meish dot org: life, unfolding

Apologies for the crapness of this camphone photo, but crossing the road to the bus stop this morning I was struck by how perfectly all the commuters in the line were preserving their personal space. Lovely.

I’ve written about queuing here before, notably:

• The Fine Art of Queuing – in which I attempt to buy a sieve in a backstreet Bolivian hardware store
• The Revolting Queue – in which the locals turn nasty when someone cuts in
• In the Queue – in which I’m accosted by an oddball

…and others, I’m sure.

H2G2 has a nice breakdown of queue typology here. And I liked this invention by a West Bank woman of special socks for queuing in:

Maram Abdel Latif, from Jenin, spent three years on the design and produced her first prototype in February.

The socks are made from nylon and gel that moulds around wearers’ feet to prevent discomfort, even if they stand for hours, as they sometimes have to.

Ms Latif, 22, says the socks are ideal for pregnant women and the elderly.

The carer at an elderly home says she got the idea after facing long waits at Israeli checkpoints in the occupied West Bank.

For years (five at least) I had a relatively straightforward (mostly) 20 minute bus hop from home (in Mortlake, SW14) to work (in Olympia, W14).

Five minutes walk to the bus stop. A couple of minutes of waiting, then 20 minutes on a shuttle bus through Barnes, up Castlenau (thank heavens for the bus lane – I’ve never figured out why all those single car drivers (that’s solo, not unattached, I assume) bothered sitting in that interminable traffic jam every morning when the bus lane alongside proved the effectiveness of public transport, at least for that stretch), over Hammersmith Bridge and then 10 minutes walk from the bus depot and I was at my desk. And on the way home, the same in reverse (except without the bus lane, dangnabit) or in good weather a 40 minute saunter down the towpath.

Lovely.

Before we moved to SW14, my commute was an 8 minute walk. Before that, it was an overland train (the North London Line AKA the Crack Line) from Wet Hamster round to Olympia via Willesden Arsehole Junction. Before that, half an hour on a bus from Maida Vale to Chelsea.

In other words, pretty cushy and relatively stressless, and all above ground.

Until, that is, I started my new job last month. Nowadays, I have the same short and joyful bus ride, topped off by a minimum of forty minutes on the tube, and then another ten minute walk.

Let me tell you, it’s been an eye-opener, and after a month, I’ve come to some conclusions. None particularly earth-shattering, and all old news to you seasoned commuters, I’ll warrant, but quite revelatory to me. I’ve been jotting things down on my extra 2 hours travel a day, and will be sharing them here as time permits. Bet you can’t wait, can you?

Anyway, without further ado:

1. There’s a definite hierarchy to tube seats.

The thing about buses is that they’re usually relatively short hops. You know that it’ll be over pretty soon, which means that standing up for a short while isn’t a great hardship. Bus passengers take sitting down for granted.

Not so on the underground. On the tube, you’re in it for the long-haul. Seats are hard-won and bitterly defended which means selective eyesight when old/pregnant people get on, and a competitive pounce when a spot becomes vacant. Which brings me to the realisation that not all spaces are equal.

This is something which isn’t immediately apparent to the casual tube user, but which quickly reveals itself to the hardened commuter. Everyone knows the prime seats and standing spots, and people jostle for supremacy when the doors open, especially at the depot, when the train is empty.

In the reference diagram below, the preferred pecking order of one end of a Hammersmith & City line carriage is dissected:

Read the rest of this entry »

(Overheard on the bus at midnight. Two men, both slurring, slumped on the back seat and reeking of an evening of liquid exuberance.)

“What did you think about tonight, mate? Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah.”

“I dunno what you reckon, but I reckon that the…the life force has gone out of ‘ammersmiff these days”

“Yeah.”

“It’s so important for a place to have a life force, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Hammersmith used to have loads of it, but these days…well, I dunno, it’s just gone, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe next time we could go on a train down to Clapham, there are loads of pubs – great pubs, they’ve got so much life force, mate, it’s untrue! What do you reckon, should we do that sometime?”

“Yeah.”

“I tell you what, how about this, why don’t we go out tomorrow night, I’ll drive – I won’t drink any more than a couple of shandies – anywhere you like in London, anywhere at all. What do you think? Fancy it?”

“Yeah.”

“The most important thing in the world is life force. You have to be places with good life force, you have to find them”

“Yeah.”

“Otherwise you’re nuffink.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll find somewhere with life force, mate, I promise. We’ll find it.”

“Yeah.”

The area of London where I live is pretty much the only place in this city where I still see people queueing for the bus. To be honest, that’s one of the reasons I like living there. I want to live somewhere where people are courteous and considerate. In fact, I want to live in 1930s small-town England, but that’s another story.

The other morning, I witnessed near anarchy on the rivertide-lapped streets of south-west London, as the beautiful natural orderliness of things was disturbed by the actions of An Outsider.

Burn him! Burn him!

When I got to the bus stop, there were four people waiting there already, so I joined the end of the line. Number five. The queueing system is always the same – people stand in single file along the slim pavement, snaking away from the bus stop, and facing the oncoming traffic. As more people show up, the line gets longer and longer, because that’s what lines do, and that’s what we nice people of Britain do, we queue, and by God it is sacred to us, so do not mess.

By the time fifteen minutes had passed, there was no bus – probably as a result of crap traffic and weather combined – and 23 people in the queue. We stood. We shifted. We peered hopefully at the bend in the road. We checked our watches. Nothing. No bus.

And then, sauntering up the road, his black and white stripy hat pulled low over his brow, a slight man approached the head of the queue. He studied the timetable for a nanosecond, and then stepped back and stopped, leaning against the wall, his hands thrust deep in winter pockets.

A quiet murmur of snorts and derisory grunts emitted involuntarily from the queue. Rhubarb rhubarb. Who’s this? What’s he doing? Doesn’t he know there’s a queue? Is he? He can’t be, can he? These are the rules. This is what we do. Doesn’t he know? Can’t he see? Doesn’t he CARE? Incredible! Inconceivable!

The linemembers glanced at each other in silent and growing disgust and incredulity. The audacity! The sheer affrontery! The gall!

Who will say something? The people at the back craned out of the line towards those at the front, urging them into action with eyebrows and glares, silently. The people at the front twirled their necks around towards those in the middle and the back, who’d have the most to lose from someone pushing in.

Not a word was spoken. The whole line had become electric with unspoken urgency, but still no-one said a thing.

Then suddenly, in the distance, the red hulk of the bus hove into view.

Muscles tightened along the line, and it was clear that individuals were plotting how to ensure that this…this IMPOSTER, this INTERLOPER didn’t succeed in jumping the queue: Oh, you can wait at the front, sonny-Jim, but you’re not going to get on before me, you mark my words. Shoulders and elbows and briefcases were aligned and primed in readiness for the Barnes-Barge-and-Body-Block: a prim and oh-so-polite manoevre which efficiently prevents access to the offending party by inserting one’s own body – and associated accessories – in their path. Often seen employed at the bar in the Sun Inn by rugby types.

But – oh, the humanity – when the doors opened, young stripy hatted man nimbly hopped on before anyone could blink or barge, and tripped lightly to the back seat, where he endured, unaware, the wrath of two dozen pissed-off commuters glaring at him as they boarded.

And so the journey passed. We commuters, stuffed into the bus like sand between the toes of a big red giant, steaming quietly, rolled eyes at each other as we rolled over the bridge towards work.

Meanwhile, in the row behind me, the urgent schtomp schtomp schtomp of the skinny guy’s music through tinny earbuds sounded like the jangling of so many keys.

The other day, sitting on the bus while it crawled towards home in a traffic jam, I was reading my book:

Said and Done – Roger McGough

I reached the end of a chapter and looked up from the page, through the window of the bus. We were sitting in traffic outside a pub, and in my seat, I was right next to the window of the bar, with a direct view inside. And who should I spy through the window, quietly supping his pint?

The author of the book I was holding in my hand, Roger McGough.

Odd when worlds collide and align like that. Like when you’re reading the paper and listening to the radio and the announcer says the exact word you’re reading at that moment.

Serendipitous synchronicity. Synchrondipity.

These rules & laws of the road do not apply to you, because apparently you are somehow exempt, or have exempted yourself:

1. Parking in only one parking bay
   You have a giant car. We know. You are probably also a bad driver, because having an SUV or other 4×4 in London is usually a sign that you are hoping bulk and power will compensate for your nerves and deficiencies behind the wheel. Perhaps you also thought it was a status-symbol. Perhaps you thought your massive truck would demonstrate how much you want to protect your little posh-named offspring. But still, wantonly parking across multiple bays proves nothing except that you are a shit, selfish driver with a too-big car.

   

    

2. Queueing in traffic
   Having to sit in traffic is terribly dull; everyone knows that. But you seem to think that this whole “side of the road” thing is for idiots and losers, and so you’re going to whizz out of the queue, drive along the other side of the road for a while, overtake everyone else who’s waiting in the queue and then either make the turn you’d have had to wait whole minutes to get to, or merge barge your way back into the main line of cars, smugly. Here’s a question: do you think that we’re sitting here in a queue of cars, for fun? If you do, you are a moron. If you don’t, but you think that waiting your turn is somehow beneath you, then you are a moron. See how this works?

    

3. Section 92 of the Highway code: “Use [horn] only while your vehicle is moving and you need to warn other road users of your presence. Never sound your horn aggressively. You must not use your horn while stationary on the road, when driving in a built-up area between the hours of 11:30pm and 7am except when another vehicle poses a danger.”
   See this thing stuck to the windscreen just to the side of my face? This thing that enables me to look behind me? This reflective surface which reveals the world behind my car? It’s a rear-view mirror and amazingly, it means that I can see you, in your car behind mine, getting all huffy at the wheel and irritated that I haven’t made the turn yet. So you could say that I’m aware of your presence – all-too-aware of it, in fact. But here’s the kicker: I’m not going to throw myself into fast-moving traffic because you think it’s timely to do so. Weirdly, I’m going to wait until I consider it safe to go ahead. I know, it’s a crazy concept, isn’t it?

    

4. Using signals to warn and inform other road users and pedestrians about your intentions
   I like surprises. Really, I do. I listen to music on shuffle all the time, and I like it when unexpected pleasant things happen. But I have to admit that you suddenly flinging your car (or, indeed taxi) into a side-road, or doing a u-turn, or picking an exit from a roundabout…all these things are, indeed, surprising, not least when I’ve been trying to figure out what you intend to do so that I can figure out what I need to do in response or to prepare for it, but they’re not a good kind of surprise. In fact, they’re a rather alarming sort of sort of surprise, the kind that makes me exclaim “SHIT! SHIT! FUCKHEAD! WAH!” as I scamper out of the path of your vehicle/apply brakes hurriedly/skid across the road. I have many skills: ESP isn’t one of them.

    

5. Not using your mobile phone or other handheld device while operating a vehicle
   I appreciate that you are SO important that you just HAVE to be in contact with your people, like, ALL the time, and that going whole MINUTES without having your phone clamped to the side of your head is like asking a doctor to go without her stethoscope or a fireman to go without his hose for a few nanoseconds – I mean, just IMAGINE what could happen in those uncommunicating moments! You could be part of a conversation which discovers a cure for cancer or ends world hunger or something. I mean, I’d sort of wonder why someone with such great potential for innovation was zooming down the A4 in an Audi while having that sort of conversation in the first place rather than, say, around a table with a whiteboard or in a laboratory or whatever, but never mind. You are important, and being in touch with people is important. I get it. It’s more important than being able to operate the gearstick – bugger that, you got the powerful car with the big woofy engine so you could handle high speeds in first and accelerate happily in fourth, right? – and it’s more important than knowing what’s going on around you on the road. C’mon people, you’re on a CONFERENCE CALL HERE, we can’t expect you to SIGNAL, PAY ATTENTION and AVOID PEDESTRIANS CROSSING THE ROAD, TOO! What do we think, you’ve got TIME TO WASTE? Time is MONEY and money is IMPORTANT and by being on the phone you are revealing that YOU are important JUST LIKE MONEY, too. Yeah, we see that. Important, but unfortunately, still a complete spoon.

    

Also to be featured in a related series, at some point, probably: people who seem to think that the whole “one item of hand luggage” air security thing somehow applies only to other travellers and not to them, obviously, and who are massively surprised when they get to the front of the security queue after checkin and have a big self-important flap about how they can’t POSSIBLY travel without several bags of varying sizes including a selection of carrier bags, a designer handbag, a laptop case and a trolley suitcase which, I swear, is big enough to contain a small horse or a harpsichord or something and which can’t possibly be classified as hand luggage if you can’t actually convey it, let alone lift it with your hands into an overhead locker.

And relaaaax.

1. She shouldn’t wear dresses like that. Seriously.
2. She looks like a total hobbit when she wears that dress.
3. Like, all trunk and no legs. Seriously.
4. Marquee parties are just the worst.
5. If either of these girls eat another canape they’ll, like, totally vom. Seriously.
6. Marquee parties are totally rubbish because they’re out in the country so you have to talk to loads of people they hate
7. and there’s never enough food
8. and they don’t even do cocktails. Seriously.
9. Except for girl B’s friend, Tiggy
10. Tiggy’s marquee parties are the best because they’re, like, outside, but they’re in London, because her garden is, like, huge
11. and she, like, always has loads of canapes like mini fish and chips and mini desserts
12. and, like, loads of cocktails as well as champagne and wine
13. The worst parties, like, ever, are when you get jews not drinking enough and christians drinking too much
14. That’s so much worse than the other way around. Seriously.
15. When girl A’s cousin gets married, she says she wants a small wedding
16. Girl A will, like, obviously be there however small it is
17. She thinks, however, that a big wedding would be more of a laugh
18. That’s ok, though, because apparently Girl A’s cousin is, like, so totally bullyable that Girl A is going to be able to make her change it.
19. Mutual friend E has just joined Facebook
20. She’s put her wedding photos up, too
21. The cool thing is you, like, totally can’t tell she was five months pregnant at all
22. Girl B thinks it’s sweet that they got married before the baby arrived.
23. Girl A would rather wait until the baby was born.
24. She thinks it’s much better to be thin and wasted than fat and sober.
25. They’re going to re-synch the traffic lights on Kensington High St when they extend the congestion charge.
26. This will give the impression of better-flowing traffic through the area.
27. That’s so naughty. Seriously.
28. In the movie In Her Shoes, Girl B didn’t think that they were all supposed to be Jewish, because Cameron Diaz is, like, so totally not Jewish.

(previously in this series: Things I Learnt From the Boy Behind Me on the Bus)

Briefly, just to say I’m back in the big smoke, despite the best efforts of the Scottish weather, conspiring to keep me storm-stayed off the mainland.

See, the thing is, the journey from my mum’s place isn’t too arduous, as long as you know what you’re doing, and you’ve got your wits about you. It’s a finely-timed series of smaller journeys, combining to cover the full 400 miles of so.

First there’s a drive – about an hour, if I’m behind the wheel, though I’ve heard of one local making it in just 29 minutes – through probably the most gorgeous scenery you might ever see. Winding along a lochside, then through a mighty, desolate glen, then through forests and areas of flatland where eagles are often spotted, until you reach the ferry terminal.

Then there’s a short wait for the ferry, and a 45 minute crossing which winds between the mainland and the islands of Mull, Lismore and Kerrera, passing lighthouses and a castle. In the summer, dolphins swim alongside the boat. Even after years of making the journey more times than I can count, my jaw still drops.

Then there’s a short while to kill in Oban, the harbour town on the mainland, just long enough to hit up the delicatessen for fresh-made sandwiches (mmm, salmon) and a paper, before hopping onto the lunchtime train which winds its way down through the Trossachs towards Glasgow.

Then it’s just a matter of walking outside Queen Street station to catch the airport shuttle bus, which whisks you along the M8 to Glasgow airport where you can check in and then have an hour to kill before the short flight back to London.

On the other end, after collecting luggage, it’s downstairs to the underground and then a handful of stops along the Picadilly line to Hammersmith, followed by ten minutes on a bus and a hundred metres of weary trudge.

Simple. The whole thing – in theory – gets you door to door in about eleven hours, which sounds like a lot, except when you remember that for all of that time you can be reading, listening to music, doing the crossword and munching nice food. Not such a bad end (or in reverse, start) to a holiday really, wouldn’t you say?

The thing is, though, all of the above only works if it *all* works. There’s only five ferry crossings a day, and only one (11am) which connects with the train (12.40) – one of three a day – which will get you into Glasgow in time for an early evening (6.30) flight.

And today, it didn’t work.

When I woke up this morning, the bay outside the window was covered in white horses where yesterday there had been only catspaws. I nervously called Caledonian MacBrayne (the ferry company) who said that no services had run yet this morning, but the 11am would be the first attempt. So we hopped in the car and rushed to the ferry, where we discovered that the 11am sailing was also cancelled. Bugger.

There were various options, all of which were a complete faff. Taking the alternative Lochaline – Fishnish ferry, then racing the train to Crianlarich where I could hop on. Rebooking all travel for the next day. Going over on the 1pm ferry (if it went) and hitching to Glasgow because the train would have long gone. Other plans involving coaches, sleeper trains, and B&Bs in Fort William. All rather annoying alternatives, and none guaranteed to make use of the tickets I’d already paid for.

So eventually, I propositioned a complete stranger at the ferry terminal, who I overheard on the phone to someone kvetching that he would miss his flight. We joined forces, got the 1pm ferry and then hailed a cab down to Glasgow – a stonking £130 between us, but still cheaper than any of the alternatives.

If I’m honest, it was quite cool being chauffeur-driven to the airport. Paul, the bloke from Tobermory, had an iTrip and his iPod, and we grooved our way through the mountains, playing “name that tune” and making smalltalk with John, the amiable driver from Oban Taxis, who got us to the airport in record time, faster than I’d have managed it by train, even.

Course then they started cancelling BA flights, annoyingly, but happily not the one I’d been booked on all along, and I got home in one piece and only slightly behind schedule.

Anyway, all this by way of saying (rather long-windedly) that I’m back, and whatever passes for normal service will resume here in the coming days. Plus there’ll be photos from the trip – in addition to the ones of playing (sort of) Shinty on the beach on New Years Day.

Hello 2007. Up and at ‘em.

So yesterday, I took the train from Glasgow to Oban, up the West Highland line. I make this journey probably three or more times a year, and it really is one of the most stunning little journeys you can take – setting out from dreich and dingy Glasgow for three hours of snaking through mountains and along lochsides with perilous drops to the sides of the rails.

And it’s not a glamourous train – it’s a rather pedestrian diesel sprinter, with four carriages when it sets out from Glasgow, dividing in two at Crianlarich with the front half heading off to Tyndrum Lower, Loch Awe and onward to Oban, and the rear portion heading off across Rannoch Moor towards Fort William and Mallaig.

Every time I take that train, I want to get off – at Arrocher and Tarbert, Crianlarich, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and just wander off into the wilderness with my camera. But I don’t, because I’m always rushing to catch a ferry at the other end of the line. One day, though, maybe.

On the train, you can start to guess where people are headed. You can spot those who are stopping in Oban, and those who will be heading over to Mull and the islands. You start to guess who’ll be rushing with you to the ferry from the station, and who’ll be boarding the island bus on the other side. Who’s an islander, and who’s a visitor? Who belongs?

Belonging is a funny thing, and whenever I come up this way I’m reminded of it.

I don’t belong here, on Mull, though my mum lives here and has done for years. I’ve lived here myself, and worked several summer seasons on Mull and Iona, back in student days. I’ve been coming up twice a year or more for nearly 15 years. I recognise faces, and places, and customs and the patterns of weather. I’m comfortable here, and I even drive like a local, haring down single-track roads strewn with potholes, mud and sheep.

I’ve spent more time here than many of the more recent incomers, but I’m not a local, and they’ll never quite let me forget that. I think that’s got more to do with them asserting their sense of community identity than specifically trying to exclude anyone, to be honest, but it still smarts a bit.

But I’m not from here. I don’t belong here.

In Gaelic, the way to say you’re from somewhere carries a sense of belonging to a place – it’s more than just where you live, but it’s more than that.

The thing is, I’m not really from anywhere. I don’t really belong anywhere, specific.

I was born in Nigeria, of Geordie and Lancashire lineage, and grew up in central west London. Since 16, I’ve studied and lived in a bunch of places for long stints – Canada, Edinburgh, Liverpool, Aberdeen, Spain, Bolivia, Manchester, Derbyshire – and since 1998, I’ve been based in London again. But my family have kept on moving, too – Finchley, Luton, Harpenden, Birmingham, Shropshire, Derbyshire, Iona, the West Bank, Roehampton, Mull (and that’s just my parents) – so that I haven’t had a permanent home (you know, the family homestead, where all my stuff lives) since I was about 16 and left to live in Canada. I’m a product of all over the place, really. I belong wherever I am.

Where are you from? Where do you belong?

Is it wrong that when I saw this (hugely expensive) Underground-inspired rug, I immediately thought “Liverpool Street”?

Except they got the Met line colour wrong, damn their eyes.