A sad little park

When I was little, my mother used to take me on a walk through Millhouses Park. Sometimes we'd go a little further, to a lovely little park called Beauchief Gardens. It was so neatly maintained and peaceful, almost like a Garden of Remembrance. It had a drinking fountain and a sundial, and trellised roses. It even had its own gardener.

I visited Beauchief Gardens today. The drinking fountain is broken.

This is all that remains of the sundial.






Nature has taken hold.

Which is not in itself a bad thing.












 The general impression on this dull October day was somewhat gloomy.

The little stream, the Limb Brook, a tributary of the Sheaf, is overhung with branches and ferns.

It feeds the dam which powers the restored water wheels of Abbeydale Industrial Hamlet, and provides a haven for water fowl.

Beauchief Gardens was gifted to the City of Sheffield by Alderman JG Graves in 1935.

I remember there being swans on the dam when I was a boy, and, perhaps because of the nearby railway line, confusing the words "cygnets" and "signals", to the amusement of my relatives.

The gardens fell into disrepair due to council cut-backs, but since 1990 they have been maintained by a group of volunteers, the Friends of Millhouses Park.

Update:

A doggy tale

Here is a story from happier times.

Up until 1960, Sheffield was served by a network of tram routes. One of these ran between Middlewood in the North of the city and Ecclesall in the South West, passing near Sheffield Wednesday's ground at Hillsborough, and the front of the Banner Cross Hotel in the suburb of the same name.

The landlord of the Banner Cross had a dog - a Jack Russell called Buster. He was always running across Ecclesall Road, especially when the pie shop had hot pork sandwiches on the go, because the warm, meaty aroma wafted over the road when the wind was in the West. He'd go in all the food shops: the greengrocer's, the chippy, the butcher's, who always chased him out with his chopper, but mainly the pie shop. He loved that pie shop.

One day Buster was coming back from the pie shop, the chippy, and the butcher who chased him out with his chopper. It was a match day and there was a tram full of Wednesdayites heading up Ecclesall Road. The driver must have been distracted by the football fans questioning the referee's decision about that goal, and consequently his parentage, and he didn't see the dog until it was too late. The driver was terribly upset. He stopped his tram, picked up the dog, and carried him into the pub. Well he was a right mess,  all covered in blood, and whining and crying and yelping.  And as for the dog...

The landlord and his missus cleaned Buster up and were just about to take him to the vet, when the landlord noticed something wrong.  

"Where's his tail?" he shouted, “Where’s his tail?” Staff and customers all ran out onto Ecclesall Road, and eventually found the tail. The landlord rushed off to the vet's with the dog and his tail, which the landlady had carefully packed in ice from the bucket in the lounge bar, but the vet said there was nothing he could do. Buster was a fit healthy dog, and could manage perfectly well without a tail. He'd just have to wag his bum when he was pleased.

The landlord wanted to hang Buster’s tail up behind the bar, but his wife put her foot down. “It'll smell and attract flies,” she said. People were worried about hygiene even in those days, so he had it pickled and kept it in a jar in the tap room.

Buster lived a good many years as the Banner Cross pub dog. He'd still run across Ecclesall Road on his way to and from the chippy, the butcher’s (who chased him out with his chopper), and especially the pie shop. He was more careful crossing the road since his accident, and wagged his little bum happily when he got safely home again.

Eventually, the little dog went to the great lamppost in the sky. Everyone was sad, and they held a wake for him in the taproom of the Banner Cross. The landlord brought out the jar with Buster’s tail in it, draped it round with a black ribbon, and put it in pride of place on the bar. All the shopkeepers came - the owner of the chippy, the butcher (who came without his chopper), and the owner of the pie shop. Even the tram driver came, although nobody spoke to him and he had to buy his own drinks. 

After they’d all gone, the landlord sat on his own in the tap room in the dark, with a glass of his favourite malt, reminiscing about his lost pet. Suddenly, he heard a noise. He turned round in time to see the jar containing Buster’s tail sliding along the counter.

“What’s goin’ on?” he yelled. The jar crashed to the ground. Gradually, a ghostly shape materialised.

“Buster!” cried the landlord.

“Yes,” said the dog, “and, as you can tell, I can talk! I’ve been granted the power of speech for a very important reason. Listen! When I died, my spirit flew up to Doggy Heaven. But St Bernard, who guards the Canine Gates, wouldn’t let me in. Only complete doggy souls are allowed to enter Paradise. Please, re-attach my tail so that my soul may be at peace!"

The landlord shook his head sadly. “Buster,” he said, “you've spent all your life in this pub. You know the rules as well as I do. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Look at the clock. It’s five-and-twenty past eleven. You know it’s against the law to re-tail spirits after hours!"

It's me back, doctor! Part 2

Here's the relevant part.

This is not actually bad news. In fact it confirms what I told my GP back in May. I have a trapped nerve in my back, and that is why I fell down during a rehearsal for Brahms' German Requiem. Twice. On different occasions, two or three weeks apart. My GP thought I might have had a TIA, a mini-stroke, so I was investigated on those grounds.  I hope this information will result in the "probable TIA" diagnosis being removed from my medical records.

I look forward to the referral and management plans. 

Pip-pip!

A Night At The Opera

La Traviata is usually translated as The Fallen Woman, but could also mean The Woman Led Astray, or even Her From Across The Road! (Tra = across, via = road, -ta = feminine ending.) Or perhaps A Girl Falls Beyond...

Opera On Location performed a modernised version of La Traviata in English in the Sheffield branch of Waterstones bookshop in Orchard Square last night. Alfredo, played by Gareth Lloyd, is an aspiring author. Violetta, played by Rachel Abbott, is a call-girl with HIV+ who is employed to cosplay a character from his latest book, a science fiction work whose launch they are attending. They fall in love.

After they have moved in together, Alfredo learns that Violetta has sold her collection of Marvel comics in order to support the two of them while he finishes his next novel, as she has given up her previous ways. But Alfredo's agent Germont, American baritone Greg Hoyt, points out to Violetta the morality clause in Alfredo's contract. Unless they part, his books cannot be published. Reluctantly, she dumps Alfredo.

Act 2 opens with a Games Night. Instead of gambling at cards, Alfredo, who was invited by mistake, beats them all at Super Mario. He confronts Violetta, raking up her sordid past and throwing his winnings at her. He leaves in disgrace, having insulted Violetta and basically made a right prat of himself.

Later, Germont has texted Alfredo from the successful American book tour to explain why Violetta left him. All is forgiven, but it's all too late. Violetta dies in her lover's arms. Sorry, was that a spoiler? You knew it was a tragedy, right?

Opera On Location's production is firmly set in the present, except Alfredo uses a typewriter!  Mobile phones are used, an idea which may have been inspired by Sheffield City Opera's ground-breaking production of Donna And Her Mobile! Rachel Abbott starred in Donna, as well as in Women of Steel, another SCO first! And one of Gareth's first roles was with Sheffield City Opera!

Wonderful singing and (mainly) acting. I'll certainly look out for Opera On Location's next production.

Tiger on the loose!*

A former Lady Mayoress of Sheffield sent me a text message the other day. It showed a poster advertising a performance at the Sheffield Empire on Monday September 19th, 1938. George Formby was top of the bill. See how many other performers you recognise.

The Sheffield Empire Palace, from a postcard

I remember the Empire. We all knew it as the Empire, Union Street, although the entrance was on Charles Street. My mother took me to what must have been one of the last shows before it closed. I think it was Pinocchio. All I remember was that my 8 year old self had difficulty seeing over the high balcony rail, and I had to either stand or peer under the railing. I may have had a choc-ice during the interval.

Originally called the Empire Palace, it was designed by the famous theatre architect Frank Matcham, who also designed the London Palladium, Hackney Empire, and Buxton Opera House. According to Alan Bennett there was a Matcham theatre in every corner of the UK. It opened on November 4th 1895, closed in 1959 and was demolished the following year.

The Sheffield Empire was one of the largest theatres in the Moss Empire chain, bigger than the Birmingham Empire, with seating for 2,500. Some sources claim there were seats for 3,000 with room for a further 1,000 standing! Fire regulations, anyone?

Here is a link to a terrifying incident which took place in 1933.

*(The tiger story is in the link. I put it here to grab your attention.)

Strange creatures

Last week I was mainly cat-sitting. My friends and partners-in-folk-music Phoebe and Sylvia were on holiday in the Lakes, leaving me to look after their cats, Baxter and Emma, and Sam and Ombra. While driving to Sylvia's I noticed something green and wiggly-looking on the road. After seeing to Sam and Ombra, who showed me no gratitude, I returned to where I had seen it. Despite the constant stream of vehicles which had run over it, it appeared unharmed. I found a place to park and, during a lull in the traffic, dashed into the road and rescued it.

Then on to Phoebe's via one of my favourite bird watching spots. Unusually, there were a few vehicles in the lay-by. I parked behind a trailer and got out the binoculars. Coot. Coot. Coot. Lots of coots. Everywhere I looked was a small black water-bird with a white forehead. Quack. Mallard. Tufted Duck. I walked around the trailer and stood next to a red car with its door open. I noticed a heron, and two cormorants. The occupant of the red car was using binoculars too.

“There's a marsh harrier over there,” he said.

I swung my binoculars in the direction he indicated, just catching sight of the huge dark brown bird, bigger than a buzzard, with broader, straighter wings, as it swooped low over the reed-bed.

“Wow!” I said, “that's a first for me.”

“A first for me here,” said the man.

A flash of pure white plumage caught my attention and I was able to return the favour.

“There’s a Little Egret over there on that stump.”

“It’s all happening today,” he said.

I advertised the snake on the Rotherham Lost and Found Facebook page. Nobody claimed it, so Jake the Fake Snake stays with me.

Alan Smith R.I.P.

Yesterday I went to a funeral. Not an unusual thing to do when you get to my age. But the deceased was a very unusual man. More unusual than we knew.

As a certified old codger, I am a member of a U3A choir called Vintage Voices. Alan played the piano for us for many years. His talent had been spotted whilst at school in Northampton, and he had received lessons, qualifying to Grade 8. Moving to Sheffield he soon discovered the financial value of playing the piano in clubs, but as a devout Baptist, he also played the organ in chapels around the city. On one occasion a newly-appointed minister gave him his list of hymns for the forthcoming service. Alan very quickly showed him who was in charge. "These won't do at all," he said. "They always like to end with a good rousing hymn here at Cemetery Road Baptists!"

With typical generosity he had contributed to the cost of upgrading Cemetery Road Baptist Church's organ, and had accommodated the Cornish organ repairer in his own home during the process. The upgrade included the addition of a Trombone stop, which added considerably to the power of the instrument!

Although he preferred to play the organ behind a curtain, he would often pull it aside to berate the
congregation if he felt their singing lacked enthusiasm. "What do you think you are here for? Look at the words! You're supposed to be praising God!"

Alan accompanied Vintage Voices at rehearsals and performances for many years, but his deafness gradually became more noticeable, and the effects of Alzheimer's more apparent. One by one the chapels and churches let him know that it was time for him to retire. When we at Vintage Voices decided to let him go, he did not take it well. We were all he had left, he told us angrily.

He had no family in Sheffield to look after him, and he eventually went to stay in the Seven Hills nursing home in Nether Edge. In May, Vintage Voices went there to sing for the patients. Alan appeared to sleep through the first part of our performance, but he happily accepted our invitation to accompany us on the home's keyboard.

We attended his funeral as a choir. We sang two songs that Alan had loved to play: Show Me The Way To Go Home, and Just A Song At Twilight. As we looked at the photographs in the order of service, there was one that puzzled us. It appeared to show two ladies, one seated at an upright piano, the other standing.

The puzzle was soon resolved. Alan had been part of a Hinge and Bracket tribute act. He's the one seated!

R.I.P. Alan.

It’s me back, doctor.

An early start to catch the 7:19 No 6 bus for my 8 am appointment at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital. Pouring rain so I wore my big coat. Bought a Guardian at WH Smith’s in the foyer and up to Floor C in the lift. I signed in via the touch screen and was seen at 8 am on the dot. The nurse asked me for the form I’d filled in, then he asked me the questions anyway: did I have a pacemaker, any metalwork, shrapnel, any allergies. After stripping down to my underwear in the small locker room, I put on a hospital gown. The nurse came in, took one look at my underpants and told me to put on another gown to cover my front.

This time, as the MRI was for my lumbar spine, I was given headphones and no crash helmet with fitted periscope and went in feet first. Before the machine started I felt cool air round my knees. I’d taken my glasses off so the only metal on my person was the two silver rings I wear, one on the ring finger of each hand. Just before the noise started I felt a strange sensation around these rings, as if they were being pulled off. As the MRI machine contains a powerful magnet, perhaps these rings are not pure silver!  Same horrible rhythms as before, but not quite as bad as my head remained outside the machine. DERDERDERDERDERDERDER with a faint puppy-dog whine in the background. I stared at the ventilation grille in the ceiling until it was over.

At 8:27 I was fully dressed and standing in the corridor checking the time. Time for a coffee! Lift down to Floor B and the coffee shop. Nearly an hour to spare to do the Guardian cryptic crossword, until it was time to take the lift up to Floor M for my follow-up appointment with the TIA team. General discussion with Clare, the nurse, was encouraging, but no conclusion reached as the Consultant won’t be back from her holiday until 27th September!

More heavy rain as I set out on the Parkway. The sky over Canklow Woods was a weird shade of purple. When the sun came out each car in front trailed a spray rainbow.

Further Adventures in the NHS - continued

I was called into the Consultant’s office. She asked me what had happened, so I explained again: that I had been singing in a rehearsal on a Saturday morning, and after standing for about 30 minutes my left leg gave way and I fell to the floor. My leg was numb and had no strength. I demonstrated in her office how I had managed to regain my chair, pick up my score and continue singing. In German. (I did not demonstrate the singing.) And this had happened twice, 5 weeks apart.

The ultrasound tests and the ECG had shown no problems. She showed me the results of the MRI scan of my brain. No light areas, or anything that would indicate a problem. However, she would still not rule out the possibility that I had had a TIA!

Now desperately in need of retail therapy, I caught the bus into town. A visit to Schuh in Orchard Square and a nice pair of canvas shoes later sees me sitting outside the Eagle on Eccy Road sipping a pint of something cold waiting for pork pie and pickle. On a plank because Eccy Road.


The follow-up letter came some days later. My appointment is Friday August 9th, leading me to assume there was nothing seriously wrong. If there had been, they’d have had me back in sharpish.

I also have an appointment for an MRI scan on my spine, which is where the problem is.

Then I got a letter telling me to go to the Northern General Hospital to have a 72 hour ECG fitted. I left plenty of time, as parking at NGH is...well you know if you’ve tried it! I enjoyed (?) a brisk walk in 25ºC to the Chesterman Wing from Car Park B. The nice young man who called my name in the waiting room raised his eyebrows to see me stand up so promptly. He introduced himself as Dimitri, and shaved my chest (as you do). While attaching the electrodes he made small-talk by asking me what I did. I told him I played the concertina (which I explained was like a small accordion [I know!]), and bassoon. “Is that like a sitar?” he asked.

So that was yesterday. I have a heart monitor. It smells faintly of patchouli, which I haven’t worn since, ooh, 1976. One of the electrodes came off during the night. I stuck it back on. And I can’t have a shower because it isn’t waterproof, so by Friday, if all I smell of is patchouli, then I’ll be lucky and so will you!

I have to return it on Friday morning at 8:45. Deep joy. Eventually I expect to find out why it was decided to fit the monitor, and what results it showed.


All this has undoubtedly cost the NHS a great deal of money. Some people will criticise me for going along with what might prove to be unnecessary medical procedures, saying patients are waiting on trolleys, not getting the treatment they need, wards are overcrowded, hospital staff are overworked. All these things are true.

But I’m grateful that we continue to have a National Health Service that is free at the point of delivery. Long may it continue, but I very much fear for the future.

Toodle-oo.

Further adventures in the NHS

I’m wearing a heart monitor.

As I wrote last time, I fell over again during a Saturday morning rehearsal. Afterwards a nice lady came and spoke to me. She told me she was a doctor, and offered me a sweet tea. I declined, but agreed to a mug of black coffee and a Kit Kat. I told her that I thought the fall resulted from my sciatic nerve becoming trapped due to a prolapsed disc, and I asked her if she agreed. She said that if the brain doesn’t get a message back from a nerve, it decides there’s nothing much doing in that department and switches it off. My interpretation was highly probable.  As I had promised, I made an appointment to see my GP.

Monday afternoon, and I saw one of the doctors at Falkland House. I described what had happened, that I had not lost consciousness, and that my sciatic nerve was probably to blame. He agreed. When I got home, one of the other doctors phoned me. “The worst case,” he said, “is that you had a TIA, a mini stroke. I’ve referred you the neurology team at the Hallamshire.”

The very next Thursday, off I toddled to the Royal Hallamshire Hospital, complete with book of Opera Choruses (got to get the words for the chorus of Brindisi learnt), pen, iPad, and Guardian bought from WH Smiths for the crossword. The no. 6 bus goes there, but my appointment was 9:20 am, so I had to pay! Ultrasound scan of arteries in neck, check. ECG, check.

Then MRI scan. Emptied pockets, removed glasses (“Just like Manchester airport,” I quipped. Tumbleweed.) I was fitted with earplugs, headphones, and a helmet which held a periscope-type mirror through which, lying on my back, I could see the nursing staff diving for cover as I slid head first into the bowels of the machine.

BABABABABABABABABABA.

I was trying to turn the incessant rhythm into something more bearable: BAbabaBABABAbababaBABAbaBABAbaBAbaba, when a voice came through the headphones: “Can you keep your head still please?”. I contented myself with conducting it with one hand: 3/4, 4/4, 3/4, 5/4.

BOBOBOBOBOBOTTLEBOTTLEBOTTLEBOTTLE

I emerged, glad that was over, trying to think of a witty comment about the crap music. Didn’t bother.

Belongings restored, off to another waiting room, where I made significant headway into the Guardian Cryptic while I awaited the Consultant’s verdict on my health.

For which you will have to wait until the next instalment.

And you still don’t know why I’m wearing a heart monitor.

Pip pip.

Adventures in the NHS

On the 18th of May, I fell down during a rehearsal for Brahms' German Requiem. This was unusual. Except the same thing happened on 29th June.

Sheffield Music Academy  invited experienced choral singers to join them for their end of year concert which would include Brahms' German Requiem. As this is a work that means a great deal to me, I volunteered straight away. Rehearsals were on Saturdays from 8:30-9:30 am at Birkdale School.  I attended the first rehearsal, but the following week we were all asked to stand up. After about 20 or 30 minutes I found myself lying on the floor. Trying to get up, I had no strength or feeling in my left leg. I pulled myself onto a chair, picked up my score, and continued singing, whilst making reassuring signals to everybody.

After the rehearsal several people came up to me to make sure I was OK. I reassured them that I had not lost consciousness, had no chest pains, and could move all my limbs. I was pretty sure that the cause was sciatica as I have a prolapsed disc, and sometimes the sciatic nerve gets trapped causing numbness. I assured everyone that it had never happened before, and if it happened again I would definitely see my GP. Long story short, it did and I did.