just the ticket

 

Psychogeographers draw attention to hidden histories and connections beneath one's feet. Indeed I was so busy concentrating on the path below instead of the way ahead, that I fell flat on my face. Twice. But a background working in mental health had taught me to be vigilant about what lies above. A reminder to develop a better walking posture, I suppose. And so it was that I noticed some solid art deco moldings high up on the buildings of an old market town. Impervious to more recent repurposing at street level, they would be unfamiliar with the wine bars, coffee outlets, tech stores, vape shops and upmarket charity shops seen there today. 

Thanks to Trafnidiaeth Cymru (Transport for Wales) who were promoting a trial of paperless travel, I took a random day trip from Caerffili to Y Fenni (Abergavenny) on the new Metro. I think the system is called “touch and go”. For a week only, it was “all for under a pound you know” (recalling Fiddlers Dram’s journey to Bangor in 1979). Advertised as £1 for every journey, TfW has so far only taken 20p from my bank account. Just the ticket. 

The original logo atop this former “gents outfitters” in Y Fenni (Abergavenny) took me back half a century and more, to Portsmouth. Underneath the polished black marble fascia, window lights still spell out the locations of all others in the group, including my home town.  When I started working in the long gone mental hospital (as it would have been described in those days) in the Isle of  Wight, uniforms were provided in the form of a hospital suit. Not the stereotype of the white coat at all. Every couple of years, I was sent to Portsmouth on the ferry with a chitty to order one, made to measure, from Burton's outfitters. Dark grey, it comprised two pairs of trousers and one jacket. I remember it never fitted well, and had either a leg or sleeve shorter than the other. When it was replaced, my father took the old one and wore it for years afterwards.

My mother often used the phrase “gone for a Burton” long before I knew what it meant. Maybe I'm even less sure now. A common wartime euphemism for being broken, injured, missing or dead, its origins are disputed. Some say it's rhyming slang for “gone for certain”, or a reference to an old ale known as “a Burton” (or one from Burton on Trent). Another theory is that the expression began with reference to the “demob suits” made in their millions by the above Montague Burton’s tailoring company. Just like my hospital suit, they often became the butt of jokes due to their poor fit.

The Solent, that stretch of water between the Isle of Wight and the “mainland”, has seen many migrating one way or the other to find a better life. A psychiatrist once told me their ticket to Ryde (or vice versa) was symbolic for people escaping something in themselves. The words were certainly borne out in those in whose care I became involved; on both sides. Sometimes it was the same person. Probably me too. Looking back, I had crossed the Solent having indeed “gone for a Burton” in the eyes of some on the so-called mainland. An old friend went so far as to describe the ten years I spent on the Island as my “wilderness years”.  I returned to enjoy other lives across the subsequent 40 years, and have now “gone west”. Not a euphemism.

LINKS

Theories behind where the phrase 'gone for a Burton' came from - Staffordshire Live
Gone For A Burton - Meaning & Origin Of The Phrase
Burton (retailer) - Wikipedia
Burton ale - Wikipedia
Demob suit - Wikipedia
up the creek with a paddle
A life of new meaning