When I was a kid I used to whistle. It just happened. There were lots of tunes that wanted to get out. They were tunes I had heard but most were combinations of notes that simply needed the air. Maybe they were in love with other free notes that happened to be floating by. My dad used to whistle as did his dad. It was a north of England thing that went with brass bands and beer. My dad always whistled things I sort of knew but he modified them to a minor key, a bit like a blues jazz singer might flatten the notes to give a sad effect. His whistling was a getting-up thing.
His whistling started in the toilet, continued while he pulled on his flat hat to complement his jamas, and piped around the fire place while he summoned the fire to light. He had a finely timed system. Sticks were placed over pre-rolled fire lighters placed on the cleaned grate; the firelighters were ingeniously rolled tubes of newspaper folded back into a ring. Pieces of coal were then arranged over the wood, and a Swan Vestas match completed the artwork. Not two matches like a boy scout might need.
Now came the good bit. He partially blocked off the front of the fire with a carefully placed short-handled shovel. This forced air to go up through the bottom of the grate to escape finally out the chimney pot. He made the suction even more ferocious by opening a sheet of newspaper across the shovel and fireplace. Still whistling, he then went for a shave. It was all timed to perfection. The fire was blazing and sucking voraciously at the opened newspaper in 3 minutes just the time needed for a quick shave.
One morning he cut himself on his safety razor so his shave took longer than 3 minutes. The newspaper caught fire falling on the carpet which started to burn and burning bits of paper floated around the room. Mum stomped the flames to death and dad later. That was the last time dad ever used the method but he never stopped whistling in that off-key way.
One morning I discovered something very strange. I was on my way to catch the bus to school and was whistling as usual. It was actually a tune that other people knew because somebody I passed was whistling it as well. I always arrived early for things so had to wait a while at the bus stop. It was the terminus because nobody wanted to go further than Diggle anyway. The Oldham bus came and I got in, going straight up the narrow half spiralling metal steps to the top deck. Only girls and old women with walking sticks and crackling raincoats sat down stairs. Upstairs was full of old tobacco smoke and the air got thicker as travellers powered up their Woodbines. Then somebody started to whistle my tune, probably between puffs. At the third bus stop the tune was there again coming out of someone else. Somehow it had stuck in the thick air and was infecting everybody, at least those who could whistle. By the time we got to dirty Oldham and the nicotine-smelling raincoats had disembarked, it had infected seven people.
I now knew that the air is not only full of radio waves and light waves but tune waves that roam around looking for a place to live. I also guessed that waves carrying tune infections could also carry idea infections. Many years later, one of these idea infections came to Creewah and it took a long time and did lots of damage before it went away.
