Is WH Smith the new Post Office?
Why does shopping there always involve standing in a painfully long, painfully slow moving queue? All I wanted was a Private Eye... 8 minutes!
For the longest time I imagined it was a problem just with the branches in Waterloo Station. Well, yes, all three of them. But holidaying around Britain last week I discovered that there's a queue in every single WH Smith in the land.
Is it that WH Smith is fewer, or dimmer, staffed? Do they have till software designed by ETS? Is it because they spend too much time trying to cross-sell Toblerone at the checkout?
I know, I know, I'm grumpy, but there's something cruel about returning to work, with London shrouded in some sort of permanent autumnal gloom, after a fortnight's break: two weeks, just doesn't work does it? Not long enough to forget your work-worries, only your password.
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
27 August 2008
06 April 2008
Free Tibet!
It was a very English demonstration. At Westminster tube station a half dozen or so demonstrators had gathered."You can't do that here, love", plaintively, "you need to go up on the street"
"But I'm waiting to meet a friend"
"Oh....Well... all right then"
My daughters and I hurried on up Whitehall where we had a very satisfactory morning: What do we want? "FREE TIBET!", When do we want it? "NOW!"
The procession was shambles, the torch bearers completely obscured by rings of goons and policeman, every inch of Whitehall lined with protesters. The Olympic torch disappeared into Downing Street, and faced with chanting and derision, it left ignominiously by the back exit. Police sweated, demonstrators broke through and we chanted and sang. China, China, China: OUT! OUT! OUT! Stop the killing... IN TIBET!.... Stop the torture... IN TIBET!
"Well, really", opined the man next to me, who had changed into a dragon costume extracted from his ruck sack when the torch was in sight, "we should attempt to prevent torture everywhere"
I was too busy videoing to answer:
15 March 2008
Time and other Questions
It was one of those stolen London moments.
Finding myself with twenty-five quite unexpected, achingly free, all-alone minutes to kill in rainy Sloane Square I bagged myself an unwise glass of Chardonnay and a corner table in a bright and bijou, tidy and table-clothed, exquisite but ersatz French bar.
Sipping the yellowy, buttery, oily wine, I leant back in my chair listening to the buzz of conversation: high-heeled women clutching bags from Harvey Nicks; men fresh from the office thumb-tapping their blackberry curves; lovers sitting oh, so close, murmuring into eachother's ears checking watches, and a woman alone, half way through a bowl of moules marinere. The bar was buzzing and heady and not a soul on earth, I realised, knew where I was.
Suddenly I felt on top of the world: I was Cortez overlooking Darien, Hornblower taking leave of Bolton in the Mediterranean heat, Adam escaping Eden with all the world before him and in my hand I tested the weight of a subtle knife with its wild, unlikely promise of other worlds; I was standing in the sunlight, the early morning sunlight in the little harbour church of St. Cecilia, to praise a soul returning to the earth, to the rose of Jericho and the Bougainvillea..... Anything... Could... Happen. ....
Actually, what was going to happen was: I was going to be on the telly, for I had in my pocket a ticket to be in the audience of Question Time and I was waiting for Cadogan Hall to open.
There is no two ways about it: I was most certainly in an extremely odd mood.
I dug out my old-man-glasses and un-holstered a silver blackberry of my own and on it I quickly wrote three questions. Questions topical yet timeless, witty yet wise, pertinent and political, questions they just had to select for broadcast.
And then my precious twenty-five minutes was up and I tipped the waiter extravagantly and my hat to my surprised neighbours, finished my wine and my almonds and ran outside, only to bump into Mrs Botogol hurrying in the same direction "Oh", she said, "did you have a drink in Leon on your own? You could have texted me"
They chose my question.
I rehearsed it to myself, under my breath, over and over, anxious to be autocue-perfect, but David Dimblebly wasted a whole 25 minutes on the budget, and they didn't get time to come to me.
On iPlayer you can spot me seven times in the audience.
Finding myself with twenty-five quite unexpected, achingly free, all-alone minutes to kill in rainy Sloane Square I bagged myself an unwise glass of Chardonnay and a corner table in a bright and bijou, tidy and table-clothed, exquisite but ersatz French bar.
Sipping the yellowy, buttery, oily wine, I leant back in my chair listening to the buzz of conversation: high-heeled women clutching bags from Harvey Nicks; men fresh from the office thumb-tapping their blackberry curves; lovers sitting oh, so close, murmuring into eachother's ears checking watches, and a woman alone, half way through a bowl of moules marinere. The bar was buzzing and heady and not a soul on earth, I realised, knew where I was.
Suddenly I felt on top of the world: I was Cortez overlooking Darien, Hornblower taking leave of Bolton in the Mediterranean heat, Adam escaping Eden with all the world before him and in my hand I tested the weight of a subtle knife with its wild, unlikely promise of other worlds; I was standing in the sunlight, the early morning sunlight in the little harbour church of St. Cecilia, to praise a soul returning to the earth, to the rose of Jericho and the Bougainvillea..... Anything... Could... Happen. ....
Actually, what was going to happen was: I was going to be on the telly, for I had in my pocket a ticket to be in the audience of Question Time and I was waiting for Cadogan Hall to open.
There is no two ways about it: I was most certainly in an extremely odd mood.
I dug out my old-man-glasses and un-holstered a silver blackberry of my own and on it I quickly wrote three questions. Questions topical yet timeless, witty yet wise, pertinent and political, questions they just had to select for broadcast.
And then my precious twenty-five minutes was up and I tipped the waiter extravagantly and my hat to my surprised neighbours, finished my wine and my almonds and ran outside, only to bump into Mrs Botogol hurrying in the same direction "Oh", she said, "did you have a drink in Leon on your own? You could have texted me"
They chose my question.
I rehearsed it to myself, under my breath, over and over, anxious to be autocue-perfect, but David Dimblebly wasted a whole 25 minutes on the budget, and they didn't get time to come to me.
On iPlayer you can spot me seven times in the audience.
09 September 2007
Autumn Heat
Lately in London it has been unseasonably warm; and I have mostly been running for trains.
It's also been September. September is the month that SouthWest trains turn off the air-conditioning and switch on the heating.
Consequently, I have been very hot; and my my suit doesn't even have ventilated armpit holes, either, so when I say "hot", your mental picture should be "looks like he was caught outdoors in a hurricane".
Wednesday was hottest. I was in a hurry; I forget why; and I emerged from the underground at Waterloo just 87 seconds before the train left, which in the madcap world inhabited by Southwest trains means 27 seconds before the gates shut. So reader, I ran.
Much later, as I stood in the crowded aisle wiping the sweat off my blackberry, I reflected on my mistake. And on my bad luck for not only was it the hottest, most humid, sweatiest Wednesday for 47 years (I blame Gordon Brown), it was also the 1-day test match at the Oval and at Vauxhall 3,141 fans boarded. Singing.
When I say 'caught outdoors in a hurricane', by the way, I do mean Katrina. Not George or Eric or some other inconsequential tropical storm. Oh no.
At Raynes Park a seat became vacant, right before me. The woman next to it was so alarmed at the prospect of my sitting there, she gathered her possessions and escaped to the next carriage.
I judged it best to remain standing.
When I left the train at Kingston, three girls giggled and pointed at me behind my back (at my back probably) and most rudely, I thought. I would have stopped and remonstrated with them, but I simply hadn't got time, and instead I sprinted for the excess fares collector, in the hot corner near the ticket barrier.
I didn't want to be even later for New Parents evening
It's also been September. September is the month that SouthWest trains turn off the air-conditioning and switch on the heating.
Consequently, I have been very hot; and my my suit doesn't even have ventilated armpit holes, either, so when I say "hot", your mental picture should be "looks like he was caught outdoors in a hurricane".
Wednesday was hottest. I was in a hurry; I forget why; and I emerged from the underground at Waterloo just 87 seconds before the train left, which in the madcap world inhabited by Southwest trains means 27 seconds before the gates shut. So reader, I ran.
Much later, as I stood in the crowded aisle wiping the sweat off my blackberry, I reflected on my mistake. And on my bad luck for not only was it the hottest, most humid, sweatiest Wednesday for 47 years (I blame Gordon Brown), it was also the 1-day test match at the Oval and at Vauxhall 3,141 fans boarded. Singing.
When I say 'caught outdoors in a hurricane', by the way, I do mean Katrina. Not George or Eric or some other inconsequential tropical storm. Oh no.
At Raynes Park a seat became vacant, right before me. The woman next to it was so alarmed at the prospect of my sitting there, she gathered her possessions and escaped to the next carriage.
I judged it best to remain standing.
When I left the train at Kingston, three girls giggled and pointed at me behind my back (at my back probably) and most rudely, I thought. I would have stopped and remonstrated with them, but I simply hadn't got time, and instead I sprinted for the excess fares collector, in the hot corner near the ticket barrier.
I didn't want to be even later for New Parents evening
10 July 2007
Mud and Philosophy
Every Sunday morning at 7.45am I pull my weary body out of bed, put on a pair of baggy lycra shorts and go mountain biking with two friends (counting Jake, I have three friends).
Last Sunday my bike and I celebrated 3000 miles together: this magic number rolled up on my handlebar computer somewhere in the middle of Richmond Park (I can't be sure precisely where: having anticipated the moment for months when it came, of course, I missed it)
3000 miles! 3000 mainly muddy miles, for south west London has unexpected pleasures to offer the enthusiastic mountain biker. That's around 170 Sunday morning outings, perhaps 100 ascents of Richmond Alp, 75 crossings of the Col de Teddington, 30 wild descents of the Wimbledon Common Massif.
I like statistics.
We go pretty fast, for forty-something mountain bikers, but not so fast that we can't speak. "Of course its more than 3000 miles, really", I remarked casually, carelessly, to my cycling buddy as he pedalled, red faced, sweating and panting beside me, dutifully admiring the display that read 3001 "yes, a lot more than 3000 miles if you count the miles I've ridden with the computer not working"
"Well I don't count them," he replied, "No one would: just as the tree that falls in the forest with no one to hear it, makes not a sound, so the mile cycled without a computer to record it, is a mile untravelled" and with that he shot ahead.
Now, over the years the conventions for philosophical argument on two wheels have become very well established between us: in order to make your rejoinder you have to catch up, pull out of the slipstream and work your way alongside.
Put it this way: it's a form of philosophy in which you don't waste words.
It's also a form of debate that has the advantage of being the only type of philosophical discourse, at least so far as I am aware, that can be won by the strength in your calves. It's a bit like Alan Turing's run-around-the-house-chess, except you are more likely to end up sprawling on the floor with the contents of a water-bottle emptied down the back of your neck (a roughly 2 times in 170 chance, to be precise).
I couldn't quite catch him, so I squirted my water-bottle from a distance. I missed.
But 3000 miles! Did I celebrate? Reader: I held a margarita party. But is it still a party, if nobody comes?
Last Sunday my bike and I celebrated 3000 miles together: this magic number rolled up on my handlebar computer somewhere in the middle of Richmond Park (I can't be sure precisely where: having anticipated the moment for months when it came, of course, I missed it)
3000 miles! 3000 mainly muddy miles, for south west London has unexpected pleasures to offer the enthusiastic mountain biker. That's around 170 Sunday morning outings, perhaps 100 ascents of Richmond Alp, 75 crossings of the Col de Teddington, 30 wild descents of the Wimbledon Common Massif.
I like statistics.
- miles covered - 3000
- punctures in the rain when I was in hurry - 7
- punctures in fine weather when I have all the time in the world - 0
- broken spokes - 3
- new front tires - 2
- crushed squirrels -1
- dog bites, while actually cycling along quite fast, actual teeth actually closing on my foot - 1
- falls on to hard, dry ground - 4
- falls into the cold, clammy River Crane - 1
We go pretty fast, for forty-something mountain bikers, but not so fast that we can't speak. "Of course its more than 3000 miles, really", I remarked casually, carelessly, to my cycling buddy as he pedalled, red faced, sweating and panting beside me, dutifully admiring the display that read 3001 "yes, a lot more than 3000 miles if you count the miles I've ridden with the computer not working"
"Well I don't count them," he replied, "No one would: just as the tree that falls in the forest with no one to hear it, makes not a sound, so the mile cycled without a computer to record it, is a mile untravelled" and with that he shot ahead.
Now, over the years the conventions for philosophical argument on two wheels have become very well established between us: in order to make your rejoinder you have to catch up, pull out of the slipstream and work your way alongside.
Put it this way: it's a form of philosophy in which you don't waste words.
It's also a form of debate that has the advantage of being the only type of philosophical discourse, at least so far as I am aware, that can be won by the strength in your calves. It's a bit like Alan Turing's run-around-the-house-chess, except you are more likely to end up sprawling on the floor with the contents of a water-bottle emptied down the back of your neck (a roughly 2 times in 170 chance, to be precise).
I couldn't quite catch him, so I squirted my water-bottle from a distance. I missed.
But 3000 miles! Did I celebrate? Reader: I held a margarita party. But is it still a party, if nobody comes?
02 July 2007
Floods
Our garden is soaking wet; saturated; absolutely sodden. This is in part because it has rained every- day- for- the- last- three- and- a-half- weeks. But it's also because, on Saturday, I poured on to the lawn enough water to supply a small African village for a month: Reader, I emptied the paddling pool.
Now let's be clear: this is no ordinary paddling pool; although if you were to judge from the picture on the box you'd imagine it was one. Yes, if you were judging solely from the picture on the box, perhaps in a hurry, you can be sure that you would have no chance of comprehending any where near exactly how BIG it is. Especially if you were accompanied that day in Homebase by, say, an excited 10 year with the clear opinion that it certainly wasn't any larger than than the old paddling pool, the one we had last year, if anything slightly smaller, Dad, come on!
Neither, if you were judging from the picture on the box, would you gather that it had a filter, and pump.
Reader, our paddling pool is 3.2m diameter and over half a metre deep. That means it contains roughly um r=1.5m....π=3.14, tum-te-tum- te-tum...te .... well, about 4,000 litres of water. That's enough for an African family of five to live on for 6 months. Or an American family of three for an afternoon.
No one could accuse me of being green but even I had a slight twinge of worry when we ran out of hot water and had to switch on the immersion heater to keep up the temperature while we filled it.
That was three-and-half-weeks-ago when we filled it up, since then we've have had precisely 58 minutes of sunshine and the children have been in it precisely twice. One of those times voluntarily.
At lunchtime on Saturday I read the five day weather forecast. I hummed. I levered up a corner of the pool to inspect the rotten, glutinous 'grass' beneath. I haa'd. Slowly I came to a decision and I removed the cover, fetched my snorkel, and plunged my arm into the freezing cold water to undo the plug and attach the hose. Water gushed out in a most satisfactory way; and when I went to bed that evening it was still gushing. On Sunday morning it had stopped and I wrestled with the still-surprisingly-heavy-last-5cm and tipped the remaining slimy water out of the sorry-looking deflated pool and all over my shoes.
Thank goodness for global warming, that's what I say, otherwise I would have ended up cold AND wet.
Now let's be clear: this is no ordinary paddling pool; although if you were to judge from the picture on the box you'd imagine it was one. Yes, if you were judging solely from the picture on the box, perhaps in a hurry, you can be sure that you would have no chance of comprehending any where near exactly how BIG it is. Especially if you were accompanied that day in Homebase by, say, an excited 10 year with the clear opinion that it certainly wasn't any larger than than the old paddling pool, the one we had last year, if anything slightly smaller, Dad, come on!
Neither, if you were judging from the picture on the box, would you gather that it had a filter, and pump.
Reader, our paddling pool is 3.2m diameter and over half a metre deep. That means it contains roughly um r=1.5m....π=3.14, tum-te-tum- te-tum...te .... well, about 4,000 litres of water. That's enough for an African family of five to live on for 6 months. Or an American family of three for an afternoon.
No one could accuse me of being green but even I had a slight twinge of worry when we ran out of hot water and had to switch on the immersion heater to keep up the temperature while we filled it.
That was three-and-half-weeks-ago when we filled it up, since then we've have had precisely 58 minutes of sunshine and the children have been in it precisely twice. One of those times voluntarily.
At lunchtime on Saturday I read the five day weather forecast. I hummed. I levered up a corner of the pool to inspect the rotten, glutinous 'grass' beneath. I haa'd. Slowly I came to a decision and I removed the cover, fetched my snorkel, and plunged my arm into the freezing cold water to undo the plug and attach the hose. Water gushed out in a most satisfactory way; and when I went to bed that evening it was still gushing. On Sunday morning it had stopped and I wrestled with the still-surprisingly-heavy-last-5cm and tipped the remaining slimy water out of the sorry-looking deflated pool and all over my shoes.
Thank goodness for global warming, that's what I say, otherwise I would have ended up cold AND wet.
30 May 2007
Walking in the Rain
About fifteen cold, wet and very-muddy miles along the Cotswold Way we reached the precise spot where in 2006 our hosts (so they were telling us) had encountered a naked hiker. The children looked around eagerly, hoping for a repeat sighting, as if the walker were a permanent feature of that section of the Cotswold escarpment but, like a badger, he was nowhere to be seen, and to be fair it was hard to imagine weather less conducive to nude rambling.The rain hardened, I drew my hood in around my face. My boots were heavy with red earth and sheep-poo, I had long-since zipped up my ventilated arm-pit holes, so I closed my eyes and imagined hot, sun-baked earth.....while I listened to the children's questions.
"So he was just walking along, naked? Did he say 'hello'?"
Silly question: of course he said hello. I'm not sure if it's a countryside thing, or a rambling thing, but everyone on the Cotswold Way says 'hello'. The first day I had naturally assumed that our local hosts actually knew all these people, before Mrs Botogol put me right '"No, stupid, they are just being friendly". I liked the sound of that and the second days I was like Crocodile Dundee I was that friendly. In fact, I reckon I'm a chameleon, the way I fit in: last week throwing thundery glances at a chic gay theatre in London, this week throwing cheery 'Good Mornings' at ramblers on a national trail. Only my lack of poles betrayed me.
"No he didn't, he just walked by quickly" (Aha..not a real rambler after all!)
"Could you see everything?"
"No he held his hands in front of him as he walked past"
"Did he have a ruck-sack?"
"I couldn't see what type of sack he had, the way he was holding his hands in front..."
Altogether we walked 25 miles. It rained for the entire first day, and most of the second. I only fell over once but when I did it hurt a lot and because of the rain, the blood didn't really clot. On the way we did 4 geocaches, and we bought 43 doughnuts, muffins, buns and mars bars in Broadway; but we didn't go to any pubs because we were were too wet, too muddy and too numerous.
In Stanway we saw the largest gravity-fed fountain in Europe and high, high up on the hills, at Belas Knapp we ate ginger cake over a 4,500 year burial chamber where excavators have found 38 skeletons over the years; all of them, according to the audio-guide - all of them hikers who attempted the long climb from Winchcombe in inclement weather while wearing inappropriate footwear.
There were only 23 of us; a mixture of old friends and mutual strangers, but because it is a very small world one of the strangers turned out to have been to school with Mrs Botogol. Of the 15 adults four have indescribable jobs, four work for the government, six work for themselves and one is retired. Only one had a second pair of walking boots - dry you see - to wear the second day. Another carried an umbrella all the way - and had a spare brolly in his rucksack - which he didn't share with anyone, not even when we stopped for lunch.
"I guess you'll blog about all this when you get home", opined our host, later that evening, curry eaten, red wine finished, the barrel of beer considerably emptier than it had been when we all arrived.
"I'm not really sure", I reflected, "that you'd all want to read about yourselves",
"You could disguise our identities", he said, "and jazz us up a bit? Steal our best jokes? Put words into our mouths?"
"Yes", I said, "Well, yes, I suppose I could"
06 March 2007
Life and Death
Put simply, my mind was elsewhere.My mind was hurtling down a powdery-snowy, yet smoothly pisted Tulipe (rouge) in the no-longer-slushy french Alps, at 50mph, ski tips glinting in the bright sunlight, Mont Blanc shimmering in the distance, my mind was busy executing point-perfect parallel turns
Meanwhile, my body was travelling at 5mph, perched my shiny new racing bike somewhere in grim, gun-ridden South London, half way home.
It was dark, it was raining hard - no, it was harder than that - and I was sneaking into the conveniently large space that had opened up between the curb on my left hand side and, on my right, a large HGV that was omigod- it- was- actually- turning- left.
The RoSPA is an worthy organisation isn't it? In its useful leaflet on HGVs and Cyclists entitled 'Avoiding Sudden Death' it opines, hepfully:
In a collision between a lorry and a cyclist, it is invariably the cyclist who will be injuredYou're probably thinking "Well, at least that's cleared that one up, then". I'm thinking: "A curse be on the RoSPA". Because I calculate I've wasted a good three-quarters of an hour of my life since I read that trying to imagine a scenario where a collision results otherwise.
Mind you, though that is 45 minutes I'll never get back, it didn't seem anywhere near as long as the 2.5 seconds I spent on Friday night contemplating my certain death and at the very least - I reckoned - a buckled wheel and misaligned front deraileur, and I bet they'd charge me £60, minimum, at the bike shop to fix that, if I wasn't dead that was, and can you get a bike resprayed if it's scratched? If it is brand new I mean, and wouldn't it be funny if Reynolds was the one that scraped me off the pavement and he got to blog about it before I did?
I braked hard. I lived. I discovered that in a collision between a cyclist and a pedestrian-safety barrier, it's the cyclist who invariably ends up with the sore elbow and wounded pride.
When I got going again, I could see up ahead a old man ahead plugging away on a Brompton, - a perfect opportunity to establish a more elevated place in the pecking-order of the road, and I cheered up, and hared off after him.
Next week, I'm going to swim to work.
15 January 2007
On the Clapham Omnibus (yes, really)
Now, you wouldn't think that anyone who has lived in London for 20 years would be stupid enough to get on a Replacement Bus Service when the trains aren't running
Well, I am
In my defence, it was only at the station I realised that the trains weren't running. Should I go back and fetch the car? But there was the bus all ready to go.... I went for it.
Looking back, I made three mistaken assumptions
Well, I was reading the paper and I didn't notice until it was too late. That's my story. Perhaps everyone else was doing the same.
Aren't we all polite?
As the bus accelerated up the A316 toward Chiswick there came just a few faint murmurings "Aren't we supposed to be going to Mortlake?", "Well, I thought so", "Did we actually cross the river?"
But no one spoke to the driver.
It was a good half mile before, finally, a woman deferentially piped up:
"Excuse me, driver?"
"Yes?"
"Um, Do you think we've gone the wrong way?"
Reader, never, ever admit that you are wrong. If you doubt my advice, rest assured that the benighted driver of the 09:10 replacement bus service from Twickenham to Clapham Junction learned his lesson on Saturday.
- peace and calm -
- peace and calm -
- murmur whisper -
- peace and calm -
- polite question -
- peace and calm -
"I missed a turning back there didn't I?"
- PANDEMONIUM -
"Do a U turn!"
"He's missed the turning!"
"Turn right"
"Turn left"
"Keep going"
"Hammersmith Bridge"
"Slow Down!"
"3 point turn"
"Everyone put your hands in the air, sit down in your seats, and no one will get hurt. Now all of you - give me your phones"
OK the last one was me and, no, it wasn't funny and it wasn't clever,
Bewildered by the conflicting heckles the driver simply plunged on. The further we strayed from our route the later we were going to be. The later we got, the faster he went. The faster he went, the more we shouted
"Don't be stupid, he can't u-turn in a bus, "
"Keep going until we hit a roundabout"
"Turn left and then left again"
"I will execute one person every 40 minutes until my demands are met"
Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man. It's in a desperate situation like this that true natural leaders emerge. I coughed gently.
Unfortunately our true natural leader turned out not to be me but a wild red-headed woman at the front, with no sense of direction and no memory for roads. "There's no roundabout up this way!", she yelled, just a few hundred metres short of Hogarth Roundabout, "Not for miles..Turn LEFT now!"
Tyres screeched. The bus turned left. I strode masterfully to the front.
"Um, can I get out?"
"Out of the bus?"
"Um, yes"
"OK"
Odd decision.
One moment I'm in a warm bus, with plenty of material for my blog unfolding before my blackberry. The next I'm on a street in Chiswick. It's raining softly. I'm carrying ski-boots.
And there's no taxi rank on the Hogarth roundabout.
Well, I am
In my defence, it was only at the station I realised that the trains weren't running. Should I go back and fetch the car? But there was the bus all ready to go.... I went for it.
Looking back, I made three mistaken assumptions
- Mistaken Assumption #1: That the bus was about to leave.
- Reality: The driver was merely warming the engine
- Mistaken Assumption #2: The bus was replacing the FAST train that I had planned to catch, and would go directly to Richmond, and Putney
- Reality: it was replacing the slow train. St Margarets, Richmond, North Bleedin' Sheen..
- Mistaken Assumption #3: That the bus driver knew the way
- Reality: The driver failed to make that half-right turn at Chalker's Corner and crossed Chiswick Bridge. We had gone wrong. Worse, we were on the wrong side of the river.
Well, I was reading the paper and I didn't notice until it was too late. That's my story. Perhaps everyone else was doing the same.
Aren't we all polite?
As the bus accelerated up the A316 toward Chiswick there came just a few faint murmurings "Aren't we supposed to be going to Mortlake?", "Well, I thought so", "Did we actually cross the river?"
But no one spoke to the driver.
It was a good half mile before, finally, a woman deferentially piped up:
"Excuse me, driver?"
"Yes?"
"Um, Do you think we've gone the wrong way?"
Reader, never, ever admit that you are wrong. If you doubt my advice, rest assured that the benighted driver of the 09:10 replacement bus service from Twickenham to Clapham Junction learned his lesson on Saturday.
- peace and calm -
- peace and calm -
- murmur whisper -
- peace and calm -
- polite question -
- peace and calm -
"I missed a turning back there didn't I?"
- PANDEMONIUM -
"Do a U turn!"
"He's missed the turning!"
"Turn right"
"Turn left"
"Keep going"
"Hammersmith Bridge"
"Slow Down!"
"3 point turn"
"Everyone put your hands in the air, sit down in your seats, and no one will get hurt. Now all of you - give me your phones"
OK the last one was me and, no, it wasn't funny and it wasn't clever,
Bewildered by the conflicting heckles the driver simply plunged on. The further we strayed from our route the later we were going to be. The later we got, the faster he went. The faster he went, the more we shouted
"Don't be stupid, he can't u-turn in a bus, "
"Keep going until we hit a roundabout"
"Turn left and then left again"
"I will execute one person every 40 minutes until my demands are met"
Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man. It's in a desperate situation like this that true natural leaders emerge. I coughed gently.
Unfortunately our true natural leader turned out not to be me but a wild red-headed woman at the front, with no sense of direction and no memory for roads. "There's no roundabout up this way!", she yelled, just a few hundred metres short of Hogarth Roundabout, "Not for miles..Turn LEFT now!"
Tyres screeched. The bus turned left. I strode masterfully to the front.
"Um, can I get out?"
"Out of the bus?"
"Um, yes"
"OK"
Odd decision.
One moment I'm in a warm bus, with plenty of material for my blog unfolding before my blackberry. The next I'm on a street in Chiswick. It's raining softly. I'm carrying ski-boots.
And there's no taxi rank on the Hogarth roundabout.
21 November 2006
The very first day that I...
The very first day that I went to the gym at my workplace (with that awkward feeling anyone who has ever been to a new gym will know) I settled down on the first piece of familiar kit - a treadmill.
After 2kms the woman on the next treadmill tapped my arm to attract my attention. Bizarrely she complained that my locker-key, safety-pinned to my shorts, was annoying her. It was jangling too loudly!.
I've been to that gym hundreds of times since, and never had anything like that since.
The very first day at in a previous job I arrived absolutely determined to take all the opportunities a new job offers: above all the chance to create a good first impression
Entering through the revolving doors, I went in just as someone else was coming out, I must have revolved too hard because I caught his heels with the door and he stumbled and swore at me.
I never had trouble with that revolving door ever again.
The very first day that we moved into our very first flat, we set to work sweeping up the builders' dust in the back garden.
From nowhere a little old lady appeared at our elbow. 'You bought this flat?", she asked, with no ceremony. We admitted it. "You want to be careful - there's water down there". And with that she scuttled off, leaving us rather worried. .
In three years we never saw anyone in our back garden again. (She was right though)
The very first day I went to University, the very first person I spoke to seemed like a nice guy - friendly and interesting. University was evidently not so hard as had I feared.
But he turned out to be a Christian trawling for recruits.
In three years hanging around the college bar, I never got approached by a Christian again :-)
Many people seem to have odd first-day experiences like this: odd things that happen on your first day, but never before or since. What causes them?
Three theories:
1) The effect is an illusion. Things like this happen every day, it's just that we only notice, or only remember these unremarkable events because of the 'first day' context.
2) Being nervous or uncomfortable, we unconsciously project an air of vulnerability that encourages other people to mix it or approach us.
3) Fate/God or some other supernatural force enjoys teasing us.
It must be a mixture of (1) and (2), right?
On the very first day after I passed my driving test, I took my Mum out for a drive (as you do) and a tree blew down in the road right in front of us.
I did an emergency stop and came to rest in the branches.
Needless to say, in twenty years of driving since, I've never had a tree fall on me again.
"The Gods, too are fond of a joke"
After 2kms the woman on the next treadmill tapped my arm to attract my attention. Bizarrely she complained that my locker-key, safety-pinned to my shorts, was annoying her. It was jangling too loudly!.
I've been to that gym hundreds of times since, and never had anything like that since.
The very first day at in a previous job I arrived absolutely determined to take all the opportunities a new job offers: above all the chance to create a good first impression
Entering through the revolving doors, I went in just as someone else was coming out, I must have revolved too hard because I caught his heels with the door and he stumbled and swore at me.
I never had trouble with that revolving door ever again.
The very first day that we moved into our very first flat, we set to work sweeping up the builders' dust in the back garden.
From nowhere a little old lady appeared at our elbow. 'You bought this flat?", she asked, with no ceremony. We admitted it. "You want to be careful - there's water down there". And with that she scuttled off, leaving us rather worried. .
In three years we never saw anyone in our back garden again. (She was right though)
The very first day I went to University, the very first person I spoke to seemed like a nice guy - friendly and interesting. University was evidently not so hard as had I feared.
But he turned out to be a Christian trawling for recruits.
In three years hanging around the college bar, I never got approached by a Christian again :-)
Many people seem to have odd first-day experiences like this: odd things that happen on your first day, but never before or since. What causes them?
Three theories:
1) The effect is an illusion. Things like this happen every day, it's just that we only notice, or only remember these unremarkable events because of the 'first day' context.
2) Being nervous or uncomfortable, we unconsciously project an air of vulnerability that encourages other people to mix it or approach us.
3) Fate/God or some other supernatural force enjoys teasing us.
It must be a mixture of (1) and (2), right?
On the very first day after I passed my driving test, I took my Mum out for a drive (as you do) and a tree blew down in the road right in front of us.
I did an emergency stop and came to rest in the branches.
Needless to say, in twenty years of driving since, I've never had a tree fall on me again.
"The Gods, too are fond of a joke"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)