Vintage trams are ace. They have dim yellow light bulbs and faded patterned seats that prickle your bum when you sit down. Best of all they make a rattly noise as they go along the sea front and have a bell so the driver can talk to everyone in tram language:

A vintage tram behaving itself.
(Source: Wiki)

Dingaling! – Hey, I’m driving the tram!
Dingaling! Ding! – I’m driving the tram. You’re not. Loooo-zer.
Ding, ding. DING! – Get out of the way or I’m taking you home as sandwich filler.

But a modern trams is completely different.  Although it has a bell that goes dingaling, it’s just a train on a cable. Bit boring really.

Boring to everyone except me, that is.

I fret, I sweat, I chew my nails. I lie awake at night stewing and worrying and have finally come to the appalling conclusion that I seem to be the only person in the world who thinks it’s dangerous to drive a train through a shopping centre.

I’ve asked many people whether they agree that putting fast metal wheels on rails where human beings are wandering round is asking for trouble.

Responses are mixed:

‘Uh, no, never really thought about it.’ (My best mate).

‘That sounds really difficult for you. Put the tram on the beanbag and tell it how you feel.’ (My therapist).

‘Trams are part of life, my dear. We lost your Great Uncle Arthur under the wheels of one on the North Pier at Blackpool and you didn’t hear him complaining.’ (Great Auntie Nellie).

‘Grunt.’ (Boy on the till in Netto’s).

…. So they’re all in agreement that town planners aren’t doing anything out of the ordinary when they run a train track between New Look and Frankie’s Fried Chicken shack.

Imagine for a moment: the Great British High Street, Saturday afternoon – thousands of people drifting around happily, linking arms, pushing buggies, sorting out what they’re going to have for dinner that night, talking about sex and nicking the testers out of Superdrug. Then a bloody great big tram comes steaming in, cleaving a path through the crowds. Frankly it’s terrifying. At least I’m terrified. Everybody else carries on wandering round as if a brush with death on the way out of Primark is a normal feature of going shopping: ‘Oops! Nearly lost both me legs there. What am I like, eh?’

In Manchester, I saw a young studenty guy – you know the type, skinny jeans, pointy shoes, art portfolio, lolloping along, swigging a carton of Ribena. He dropped his bag on the tram track and, peering through a curtain of carefully messed up hair he swooped to retrieve it.

At the same moment, a tram came hurtling round the corner.

DING!DING!DING!DING!  (translation = I ain’t stopping so get out of the way, dickhead). The boy grabbed his bag, ducked to one side and lolloped off in his pointy shoes, as though nearly being killed had been a mere inconvenience in between arranging his hair and fiddling with his ipod. Apart from a few tut-tuts from a couple of old ladies, nobody seemed to notice. Least of all the driver. And I seemed to be the only one who wanted to shout, ‘ This is what you get for confusing a train track with a shopping centre!’

Tram View (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I thought the vintage trams at the seaside were relatively safe. But no.

I was in Blackpool on a weekend jolly with my mate Sam.  Drawn to the twinkling lights of the amusements on the pier, we wandered across the road, fish and chips in hand, chattering happily.  Sam strolled out in front of a tram and nearly joined Great Uncle Arthur in Doddery Old Bugger Heaven. He was saved by a string of cheerful ding ding dingly dings (I’m a tram driver, you’re not but because I’m in a good mood I won’t run you over).
‘We carry scoreboards, you know. Ha ha ha,’ the driver said, leaning out of the window.
‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ I said to Sam, taking his arm and leading him gently away.

I had a chat with the town planning department and we’ve agreed he’s not allowed in Blackpool any more.  In the meantime, I’m steering clear of thin metal rails and listening out for anything that says ding.