The name rings a bell, though I've never seen the show you mention. What part did he play in Lord of the Rings?

Famous for playing Yosser Hughes (Gissa job) in 'Boys from the black stuff' through to Lord of the Rings and Titanic, he was a very versatile actor and will be sorely missed

Amidst the lively hum of conversation and the delicate chime of crystal glasses, the family's formidable Head Butler, Huw Jenkins, moves with precision, orchestrating the evening's festivities. Guests—dressed in their finest attire—exchange pleasantries, their laughter punctuating the evening air.

And there, amidst the throng of adults, stands Sylvie. Her youth belies a quiet confidence, and her beauty draws every eye. As her proud parents introduce her to the assembled company, Sylvie navigates this adult world with poise.

At her side, Isadora—her steadfast companion—grounds Sylvie. Her godmother's mature allure complements Sylvie's youthful beauty, balancing innocence with worldly wisdom. Together, they bridge the gap between generations, combining beauty and duty.

Sylvie's dark brown eyes widen as she takes in the well-known faces around her, their names familiar from her parents—the seasoned diplomats, the distinguished politicians, including government members of the Third Churchill Ministry, renowned military men, scientists, actors, artists, authors, industrialists, and top managers from the six Regions of British Railways, leavened with charming socialites—all gathered this beautiful evening.

She recalls how her father had explained that the previous year's Transport Act had reorganised the British Railways with a system of area boards for each of its regions, Sir Brian Robertson becoming its first Chairman.

"Robertson", her father had stated over breakfast. "A name steeped in military valour. A man who cut his teeth on the battlefields of Africa and Italy. A strategist, no doubt—though railways are a different kind of theatre of operations. A web of steel arteries connecting cities, ports, towns, and villages, factories, and farms. The pulse of commerce, the ebb and flow of commuters, the surge of summer holidaymakers."

"And what of the challenges, Charles? The pressing need for investment and modernisation, the labour unions, the ageing locomotives, electrification versus dieselisation, the delicate balance between progress and tradition? Efficiency, speed, and comfort—the trifecta to woo passengers back to the rails?" Her mother had asked, echoing the frequently expressed opinions of their family friend, Sir George Widgeon III.

"Quite. The British Railways crest—a proud lion astride a wheel—has lost some of its roar. Punctuality woes, overcrowded carriages... Leadership demands more than epaulettes and brass buttons, Penny. It requires finesse—the ability to sway ministers, open purse strings, negotiate with unions, and keep the steel wheels turning smoothly."

Sylvie, suitably informed of such weighty matters, was well prepared for the world of grown-up soirées. Yet, the blend of elegance, curiosity, and intrigue was a heady mix.

In her gown of blossom pink, Sylvie stood poised, wine glass in hand. Yet, beneath her perfect exterior, trepidation lingered. This night would shape her destiny with consequences stretching into a future she could not yet see.

Her heart raced with anticipation. What would this evening reveal? What promises would be made? Adulthood beckoned—a delicate choreography of introductions, alliances, and unspoken understandings. Sylvie took a deep breath. She was ready, and two steadfast allies would be by her side.

Hi all.

Apologies for the break in service and thanks for everyone's concern! As mentioned I've just moved house and changed jobs so NGN took a little bit of a back seat for a while but things should be getting back to normal now. It is a one man effort in my free time and these types of events can easily eat up that time.

I do have a bit of a backlog on reviews, but these will start again shortly now things are bit more settled.

Thanks again!

Tom. 

Hi,

The livery is ficticious but the wagon is not  . It is a Dgw 266 built from 1953 for DB by Talbot works, Aachen, Germany. But yes, nowhere near a Walrus or such...

Cheers, Frank

Sylvie, entranced, gazes at her godmother. Once she twirled in short, calf-revealing beaded dresses, the flapper's signature, defying convention, adorned with strands of pearls, a cloche hat on her bobbed black hair, revelling in the syncopated beats of the Charleston, her silhouette straight and slim.

Her glamour, though faded, still shines, while her elegance remains undimmed. Etched lines frame her mouth now, her once flawlessly smooth face transformed by wry wisdom—the legacy of a life lived to the fullest. But her emerald eyes? Undimmed, they still sparkle with mischief and rebellion.

Sylvie often wondered why her parents had chosen such a spirited rebel to be her godmother. Lady Isadora's laughter, a lilting melody, drew Sylvie to her like a moth to a flame. Growing up, she had listened, enthralled, as Isadora's tales unfolded—a tapestry of jazz, eccentric artists, penniless poets, and sexual freedom. Isadora's carefree youth was filled with jazz-filled Soho nights—stolen kisses, whispered confidences, affairs by the score. If even half of Isadora's scandalous 1920s stories were true—when flappers danced on the very edge of propriety—then Sylvie had been granted a singularly inappropriate godmother.

When, in 1929, the stock market crashed, Isadora's laughter remained undiminished. Her fortune crumbled, but her spirit endured. The flapper era waned, yet its legacy lived on in her sequined memories of defiance, freedom, and the intoxicating thrill of being alive. Then the realization struck Sylvie: Isadora was the perfect woman to stand beside her as she navigated her imminent transition from her parents' girlish daughter to the Lady Trevelver to be, a woman of independence and great power.

Whenever Sylvie met Isadora, she stepped into a remembered world of jazz clubs and unmarked doors—hidden sanctuaries nestling in Soho's narrow alleys. Here, illegal all-night drinking clubs pulsed with life, their dimly lit cellars echoing with melodies conjured by pianists gliding their tireless fingers across the yellowed keys of upright pianos—spinning magic for restless souls.

But best of all were Isadora's breathless tales of her best friend's daring escapades. Evelyn was the personification of rebellion—an uninhibited flapper with bobbed bright blonde hair and an ivory cigarette holder. Smoke curling upward, defying convention, swaying to jazz rhythms, her laughter, effervescent as champagne bubbles, left uncounted broken hearts in her wake. Sequins and fringes adorned her scandalously short dresses, swirling as she twirled—her life a defiant protest against a world that demanded different from spirited young women.

Amidst the vivacity, Isadora's reminiscences sometimes turned sombre. She recalled the Army Captain, leaning against the bar, sharing wartime stories. His hooded eyes darkened by battles fought, comrades lost, and the ache of love lost.

And so, Sylvie had absorbed it all—the echoes of jazz, the defiance, the stolen moments, the joy, the scandal, the heartbreak. Isadora bridged eras—a living testament to a world where rebellion danced to the rhythms of jazz, hand in hand with romance taken whenever and wherever it could be found.

Indeed A bogie ballast wagon

Minitrix N506

The trovestar data.com

https://www.trovestar.com/catalog/4/items?Brand=Minitrix

Shows it also catalogue 517 as msr points out and
509 mick points out. Ford bogie covered van

 

I thought everyone had at least one of these!

GE

Sylvie stood on the terrace, amidst carefree conversations and clinking crystal, her breath catching as Lady Isadora approached. Isadora's fierce pride and her crimson-painted lips dared anyone to question her audacity and resist her enduring allure. Her silver-streaked hair, once cropped in defiance of tradition, now cascaded in waves over her still shapely shoulders, framing a resolute face that proclaimed defiance of convention. Her bobbed hair, a daring snip against Victorian norms, had been part of the flapper manifesto—a declaration that femininity need not be confined. Pearls grace her throat, and lace drapes her well-rounded form—a vision of timeless beauty. Time had traced gentle lines around her mouth and eyes, the imprints of carefree laughter. But it is her deep emerald green eyes that hold the true magic—the kind that defies conventions. Once accented with kohl, they still sparkle with mischief, combining both enduring mystery and comfortable familiarity.

"You're growing up fast, my dear", her godmother observes with a wry smile.

Sylvie's cheeks flush at the open inspection, and she stammers, "Oh, um, thank you, Isadora". The weight of impending adulthood lies upon her shoulders as she steels herself for what lies ahead.

"Ah, my dear Sylvie", Lady Isadora replies, her voice a velvet whisper. "Your perfect pose and that dress! Blossom pink and stardust with the legacy of your ancestors woven into every thread."

"Balance", Lady Isadora murmurs, her gaze drifting to Sylvie's silver locket with the portrait of her grandmother. "Legacy isn't static; it's a mosaic—a daring arrangement of choices. Your grandmother was a rebel too. She wore this locket to secret meetings and whispered forbidden words. Tradition and rebellion—they danced within her."

And so, Sylvie receives Lady Isadora's congratulations, followed by whispered wisdom that echoes the rhythm of a rebel's heartbeat. Standing at the crossroads of tradition and possibility, Lady Isadora's assurance carries the weight of their shared history.

"Sylvie", she states, her voice steady, "what lies ahead may be both thrilling and terrifying. But fear not, my dear. Sir George and I will be by your side, your steadfast companions, as you face your destiny."

Isadora's words cut through the air like a well-sharpened blade. She fixes her gaze on Sylvie, her eyes—once vibrant with rebellion—now holding a steely resolve.

"My dear", Isadora says, "you're about to meet a man—your future husband, the next Lord Trevelver, carefully chosen by your parents. He carries their approval, but parental approval doesn't warm a bed or quicken a heart. The decision is yours, and we will be there to ensure that it is respected."

Sylvie's dark brown eyes widen as Lady Isadora's touch—a fleeting brush against her cheek—evokes memories of their midnight conversations. In those quiet hours, they delved into art, music, poetry, philosophy, love, courage, and defiance, navigating the delicate balance between tradition and rebellion.

She nods, and her godmother extends a hand, brushing a lock of her chestnut-brown hair. The shining strands yield to Isadora's gentle touch, and her fingers trace the curve of Sylvie's cheek, mapping the contours of fading girlhood.

"Remember this, my dear", Isadora whispers, her emerald eyes crinkling at the corners. "You are both the canvas and the artist. Paint your story boldly, for the world awaits your strokes. And when you catch a glimpse of your reflection, see not just the girl you are but the woman you will become—the matchless creation of past, present, and future."

And so, in that solemn moment, in the twilight, Sylvie stands—an enchanting blend of youth and maturity poised between her past as a carefree girl and her future as a woman bearing great responsibilities. Isadora's promise—a solemn pact—binds them both.