Heres Looking At You Kid

Seascape due west from Llangenedd beach on the western extremity of the Gower Peninsula.

A grim sky makes for a moody image. No two the same.

© Patrick Ellis 2006

Seascape between Rotherslade and Lambswell on the Gower Peninsula UK

Seascape looking south towards the North Devon coast. The image was made between Rotherslade and Lambswell on the Gower Peninsula. This is where I was lucky enough to grow up. If I ever did.

I find seascapes like this one both contemplative and rewarding. The colours and the lines are simple and you might think predictable but the variety is infinite. You never get the same one twice.

© Patrick Ellis 2006

Oystermouth Square Re-visited I

My earliest, and possibly closest, brush with celebrity's sparkling firmament occurred when Snowfy, our family cat, bore a litter in Harry Secombe’s uncle’s airing cupboard. Although I didn’t appreciate the depth of her understanding at the time Doris, the lady of the house, was particularly forgiving. Her husband Cyril didn’t turn a hair.

But then Cyril wouldn’t. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the hair to turn. He did. Turning it though might have been a little on the tricky side. Cyril drew his tonsorial inspiration from an earlier epoch. I imagine, although I don’t know, that he may have seen a few silent movies. May even have been impressed with the romantic success of Rudolph Valentino et al. Consequently Cyril’s conception of an appropriate coiffure involved a pretty hefty application of unguent followed by deft brush work to mould his crowning glory tightly to his scalp.

The result could only be described as dapper. Through my child’s eyes, although I didn’t realise this then, dapper was Cyril’s defining characteristic. He was a pleasant chap. Always ready with a cheerful hello for me. But most of all he was the ‘d’ word.

Dapper didn’t stop at the top. It seemed to run all over the man. Like a generous coating of wax polish. Whatever he did he was dapper. As he briskly stepped out of an evening his tidy belted overcoat and smartly buffed shoes perfectly complemented his trim trilby set at its impossibly rakish angle.

Dapper at play and dapper at work. Cyril was employed in the transport sector. Following a stint on the much missed Mumbles Train he became an inspector, a uniformed position, for the local bus company South Wales Transport.

A man of some resource Cyril resolved the conflict of sartorial identity over anonymity with characteristic panache. In contrast to his evening wear, his dark blue service coat was never seen to be buttoned and belted. It hung casually from his shoulders, more in the way of a cape than a mackintosh. And although never scruffy, the way he wore it spoke far more clearly of dashing romance than it did of a career spent negotiating the idiosyncrasies of 1950s British public transport.

A coat worn in this manner was hardly likely to conceal something as prosaic as a ticket punch. Never. No one would be surprised were Cyril, should the need arise, to unsheathe a rapier and engage in some deft sword play with a brace of razor wielding teddy boys before bounding onto the running board and making good his escape to a fortified eyrie in Thistleboon, Derwen Fawr or even Cwmrhydyceirw.

That coat said plenty. But the triumph of Cyril’s spirit was made most manifest in his bus inspector’s regulation hat. Conforming, horizontal and of an unmitigated blueness this was the ultimate millinery icon of the status quo. Although currently suffering a serious challenge from its transatlantic relative the baseball cap, it remains a provocation to subversives the world over. The badge of petty officialdom and the rule of bye-law it has been, at the least a flat challenge, and at the most a herald of grim destruction, to groups as diverse as illicitly tree-climbing children, canoodling couples, cider pirates in parks and pro democracy activists in Tiananmen Square.

But for all its cultural potency, it was no match for Cyril. He simply tipped it to one side. And that was that. The jaunty angle of his trilby was exaggerated beyond imagining by the harsh planes of this tyrant’s crown. Cyril’s simple affectation completely subverted its power, transforming it into a benign portent of a more liberal future.

Looking back nearly fifty years to Oystermouth Square is a long view. While the rain accentuated the profile of the cobbles under their thin tarmac blanket it seems unlikely that this charming man, busy with his timetable, could foresee the social upheaval that would hit Britain ten or so years later.

But did he? Was Cyril a nascent fashionista? Or a real revolutionary? Difficult question I know. But worth asking nonetheless. Because it might explain why he remained unperturbed while Snowfy temporarily annexed his airing cupboard with her contribution to the future. Perhaps he was considering the rake of his hat in the scheme of things. Or maybe he had far more important issues on his mind.

© Patrick Ellis 2006