I am always suspicious of the people who overtake me on the escalator

Jan 29 2008 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

THE soaked coat was twice its normal weight and a long, slow drip stretched from the brim of my corduroy hat, as I drooped on the hall carpet, after a foray into the village.

I felt hunched and sullen like one of those bedraggled pigeons you see lurking in doorways during heavy rain. “And where is all this rain coming from?” I asked myself. “God has turned the whole country into a great sponge.”

Puddles had become ponds. I shook the wet off my hat and coat, before hanging them in the cloakroom. Thus unburdened, the vibrancy began creeping back into my spirits.

“Anything good on the telly?” I called out to prove the point.

“The Antiques Roadshow,” replied our 11-year-old son from the lounge. “It’s from Liverpool.”

“Is Dad on?” chirped my wife from the bedroom, where she was admiring her new peridot necklace in the dressing-table mirror.

How we all chortled. Tears of merriment replaced the rain on my face. Once the first rush of laughter had subsided, we settled on our quite-new couch to watch Sunday night’s gentle TV programmes.

But my mind wandered to the stern reality of the week ahead – the articles I had to write, the appointments, letters to be answered, e-mails, and that journey to work on the underground train.

I am always suspicious of the people who overtake me on the escalator carrying us up to the station and daylight. Something self-important is suggested in the sway of their hips, as they bustle on to the escalator’s left side, while the rest of us cling timorously to the rail on the right.

Here, in the stride of their legs and the purposeful swing of the buttocks, is the picture of Britain’s thrusting commerce – the natural leaders in their blue coats and polished shoes, their breathless PAs wiggling busily behind, the confident sales executives with their bejewelled fingers and mobile phones, the lap-top dancers, the lunchtime gym-goers, the bottled-water drinkers and the meeting attenders.

At the end of the previous week, I had been forced into their ranks because I was expecting an important, early telephone call at the office. So I wiggled, too, instead of lurking at the back of the escalator as usual. On reaching the station’s mouth, panting and red-faced, I was spotted by an old friend, scratching his chin in the drizzle.

“You’re in a hurry today,” he said. “Have you got time for a quick coffee?”

“Sorry,” I said, “but I have to be at my desk in five minutes. I’m expecting a call from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“A likely story,” he said, giving me a broad wink of disbelief. “And I have to be in Bootle to meet Count Dracula, who is officially opening a factory which makes dentures and surgical boots.”

“No, seriously,” I said, “I’m interviewing the Archbishop about his visit to Liverpool.”

“Oh,” he said, “what will you talk about?”

“God, I suppose,” I replied.

“That should be interesting,” he said. “You must have interviewed some fine people in your career.”

“Indeed, I have,” I said. “There was the late Lonnie Donegan, Ray Davies of The Kinks and Dave Hickson, the wonderful Everton footballer. They were my heroes, but there have been many others – politicians, barrow boys, priests, poets, scientists, doctors, soldiers, historians, novelists, journalists, actors and cricketers. I have been very lucky.”

“ So the Archbishop has a lot to live up to,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, “but it must be very difficult having to be profound, interesting and spiritual all at the same time. But he’s a splendid man working in an unsympathetic age.”

By then, all the people with important bottoms had disappeared from view and I asked myself, “What do they really do?”

That night I was provided with a possible answer about some of them from my wife, who had been sent a personally-addressed pamphlet by a big supermarket, dealing with the welfare of hens. A passage about their corn-fed chickens said: “They have more room to roam and enjoy the use of perches, bales and even footballs to play with.”

“Do you think they have a team?” asked my wife.

“If they have, we should advise Fabio Capello, the new England manager, so that he can check them out,” I said.

“Gosh, yes,” said my wife. “We could have Wayne Rooster at centre-forward.”

I smiled appreciatively, before adding: “Well, we all need to earn a crust. Some write about chickens but most of us are destined to watch the sway of more important bottoms.”

* LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk