Hymn

Welcome

‘I would like to inform passengers that we will soon be arriving at Euston, our next and final stop.  Passengers are reminded to take all personal items with them and keep them with them at all time.  Items left unattended will be removed and may be destroyed.  If you see any suspicious parcels or packages please alert a member of staff immediately.

‘I would like to remind all passengers that pickpockets are active in and around the station and that you should take care at all times, keeping all your personal valuables out of sight.

‘There are a number of demonstrations due to take place today and as a consequence a number of underground and mainline stations are closed and certain areas of the city will be severely congested and may be dangerous.  The police are advising members of the public to avoid those areas if at all possible.

Welcome to London.’

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.

Treading Water

There are some unusual consequences of living in one climate zone and working in another.

The three mile cycle to the station was largely obliterated by torrential rain this morning.  Some clothes, like the trousers I'm wearing today, don't show when they're wet.  This is always a dubious feature.  It means that a man sopping wet can appear bone dry.  Indeed having removed my jacket, I looked almost unaffected by the downpour - my flowing locks notwithstanding. 

As usual with these commuter trains, the carriage was cramped and hot and not, therefore, dissimilar to sitting in a tumbledryer.  This is not normally a feature I appreciate but, today, I drew what comfort I could.   I found an empty seat next to man apparently asleep since Crewe.

It's a curious sensation, sitting in wet pants.  Curiouser still as one starts to warm up. 

Near Berkhampstead, my sleeping neighbour stirred.

Poor fellow, I think he woke a little disorientated.

He seemed confused by the clouds of steam billowing from my legs, the puddle between my feet and faint smell of damp dog.

"Morning." I said brightly.

In spite of my cheeriness, I couldn't help feeling as though I was intruding slightly.

He looked at me as if he'd found a stranger in his bed after a drunken night out.  "My God, what have I done?" I saw him think to himself.

'Erm, hello'  he replied, embarrassed, 'Excuse me.' It was part request and part apology.

He got up.  And left.  I didn't see him again.

I was left gently treading water.

Coupling

‘Did you notice that couple?  Him in the trousers that are too tight and her with the Radley handbag.  Just went down the carriage.  You must have seen them before.’ And then, leaning forward conspiratorially, ‘They are Train Lovers.’
“Eh?  I’m sorry.  What?”
‘Train lovers.  They canoodle on the train.’
“Canoodle?  Surely not.  On the train?”

Imagine it!  Canoodling.  On a train.

‘Yes, they cuddle up when they get on.  They always push past everyone to get a seat together; then he sits there stroking her leg as they talk, right at the top of her thigh.’

She unconsciously demonstrates on her own leg, glazing over slightly for a moment.

‘It’s horrible.  And they kiss and cuddle.  And she is so much younger than him.  And he’s not much to look at.’

I had absolutely no idea who she was talking about.

“Are you sure they’re not together, together?”
‘Definitely.  They always arrive separately at the station and at night get picked up in different cars.’
“I see.”
‘And I saw him in Tescos.  Grocery shopping.  With another woman.  He saw me and obviously recognised me from the station and looked very sheepish.  I tutted very loudly.’

Robbin' Hood

What fun I have on my little fold-up bicycle: scurrying about like an unrestrained hamster.  Six months of pedalling around London and I’m still alive.  It’s remarkable.  Admittedly, I’ve had a lorry pass so close that it smeared my sleeve with grime but I lived to tell the tale.  And wash my arm.

Still, in some small way, my clown’s bike is actually keeping me out of mischief.  For as dangerous as the traffic and pot-holes and wayward pedestrians are, I sometimes feel that the most risk lies in navigating the gangs of youths that litter my journey home.  But I have learnt to worry less.

Waiting on the platform at a minor London station this evening, I found myself the focal point of the local Crew.  Now normally, I am, by nature of my innate street-cred and camouflage training, indistinguishable from the average Hoodie.  And, I like to think, impossible to tell apart even from those of this dark ‘Hood.  Of course I may be wrong.  Because something drew this mob’s attention to the sweaty balding white man riding a circus toy. 

‘Yo, motherfucker, what’s this shit?’ demanded one boy dressed in a black hooded top, jeans and Nike trainers.

‘That’s some crazy shit.’ Offered another, a boy dressed in a black hooded top, jeans and Nike trainers.

‘I ain’t seen nothing like it: it’s fucking loose, man.’ Piped up a third, a boy dressed in a black hooded top, jeans and Nike trainers, almost certainly oblivious to the use of a colon in his sentence structure.

“I’m sorry.  What?” I asked before realising that it might not be the optimal course of action.

They stared at me.  I wasn’t entirely sure if it was the look of hyenas about to enjoy a KFC Bargain Bucket or lawyers meeting an accident victim.  Either way it wasn’t pleasant.  I’ve not received a look like that since that unfortunate incident at the Jewellers with the wheel brace.

Thankfully, my experience as a Hostage Negotiator kicked in. 

“Yo. Yo. Yo.” I said, blending in.

Their silence spoke volumes – I knew I was being accepted.

“It’s a fold up bicycle, homeys.”

I collapsed it in front of them.  They took a step towards me, clearly impressed.  I realised I had reduced my means of escape to what appeared to be the output of a car crusher.  The mental image of me pedalling away to safety dissolved into a vision of being stuffed into a dustbin.

‘I wants one of those, fold-up motherfuckers.  They is well cool.’

“Eh?”  I queried.

‘Yeh, man.  They is well cool.  I could do with one of those babies.’

“Evans” I said.  “You can buy one from Evans.”

‘Yeh, man, right.’

And with that he playfully punched my arm and they wandered off to smash the few remaining windows in the station.

Although it was a cool night, I realised I was sweating.  Still, only another thirty minutes to wait for my train.  I rebuilt my Brompton.  And sat on it.

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.

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.

My Man

“You’re my man and it don’t matter that other people say.  You’re my man and we’re wicked together.  I knows you ain’t messing with nobody else.  I knows you wouldn’t do that.  They don’t know nothing.”

She rearranged her feet on the seat opposite and spat out her gum to take another swig of Coke.  She shifted in her seat.  She was a big girl.  Not unlike a walrus.  In leggings.  For a moment she looked like she might sit up straight but it was just a feint.  She was simply redistributing her weight.  I doubt she was sixteen years old but she wore a scowl that already proclaimed a life lost. 

“It ain’t none of their business what we does.  It’s private, right.  Private.  Just between you and me” she bellowed across the carriage.

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.

Training Bra

Now I’m not an expert in these things.  Don’t get me wrong I have some experience but I don’t think my gentle dabbling would qualify me for any sort of superior status.  Maybe I’m just being modest.  Maybe, but I suspect not.  Of course it’s not through a lack of trying rather through a lack of success.  And that then depends on your criteria for ‘success’.  Oh, it’s all so very very complicated.  Sometimes I long for the olden days when a young man could amuse himself for weeks on end with nothing more than a catapult and greenhouse.

Still, I’m pretty sure what was going on.  I don’t think you’d necessarily need to be an expert.  Just observant.  Actually not even that observant.  Just present.  And conscious.  It’s another one of those occasions when people get really wrapped up in their own thoughts.  And deeds.  You know, so caught up that everything around them disappears.  At least from their sight.  It’s one of the delights of a late train home.  That wildly myopic view of the world.  Almost always alcohol-induced.

Tonight’s carriage was largely empty.  Just me and two others.  But as far as they were concerned they were alone.  Although just for the record, I was there first.  Minding my own business, quietly slumped and trying to doze gently.  They joined me.  Perhaps they didn’t notice.  They were rather preoccupied. 

I’m fairly used to tittering and giggles.  Pretty much everywhere I go, I hear them behind me.  I’ve always thought what a remarkable coincidence it is that people seem to share the funniest jokes just as I go past.  Never quite caught one though.  But by the reaction, they are darn funny.  Anyway, drunken sniggering on late night public transport didn’t strike me as untoward.  Underwear dropping into the aisle, however, is a little more unusual. 

Being as sharp as a button, I recognised immediately that it was unlikely that this freshly discard bra was a rejected gift, like so many well-meant Christmas/ Birthday/ Valentine’s Day presents.  For one thing, it had acquired that comfortable limpness that only comes with time.  One couldn’t describe it as part of a Pulling Pants ensemble either, though it was nice enough as bras go.  Personally, I’ve always preferred simple underwear.  You know where you are with it, I think.  Besides I tend to snag lacy frills with my keys.  Suddenly the childhood education of leafing through the lingerie section of shopping catalogues came flooding back.

Still, Pulling Pants or no, this had turned into someone’s Lucky Night.  Thought clearly not mine.  I wasn’t sure whether to cough politely to prevent them from being embarrassed but there didn’t seem much point.  If there was a point they were quite a long way past it and accelerating.  And there’s nothing worse than some stranger drawing attention to a point when things are clearly moving on.  Instead I tried not to look.

Actually, I tried not to look reasonably successfully.  I couldn’t seem to draw my eyes away from the crumpled Marks and Sparks item on the floor but I did refrain from looking up.  That funny affair in an Oxford Public Convenience taught me never to investigate queer noises coming from out of sight.  And although this was my carriage, I felt that they did deserve a little privacy.

I don’t know how many times you’ve been attacked by wild dogs but believe me after the first couple of dozen times one picks up on a few signs of impending danger.  One is this: don’t be overly worried by barking.  Barking is a warning, a threat.  Barking is a signal of emotion not intent.  You’re only in peril when the barking stops. 

In my carriage, the barking stopped. 

I know that canine-themed activities are increasingly popular past times  in many of the Home Counties but this wasn’t going to be the night when I joined the dogging club.  For me the onset of silence was the loudest alarm I could have.  With furious haste, I abandoned my carriage.

In the remaining minutes of the journey I reflected on my own exotic experiences, behind the music block, in the cornfield, the back of the Morris Minor, in the office, the library, the cupboard of the fast food joint, the queue for Spurs tickets.  And realised there weren’t any.  Unless you can count a clumsy fumble on the 10.23 from Ben Rhydding, that is.

When I got off, a hand pressed against the window of the carriage but I’m not entirely sure they were waving at me.  One of them did tell a very funny joke though.  Apparently.