meish dot org: life, unfolding

Man, thirtyish, with expensive pram: Is it? Is it really?

Man, fiftyish, with camelhaircoat: Good lord, is it? My goodness. Really?

Woman, thirtyish, with fendi bag: Gosh, it is, too.

Man, thirtyish: Must’ve gone up in the new year, I suppose

Woman, thirtyish: What a rip orf!

Man, fiftyish: Is it really? What, to just over the bridge? Really?

Man, thirtyish: Seems like an awful lot for just going over the bridge.

Man, fiftyish: To anywhere? You’re kidding, aren’t you?

Woman, thirtyish: Honestly, I can’t believe it. What a total rip orf!

Man, fiftyish: Not his fault, darling, he didn’t make the decision, did he?

Man, thirtyish: Gawd, no. Some wanker from the council, no doubt.

Woman, thirtyish: Bloody hell, though, what a bloody rip orf!

Man, thirtyish: They ought to tell you, really.

Man, fiftyish: Well, seems like a ridiculous amount of money for such a short journey, but there you go…. one pound…. and….. fifty pence.

————————–

It’s the same every year. Horsey SW London people who only get the bus twice a year (when they leave their 4×4 at home so they can have more than a couple of glasses of wine with dinner) get on one during the first few weeks of the new year, boggle massively at the most recent hike in fares, and then harangue the driver mercilessly about the increase, hold up the rest of the queue while they haggle and refuse to believe the new cost, then grudgingly pay up and spend the rest of the journey whining (whinnying?) noisily to each other about the injustice of it all, whilst looking at a gold watch (him) or rummaging in a handbag (her) or pushing a pram (either), which undoubtedly cost more than twice what the bus driver makes in a week.

They were only going two stops, as well. I don’t mind people being mean, or even mean and loud, as much as I resent them being mean and loud and lazy.

(organic baked goods aisle)

Man A: “Oh! Heeeey!”
Man B: “Yeah, hi”
Man A: “Hey, congrats on, what was it, record of the week?”
Man B: “Yeah”
Man A: “In, what was it, Music Industry News?”
Man B: “Yeah”
Man A: “Nice one”
Man B: “Yeah”

1. It wasn’t him what broke the windows at school
2. But he got excluded anyway
3. Which weren’t fair, brar
4. It was Chris and Lennox and that lot
5. Everyone assumed it was Travis too
6. But it weren’t
7. And he told them
8. In fact, he told the headteacher that she was like totally fucked in the head if she fought it was him
9. This was based mainly on his assertion that if someone broke his windows he’d be proper grieved
10. He never broke no fucking windows, true
11. And he never disrespect anyone, brar
12. Amazingly, they excluded him anyway
13. His parents don’t want him smoking no grow, innit
14. They don’t give a shit if he smoke cigarettes, blood
15. They don’t care at all
16. But his grandfather lets him blaze in the kitchen
17. He don’t smoke in the house or nuffink
18. But when his parents are out he blaze up big in the bedroom
19. His dad’s a fucking hypocrite, blood
20. Like like like like like like he don’t smoke or nuffink, but once a year he {sound effect of puff puff puff}
21. This one time, he left a q in the middle of the bed
22. He usually keeps it under his pillow, ya kna
23. His dad found it and was unimpressed
24. His dad took it away
25. Travis suspects that his dad smoked it
26. His parents don’t work or nuffink
27. He don’t like being back at school, innit
28. In fact, he’s like like like fucking bored
29. He’s gonna blaze by the playing field
30. Just cotch all day, blood
31. The best person to buy it from is Phil from Fulham
32. He’s notoriously bad at timekeeping
33. But he cuts a good deal, innit
34. Otherwise, there are several people in Hammersmith who can supply the goods
35. And who are known for being open all hours
36. But who aren’t so good on price, apparently
37. One time he was selling a quarter to some kid at school
38. And he told the boy to hide it in his sock or whatever
39. But the boy didn’t, and got caught by a teacher
40. Who then asked who give it to him
41. He didn’t say nuffink, though
42. Which is good because otherwise Travis would have like boxed him up good, blood
43. If he passes his exams, his mum’s gonna give him like five Gs
44. Innit, brar
45. She don’t care what he does after
46. But wiv his five Gs he’s gonna get a car
47. And a massive pile of drugs
48. And get fucked up
49. And blaze for days
50. True

Both he and the friend he was talking to were wearing the school uniform of my old school. Now that’s scary.

A woman collapsed in the street near Hammersmith Boradway. She lay, face down, on the pavement between the kerb and the phone boxes, still clutching a shopping bag in each hand. She was so straight and still, it looked like her world had tipped 90°, or ours.

Someone called an ambulance; someone flagged down a couple of policemen on horses; others glanced over as they went to cross the road.

I overheard one woman say to another “You know, all these people standing around watching – it’s sick isn’t it?”

They stood, six feet away from the prone figure clutching her carrier bags, and watched.

Overheard in the coffee shop at lunchtime, while queueing for my order. Two women, seated at a table in the back of the cafe. One with her back to the queue. The other, facing the front door, smoking and doing most of the talking.

“…ok, but you’ll only have yourself to blame when he shows up dead…”

…

“…but of course Jackie and Paddy and Helen were on the run by then…”

…

“…no, the first time he didn’t fall; they were having a massive row at the top of the stairs and she shoved him…”

….

“…so I said, ‘no,’ I said, ‘I’m not telling you where to put your money and I’m not going out with you, neither!’…”

“….well, she thought he was dead, so she went to the pub, didn’t she?…”

On the packed bus, his phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi Olly, it’s Emma”

“Oh hello, you alright?”

“Yeah, not bad – I’m on the way, now”

“Oh great”

“Do you want me to pick anything up? I nearly stopped at Tescos on the way but it was horrific”

“No, no worries, I think we’ve got everything we need”

“Lovely”

“I’m just on the way home too, so call me when you get there, ok”

“Yeah, course [she sneezes loudly]. Sorry…”

“…”

“…”

“Oh god, how totally embarassing!”

He looks around. She is sitting in the seat in behind, and one to the left.

They both go very red, and hide silently in their newspapers for the rest of the journey.

They got on with bags marked CDG. One tall and tired-looking, the other shorter, blonde and with a tie so garishly striped diagonally in yellow and black that it must have signified membership of something.

He says in a voice that is slightly too loud for the proximity to his friend:

“I always find that wilderness and density of population go hand in hand. No, not wilderness, that’s not what I mean…what’s the word? Ah, willingness!”

His friend looks tired, slightly exasperated, and shifts in his seat.

The blonde one weaves in front of his seated chum, and says:

“…so I typed it in: W – A – N – K – E – R … as if anyone would actually choose that for themselves. But he had! I love that. W – A – N – K – E – R … WANKER, see? I love that kind of wacky humour. I’m a bit mad like that. WANKER. That’s great. I nearly died laughing.”

On the other side of the bus, hanging on to the rail as we cornered sharpley onto Church Road, a burly man in a puffer jacket with shoes the size of boats and a thick moustache regards the pair with barely-disguised loathing.

The blonde one staggers slightly with the motion of the bus. He says:

“I’m dancing around here! Three pints and already I’m on the stage….What’s the economic profile of this area?”

The older, tireder man rings the bell to signal the bus to stop. The pair gather their overcoats, conservative short scarves and laptop bags, and disembark. A long day of travelling, together.

Traffic jam on the way home.

A mother plonked her shiny-haired toddler down on the seat beside me, while she sat behind. He wriggled and writhed and fiddled with my handbag, tickled my thigh and squeezed the side of my breast, behind my bicep. I put up with it because he was under three.

In the seat in front, a woman with an SW accent had a protracted conversation with a friend, which over the course of 800 metres and about 20 minutes of slow moving traffic, covered topics as diverse as:

1. Santorini
2. Australians
3. Nurses
4. Sandy bikini bottoms
5. Teachers
6. Dublin
7. Various weddings
8. Septicemia
9. New job
10. Hospital bugs
11. Stoke Newington
12. Poor manners
13. Barnes bars
14. Hangovers
15. The funeral of a friend
16. Ex-boyfriends from hell
17. Traffic
18. Other people on the bus
19. hair products

This list is by no means exhaustive.

I only paid any attention to what she was saying because
a) she was talking very loudly on a very quiet bus, and it was hard not to
b) I’d left my phone (and thereby radio) in the office
c) I was astounded that people actually have such long and interesting and wide-ranging phone calls. My mobile calls tend to start and end with “I’ll be home in a bit; shall I get some milk?”
d) the small glossy-haired child on the seat beside me was going
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH
BA-BAAAH

all the way down the road.

His father, incidentally, sat five rows in front, did not turn around once.

“Now Max, India, sit down, you’ll fall over if you stand at the front…. That’s the Albert Memorial. Prince Albert was married to Queen Victoria. Do you know who she was? He died of Typhus and everyone was sad. At least I think it was Typhus. We’ll look it up on the Internet when we get home, shall we?…Look over there: that’s the barracks of those soldiers in red coats. The horses live on the first floor…..And if you look out on the right, you can see that shop mummy likes, Harvey Nicks…”

On the bus yesterday, from a seat somewhere behind me, though I was unable to see the conversants.

Him: “Can we play charades?”
Her: “No”
Him: “Why not?”
Her: “I don’t want to”

[beat]

Him: “Why not?”
Her: “Because I want to look out of the window at what’s going on.”
Him: “OK”

[One minute passes]

Him: “There’s nothing going on. Can we play charades now?”
Her: “No”
Him: “Oh WHY not?”
Her: “Look, just BECAUSE, OK?”

[Another minute passes]

Him: “Oh, go on”
Her: “No”
Him: “But WHY?”
Her: “Stop acting like a fucking five year old, Mark. Look, you’re 28 years old, and this is getting boring. ”

[beat]

Him: “I only wanted to play fucking charades.”