Hymn

Clockwork

Transport for London lies to me.  Virgin Trains lies to me.  Regularly.  Like clockwork.

The train due to arrive at 8.48 is not 'on time' when it pulls up at 8.59.  The 17.12 isn't 'on time' if it still hasn't reached the station at 17.16 - no matter how much the sign tells me it is. 

Lies.  Damned lies.

It's the arbitrary redefinition of commonly understood words that infuriates me most.   Especially when the new 'official' version is simply an excuse to cover some ineptitude or disguise some meaningless change.  Like the 'improved service' that speeds up journey times by not stopping for passengers or obscuring reality to meet punctuality targets.

I know it's only a few minutes.  Fuss over nothing; inconsequential maybe.  But not for us poor souls with somewhere to go.

When I arrive for the 17.33 at 17.34 and declare I'm on time, They tell me I am too late.  Trying to get Them to explain the inconsistency does not bring the train back.

Can Not

If I have to buy another can of deodorant in the next hundred years it’ll be too soon.

I’ve been on a plane you see.  A proper one.  With all its doors.  That I intended to land in.  No problems there but getting on the damn thing, now that’s a different story.

It’s these infernal security precautions. 

I arrived at the airport and already had a two-page list of the things I had forgotten.  I tapped my pocket every thirty seconds to make sure my passport hadn’t mysteriously vanished.  Some of my suitcase omissions would have to wait.  Others I could rectify.  I could do something about the potential of sweaty armpits: I nipped into chemist and bought a can of my usual body spray. 

I’m always a little anxious at security checks these days: thirteen hours of cross-examination by customs officials on the Isle of Man can play havoc with one’s nerves.  I might be emotionally scarred for life but at least I now understand why their cats have no tails.

After inevitably setting off the scanner alarm, it was the contents of my bag.

‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s too big.’
“I’m sorry.  What?”
‘You can’t take that on board.  It’s more than a hundred millilitres.’
“Is it?”
‘Yes, sir.  It’s a hundred and fifty.’
“But I just bought it.  Just there.”

I pointed at the shop ten metres from where we stood.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t bring it through.  It’s too big.’
“But I just bought it in your shop.”
‘Yes, sir.  I understand that, but still, I’m afraid you still can’t bring it through.’
“So why in God’s name do they sell it?  Do you think I’d nip in to buy my weekly groceries?  What other possible reason could there be for me to buy it here?  I bought lip balm too – do you want that as well?”

He looked at me at though I was the gayest man he had ever met.

‘You could check it.’
“What?”
‘Check it, sir.  Into the hold.’
“You’re not serious.”  Which of course was a ludicrous thing to say.  It was patently obvious that he had no sense of humour whatsoever.

“You’re suggesting I check in a single can of deodorant”
‘If you want to keep it, then, yes.’

Now, I’m no expert on homemade explosives but even with my schoolboy knowledge of TATP I know that in the time taken to hop over Europe, the most determined fanatic is unlikely to create the explosive equivalent of a safety match.  And besides, this security guard was only interested in one liquid.  Even my Nan knows you needed two.

“So you’ll want this too then?” pointing to my contact lens solution.
‘No, sir, that’s medical.’
“What?”
‘It’s medical.  It’s okay.’
“But it’s twice as big.”
‘Yes, sir.  Very impressive.’

A muscle in my eyelid twitched.

“So, let me get this straight: you won’t let me take the sealed metal canister on board but the plastic bottle with a removable cap is okay?  You think I would manufacture and spray paint my own noxious aerosol can or better still, buy an original, slice it open, replace the contents and invisibly weld it shut within sight of this security check rather than simply unscrew this one and pour in some nasty chemical?”

I waved it expansively under his moustached nose.

‘I can take that one off you too, if you’d like, sir.’

You just can’t talk to these people – the bit of their brain that deals with common sense has been scooped out and replaced with red tape.

“If I smell, it’ll be your fault” was the best parting shot I could muster.

Of course once through check-in there is another branch of the same chemist selling exactly the same range of products.  I buy the same can again, slamming my money on the counter so hard it made the display of Fisherman’s Friends topple over and muttering evil thoughts about the Revolution and what happens when it comes.

I fumed all the way to Berlin.

I was only there two days.  That’s eight squirts, give or take a little odour paranoia. 

When I tried to return the Bastards took that can off me too.  For Crying Out Loud.

‘But I have the receipt from Heathrow’ I cried pitifully as two ex-shot putters rifled through the personal possessions they’d tipped gleefully on to the counter.

I whimpered all the way back to London bereft again of any anti-perspirant, sweating gently and rocking ever so slightly.

As I waited for my delayed train back in Blighty, I crawled into the ubiquitous chemists and bought yet another can.  From a man whose moustache looked curiously familiar.  Although it seemed this one had something to smile about.  

Smacked Lips

I can’t really criticise irritating habits.  Hell, I’m a walking sack load of them but still I can’t help but get annoyed at the smallest things.  I know, I know, I need to breathe more deeply, and avoid becoming trapped in a cell with mirrored walls.

The man sat opposite me seemed pleasant enough - smart brown blazer, inoffensive tie, pale blue cotton twill shirt with button down collars, moustache.  Actually, I doubt that a moustache is ever pleasant unless you’re Tom Seleck, but the greying whiskers on my companion’s upper lip didn’t arouse in anyway.  No, it was the apple that did it. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fanatical member of the Apple Liberation Front or the Anti-Apple League.  I don’t fly into a rage the moment someone pulls out a Granny Smith.  No, I don’t find apples themselves offensive.  I’m as fond of a Pink Lady as the next man.   It wasn’t the object to which I objected, it was the manner of its consumption that brought back that twitch in my trigger finger. 

He did this:

Pick up apple.  Bite.  Put down apple.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Crunch.  Smack lips.

Repeated until only the core remained.

It must be something about patterns, I find so gnarling.

I know I have an issue with smacking lips.  I first realised at College when a girlfriend insisted food was more flavoursome if you ate with your mouth open, sucking in air as you chewed and loudly slapping your lips together as you swallowed.  It made me want to find the largest halibut in Yorkshire and slap her unconscious with it.  It didn’t last long.  She dumped me because she said my habit of digging a fork into my hand when we ate together made her feel uncomfortable.

Now when I’m confronted with smacking lips I lower my eyes, sing quietly to myself and think happy thoughts.  Just as the kind doctor told me.  With effort, I can endure the sloppy munching of an entire family-sized bag of crisps with this technique.

Today though that wasn’t enough.  Because as well as his wet flapping, Caterpillar Lip Man kept picking the apple up and putting it down again.  Up and down.  Up and down.  Right where I’d lowered my eyes.  Up and down.  Up and down.

It started to rain in my Happy Place.

Up and down.  Smack.  Smack.  Up and down.  Smack.  Smack.  Up and down.

I felt my tick return.  I wanted to deliver my own version of smacking lips.

And then he finished.  He calmly dropped the core in the bin.  He had the audacity to smile.  Presumably because he’d enjoyed his apple.  Like that was okay. 

I suppose I should be grateful that he wasn’t sniffing.

Hell and Weenies

I hate Halloween.  Hate it.  Hate it.  Especially the increasingly common, infuriating and silly American-import of Trick or Treat.  If I understand it, and quite honestly, I can’t really believe anyone could think this is a good idea, any Tom, Dick or Harry Potter can, on the thirty-first of October,  hammer on your door and for no other reason that they’ve disturbed your peaceful evening expect to receive some sort of prize.   And, if they are not satisfied, pelt your house with eggs and flour.  If you’re particularly lucky they’ll add a wonky scratch to the side of your car too.  Marvellous.  Simply marvellous.  What fun.

Each year I dread it more.  As I slipped out of the railway station tonight, I could barely walk twenty paces without tripping over some ghoul or goblin.  I’ve never seen so many of the Undead in one place.  Not since a compulsory early morning seminar on “Health and Safety in the workplace: How paperclips can kill” at least.  In spite of the lanterns and ridiculous hats, no-one seemed to be having a fun time.  One particularly truculent girl, whose idea of a costume was an extra layer of eye-liner and a frighteningly short skirt, stormed past me cursing the people pretending to be out and kicking their doors for good measure. 

Thank Heavens, I thought to myself, that my beloved wife understands how I feel about tonight and will have prepared the house accordingly - curtains drawn, lights out and everyone remaining absolutely silent.  I hurried home.

I couldn’t drive into my street.  There seemed to a party going on.  I could see it all quite clearly because of the light streaming from my house.  All the curtains were open and every lamp on.  In pride of place, an enormous pumpkin, hollowed out and holding half a dozen candles.  The door was wide open and no-one seemed to be hiding at all.

I fought my way through the crowds.  It wasn’t so much of a line as a scrum, operating on the same principle as water boiling in a kettle.  After getting to the front, witches and wizards percolated away only to rejoin at the back.  More than a couple of times some little urchin wearing a sheet kicked my shins and told me to queue up like everyone else.  One or two wags said how good my costume was, if a bit old-fashioned.  In my day, imps like that would have been caned, if they weren’t Down the Mines already or in the trenches with a bugle, that is.  I don’t know what the world’s coming to, really I don’t.

Various members of my immediate and extended family stood outside my house like Lords of the Manor.  Little S, normally spooked by the photograph of a wrinkled politician in the newspaper, stood chuckling at the stream of Zombies confronting her.

‘Thank Heavens you’re home!’  Cried a slightly frazzled T.

‘We didn’t have any sweets,’ she said, ‘so I’m giving them money.  Have you got any?  We’re just about to run out and there’s some angry looking pixies over there.’

Apparently, I can do quite a good ghost-like  ‘White as a Sheet’ myself.

Sniffer

In dogs, it is a positive boon. Indeed many make a very success career out of it but there’s no excuse for a middle-aged man. Even in scuffed shoes. And looking for a new job. It didn’t stop him though. From sniffing for a hundred miles. In a sealed train carriage.

In fact, at first I wondered if it wasn’t the pneumatic door gone wrong such was the regularity and rhythm of it. Not just the odd breath here and there but every single time he inhaled. Sniff, sniff. Every single bloody time. Every single time.

And it’s not a sound one can ignore. -sniff- It’s not like a close relative’s fart or door-to-door salesman ringing the bell. -sniff- Of course I tried to block it out. I buried my nose in a newspaper. -sniff- I started humming gently. At one point I burst into a rousing chorus of Jerusalem.

Still it was there. Like a rush of air through the valve of a unicycle’s tyre bumping down steps.

I started thinking bad thoughts. I thought about loading a horse’s nose bag with pepper and putting it around his neck. I imagined placing a frizzy-haired child beneath his nostrils so that he’d choke on her inhaled locks. I considered releasing millions of Mayflies in the hope that they might nest in his nasal passages.

Of course I did nothing. But seethe.

And he did nothing but sniff.

But the Good Lord knows how much one man can take. Just at the point when I was calculating the likely success of bludgeoning him to death with a rolled-up newspaper, we arrived at my stop. I prized my fingernails from the Formica tabletop. Feeling shaky, I rose to my feet. Like a blind man I felt my way to the door. I fell onto the platform and into quiet non-sniffing paradise. I was free.

But as the train doors closed, he destroyed my ecstasy. The sound of a single sniff slipped out. I snapped.

“A handkerchief! A handkerchief, you bastard!” I screamed, banging wildly on the window. “A handkerchief! Use a fucking handkerchief!”

The train was moving now.

I ran alongside, walloping the glass with my fist.

“A fucking handkerchief! Use a handkerchief! A handkerchief!”

I remember firm hands taking hold of me then nothing.

Leg It

Now, you only need to look at me to know that I have no sense of these things whatsoever, but really, am I missing something?  Why do people still wear leggings?  L-e-g-g-i-n-g-s?  In public?  And why does it seem that the more weight one carries, the more appealing they become?  How do we convince ourselves that the tighter they feel, the better they look?  Maybe I need to loiter around shop changing rooms more often.  Is there a conversation that goes something like this:

“Now, you have the choice between VPL thin or Intimate Creases thin.  Don’t worry both versions will show off every conceivable ripple and lump.

“Yes, that’s right.  They’re meant to do that. 

“Yes, as you pull them up, it makes all your flesh bulge over the top.  Hmm, lovely.  That’s right, bit higher.

“Nearly there.  Come on, just one last heave.  Now, this last bit, it’s a bit like catching a jellyfish with a condom.  Quickly does it, so that it doesn’t pop out.  Here, let me help push that bit in. 

“Here, use this shoe-horn for that roll.

“Yes, yes, that Elastic Band-look around your calves is very flattering.

“Gorgeous.  Gorgeous.  But you know what?  Let’s try for the next size down...”

I don’t get it, leggings have all the elegance of a sack load of potatoes squeezed into a balloon.

I know people excuse them because they’re comfortable; so’s my auntie’s floral sofa but I don’t wear that to go shopping.  And it doesn’t make me look thinner either.

Tally Ho!

‘Why is it that no-one talks on trains anymore?’  was his opening gambit, and with condescending arrogance that only a lifetime of wealth can buy, ‘All these people who work or read or sleep on the train - what can their lives be like?’

He seemed to think that by insulting just about everyone sitting within hearing distance that might make some friends.  It’s a curious strategy.  Perhaps by being loud and obnoxious, he was demonstrating how very important he was. 

Rather foolishly, a woman opposite attempted to chide him.  “Yes, these morning trains do tend to be quite quiet.”

He missed the sentiment completely.  ‘Well, I think it’s terribly important to talk to people.’ he said.  ‘Always fascinating.  Don’t you think?  And what takes you to London today?’

“I work at the Royal College of Nursing.”
‘Oh, you’re a nurse, are you?’ he queried with lascivious enthusiasm.
“Erm, no.  I’m an administrator, actually.”
‘Oh well, never mind.  Of course, you’d never catch me using the NHS, oh my goodness, no.  I have an excellent surgeon who’s always looked after me.’

With all the delicacy of a Challenger tank, the conversation rumbled on.  He told her how his wife was perfectly happy for him to flirt with attractive young women (just so long as he didn’t sleep with them), how Public School had done wonders for his sons (although he’d had to sue Uppingham because one of his lads failed an exam), how marvellous it was that now his sons in the City always pampered him on his trips into Town and how, today, he was visiting his tailor for a fitting (so much better than those dreadful off-the-shelf suits one sees in department stores).

The whole carriage had no choice but to listen to his loud bluster.  It was repellent and riveting in equal measure.  He was wholly ignorant of ‘normal’ life and outrageously dismissive of things that some of us have no choice over, like doing our own laundry.  Yet bizarrely, his barracking had a seductive charm.  It is true that confidence is a beguiling trait. That and the attractiveness of careless wealth.  It left me confused.

As we left I tried to frown at him and politely smile at the same time.  It is not an easy expression to master.  I clearly didn’t.  He looked at me as though I was mad.  ‘Poor boy.’ he muttered as he collected his hat and coat.

Back on Track

We’ve been home a week and already S has a multitude of infectious diseases.  Travel into the deepest darkest jungle, no ill-effects whatsoever; go two miles down the road to an expensive nursery and it’s as though they are dipping the children in agar-filled play pens.

The kindergarten called this afternoon - S is poorly.  T was already on her way.  I left work too.  A bit excessive, perhaps, but another week of baby-disrupted sleep has left us all a bit fried and a sick child seems to need as many helping hands as possible.  I left at 2pm.  Still, I had enough time for a relatively relaxed journey to the station. 

No reason, no good will and no tolerance will excuse the fat Chinese family for blocking the passageway as they complimented each others’ shoes, the gnarled old man for breaking the ticket machine by force feeding it his bus pass or the young mothers who ground the escalators to a halt by sliding their babies down the rail.  I fought through them all.  It seemed that everyone in the system was conspiring to stop me getting home.  Not that I’m paranoid, you understand.  I expected fate to dump a circus troop of acrobats and performing elephants in my path just to round it off.  In the end it didn't have to:  I arrived at the station two minutes after my train left.

I waited sullenly forty minutes for the next one.  All I wanted was a train going from A to B, dropping me off at C on the way.   

As I boarded the train, something niggled.  Unusually, I checked:

‘Excuse me.  This is the train going to B, isn’t it?  And calling at C?’
“Yes sir”  replied the attendant with her plastic smile.
‘Calling at C?’
“Yes” then silently “Retard.”

I sat.  Something still didn’t feel right and it wasn’t just the chewing gum on the seat.  I could hear the hoofs of disaster rumbling in the distance.

I missed the announcement about the destination:  a grunting oaf decided to squeeze into the seat next to me when it was patently too small for his fat arse.

I panicked.  I got off the train. 

I ran the length of it to the guard.  He blew his whistle while I was a carriage away.

I shouted, ‘Is this the train to B?  Calling at C?’ 
“What?”

The doors started beeping.

‘C’ I screamed.

The doors started to close.  I jumped back on.

The train ‘manager,’ previously known as a guard, welcomed us on board.  This train wasn’t going to my station at all.  In fact, it was going to sail past my town and travel for another forty miles before stopping.  Fucking great.  I’m sorry but fucking great.

I had a blazing row with the ticket inspector who wanted to charge me for the extra distance.  Wanker.  I am not an aggressive man but seriously, I thought about punching him just so they’d stop train.  A chat with the local constabulary and I’d still be home earlier than trekking pointlessly into another county. 

It didn’t come to blows.

I watched despondently as my stop passed in a blur.

Thirty minutes later I got off the train.  With unerring predictability, I had missed the hourly train back by five minutes.

Please insert a string of expletives here.

S had gone to bed by the time I got home.  My rush back had taken more than five hours.  At the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, I drank a bottle of red wine.  All by myself.  And life felt a little better, albeit a bit more wobbly.

Peas on Earth

We really are a load of suckers, aren’t we?  Common sense doesn’t seem to apply to many areas of life.  Even ones where millions of years of evidence seem quite conclusive.  Like cats.  I’m pretty sure that cats don’t hunt for the fun of it although I suspect they quite enjoy the thrill of the chase.  Their desire for bird and rodent pie appears quite genuine to me.  Chewing some leaves or nibbling a branch just doesn’t seem to have the same appeal.  I don’t blame them.

Apparently, it’s not so clear cut at the local pet food factory.  They’ve put peas in the cat food.  Peas!  Mixed into the off-cuts, offal and awful remnants from the glue factory, are flaming petite pois.  What?  To make it ‘healthy’?!  One of the moggy’s Five-a-Day?  Bloody Hippies.  Come on let’s all hug each other and pretend that we can turn cats into vegetarians.  Let’s share the love.  With assorted vegetables. 

While they might have conned the customers, my cat is not fooled.  He leaves them defiantly in the bowl.  Licked clean.  He’s quite clear.  Greens?  Peas off.

Cat Burglar

God, our cat, Gizmo, is a useless wuss.  He’s a big hulking thing.  And absolutely bloody useless.  The only ones to whom he shows the slightest defiance is us, his loving carers.  Quite happy to draw blood from our gently stoking hands.  Perfectly content to dig his claws, like barbs, into our soft skin whilst biting us like a beast possessed.  Show him another animal and you won’t see him for dust.  He hid for two days under a bed when we brought a kitten home as a playmate for him.  She was half his size.  Cute fluffy kitten returned; pathetic Tom retained.  Absolutely useless.

So “defending his territory” means nothing to him.  In fact, even separately, the words mean nothing to him.  Instead of standing his ground he is much happier retired in one of the rooms upstairs.  Out of harm’s way.  While all the neighbourhood cats come in and play.  We found a visitor asleep on the sofa one night. 

It’s not as though we haven’t taken precautions.  We have a ‘clever’ cat flap that only opens when a suitably magnet-collared moggy comes by.  Just two flaws.  One, it seems every damn feline in the district has a compatible collar.  And two, even if they didn’t, Gizmo isn’t bright enough to work out that he needs to push the flap with his head in order to activate the device - he just sits outside mewing hopelessly.  It means we keep it permanently open with sticking tape.

As usual this morning, some stranger’s tongue had licked the cat bowl clean.  No, that isn’t a clever euphemism, although perhaps it should be.  Worse than the theft, the culprit (or an accomplice) had gone exploring beforehand.  It wasn’t enough, though, to simply ferret.  Oh no.  Had to make sure it was fully coated in wet mud first.  Paw-prints everywhere.  And for reasons one can only guess, just by the bread bin, the dirty thing decided to have a good shake.  That or the little bastards had a bloody mud fight just for the hell of it.  It looked as though the local farmer had driven his muck-spreader through our kitchen.

I’m not entirely sure on a course of action.  Locking the flap means getting up for Stupid Cat throughout the night.  Poisoning the food is a bit indiscriminate and automatic weapons are illegal.  I may just have to lie in wait and try to scare the vermin off.

And how do I know it wasn’t Gizmo?  Because, as usual, he’d lain across three quarters of the bed all night, swiping our toes if we made any move to dislodge him.  Damn stupid useless cat.