Good morning folks. Its 8.45 and it is a beautiful sunny day with a stiff north-westerly breeze. Yesterday we went on our usually pilgrimage to Peel and of course I got my fish and chips. Next week I hope to carry out a full survey of the fish and chip shops on the Wirral.

I sat on Peel breakwater yesterday and enjoyed a cup of coffee with the father of Wendy, who is a regular blog reader from London. I fired off a text message to Wendy as I chatted with her father. It got me thinking about the telephone, and how it has progressed through the years. Back in my childhood on the Janet’s Corner housing estate in the late 50’s and early 60’s, no one I knew had a telephone in their house. When one or two telephones did appear later, it was a sign that you had really made it, or you were a snob, depending on your point of view. When Friday night came along and those wages were burning a hole in your pocket, locating your mates was not as easy as firing off a text message. However, it didn’t really seem to be a problem, you knew which pub they drank in or where they would be hanging out. The first words you uttered on your arrival at the bar would be. “Has so and so been in yet?” I recall a certain landlord in a pub, then known as the Duck’s Nest, who secured my services as a telephonist long before the Royal Bank of Scotland came along. Because mobiles had not yet been invented, the only thing wives could do to try and locate their husbands, was to ring the pub itself and ask the landlord if their husband was there. The landlord of the Duck, Albert Jones, not wanting to lie to folks asked me if I would mind answering the phone on Saturday evenings. The wife of whoever would almost certainly ask me if Jack or Peter was there, and all I had to say in absolute honesty was. “No love, I haven’t seen him today!” Well that got Albert off the hook for at least a couple of hours. Mind you, I guess this caper has sort of backfired on him just a little. I did once have a bet with him. I can’t remember what the bet was about, and it was only for a pint. The bet took place some 35 years ago and I never did buy Albert that pint. To this day whenever we meet he asks me for that pint, and I give the same reply each time. “I will buy you that pint Albert, the next time I see you!”

It’s just as well we did not have mobile phones in those days. For some of us it was difficult enough trying to come to terms with the ordinary landline type phone. My Dad was never a technical sort of person. However, one of ours neighbours, George would call round to our house every Friday evening so that Dad might help him to use the phone box on the estate to call his daughter in Douglas. Like I said, Dad was not very hot on telephones and dad and George trying to make a phone call was better than anything on the telly. One day George came round at his usual time and Dad was not in. So, the job of assisting him to call his daughter fell to me and my brother Kevin. We escorted George to the phone box and the mission began. George thought the number of your house automatically became your telephone number. We tried explaining to George that this was not the case. We dialled the operator for George and explained that all he had to do was tell the operator Linda’s address and she will find the number or put you through. Kevin and I stood outside the box and the conversation between George and the operator went something like this. George in his broad Manx accent, “Now then yesser can ya put me through to our Linda, down in Douglas, just cant think of the name of the street now, but number 14, well could be 13, just a couple of doors down from the bus driver fella that married thingies daughter. You know thing, from over Peel way, the postman that had an affair with Crellin the policeman’s daughter. What do yer mean ya need more information? For God’s sake ya must know our Linda, gal with the blond hair, drinks down in the Wheatsheaf every Friday night and always sits in the far corner there with what’s her name. You know, the daughter of thing, who used to work for the quare fella up North somewhere! Come on now love, stop messin’ about now and put me through, I aint got all flaming night for this lark!” Well I can ‘t remember if George did get through to his daughter that night and Heaven only knows how my dad managed this rather tricky call out every Friday evening.

Well people that is it for today. I have already trudged the Silverburn this morning and shortly I am heading out to the flying club for breakfast.

Until tomorrow then this is Tom Glassey with News at 9.30 on the banks of the Silverburn River.