Hazard Alley

LB went on a school trip to Hazard Alley today. A purpose built safety centre in Milton Keynes for ‘experiencing hazardous scenarios in safety’.

In his diary, his teacher had written “LB was on fire, answering all the questions.” Attaboy! Being known as ‘Health and Safety Sarasiobhan’ around here, this was a trip after my own heart. Risk reduction knowledge.

“How was Hazard Alley, LB?”
“Good Mum. It was good Mum.”
“What did you do there?”
“Looked at hazards, Mum.”
“Cool.. What sort of hazards?”
“Like roads, Mum. Roads are dangerous.”
“Ok. And what else?”
“Lorries, Mum. Lorries are dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because they run you over, Mum.”
“And anything else?”
“Petrol stations, Mum. Petrol stations are dangerous.”
“That’s right. What about in the house? What hazards are there in the home?”
“Dunno, Mum.”
“Try and remember.. What is dangerous in the home?”
“Cookers, Mum. And fires. House fires, Mum. And everything, Mum. The home is full of hazards*, Mum.”
“That’s right. Hey, Vicki said you answered questions. What questions did you answer?”
“It’s very dangerous, Mum.”
“Oh. What was the question?”
“How dangerous is it, Mum?”
“….. What did you learn then, about avoiding danger?”
“Don’t go down dark alleys, Mum.”

*Yep, you’re right matey… spot on.

Fieldwork

Fieldwork.  Life on the road. Possibly romantic in, for example, the wide open spaces of the States. Bumbling around the UK on trains and buses, staying in typical British budget hotels, is not quite so enjoyable. Here’s a taste of one journey, a couple of years ago, and the spaces I passed through on that journey. Some a helluva lot quicker than others.

So, first the cross country sleeper, London to Aberdeen. Fun, though odd, waking at midnight and opening the blind to find we were at Crewe station.  Bit of a surreal bed/private/platform/public situ. Plus there are no cabin keys; you’re supposed to call the steward to re-open your door.  I didn’t want to bother Stew so did a quick loo dash leaving my door wedged open, hoping some thieving bastard didn’t filch my stuff.

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