Good morning folks. I woke up at 3a.m this morning and the dawn chorus was at full pelt. At present the birds have got a long day. They are on the go from 3am now until around 10 p.m. At least next week the days will begin to shorten for them.

I was talking about telephones yesterday and I have not finished rabbiting on about them yet as I owe the telephone a great deal. For the last 15 years I have made a living from answering the telephone both at the Royal Bank of Scotland, and through my own business Island Office Minder. Even 100 years after its invention, the telephone still has a very profound effect on our lives. It is normally through the telephone that we hear of a birth, or a death. Should you be lucky enough to win the lottery this week, it will probably be through the telephone that you will hear of your win. Like wise, if tragedy strikes it will probably be the telephone that will be the chosen method of conveying the news to you.

As a child, the telephone played a very important part of my life. When I was at the blind school in Liverpool, we were only allowed one telephone call a week from home. That call had to be made on a Saturday evening between 6 p.m. and 7, and had to last no longer than 3 minutes. The 3 minute time limit placed on me by the nuns was futile really, as I was only allowed 3 minutes for my two and sixpence to the Isle of Man. The duty nun used to stand outside the school phone box pacing up and down the passageway outside, her long string of rosary beads jangling as she walked. I was dying to tell Mother or Father I wanted to come home, but dare not as every word was monitored.

I have written in many previous blogs about my time spend with my Uncle Sean in Tipperary Ireland. He had a pub in Templemore, and I would usually go down and spend some time with him during the summer months. Uncle Sean was one of the kindest men I have ever met, although it has to be said, he was just a little on the eccentric side. Every night, once he had closed the pub he would sit and smoke his pipe in the chair, and then he would head up the stairs to bed taking the radio and the phone with him, along with his dog and gun. He would then lock himself in his bedroom which was next to mine. My bedroom door didn’t even have a handle let alone a lock. For some reason he always placed an electric blanket on my bed. However, there wasn’t a power point in my room. The electric blanket was on a long lead and plugged into a socket in his room, which of course was locked. The only way I could reduce the heat in my bed was to throw the electric blanket on the floor. Uncle did all or most of his own electrics and his wiring left much to be desired. If you bounced on the bed or simply turned over a bit too quickly, the lights would come on and off. Just by putting the kettle on usually meant that on came, the telly, the washing machine, and probably his electric razor would start up in the front room. I recall one night when he had gone to bed along with his telephone, dog and gun. After chucking my electric blanket out on to the floor, I turned over hoping to get some well earned sleep. About an hour later the silence was shattered by a very loud bang. I leapt from my bed believing that Uncle had shot himself, but of course I couldn’t get into his room because of the locked door. Neither could I phone for assistance because he had the phone. With the dog barking like hell, I hammered on his bedroom door. Suddenly, the dog stopped barking, and a loud, semi drunk Irish voice yelled out. “Be Jaysus, will ye go back to bed; I’m after turning over in the bed and shooting a hole in the mattress”. Tomorrow I will tell you about the time he turned his gun on a couple of delivery men.

Well that’s it for today people. However, I will be back at about the same time, same place tomorrow.

Tom Glassey, News at 10, on the banks of the Silverburn river.