One empty bin, lots of loose litter

SEVENTY-FOUR years ago tomorrow, six escaped German prisonersof-war were recaptured by two policemen and an off-duty Corporation bus driver outside the offices of the Derby Gas, Light and Coke Company in Friar Gate.

It was also the day that I made my debut.

The Second World War was still raging as I took my first breaths in a front bedroom of a terraced house in Gerard Street while a few hundred yards away stragglers from the Wehrmacht were being rounded up.

Haven’t we moved on a long way since then? The Germans are on our side now, more or less if you don’t think too hard about Brexit.

Overall, some things are better and some things are worse, and you don’t want me to list all those here, I am sure.

The other day, though, one little thing seemed to sum up life today.

I was on my way into town and decided to alight in Boyer Street and walk through the old area.

My regular reader will already be aware that this is a habit of mine, but somehow, with another birthday looming, on this occasion it felt particularly appropriate. At the junction of Abbey Street, Grey Street and Spa Lane – where Cyril Waplington used to have his barber’s shop – there is now just a patch of grass, a wooden bench – and a litter bin.

It was the litter bin that caught my attention. The bin itself was empty. Yet strewn all around it were bags of rubbish, and individual plastic bottles

and cups. And I thought to myself: “What sort of people do that? And why?”

I mean, there have always been scruffy, lazy, couldn’t-care-less folk, and I suppose that, in the Middle Ages, middens were a common sight. But we have progressed quite a lot since then. Yet some people appear to have regressed. They are evolving backwards. They don’t care. They have no pride in their surroundings. I just wondered why …

Pressing on, I walked down Gerard Street, past where my pal Colin Shaw lived – the house has gone but the manhole cover in the road is still there and thus a useful reference point.

The house where I was born still stands, as does the house in Webster Street where another boyhood pal, John Burns, lived.

I thought of the other kids – Keith Wilkinson, Kathleen Radford, Margaret Helliwell, Carol Whitehead, Janet Foster, Susan Mellor and Sandra Attenborough. Boys and girls, a range of ages, all friends together, playing daft street games once Ramsden’s bakery had shut for the day and there was no more traffic.

I thought of all the lovely neighbours, like Jessie Manning. I know, I know – another trip down memory lane. But it is that time of year.

By the way, Mrs Manning’s house in Webster Street is also still there. She scrubbed her front step every day. I dread to think what she would have had to say about that litter.

Merry Christmas …