GERALD’S family bought him an expensive camera for his birthday. This retired painter and decorator had been getting used to it by recording the final days of the Water Eaton silos. Soon what was left of this landmark would be hidden below the line of trees.
But his work almost came to an abrupt end on Tuesday morning when he stepped back in front of a moving car in the park-and-ride.
Having tried to mow him down – yes, I was the driver – I felt obliged to ask if he was OK. Would a mouthful of Dr Pepper calm his nerves? He declared he was fine although had he resumed immediately, there would have been severe camera shake. It seemed a good time for me to board the city-bound bus.
MEANWHILE Amelia was pushing her luck in Queen Street. This three-year-old was also pushing her young mother Vivienne to the limit of her patience which was already under pressure from an older son who seemed unable to understand the words “Come back, Adam.” He persistently disappeared into the morning crush on his mini-scooter.
Suddenly Amelia fell silent; sitting around tables outside the Westgate Centre were youngsters of a similar age, all having their faces painted. Would she like to join them, asked one of the artists? Amelia didn’t need asking twice.
“These people have saved my sanity,” sighed Vivienne. “Half term? Ugh.”
‘These people’ were from Oxford Youth Works, a group linked to St Aldate’s Church. Alex Blythe, the youth worker, is heading a project called Volume, trying to encourage more young people to be involved in the work of the church. Face painting was helping to attract people.
Helen and Douglas House, Oxford’s hospice for children and young people, also benefited. Any contributions from parents grateful for calming their youngsters if only for minutes, went to its coffers.
BACK to Water Eaton. The grain silos are no more. Later I watched as weight-swinging cranes reduced the final parts to rubble. A feeling of sadness crept in, but for the life of me I can’t think why. For years the place had been a graffiti-covered eyesore.
Gerald was still clicking away. He was shivering, his fingers were freezing and he was ready for home. If it was so uncomfortable, why had he bothered, I asked? He thought for a few seconds.
“I suppose it’s because I’ll miss the ugly old b*****,” he said, a wry smile breaking across his unshaven face.
He won’t be alone with that sentiment.
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