn’t due for another half an hour at the weekend.
“It is,” I told him.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Certain,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t even have to go to work today then.”
Maybe there was something in the water.

It wasn’t just the customers either. At quarter last seven Sabrina texted. She’d forgotten to change her alarm and missed her train. Perhaps the Bank Holiday weekend had everyone a day out. The week ended with a rash of lost property. A blind man had left his white stick on the bus, a few lost phones, a bag and some shopping. None of the above items were handed in. Sometimes I wonder where all the missing things go and why people don’t take more care of their stuff. I guess those are questions I will never know the answer to.