Gertsamtkunstwerk

The man in my box for the Creation

He arrived with a woman just before the conductor was coming to the podium, and announced to all and sundry they had been delayed for forty five minutes because of traffic and not being able to park  (no, I thought, due to inadequate planning).

I assumed the woman was a wife, girlfriend or friend, but they did not seem to acknowledge each other at all even during the pauses betweens parts or at the end. Maybe they had had a row about their inadequate planning which had meant they had arrived at the last minute and didn't have the time to buy a programme.

He rounded on me and asked me "Are you a friend of Clare and Isabel?" It sounded like accusatory; apologetically I said I didn't think I was. "We got these tickets from Clare and Isabel, they couldn't come..."

I was tempted to reply 'like I care?' but explained that I had booked a single ticket, it isn't necessary to book the whole box. He looked thrown: I suspect he had been imagining that he could swank it up in a box with swanky friends of Clare and Isabel, and didn't like having to share air space with some Untouchable who had had no trouble parking, nor any delays.

At the end, rather than turning to his wife/girlfriend/escort, he turned to me and asked "Did you enjoy the concert?"

To which I replied icily "I don't see why you are suddenly being so smarmy when you spent the entire concert fidgeting around"

"I get cramp in my knee!" he bleated.

I had all sorts of replies lined up eg

'why is that you tall people have to moan and whine on the few occasions that favour short people but have no sympathy for short people on the numerous other occasions'

or

'If you have a knee injury which makes it impossible to sit still for two minutes, you probably shouldn't have committed to sitting still for two hours"

Instead I just said I would have enjoyed it a lot more if he hadn't been such a distraction, and walked out.

It wasn't really that he was fidgety. I think I could have taken fidgety. The problem was that he was a jerk.

Every couple of minutes he would violently move forward in his chair, or move violently backward.

It was a subtle, gentle or gradual movement, but a really quite violent shove, and each time I experienced a slight startle, each time increasing my pulse rate/blood pressure; each time they returned to resting, he jerked again.

He spent probably about a third of the time sitting skewiff in his chair, encroaching on my personal space.

I don't have unreasonable expectations of my neighbours at concerts, but I do think there is a basic level of consideration we all owe to others in public spaces.

Contrast the group I shared my box with on Tuesday night. A  woman next to me, in front of me two men one she described as her nephew, the other was probably her brother (in-law?) or husband.

Before the performance began I managed to kick my water bottle so it rolled down the step to the front row. The nephew picked it up for me but glared at me, as I was apologising. Meekly I said "Hopefully, having done it now, I won't do it during the proceedings..." and placed it in a different place out of reach of being kicked. All three visibly de-tensed, optimistic that I knew The Rules.

I barely noticed them during the first half. From time to time, binoculars or water passed between the woman and one or other of the men, but it barely grazed my consciousness.

We were chatting in the interval, the woman said she might get cramp, so I wasn't to be alarmed if she suddenly stood up. She didn't, as it happened, but I smiled sweetly and murmured something about it being a long time sitting. I expect they coughed from time to time, I can't say I noticed.

The woman in the box to my left fanned herself with her programme, I noticed but only in passing.

When we go out in public, we have to expect to encounter other members of the public, who have as much right to do what they wish as I do - but no more. The vast majority of people in any public space have a grasp of The Rules, and an instinctive understanding what they do may impact on others, and act accordingly, with consideration.

What you do notice is people who really should 'get out more'. It seems that being in a public space is such a novelty they can't really negotiate it. Or else they assume the world revolves around them, that they have an unfettered right to be or do precisely what they wish. Sometimes I wonder if I am over-sensitive, but there is plenty of evidence that I am far alone. For example, this evening a woman was standing in the bus shelter. Another woman walked past her; although she had plenty of space to walk past without touching, nevertheless she used her handbag to shove the handbag of the first woman. Not quite 'violently' but not far off it. I saw Woman #1's face turn to fury and she marched after Woman #2 calling 'Excuse me! Excuse me!' I was sorry she didn't catch up, because I would have been cheering her on (maybe silently!)

On the bus going home was a party being very noisy. I didn't realise until they got off that the oldest was probably only mid-teens, from a distance he looked well into his twenties. They were just being annoyingly loud, no more, but no less.

The woman behind me was on the phone. She was talking quietly, perfectly civilised.  As far as I could gather she was making suggestions for someone who hadn't yet received the details for an interview on Friday. At one point, she said irritatedly "Yes. I'm on the bus." Pause. "Some arseholes shouting...I'll call you in a few minutes..."

What is it with people?

I have just ordered my neighbour out of my house.

It's a long saga. She's a rude selfish stuck-up cow with pretensions of grandeur. She had this stupid stupid idea about two years ago that we should all change our address for her convenience - to Laundry Lane.

She explained her rationale: whenever she orders something for home delivery, it comes up with my address. That isn't true. What actually happens is that she orders something over the telephone or in a shop and gives her postcode. Four houses share a postcode, which isn't actually very many for a postcode. The first one on a drop down list is my address. My address is

1 Gert Cottage
London
SW2 xxx

That's all that's needed, as per Royal Mail.

Her address therefore is

Cow Cottage
London
SW2 xxx

If I order something over the phone, the usual behaviour is that they ask my postcode, I give it, they say "Is that 1 Gert Cottage?" I say yes.

Presumably, she gets asked "Is that 1 Gert Cottage" and she replies "Yes" rather than "No, it's Cow Cottage". It's like if you live at 33 Acacia Avenue  and you give your postcode, and they say "Is that 1 Acacia Avenue" you don't reply "Yes it is vaguely that area" but you do  reply "No, it's 33 Acacia Avenue."

It's not that difficult. I know from the addresses of my family and friends that there are numerous complications in how houses are addressed, so, while ours isn't 'normal' it's not the sole aberration in an otherwise neatly ordered system. The road I back onto is numbered 1, 2, 3 on one side and 48, 47, 46, etc on the other, rather than odds on one size and evens on the other. It's a surprise the first time you encounter it, then you get used to it. I assume there are many other roads similarly numbered.

I know what these drop-down lists look like, I use them regularly online. Yes, her house lacks a house-number. So do lots of houses. So does another house in the foursome, Alaska Cottage. Funny how they don't have the same problems with deliveries as she does.

She's gone and ordered a bed from Argos, to be delivered to my house, on a day I shall be at work. So she's come round to warn me.  Or rather, to ask a favour. Jimmy and I have agreed we have done her too many favours and been treated like dirt in return, so, except for the fact that her husband is infirm, we won't do any more favours (in actual fact, if we were at home and one of her delivery people came knocking, of course we would redirect them). She's accused him of trespassing on her land (yeah, she's that grand!); she's had her priest friend sneering at him and our house name.

She then started on the 'something must be done...'. I knew what was coming; she was moving on to discuss Laundry Lane. I've already told her I'm not interested and why; I've already explained how the postcode database works. She chose not to listen then, so I chose not to listen this evening, saying with a somewhat raised voice "Get out..." She told me not to be so rude. I said she was the rude one, with her postcode nonsense, her sneering friends and her f..bloody Laundry Lane.

The delights of a Victoria Line strike

Such as happened today.

Transport strikes are always a bit of a guessing game; trying to guess what the knock-on effects will be. Trying to second-guess the behaviour of crowds.

The journey wasn't too bad this morning; I got a bit delayed by traffic on Brixton Hill. I don't know whether that was a result of the Victoria Line closure, the ongoing roadworks of various description or something transient. I travelled from Oval to Westminster via Embankment and it was stress free.

This evening I decided that I would go on the Northern Line to Clapham Common. I try to avoid the Northern Line generally in the early evening; sometimes it can get extremely busy. But I thought it was probably the least worst way of getting home.

It's another example of where one wishes to have better understanding of the behaviour of crowds. The Dot Matrix Indicator at Embankment said "Kennington ....1; Morden.....4". Do I get the first train and hope to catch a Bank branch train at Kennington, or do I wait for a through train, but risk that "everybody else" has the same idea. I chose the former.

At Kennington, a train shut its doors as I got there. The next one came in at the other platform; by the time that I - and many other people - had the chance to read the announcement and walk, it, too, was shutting its doors. I couldn't get on the third because it was sort of full. It wasn't really but people just didn't move down inside.

The next train came. People were crushed in extreme proximity in that standing area near the door. No way was anyone getting on unless people got off. Fortunately, two people got off, and as I was second in the "queue" I was on. I spotted space. There was an enormous gaping space in between the seats. "That's mine!" I thought. "Excuse me!" I said. No one moved. So I pushed my way through. Not aggressively, but in a 'there's a dirty great big space there and I'm going to stand there in preference to being squashed between overdressed tall men and under-dressed bony women, all of them at least ten years my junior' sort of way.

In pushing through I had disturbed the equilibrium allowing four people on behind me, but leaving half a dozen still on the platform.

There was an announcement to 'move down the carriages' so I did but nobody followed me, even though there was room for three of the anorexic bony fashionistas, and half a dozen people stuck on the platform. The bloke on my far side practically pushed me off with the elbow he had to extend at a 90° angle to hold the oh so important documents he was too macho to put in a man bag.

I had enough space to stretch my arms and make an aeroplane (I didn't, of course). I had enough space to do the high kicks in the carriage; I looked at the sardines in bemusement. It was as if a barrier was erected blocking encroachment into the 'between the seats' area. Scared, squashed and sweaty these slightly posh vapid youth stayed resolutely in each other's damp armpits.

Admittedly I did get The Elbow in my boob a few times when the train jolted and jerked, so I turned round, which meant that The Elbow got hit by my rucksack several times. Oh dear. Plus I had to endure the glares of The Sardines furious at my capacious space while they soaked in each other's sweat.

It always seems to be the same. Forgetting tourists in the central area, those least likely to move down the carriage are the achingly trendy twenty-somethings. I could sort of understand it if they were getting off at the next stop, but they weren't.

I don't see their point. Their behaviour is very selfish to those left behind on the platform. But there's no pay-off for the selfishness. Packed like animals consuming each other's bodily fluids isn't pleasant. I always move down when the bus or train is crowded, if at all possible, I can't stand being huddled with smelly strangers near the door. And more often than not, I am rewarded with a seat, and the glares of those too scared to move away from the doors.

I do think sometimes these immature women/children must think I'm scary or unfeminine or something. I suppose I just like playing mind games, and staking out territory, and calculating how far to go to claim my right before it borders on obnoxious. I always have an excuse "But look how many more people got on because I moved down the carriage!" And I usually find my eye being caught by someone else of the same mindset who is applauding my common sense. It's not exactly enlightened self-interest, because the benefit of others is how I justify behaviour motivated by my own needs and desires, but I think it's a close relative.

People

Or a case of escalating of "What the..." syndrome.

Wednesday evening, bus stop Brixton. Brixton is a very busy bus interchange, where a couple dozen  routes meet the end of the Victoria Line. Just after 6 pm. Busy.

A mother and child (4 or 5 years old) alight from a bus. Something minor happens, a bit of crowding or pushing, and the child bursts into tears and wailing. I guess she's overwhelmed by the throng of bodies, all much taller than she is, in the dark.

Mum continues chatting into her phone. Child carries on wailing. Mum continues chatting. As she does so, she scoops her hand under the child's chin to push her mouth shut. Not violent, not brutal, not tender. Not one word is said to the child, not one second of eye-contact is established. The phone conversation continues.

Thursday morning, waiting to cross Parliament Street by the Underground, on the corner of Parliament Square. I hear a siren and see an emergency ambulance on a blue speeding round Parliament Square. The pedestrian crossing shows a red person of indeterminate gender. I wait. Two men, not with each other, look to their left to see if there is any traffic turning from the Square into the street. As the only vehicle turning is the Emergency Ambulance on a blue, they judge is safe to cross and proceed to do so.

Thursday evening Westminster Underground. I am at the ticket barrier about to touch my Oyster Card and awaiting my turn to pass through.  In front of me, a man walks through the ticket barrier holding his daughter's hand (she's about 5).

The ticket barrier closes, hitting the child in the face. Her father carries on walking, then realises that she is holding back and resisting his attempts to walk on. He glances back and looks surprised at the child, now wailing with pain and shock.

He looks at me. I stand there, rooted to the spot, my jaw scraping the floor, trembling slightly with shock at what happened in slow motion before my eyes. He sees my face and looks away embarrassed. He looks at Mum who is struggling to manoeuvre buggy and baby through the gate, and struggles even more as she has to choose between her anger at her husband and her need to console her daughter.

Somehow the child struggles free and who is reunited with her father who stands there doing nothing. I go through the ticket barrier, the child's wailing gets louder, father stands there. I descend to the District Line. Above the hubbub of a busy Underground station at 6pm the child's wailing is audible, until the train arrives to drown it out.

He gave less care to his small child going through the ticket barrier than most people do to their suitcase or shopping.

Carols from Kings - not good

It's the same every year, I put it on, hoping for some enjoyable music.

And every year I am disappointed.

It's rubbish. Really rubbish. Every single carol they sing sounds exactly the same. It's like they have a set formula and that's all they do. All they can do.  A total lack of understanding that different pieces are written in different ways. No consideration that they maybe have different tempi, maybe within the same tune. No grasp of the fact that some of them have rhythm.

This was epitomised by Three Kings from Far Off Lands, which, in my experience and opinion is quite a funky tune. You would never have guessed it from the way they sang it. The whole thing was so dreary. I was just hoping for the organist to open the stops and do a crashing fugue, or for someone in the choir to put their head back, relax their shoulders and sing out with joy. It was never going to happen

I am critical of Katherine Jenkins because the way she sings everything without differentiation in tone and without seeming to care about the meaning of the song. So I shouldn't spare these who are no less guilty.

To think that this programme is broadcast over the world as some example of Best of British. It's quite shameful, really, and hardly surprising that people in more civilised countries, and the USA too, consider Britain to be a musical backwater, knowing little and caring less.

The whole thing reeked of amateurism and provincialism. In reality of course, there are lots of exciting musicians performing great music intelligently and/or passionately the length and breadth of the country. But all we get is a bunch of effete snobs being on the TV just because they have been (and radio) for decades.

Birds bearings and the school run

Today we went for a cycle round Tooting Common. Nothing too strenuous, not for me, anyway. What it did prove was that there is a difference in performance between Jimmy and me.

When I was free-wheeling downhill I easily caught up with and then overtook him while he was peddling. On the straight, I overtook and gained on him without feeling I was making any effort. I leaned on his saddle and pushed his bike back and forth; I could feel some resistance and hear a rubbing noise. I made him do the same and he was able to identify it as the bearings in the rear wheel. When he had taken it for service, including tightening of the rear wheel, they had suggested that any more problems would necessitate a new wheel.  As it's under guarantee, that's no great problem, and, I suppose, the consequence of buying the 'second cheapest in the shop'. I suspect that bikes are sold at a loss, especially at the bottom end of the range, in order to get people to spend fortunes on accessories which often seem over-priced for what they are.

We sat down by the pond, and there was not a human soul in sight. Every bird on the pond flocked to us, cheekily demanding or expecting to be fed. One of the swans - the male,  we decided, and I christened him Mr ILoveMyself - got out of the water and preened and posed to show us how gorgeous he was. A small boy with Mum or Nanny went past in his pushchair. Later, we could see them across the pond on the beach. It became apparent that they had bread, and we watched as the ducks, geese and seagulls, and some pigeons raced over to them. The swans followed at a more graceful, regal pace, but soon dominated. They stood on the beach and ate out of Mum/Nanny's hand as small boy chased a pigeon on the grass!

A couple out walking came past and we fell into conversation. (We were hogging two benches, having leaned our bikes against one and then discovered it had been recently visited by a bird; I asked if they wanted a bench). They are both retired and make a point of coming out for a walk every afternoon, having spent the morning doing chores etc. They were asking if we cycled a lot; I explained that we had only just started. Jimmy mentioned that we had done part of the Wandle Trail last weekend, they recommended the Thames Path. They suggested Clapham Common, we suggested Wandsworth Common.

We made our way for the de rigeur coffee. It looks like the café may be extended, although it already has subsidence caused by tree roots, and any extension needs to take other roots into account. Such a location is almost a licence to print money. Even on an albeit quite pleasant Friday in November, trade was steady. I think quite a lot was school run; that's regular trade, whatever the weather. It is nice to see kids being taken home via the park, and secondary school kids on bikes. Not much evidence of the epidemic of obesity. It started to chuck it down, and I exchanged pleasantries with two young women. They were determined to stay put despite the rain - it will pass. I wasn't sure where they fitted in. Far too young to be retired, no toddlers, seemingly not on the school run (too young for that, sort of), no dogs, no bikes. Misfits!

It did ease off so we got going again, only for the heavens to open. We joined a small crowd sheltering under a railway bridge. When we left the Common, we hit the school run traffic, when the standard of driving deteriorates dramatically, and the proportion of drivers with no consideration for other road-users rises dramatically. One pulled out of a side-road into my path and then, without signalling, stopped outside a parade of shops, and I ended up in the grid of a storm drain,  trapped by traffic in each direction. I encountered several more examples, somewhat less egregious, that irritated me, less for my own safety as an adult, but for that of the numerous children who have to withstand that daily.

Yesterday was swimming. We coincided with an aquarobics class. In theory, I can see the point of aquarobics - using the natural buoyancy of the water to reduce the impact that classic aerobics inflicts. But in practice, I am not so sure.

The class was held in such shallow water that I am dubious that there were any benefits from the buoyancy. It seemed mainly to be about bouncing up and down, which seemed less fun that swimming, and also less likely to get the heart pumping. I was rather scathing (privately, of course) but Jimmy said 'At least they're in the water, doing something.' I argued that swimming is better; he suggested that maybe they can't swim. Maybe they should learn, I suggested.

You see, my way of thinking, if you are able and willing to pay the money and devote the time to a weekly class, and go through the hassle of changing and getting wet, you are in the right place to learn to swim. And once you've learnt, you've got a skill that will last forever.  The class was all women, none of them slim, many of them considerably fatter than me.  I think some women and maybe some men are deterred from swimming because of a fear of exposing flabby bodies in public; they were exposing more expanses of flesh, for longer periods,  than I was. I also noticed none was wearing a costume that was designed for their figures; I was, it cost me money but I think it was worth it - hey it even has an internal tummy control panel.

Gert 2 Oaf on Bus 0

There is a major national debate about how ordinary members of the public should respond to anti-social oafs on buses. My attitude is - speak to them, because the chances are they are so pathetic they can't deal with people challenging their challenging behaviour. Jimmy disagrees with me, saying that I will end up knifed or worse. But he wasn't with me on the bus this evening.

There was a man aged about 25 sat next to me, sprawled out, his feet on the seat opposite, legs splayed with that obvious message "Look at me I have a dick..." (to which my mental response is, yeah, so does nearly half the population; possession of a dick isn't in itself noteworthy). Having finished a call on his phone, he decided to let a series of ringtones play. Gosh, he has a phone that plays tunes, my god, how I fell in love with him and wanted to have his babies, right there. A phone that plays tunes! How sexy!

Instead, I asked him to take his foot off the seat. He pulled a face at me. I then asked him to turn off the crap on the phone, pointing out that he was merely telling the whole bus that he had appalling taste in music. Another face pulled. I told him he looked stupid, now everyone on the bus knew he had rubbish taste in music. No one else wants to hear it, especially not with that bad tone - I had better radio than that forty years ago. Take your feet off the seat, someone's got to sit there, you've probably got dogshit on your shoes.

At which point he showed me the soles of his shoes which obviously brand new and remarkably clean, but I thought, you sad bastard, you felt the need to show me the dogshitless state of your shoes. He's pulling faces like he thinks I am below contempt. I tell him again to get his feet off the seat. Because I am insistent, he obeys. I tell him once again to turn off the 'music' from his phone, reminding him that he's now told the entire bus how stupid he is, how awful his taste in music is. He pulls this really stupid face. Suddenly he realises that the bus is about to pull away from his bus stop and he jumps up, all frantic and panic, desperately ringing the bell. He gets off, and everybody else downstairs turns round and smiles congratulatorily at me. I had succeeded, in my rather drunken state, in humiliating a man who was so arrogant he didn't think the ordinary rules of considerate behaviour applied to him. It is so easy to bring down inconsequential squirts whose attitude is built on shifting sand.

Goodwill fatigue

A very long time ago I used to recite, every Wednesday in term time, A Brownie Guide thinks of others before herself and does a good turn every day.

This week I have had good turns forced upon me.

On Monday I was on the Tube. I have observed over the years that the Monday of October half term is the busiest on the London Underground, as few people are away on holiday, and those that are seem to say "Let's take the children to London for the day/weekend/half term" - the preceding Friday is officially the busiest on the roads.

At Victoria people pile on, including a mother and daughter, aged five or six, and she was looking a bit bemused, even scared, at being in a crush of people taller than her. I caught the mother's eye and offered my seat. The mother didn't want to accept, not wanting to put me out, but I stated firmly that I was off at the next stop. So the daughter had a seat. People smiled nicely at me, and, come the next stop, the crowds parted to allow my free passage to the door. (Proving there is no such thing as pure altruism...).

As I rode the escalator at Green Park I reflected that having done my good deed I could afford to be Pure Bitch for the rest of the evening, and if anybody attempted to ruin my enjoyment of La Bohème by talking in the quiet bits or other anti-social behaviour they would be subject to the full force of my ire. Sadly, everyone around me behaved impeccably.

Last night, in the Ladies at the Barbican, I spotted a plastic bag on the peg on the door. Someone's shopping from the foyer shop. I pondered. If I left it there, they might remember they had they had forgotten it, might remember which of 30 or so cubicles they were in. Or not. Or somebody might nick it. So I took it back to the shop, and the chap on the till said he thought he knew whose it was. Another feeling of satisfaction, and another realisation I was now permitted to be Pure Bitch. No opportunity arose.

After the concert I went out to the Lakeside for a cigarette and was privy to not one but two domestics. A man was berating his wife "I'm never going out with you again it's fucking awful you waste half an hour looking at nothing," and she replied in a scarily whiny voice, whining. I was about to go in when two women started a domestic, one of them "That is the worst thing you have ever done, there are no excuses, you've ruined my life," and proceeded to throw a tantrum of foot-stamping, tears and wailing.

I curtailed my cigarette deeply embarrassed as her girlfriend tried to reason with her, and gave thanks that Jimmy and I have a rule of no dirty linen in public. There may be cold words, there may be silences, there may be glares, but no full scale rows with or without swearing and tears. He says he has no desire to provide entertainment for other people; last night's incidents were far from entertaining, just disturbing and unedifying. If they behave like this in public, what happens in private...?

I walked the high level walkway to Moorgate and was approached by a young woman. I was rather lagging behind the crowd and felt a tad vulnerable being alone, in the dark. I quickly sized her up and decided she was harmless and genuine and had lost her way to Moorgate - not entirely surprising in the Barbican. I said I was going that way and walked with her. She was very proper, and we walked a foot or two apart, each of us prepared to trust the other but not to take chances. I considered, she's very young, I'm old enough to be her mother, and that's maybe why she approached me.

It's happening increasingly - a few months ago a girl in her mid-teens stood close, but not too close, to me at the bus stop at Clapham Common, a little scared at being out on her own late at night, but comforted by the presence of an older woman. What can I say? I feel as terrified as you? I am more paranoid about the real and imagined dangers than I was ten years ago? You know I'm hopeless in a crisis? I may look like your mother's generation but I'm not a nurturer and certainly not a breeder? Don't place your trust in random strangers, even though you can rest assured that I will not hurt or harm you in any way and will do what I can to prevent others doing so?

I also sent an email of praise to the IT desk at work naming the helpline person with a can-do attitude. (But that was because I was feeling positive because my manager had praised me, and passed on his manager's praise for a positive customer satisfaction survey he had received back on my last issued report).

I think I have room to be total Pure Bitch over the weekend.

Being on holiday

I love people-watching. It's great when you sit in a cafe beside the harbour or lake and watch people go by. Even when you are negative about their clothes, or scathing that they are too thin or too fat, it's not personal or malicious. You're not making a leap that because they look good/bad they are good/bad people.

When you have a chance to get to know people, at work or neighbours, you tend to suspend judgement on their appearance because of that subconscious knowledge that you will see them again and again, get to know them at least a little, find the clues to their personality. I assume a new colleague to be nice unless I find out otherwise. And even when there is an argument or an irritation, it's not the whole relationship, so those incidents are forgiven and forgotten in the light of the more frequent examples of niceness.

Holiday hotels are different. I know that some people go on holiday with the hope of finding friends in their hotel. I don't. I'm prepared to be polite, but increasingly cautious of anything that resembles friendliness. There you are, sitting exchanging anecdotes from this or previous holidays, and it's all very civil, when they say "Of course, where we lived until we sold the house, it's full of Asians so house prices went down, because they're all terrorists." I can't continue that conversation. Years ago someone advised me - after a similar incident on an intercity train - that the best tactic is just to say "I no longer want to continue this conversation" and go back to reading your book. But that's difficult to do without being confrontational. You can walk away, but that presupposes another available seat.

At least by opening their mouth they've revealed themselves to be ignorant. The more they mouth on the more they make it clear how stupid they are. People who will offer an opinion on anything and are insulted when the opinion is challenged. When I suggest that without facts to back up their opinion, it's useless. When they round off the discussion by saying "It's the Africans who are causing global warming, why do all those women in Africa have seven children, it's because they've got AIDS, that's why, but what would women know, they're all stupid like her" loudly, gesturing to me.

And then sends his dowdy downtrodden wife over to say "You've got a nerve going on about The Gambia, why, you're here, and you've got a laptop so you know nothing about The Gambia..." "What? I said nothing about The Gambia...you know, there's more to Africa than a few holiday resorts in one country." Not worth saying. She wouldn't understand. Can barely string a sentence together. Lives with a man who thinks that all women are stupid. "Look love, if you're going to have a discussion about something, bring some facts, or analysis or anecdote or reflection to the table. Don't sound off like you've absorbed a Sun editorial." No, can't be bothered. She wants a confrontation; it would make her holiday complete if I glassed her. I don't glass people. Turn away "Whatever..."

Carnival Sunday

Just come back from tonight's Prom, which, of course, was held in the Albert Hall. As it was a warm and sunny afternoon with a refreshing breeze, it seemed to make sense to take in a late lunch then sit by the pond in the park. I mean the Serpentine, it's not really a pond, it has ocean-going liners on it.

Always fun to people watch. Little girl, maybe four years old, having a right go at her father "But you said we'd go to a big park, where's the big park?" "Here, here's the big park..." "This isn't a park, I want swings!" I seem to recall that conversation thirty-odd years ago.

A group of five walk past. Four wearing brown tops. Not identical. Two in t-shirts with quite different logos, one in a wrinkly-crinkly girly top, one in a short sleeved top. Speculating, did they agree to wear brown, and why didn't the fifth. Or is it chance and has any of them spotted that four out of five are wearing brown.

Punk woman walks past, shaved head, but long pony tail. "That looks awful", says Jimmy. Doesn't matter I say, when she changes her mind, she can grow it back. It's not like her face and arms are covered with tattoos. They're for life. "I hate it when their bodies are covered with studs and rings," he says. Doesn't matter, I say, when they change their minds, they can take the piercings out and the holes will heal. Not like tattoos, if you're body's covered in tattoos, they're there for life.

A few minutes later a woman walks past with her arms, chest and cleavage covered with a very obvious large tattoo pattern. See, I say, look at that woman. she's only young, and she's going to regret that when she grows up. Oh wait a minute, it's a flesh coloured jumper with a pattern on. Hey, that's ace! It looks like she's covered in tattoos but if she changes her mind, she can take it off tonight. I want one. I want one. How ace is that! They'd be so shocked at work. Oh superb! I want!

Boom boom boom in the distance. Remember that it's Carnival. On the way home, we got the civilised end of the carriage. Quite funny in the Tube Station. Don't these people ever go out? Seemed to be a load of late-teens clueless in how to negotiate a Tube Station. You know the difficult bit, walk towards escalator; walk up or stand on escalator, keep going in a forward direction, use functioning Oyster Card to open ticket barrier.

There was a strange vibe on the bus, edgy, nothing I could put my finger on, except for the four loud smelly obnoxious Roma, who apart form being loud, smelly and obnoxious weren't doing anything wrong.

Walking up the road we see a BMW reverse into a Beetle. It's all very well people who buy big cars to show how macho they are, but they've learnt to drive - and park - in a Vauxhall Nova and they can't handle it.

Then I hear someone trying to start a car. Doesn't sound right. It's not coughing and spluttering. Jimmy says, it looks too decrepit to drive. I think, it's being hot-wired, but I don't know that, I'll sound stupid. The car starts, and roars off at speed, the driver flashing his lights and honking at us. "Oh," said Jimmy. "That's Arthur's son, just come out from ten years inside, lied that he'd reformed, already stolen wheels from a car on his road. No licence, no insurance..."

"Did he hot wire that?" I said.

"Probably. It won't be his.."

I thought, must get onto the police. Then I thought again. What a clever bastard. By waving at us he's letting us know he's seen us, so if we grass him up, we're in shit. It's bound to have his DNA on it, and we can be sure his DNA is in the database.

I'm never quite sure what to do when suspicious. A few months ago I rang up with a description of a man I thought was behaving suspiciously. He had clearly seen us somewhat pissed coming out of the curry house. Every time we paused to chat to acquaintances, he dithered and lurked. When he realised that I scrutinised him closely, he ducked abruptly down a side road, so I gave his description to the police, explaining that I was safe and home and no crime had been committed, but describing him and his behaviour, maybe they'll take a look on CCTV. They never got back to me.

What people wear

It's a wonderful subset of people-watching. It's only about clothes and is no basis for making any sort of judgements about the person. At all. Except that they are unable to look in a mirror...!

The majority of people you see out are dressed neutrally. Plain or bland. In something that suits them, fits them, is appropriate to the occasion and the weather, and does not seek attention. Dressing for comfort. I'm only interested in those whose outfits are deliberately put together to "be fashionable" or to attract attention. People who have made the effort to put on a nice black dress and ruin it by having half of a white bra visible beneath.

It started before we had even got to Brixton. A woman got off our bus. Pink leggings down to her knees. Over them something that I assume was a skirt. At the sides barely beneath her hips, but dangling to a V that reached her knees.

On the Tube numerous examples of the wrong-coloured bra - if I was wearing an electric blue top, I probably wouldn't wear it with a green bra. I certainly wouldn't do so if the entire back strap was about two inches higher than the back of the t-shirt.

If I had a teenage daughter with a nice black halterneck top I would suggest that black bra straps would look a lot better than white. She might not listen, but I would suggest that if she wants to look good, she should listen. But then I wouldn't be the mum ruining a rather elegant trouser-and- top two-piece by a pair of knickers at least two sizes too small. A small diagonal canyon was cleft across her cheeks.

There comes a point where you have to think - if I have breasts of such significance that I can only get bras with wide straps, maybe it's not wise to wear a top with spaghetti straps. Alternatively, why shouldn't I? Yeah, I'll wear beige spaghetti straps over a red bra with inch wide straps.

Trust me, if you are so conscious that your strapless top (I say top, I mean strip of material tied round boobs) may fall down that you are hunching your shoulders and stooping, it defeats the objective of looking good.

That is a really nice black dress you're wearing. Good material, well cut, fits perfectly, if I look very closely I realise it disguises the slight curves of incipient middle-age. You have a great haircut, nice skin, understated make-up, a nice smile, lively eyes, classy minimalist jewellery. You are attractive and elegant, and not short of a bob or two, so why wear bright green scuffed plastic 'ballet shoes'?

That is a nice dress, a deep plum colour with a slight, not obvious, repeating pattern. It would look great on you if it were three sizes bigger. Oh, it's meant to be low cut. Obviously you're uneasy displaying your cleavage to the world. It's probably not a good idea to display three inches of nylon petticoat instead. Still, the purple colour of the petticoat is reasonably close to the plum of your dress so it almost doesn't clash.

Now dear, you really shouldn't have made an effort. It is never sensible to team a white blouse with blue polka dots with a pink skirt with border print. True, the blue jesus sandals do match the blue of your polka-dots and of course are comfortable, but really look a bit silly with tights. Because you've tucked your blouse into your skirt my partner thinks you're pregnant, but I say you're well the wrong side of 45 to be pregnant. The wrap around nature of the skirt emphasises that. Maybe you should take a tip from the man you're with. Is he your father? Maybe your grandfather? He's eighty five if he's a day, and he's very unsteady on his feet, needing a stick to walk just a few paces. He's wearing cream trousers, a pale blue shirt and a grey jacket. All well made, all perfectly fitting, elegant. Eye-catching at eighty five.

Again and again I concluded, those that looked the best were those that aimed for simplicity, who wore clothes that fitted, that resisted the temptation to show their underwear (there's a clue in the word), who avoided patterns, or wore just one pattern, if wearing patterns kept the accessories neutral, who'd looked in the mirror before they went out, and regarded their shoes as part of their outfit, not a minority report.

And me? Off-white top with old lace, not a peek of white bra, with red skirt so long it didn't matter I was wearing DocMarten sandals (with socks). Or maybe you saw me and thought "No, no that's all wrong." I don't generally check shoes in the mirror - shoes are downstairs, long mirrors upstairs...

Give me strength...

...and failing that, give me skills.

Oh the poor ickle under firties who don't know their arses from their elbows.

Can't wire a plug? Can't unblock a drain? Can't hang a picture?

Bet they know r exactly which overpriced rip-off designer handbag is necessary for looking down their coke-lined noses at losers like me.

What kind of moron can't change a lightbulb? Or bleed a bleeding radiator?

Apparently, young people prefer to spend their time going out to leisure activities than changing a lightbulb or unblocking a drain. My bedroom radiator needed bleeding at seven o'clock in the morning the other week. I thought about calling someone out, but figured I probably wouldn't get anybody before lunch and anyway I didn't have £100 in cash on me, so I spent a minute bleeding it myself and returned to bed for another three hours sleep! Now who's the loser, the person who knows the latest 'plot' lines in Eastenders or the one that can put up bookshelves?

A strawpoll in my immediate environment revealed that wiring a plug is still necessary - in order to get the cable neatly threaded through the hole in the cupboard rather than having cables trailing in an unsightly mess all over everywhere!

My contempt isn't is so much about ticking off a list of 'can-dos' but an attitudinal one. It's currently fashionable to decry the Nanny State but there seems to plenty of evidence of people that need Nannying, be it Rhiannon Lennon-Smith who says

I'd usually call my dad. It's not the best thing to do I know, but when things are broken people just throw them out.

, or people who watch a TV programme because some journalist has been bribed heavily to plug preview it, or drink industrial alcohol because an advertising agency has told them what to do or are incapable of arranging a visa for foreign travel unless Nanny in the Travel Agent tells them to.

It's about how people don't use information, or perhaps do not know how to use information. I'm all for trivia, and for fluff and fun, but I wonder what will happen to Rhiannon Lennon-Smith if Daddy dies or develops Alzheimers or retires to Spain. Hopefully, by then she will have a boyfriend or husband who can take over the Daddying role, but it's very dodgy grounds on which to choose a sexual partner, I think. At least if you know that you can survive and live alone, you also know that you're actually choosing to live with someone, rather than being forced into it by dependency. Meanwhile people are choosing to remain ignorant of the essentials and letting the capitalist machine govern their lives. Makes no sense to me.

Obviously, we all have to start somewhere. When I found I needed to do stuff - this was before the internet - I read books or asked people, friends and colleagues mainly. But if you don't know how to bleed a radiator it probably means that you don't even know radiators need bleeding, and you're already at a disadvantage in life. But at least you can look down your nose at the little stupid people who don't know which hairdresser the winner of Big Brother goes to but is perfectly capable of looking after herself...although I was once told off by my lovely friend Jude when I recounted how I had managed to lock myself out the back of my house and had to smash a (small) window and then get a glazier out (at post-Christmas double rates). Jude's argument was that it was about time I learnt to replace a window...I have to confess that were the incident to recur again* I would still call a glazier out

* this tautological construction would suggest that the incident had already recurred which would be a ludicrous, unthinkable preposterous proposition and I'll shoot anyone who dares to suggest otherwise

Knowing Me Knowing You

I started but abandoned a meme that Gordon did, but decided to retain one of the questions.

What characteristic do you despise?

I encountered it yesterday in the coffee bar at work, and I was shocked. Mainly because I haven't seen this behaviour at my current employer (five years) but I saw it frequently at two previous employers.

The man in front of me was struggling to be understood by the woman behind the counter. Partly because English is not her first language but mainly because he was talking fast, quietly and with poor enunciation in a cut glass posh accent (educated to talk proper and to look down on people) Perhaps in his situation I might have been frustrated, but, strangely, she understood me perfectly, although I'm as common as muck.

I took exception to his condescending tone of voice failing to mask the sarcasm, and I further resented his sotto voce Tourette's expiration of 'Stupid, stupid, stupid". What was worst of all, except for the contempt with which he treated her, was his increasingly desperate attempts to get me on board in sympathy with him. I knew I was going redder and redder, and I was staring at the sandwiches desperate not to have to catch his eye.

Strictly speaking this was none of my business, I was merely a random onlooker but I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

I've turned this into a 'how this affected me' which is not what I intended; I just hate it when people in a position of power or authority treat catering staff with disdain. Conversely, when I observe or hear about them treating the 'lowly' with courtesy and respect I know that that's a decent person.

The last time I have seen such disgusting condescension in such a situation was two days before the 2001 General Election. Iain Duncan-Smith and a then Tory MP whose face is imprinted on my mind but I can't for the life of me name him acted similarly condescendingly towards the woman serving them in Ravellos. It turned my stomach and to this day I regret not confronting them and saying "And that is precisely why, despite all considerations of policy, you lot will get hammered at the polls on Thursday".

In those days, we used to get many political hacks in Ravellos. Ken Livingstone frequently bought two coffees. At the time we speculated who the other one was for; later we realised it was for her who is now mother of his children. He was his usual cold self not prepared to meet the eyes of people like me but unfailingly polite if business-like with the staff. Trevor Phillips exuded his usual awkward air of self-consciousness but always seemed warm to the staff. Andy Marr would spend ages dithering around and changing his mind, but doing it with such self-deprecating charm it was clear he was a favourite customer with the staff.

Parasitus Rexus (Future)

I have just come back from spending the evening in the company of the future King Charles III and Queen Camilla.

And you know what, I am now a firmer Republican than I have ever been before.

Actually nothing to do with them personally, I barely noticed them. And I don't actually have a problem with the fact that there were about forty uniformed and I suspect a few plain-clothed police officers on duty in the tiny Queen Elizabeth Hall. Nor the fact that metal detectors had been installed and one had to go through a process very similar to airport security. I went through it three times - outdoors smoking, you see. (Now, if Camilla hadn't given up, she could have joined me and a tiny elite bunch for a quick puff behind the bike sheds).

What actually really really bugged me was the attitude of a significant part of the audience. Even when I arrived, direct from work, I thought 'oh my god, people are Dressing Up for the tatty but rather loveable QEH'. I was only wearing a suit because I had had a meeting this morning. There were grown adults getting excited, buzzing like, oh I don't know, a bunch of teenagers at a McFly concert. I overheard snippets of conversation that led me to think that people had come for C&C rather than the music. Which kind of annoyed me, because I had booked so long ago that my ticket is advertising Patti Smith's Meltdown, a high Summer event!

We were first instructed to take our seats fifteen minutes before the concert began, when it's usually ten. Then we were sat - in my case - like lemons waiting for the Royal Party to arrive, well past half seven. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the people behind me as their excitement grew, palpably. They had bought a programme, because it was a special occasion. Special occasion, I kept hearing over and again.

There was near hysteria which I assumed signalled the arrival of the happy couple. I didn't actually really see them, because I was engrossed in reading my programme notes. Then to my horror, the man behind is instructing his companions to stand up, and, blow me, four fifths of the hall stands up. Not me, obviously, nor, as it happens, the couple to my right. And then people clapped. The vomiting sounds coming from Row MM were me.

When the Leader of the Orchestra arrived on the platform I applauded her enthusiastically, just in case anyone was watching me. When the conductor arrived I was half tempted to start a one-woman standing and screaming ovation. Just to make a point, you understand. I'm not in the habit of cheering the arrival of conductors, unless it's following the second of two boozy intervals, when loads of people do. But, I ask myself, why do these morons show this simpering toadying deference to a parasite and his mistress wife who have done absolutely nothing to earn the place where they are?

Then the whole charade repeated itself at the start of the second half; the man behind said "Oh do we have to stand up again?". I really felt like turning round and saying "Look mate, you don't have to do anything. If you wish to, do, that's your choice. I will mock in you my blog, but it's your choice." And four fifths of the hall stood. But not me, nor the couple to my right. I remarked to the woman next to me - "I think we're surrounded by sheep" "Oh, it's pathetic!" she said vehemently. "Still, it's all quite exciting for the staff..."

And the music - the Philharmonia under David Parry. A disappointing Elgar Introduction and Allegro for Strings. Started well, I almost exhaled with ecstasy at that wonderful chord just near the beginning. But it's a piece that, in my opinion, needs a disciplined structure, else it disintegrates into a soggy mess. Which it didn't, so it did.

Then there was some eminently forgettable piece by Richard Rodney Bennett, commissioned by the Peter Moores Foundation on behalf of Parasite Charles as a tribute to the late great Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother gawd bless her. A fitting tribute I felt - superficial, saccharine twaddle. And soporific. I am not sure whether or not I am grateful to my seatmate for keeping me awake by clicking her spectacles.

After the interval was a rather disappointing Vaughan Williams Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis. I don't know, maybe it's the hall, but my attention just wandered.

However, the evening was salvaged by a splendid Britten Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra. The more I hear Britten, the more I think "Genius". I so love that piece, and as I am yet a young person, I think it only right that I should love it. He wrote so splendidly for percussion. I counted six players plus timpani. Scored for: bass drum, cymbals, tambourine, triangle, side drum, chinese block, xylophone, castanets, gong and whip. A fabulous end and a wall of sound that made the rest of the dreary evening worthwhile. Not that it wasn't without the odd hiccup, but it's such a lively, almost raucous piece, hiccups can be overlooked. The brass and percussion were fantastic.

As the Great and Serene and Noble Highnesses took their gracious departure, some voice from behind expressed a mixture of disgust and disappointment that the National Anthem wasn't played. Jolly good thing, too. That bloodcurdling scream would have been from that woman sitting resolutely in her seat in Row MM.

And on the way home, I reflected that I had not actually seen Chas and Cam. And no, I didn't take any pictures. What a bad blogger I am zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Although I did reflect. It must be fairly ghastly to know that everywhere you go all these dreadful people gawp at you like you're some sort of circus freak. I do believe that Charlie is quite a music lover, and I don't suppose he can just slip anonymously into a concert hall to listen to the music for its own sake. Still, I don't suppose they hate it that much, otherwise an exit strategy would have been devised years ago. And it sure as hell beats working for a living.

No such thing as society

Unfortunately, yesterday, I had to travel to work earlier than usual and so hit the worst of the rush hour.

I got on the bus as usual, except that it was full downstairs. I could have sworn that I had seen empty seats from the road, but recognise that this can be an illusion. A man of fifty was stood on the stairs so I asked him whether there were seats upstairs , he shrugged and said he didn't know. His face said he didn't care. I went upstairs, accidentally standing on his foot, and discovered a dozen empty seats.

Almost identical thing happened at Vauxhall bus station, except that this time the man in question was mid-thirties. Again I asked the question, he replied with studied indifference. This time I am confident I looked at him in contempt, but, even so, when I went upstairs and discovered that there were a dozen or so empty seats, I sorely regretted that I had not called him a moron. In both cases, their me-me-me attitude was causing the bus to be illegally overfull downstairs, and unlikely to stop to pick up more passengers at the next stop. I actually don't mind standing, if it's a choice between that and waiting for the next bus, but I resent having to stand as a direct result of the selfishness of arseholes when there are free seats.

In the evening I was at the Royal Opera House. More precisely, the cloakroom. Oh god. It's basically a reception desk in a narrow corridor, which, with the best will in the world would be utterly congested because of the scrum of people, some going into collect and others coming away from collecting. But we are not talking about the best will in the world. We are talking about a bunch of arrogant tossers in the expensive seats who probably don't have the slightest idea about the opera they have been to see, know nothing of its composer and probably only have a vague awareness of the playwright on whose work it was based (Macbeth). Having collected their coats they stand around having their inane conversations about...what...certainly not about the three hours they have just spent, except perhaps for the thirty minutes of the interval.

I actually think it is a Health and Safety Risk. A few months ago, someone had an epileptic fit in that scrum. Last night I happened to be behind a man on crutches, so I inched slowly forward with him, and became increasingly incredulous as snotty cow/bastard shoved him. I could take it no more, and exclaimed "Don't you realise there's a chap on crutches here you've just nearly knocked over..."

Me and my big gob, he turned to smile in some relief, and commented that if anyone were to fall over his crutches, it would be his fault. My big gob must have worked, because a passage cleared, for him, and because we were now in conversation it would have been churlish for me not to take advantage. Even so, one man said "Oh I'm just hovering here for someone else..." to which I snarled "Perhaps not the cleverest thing you've done all day..."

But it is a sort of proof of karma. I honestly did not have my own interests at heart, only to the extent that I didn't want this chap being pushed off balance onto me. But by making a bit of a fuss actually on someone else's behalf, I inadvertently benefitted. But what really annoyed me was that, because I was in the cheapest of cheap seats, the Slips, I had no need to have left my coat at the cloakroom, having plenty of stowage space behind my seat. I noticed that most of my immediate neighbours brought their coats with them.

I find it mentally exhasting having to be so assertive, to fight against people lacking in basic common sense and a fantastic view of their own smug importance.

Other people, in public

It was always going to be one of those evenings.

Last week, .I discovered that ENO has adapted its online booking system to accept Maestro cards. I checked the dates of Rigoletto performances against my diary and decided to opt for the performance this Wednesday. Just as I pressed 'Confirm', I realised that I had actually selected the wrong date - I had booked a ticket for that evening. Only, I wasn't sure whether I had, because the page had frozen (this was the fault of the connection at work). The screen said if nothing happens, contact the Box Office. I prefaced my remarks with a warning that there was stupidity ahead. My transaction for that day had gone through, but it was absolutely no problem to change it to the day I actually wanted. The chap in the Box Office kept apologising, but I insisted that the fault lay entirely with me. It was nice that I could change the ticket at no extra charge, compared to earlier in the day when the Theatre Royal Haymarket had charged me an extra £3 per ticket on top of their advertised price, just for booking, without me making any mistakes.

I arrived horrendously early, a result of coming to a natural break in my work and finding a bus outside the office to speed me down Whitehall. I did think of going into the National Gallery, but decided that the hassle with bags and cloakrooms would take more time than I had for looking at pictures. I killed some time, and resisted spending money, in MDT.

I was stood outside the Coliseum having my last cigarette and I noticed a car pull up outside. If it had not stopped on the double yellows, I would not have even noticed. Indeed, if the passenger had just got out and the car had driven off, I still wouldn't have noticed. But it seemed to linger for a while, entering my consciousness. A man got out and I realised that I knew him. I expect my face registered that and he clocked that I recognised him. Just as I realised that it was off the telly. But at least I can say that I have stood just inches from Les Dennis! Could the evening get any better!

I went to take my seat before curtain up. To my left was a group of students, possibly Sixth Formers. I am always slightly wary of groups; I think in groups we all display less awareness of and consideration for those around us than we do in a twosome or foursome.

A party of faffers arrived to my right. There were three of them, but they were becoming anxious about the arrival of the fourth. They asserted confidently that he would be allowed in late because he was on the end of the row. They might be right, but I doubt it. ENO does not admit latecomers until a suitable break. I would be surprised if they made an exception for those on the end of the row.

I soon realised that I was surrounded by the Anti-Social morons from hell. Not the Students/Sixth Formers, to whom I was entirely oblivious throughout as they displayed the impeccable behaviour that ought to be taken as read for anyone in a theatre.

Before the opera began, there was the usual announcement about switching off mobile phones. ENO do it by playing two loud grating ringtones, which always gets a reaction from people with at least two braincells who have forgotten to switch theirs off. But the woman next to me exclaimed "I thought one couldn't bring mobiles in. I thought they were banned. It's outrageous if people are letting their phones ring." I was tempted to point out the message on the surtitle screen, but couldn't be bothered. I had already decided that she was one of those people who, realising that a good education would be wasted on her limited intelligence, had opted for Elocution lessons, the 'How to Sound Strangulated' class.

In front were four men, three middle-aged-ish and one who was a stereotype of how TV decides that a certain-type of 20-something gay man should be, his shallowness visible from ten yards in the dark. He turned to the chap next to him and simpered "But I love shows. I saw Martine McCutcheon in My Fair Lady, one of the few nights she was in it. And I've seen Mamma Mia three times." He proceeded to whisper loudly at various stages throughout. I hate being the sort of person who says "Ssssshhhhh" but it can be very distracting to have some twat constantly twittering away. During Care nome, one of the most sublimely gorgeous pieces of music in the entire operatic canon, he tweeted again, so I finally did my Sssshhhh, resentful that he felt he had the right to distract everyone around him. I want to explain, in a production such as this, not short of riveting stage action, when the Director (no less a person than Jonathan Miller) has opted to stop the action and allow the soprano more or less to stand-and-deliver, there is a reason for this. The reason is apparent if you listen to the music.

And the Mrs Stupid from Surrey exclaimed, in the loudest Stage Whisper, "Do you want to borrow my glasses?" to her husband - because he had discovered he could not read the surtitles. I did the sssshhing again, interrupting husband before he had barely begun his loud response.

At the first interval Mr And Mrs Surrey Stupid stood debating with their companions about whether they were going to swap around seating for the next Act. and stood and stood and stood, oblivious. Eventually Friend of the Surrey-Stupids said "I think this lady wants to get out". Mrs Stupid-Surrey turned to me and looked at me in the most condescending way "Oh, you want to get out?" in tones of utmost surprise, and as if she was set to challenge my right. Irritably I exclaimed "First you chatter away disturbing everybody else, then you stop people from getting out." I hate it when people's self-centredness turns me into a nasty person.

In the bar, a familiar voice caught my attention and I realised that I was stood right next to Shirley Williams. I remember her from when I was a child, someone I have always admired, and someone I regard as one of the most intelligent and principled politicians around, with whom I agree on a great number of issues. I also remember she had a reputation for being a bit unkempt, one newspaper cruelly called her a bag-lady. What I saw was a woman of seventy five looking fabulous. Smart, and surprisingly attractive. Ageing gracefully, not looking old but not pretending to be twenty years younger, and with a mellifluous voice. I felt that Mrs Stupid-Surrey, twenty years younger, could learn a lot.

The remainder of the opera went ahead without incident, although I had to laugh at Mrs Stupid-Surrey grandly announcing "This is the second interval" at the start of the second interval, just in case any of us were in any doubt. I don't know whether it was the effect of my ssshhhing but the Surrey-Stupids and Mr Shallow managed to keep their lips buttoned throughout. Of course, the Sixth Formers behaved impeccably throughout, and displayed charm and good manners in the trivial exchanges at the end of the intervals.

At the end I went to the Ladies. As I was coming out, I saw Shirley Williams and smiled at her, in my well-honed 'I recognise you as Someone Off the Telly and I am smiling to acknowledge that I have admiration for you but don't worry I'm not going to engage you in conversation' smile. She gave me a look of "I know you recognise me but that does not mean I have to acknowledge you." Whereas a couple of weeks ago, I walked past Clare Short and I gave her that same smile and she gave me a warm smile which said "I understand why you are smiling at me; I acknowledge and return it. I know you're not going to hassle me."

I caught the Tube home, by chance getting into a carriage with three very loud people. One was very drunk, as the other two reminded her frequently. She declared she wanted to be on a beach in Dubai, or to go to Petra, but it's really dangerous there because it's near Lebanon, and she has a friend whose girlfriend, who is really beautiful, is from Izmenistan, which is near Lebanon and dangerous and she is half Russian, half Arabic and half something else. "One of the Stans" suggested the Canadian bloke.

She engaged another threesome in conversation; one of the women asked Miss Drunk whether she spoke Spanish. "No, not really. Where are you from?"

"France," replied the woman.

"Really, France is really beautiful!"

"No, I'm from Spain, really." But her boyfriend was from France.

Spain is really beautiful. I'd love to be in Spain now because it's hot. And it's really beautiful.

"The weather's very cold in Spain at the moment," said the Spanish woman.

"Oh, maybe I could be in France. It's hot in France. And it's really beautiful in France. I love France. Don't you?"

"Not really!" exclaimed the French bloke.

"But it's really beautiful."

"It's full of French people!" explained the French bloke, causing most of the rest of the carriage to collapse in barely disguised laughter.

"Oh everyone's laughing at us. Maybe they're from Izmenistan, it's really beautiful there."

Time for the French bloke to change the conversation "So, what do you do?"

"Oh we're training to be opera singers, which is really beautiful because we go to operas every week. But I'm going home to see my Mum this weekend." And then it was my station.

Inappropriate Music

I have taken to listening to Classic FM's lunchtime requests.

Living underneath a seven*-day a week building site means that I have to have mechanically produced sounds on from 8 am until nightfall and beyond. When I get up, before I have caffeine, I am not competent to make an intelligent choice of music - on workdays I listen to Today - so I put on Classic FM**.

Someone has just requested a piece of music to celebrate the birth of their new baby. They requested the theme from Angels in America. Do you think they've ever watched the play or even know what it's about?

* don't get me started...
** I know it's the Spawn of Satan and single-handedly responsible for the Triumph&trade of cleavage marketing over musical ability that is Kathleen "Warbling Barbie" Jenkins, but it's pleasant enough mental chewing gum.

Ill Manners

Last week, upstairs on a nearly-full bus, I was sitting next to a random woman, and behind two women who were friends, but random strangers to my seatmate and me.

My seatmate had barely grazed my consciousness as we travelled up the hill. As the bus stopped at the traffic lights, a cough emerged from her larynx and immediately and instinctively she put her hand over her mouth. "Nasty cough," I thought, my instincts tending to sympathetic. It's January, there's a lot of it about.

The woman in front of me turned to her friend and, with no attempt to speak quietly, said "Listen to that person coughing. If they didn't smoke they wouldn't cough..."

My eyes and my seatmate's eyes met. She looked mortified; hopefully my slack-jaw, aghast (aka gobsmacked) look conveyed what I thought. Unfortunately, I suddenly realised my stop was looming, so I had to dash; otherwise I might have given the woman in front a piece of my mind.

The previous day I had been walking alongside the office and some woman - not a colleague, I suspected - said loudly "There's an awful lot of scruffy people around these days..." I looked around, expecting to see that groups of grungy youngsters had emerged from the Evangelical Christian Centre, but there were surprisingly few people around, a couple of chaps in reasonably smart if not especially expensive suits, and myself.

I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror as I passed. My reasonably smart suit was hidden under a respectable ankle-length coat. Ankle length because I'm 5'2"; admittedly, with a streak of mud from when a passing vehicle splashed me from a puddle. I couldn't see the problem. My hair was a little wild, there was a wind blowing. But it's been wilder...I concluded the problem must have been my lack of make-up, or my flat shoes - Doc Martens, but very girly Doc Martens - or perhaps my rucksack. but hey, I was going to work...

I then concluded that the problem was in the mind of the speaker, who, perhaps lacked the self-esteem to venture outside without the crutch of high-fashion and make-up.

But you know, I was brought up that you don't make derogatory remarks about people within their earshot. It's just rude. Both the offending women were older than me (looked it anyway) so it can't be blamed on some breakdown in society. And if they hadn't opened their mouths, I would have judged them to be civilised.

Air Rage

When we - finally - boarded the plane in Goa we entered a version of reality. I calculated that it was my eleventh flight in a year, so the procedures were very familiar to me. The cabin crew were going round checking the overhead lockers, the uprightnedness of seats, the fastenedness of seatbelts. The doors had been shut; we had not yet been told our departure was delayed for ten minutes whilst awaiting the arrival of two inbound planes. The captain had apologised for the existing delay, explaining that it was caused by a passenger on the inbound flight requiring medical attention, followed by a request that anyone unfit to fly should make themselves known.

A chap stood up. I immediately clocked that he was rather the worse for drugs. I was not sure whether he needed the loo or whether he was wanting to get his anti-DVT exercises in early. Suffice to say he had to be told three times, in increasingly stern tones from the trolley-dolly, to 'sit down sir'. Once should be enough, especially prior to take off.

He spent the early hours of the flight in seeming perpetual motion, up and down more often than a...yoyo. Bit of a nuisance, I judged, and forgot about him. Eventually, food was served. There was an issue about this, the issue being that it was four hours into a flight, a flight that took off six hours after we had left our hotels, breakfast-less. Also, there was some question about whether there were sufficient vegetarian meals - I was sat next to one of a party of eight vegetarians (two couples and their four children) and behind a group of four veggies. But certainly the thirteen of us got ours.

Dinner was nearly over when Weird Druggie Guy decided to walk down our aisle and engage in conversation with one of the party in front of us. I don't know what was said, but Weird Druggie Guy was being patently passive-aggressive and the quiet unassuming chap (early twenties, travelling with - I assume - mother and two brothers) appeared to be doing the right thing in engaging him in non-confrontational conversation with conciliatory open body language. Not quite sure what happened, but Weird Druggie Guy swiped the meal tray off the young Asian man - albeit was nearly finished and walked off aggressively. Immediately one of the cabin crew was beside the Asian man, saying all the appropriate things, including "If you want, we'll take your details."

Dinner over, it was time for my loo call and anti-DVT exercises. It was an Airbus A330 with downstairs loos. In the vestibule to the loos was a woman looking like death warmed up, being gently quizzed by two cabin crew "Are you taking any medication for it?"

Back to my seat, to read, perchance to dream. Suddenly, I realize it's all kicked off. I later found out that Weird Druggie Guy had assaulted another of the Asian brothers and had been brought to the ground by one of the veggie dads sitting behind. Next thing I know, Weird Druggie Guy is marched through the curtain to the front of the plane held in arm-locks by Trolley Dolly and Veggie Dad. Slight muttering "So he gets to travel in business class..?."

A bit later he's marched back again in handcuffs by Trolley Dolly. So Veggie Dad remarks loudlishly to all and sundry "We'll probably have to make an emergency landing". I look at my map on the screen in front of me, and equally loudly, again to all and sundry announce "Baghdad". Everyone glances at the map and a nervous titter goes round our section of the cabin. I explain to Veggie Dad #2 that I had had a dream a few nights previously that our return journey involved an emergency landing at Baghdad (true...).

A bit later, I return again to the loo. Outside, Mrs Death Warmed-Up is lying in a foetal position pale as a shroud, attended by a cabin crew. No sign of Weird Druggie Man. Later, in Gatwick South, my smoking friend tells me: she's a nervous flyer at the best of times, and she spent half the flight aware that the prisoner was sitting next to an openable door, albeit in handcuffs.

Someone comes back from and says (oh how rumours start!) that the pilot would have landed but it was choice between Baghdad and Tehran, so he decided to carry on. She was hoping it would be Bahrain because Lancome make-up is really cheap in Bahrain. Someone else wanted Cairo because they wanted to see the Pyramids.

Eventually, afternoon is served, with fulsome apologies from the stewardess that they were two cabin crew down. To which the only reply is "Don't apologise: we know what's happening..." After afternoon tea, the captain announces that the toilets were closing and there would be no at-seat service for twenty minutes because the staff had not had a "break due to unforeseen circumstances..." Veggie Dad suggested "You lazy gets" - our stewardess had the wickedest sense of humour and had spent much of the flight teasing those she instinctively judged could take it.

Finally, we land at Gatwick. I was fully expecting a "we've run out of ladders" announcement; it usually happens to me at Gatwick - indeed coming back from Dublin in March it actually took longer to locate a set of stairs than it did to fly the journey. But no, it seemed that the stairs were ready and primed for our arrival.

The captain's dulcet tones came over the PA. "Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately we will have to hold you here for sometime because we are awaiting an official response to onboard events..." There was a collective, but muted groan. Of course, we all wanted to be off, but we wanted Weird Druggie Guy dealt with appropriately. Although Veggie Dad said, Unless he and the people in front pressed charges, the guy would walk free and be free to board another plane the next day.

Word had gone round that he was travelling with his wife and baby. Unbelievable. If I was wife, I would be filing for divorce immediately. What an irresponsible toss-pot! I think it's unforgivable to get into such a state that you assault people, especially on an aeroplane, where there are great concerns about endangering the lives of others. But to do so when travelling with a babe-in-arms is despicable. I suppose Wife was left to deal with luggage for 2+1 and screaming baby. Lovely...

One of the Sussex Constabulary's finest, complete with official police baseball cap (Surrey are due to get hoodies soon) boarded the plane and marched purposefully towards the back. And to a massive sigh of relief, the captain announce we were free to go. As we left the plane, I noticed a further four police officers - and, remember, at airports they're armed. I overheard a conversational snippet between cabin crew and police saying "We have the details of the victims..."

Our bags were among the first off, and we beat a speedy retreat to the relative sanity of Costa Coffee in Arrivals (one of my favourite places on earth, would you believe...!). We were joined by fellow passengers and I try to eavesdrop on what happened to Weird Druggie Guy but I could only make out that 'something' had happened - presumably arrest and removal - and his 'wife had to..." My eavesdropping is good, but not perfect...

Meanwhile, in today's BBC News: Air rage grounds 200 passengers:

A British airliner which had to make a forced landing in Florida when a passenger allegedly became violent and abusive has landed back in the UK. The Thomson fly plane from Cancun in Mexico to Manchester was diverted to Sanford Airport in Orlando following the disturbance on board.

Which only strengthens my belief that we too might well have been diverted if the options were other than Iraq and Iran.

Don't Stand So Close To Me

Subtitle Brits Abroad

Sub-sub title Silently Screaming

It happened. We went on the Package Holiday of Hell. It was stupidity. If we had thought a bit more, and had not spent the entire autumn being so bloody knackered, we could so easily have avoided it.

I recall the best holidays as being USA 99 and Cuba 01. Independence and spontaneity. And almost total avoidance of Brits abroad.

Not that I'm adopting a tone of moral superiority. I was one of those Brits Abroad. It left me with a distaste and a slight self-loathing. I filled in the Customer Dissatisfaction Surveys - No I really don't want to socialise with other holidaymakers from UK and Ireland when on holiday. Nothing personal: we conversed with some very nice, interesting, pleasant, and amusing people; I felt a strong rapport with one person. Even many of the people who 'weren't my type' were okay, not impacting on me except when I chose to people-watch. And utterly prejudiced - if I never hear another Liverpool-Runcorn-Warrington-Widnes accent again in my life, it will still be too soon.

Calangute is an absolute hole of a resort. Brash, overcrowded and over-commercialised. Horrible to move around on foot; worse to move around by vehicle - fortunately the taxis were extraordinarily cheap. And the restaurants were unbelievably excellent. After Seven, Roma and A Reverie were as good as, if not better, than any restaurant I have been in in London, New York etc, and, imported wine aside, so incredibly cheap. Beach shacks and small Tibetan restaurants provided food much better than almost any High Street in Britain. Surely there has to be more to a holiday than spending all day baking on a sun-lounger on a beach - interspersed with wave jumping in the most glorious swell off golden beaches - and all evening in (often) European-style restaurants. The highlight was the three nights we spent sleeping in a treehouse on Aswem Beach a (relatively) quiet tropical beach, really quite close to paradise.

Towards the end of the two weeks we jointly and separately kicked ourselves for not hiring a scooter and using it to explore the back lanes, to properly discover some of the most breathtakingly gorgeous scenery imaginable. We were put off by the traffic nightmare that was Calangute and Candolim, plus the absence of insurance and crash helmets. I became very jealous of the freedom that all the adventurous people had. But no camera is needed for me to recall the most beautiful sunset as we crossed the Chapora River.

I was fascinated at the seemingly wild cattle that wandered down every street and beach lugubriously minding their own business. More fascinating was watching the semi-wild dogs that scavenge in packs. Amazing to see how they patrolled their territory and communicated in a medley of barks, surely actively communicating messages with meaning. Longterm readers will know that I am not a dog person. And on this holiday I discovered something interesting about dogs.

Pet dogs take a dislike to me. I try to rationalise it as being a circle of fear - knowing that the dogs will sense my fear causes to me send them signals of fear. It has amazed and perplexed serious conscientious disciplined dog-owners for many years. Twice this happened in Goa; on both occasions the dogs were domesticated animals, one belonging to a specific family down the road from our hotel, one belonging to an aging European hippy who took it for walks on Aswem beach. Otherwise the wild, but human-dependent dogs roaming the streets and beaches ignored me as I was happy to ignore them. Now I have to find out the reason why. It could be a major breakthrough in the field of psychology...!

The most fascinating aspect was the pack instinct of the dogs. And of the humans. For years it has troubled me, not understanding why humans choose to crowd out other humans when there are acres of space from which to choose*

Episode 1: at the poolside bar. We had returned from a hard day tanning, and had paused for a quick drink before showering and changing for a hard evening's dining. Of a dozen or so tables, two were occupied, with a barrier empty table between them. We sat at the far edge of the group of tables, leaving a clear eight tables for all newcomers. Five minutes later a group arrived and chose to sit right next to us. Pointedly, I moved away from them. The previous night, both men in the group had provided mirth to most of the rest of the guests as they failed to walk across the floor without falling over (one finally split his head open and had to go to hospital). I had heard that earlier one of the men had physically threatened someone without any obvious provocation. (He had made the mistake of attacking a younger fitter man who hinted that he had put his youth behind him and wanted no trouble on holiday with his wife and children but could clearly look after himself)

Episode 2. On our one and only excursion, into the jungle to feed the monkeys and swim in the waterfalls, Jimmy and I were both taken ill, he with travel sickness, me with - you couldn't make it up - extreme constipation that suddenly manifested itself as waves of debilitating stomach cramps and nauseating fever. Too listless to progress further, we sat down on a rock, watched the waterfalls, and criticised the footwear of people that passed (when stumbling over rocks is it better to wear three inch platforms or flip flops? Is it better for your child to wear flip flops or three inch platforms?)

A woman passed by and realised that, in this entire jungle, this was obviously The Rock Where People Sit Down. So she sat down next to me and addressed me, really rather aggressively I thought (as another stomach cramp doubled me over and sent my temperature over 100), "They didn't tell us about this trek, did they?" I really don't like people putting words into my mouth; I also don't like the 'Blame Someone Else" culture, especially when I'm doubled over in excruciating pain and running a fever, so, haughtily, I replied, "Actually, they did..." and waggled my walking boots at her. She realised she had picked The Wrong Rock and The Wrong People To Sit With, and wriggled nervously away. Oh WTF, I hadn't chosen that rock for its sociability but because I was dying of what I had by then concluded was burst ovarian cysts, grumbling appendicitis, kidney failure, and possibly a f***ed pancreas mixed with a dose of hypochondria.

Episode 3: Asvem Beach. Quiet. Almost all of the visitors lying on sun-loungers, sleeping or reading, murmuring to their companions, interspersed with periodic visits to the sea for a spot of wave jumping. No thumpy-druggy-disco music. No great physical activity from anyone. One small patch of beach, with three rows of sun loungers. To the south, half a mile of deserted beach. To the north, mile upon mile of deserted beach. Arrive the group of loud people. The men immediately start to play football. Right in front of everybody's sun loungers. How bloody irritating. Thud, as the ball bounces on wet sand. Thud thud, shout. Scream. Be reasonable, I scolded myself, you cannot object to people playing football on a beach. Thud. Thud. Running footsteps. Shout. Scream. Rather hoping that one would come a cropper on the submerged rocks and concluding I was a grizzly old cow.

To lunch in the beach shack, and, unfortunately, they arrived soon after us, shouting their conversation of utter vacuous trite shite. On adjoining tables were a middle-aged hippyish looking couple; and a father with sons in late teenage. The latter group looked a bit non-middle-class, so the loudest of the loud party (who was wearing a pair of Speedos that were too physiologically correct for my liking, at lunchtime) approached the three guys and said

"Hey, where are you from, are you from Manchester?"

The sons never looked up from their books; coldly father said "Yes".

"Are you City or United?" asked Mr Loud.

"Does it matter?" replied father frostily and returned to his book (Jeremy Clarkson's biography). I later noticed a Manchester United tattoo, so, actually, it did matter. But not as much as chilling quietly with his sons, reading their books, having no wish to be adumbrated into the desperate socialising and attention-seeking of others. Please don't come over here, I prayed. But I think we, along with the aging hippies, were assessed and dismissed as weirdos.

Jimmy expressed his objection to their game of football, pointing out the long stretches of beaches in either direction. If the ball had hit him, he would have burst it and hit the nearest footballer (he says - I've never seen him hit anyone, despite his fervent promises...!). He concluded it was pure attention-seeking, and he was getting sick and tired of boring empty-headed people trying to include us into their group so that we could provide free entertainment to them.

I can only conclude that humans are no different from the semi-feral dogs, needing to roam with the pack, to mark out the communal territory. It's pure instinct. And my failing is that I never gravitate to the pack.

* I have never forgotten the summer of 76, Northumberland. Only our family could choose to holiday, during the long hot summer of drought, in the week when it rained. One day, there was a break in the rain, and, intrepidly we went down to the beach, and found our spot. Apart from us, and from the occasional dogwalker on the horizon, a massive expand of sand, as far as my eyes could see, was deserted for a number of hours. Until after lunch when another family arrived and sat down within feet of our family.