Gertsamtkunstwerk

Back home!

So, we returned in the not so early hours of Sunday morning. I do wish the usually tortuous journey back home doesn't put such a downer on the preceding days of holiday. My sister declared on Facebook that she is never getting on a plane with me (actually, she wrote 'palne' but that's because she's one of those pepole without a spellcheque in there broser).We have never actually caught a flight together.

I've been tying to think of stuff that has gone wrong on my not-very-frequent journeys by plane. If it goes wrong, it's usually on the return leg - assuming I don't miss the flight entirely.

Let me think, I didn't ever fly until I was 21. so here goes:

• 1989: New York to Manchester - smooth and on-time

• 1991: Isle of Man to Heathrow Bournemouth - delayed by the 'wrong type of snow' that also stopped trains working; drunken passenger refused to board, refused, initially, to identify luggage, leading to possibility of all other passengers also disembarking to identify our luggage

• 1992: Rome to Manchester - smooth and on time

• 1993: Pisa to Gatwick - delayed by snow; drunken passenger refused to board; refused, initially, to identify luggage, leading to possibility of all other passengers also disembarking to identify our luggage

• 1995: Corfu to Gatwick, slight delay but no problems

• 1995: Isle of Man to Heathrow, twice - no problems

• 1996: Edinburgh to Gatwick, delayed by snow in Amsterdam (as you would be...)

• 1999: Geneva to Gatwick, delayed by snow in Geneva and Amsterdam, plus non-appearance of ladder at Gatwick, and frozen points on Gatwick inter-terminal shuttle

• 1999: Buffalo/Niagara to Boston via Portland - plane cancelled due to burst tire, transferred to direct flight run by rival company but only because nice man sprinted the length of airport after USA National flight computer based in Tampa crashed

• 1999: New York to Heathrow via Frankfurt - delayed three hours due to fault; 'complimetary' sandwich contained meat, only had three Deutschmark and refused to get any more out because a) overdraft maxed out; and b) Deutschmark due to be abolished

• 2000: Glasgow to Gatwick - no problem

• 2001: Manchester to Gatwick - no problem

• 2001: Jersey to Gatwick no problem

• 2002: Havana to Gatwick, turbulence over Cornwall meant no coffee was served for breakfast, stale breakfast made me nauseous

• 2002: Almeria to Gatwick, baggage reclaim delayed by two hours

• 2002: Glasgow to Gatwick, no problem flying, but taxi from Victoria to Pimlico cost £15 at which point Taxi driver suggested I got Tube due to totally stationery traffic on every bridge over Thames

• 2002: Belfast to Gatwick no problem

• 2003: Cairo to Sharm el Sheikh - very scary looking man with gun pacing up and down plane

• 2003: Sharm el Sheikh to Gatwick, no problem

• 2004: Dublin to Gatwick - turbulence over Irish Sea (although not as turbulent as for the Dublin-Manchester flight that my sister and nephew got)

• 2005: Taba to Gatwick, delayed by snow in Amsterdam (probably)

• 2005: Dublin to Gatwick - not a problem

• 2005: Barcelona to Gatwick - take-off made very scary by a seat that automatically reclined...

• 2005: Berlin to Stansted - check-in desk opened very late, so we got drunk while everyone else stood in a queue! (wasn't a problem!)

• 2006: Goa to Gatwick - the plane journey from hell (part one) with one passenger so ill as to need constant supervision and one under arrest in handcuffs; emergency landing was averted because the options were Tehran or Baghdad (allegedly). One meal down

• 2006: Manchester to Heathrow - not a problem

• 2006: Crete to Gatwick - not a problem

• 2007: Sharm el Sheikh to Gatwick Manchester - the definitive plane journey from hell

• 2007: New York to Heathrow - excellent flight, except for Mr Grumpy complaining that I woke him up every time I had to get past him to go to the loo. (And they had forgotten to pack any economy class veggie meals so I had to make do with a first-class one!)

• 2008: Madrid to London City - dream flight

• 2008: Barcelona to Heathrow, good flight, made better by Jimmy being on a later flight! Slightly delayed boarding/take-off but made good time in the air
  

• 2008: Valencia to Gatwick - a delay which may only have been an hour but seemed a lot longer

• 2009: Alicante to Gatwick - dramatic aborted take-off which was well scary at the time, but was probably quite an everyday procedure.

Although I have probably omitted a couple of journeys, you can see I'm not exactly a frequent flyer, so I'm afraid I don't get to feeling very guilty about my contribution to Global Warming.

It may seem that there is an 'incident' every time I fly, but that isn't actually true. One of my sister's friends went on holiday with a vet friend; there was a call for a doctor, which the vet felt obliged to respond to - someone with a collapsed lung after diving.

My ex-hairdresser went on honeymoon to Cuba and was about to take off from Havana when the plane next to them was hijacked, so they had to disembark and go to a hotel for the duration, where she got bitten by a mosquito and ended up in hospital with blood poisoning and had to complete the journey in a wheelchair.

Someone who worked with my father got hijacked. Not once, but twice. I suppose when you've been hijacked once, the second time, you can be quite blasé, treat it like a walk in the park.

Public Transport, access and egress

I don't go round especially noticing how people behave when boarding or alighting from buses and Tubes, but sometimes there's a rush of incidents in a few days.

Last week, bus. About to terminate at Brixton, so everyone had to get off. I was in the aisle, to my left a woman was pushing and shoving (subtly), so I moved closer to the man in front of me to frustrate her. To my right, a man waiting patiently, not fussed if he had to wait for the entire queue to pass before he moved to the aisle. I let him go in front of me.

In the evening I was carrying two heavy bags of shopping. I stood at the bus stop. When the bus came I noticed a woman of somewhat advanced years* so I paused to let her go before me. I noticed that she was elegant. Not posh, but everything about her appearance was just right, perfect indeed. I thought 'I bet she was a dancer' then I noticed a big Portcullis Brooch on her dress. It was Madame Speaker! She smiled charmingly at me and indicated that I was to go first (naturally, I walked past the most convenient seat on the bus, leaving it free for her).

When the bus arrived at Clapham Common there was a bit of a surge because of the wait being over-long. I noticed a woman with two children of Infant School Age. She had them firmly by the hand and looked a bit anxious. I paused to let her go first and somehow managed also to provide a barrier to prevent other people pushing past. She said thank you to me; her expression indicated "At last, someone who realises that it's not always easy".

As I was getting off the bus, I'm not sure what I did, but in putting on my rucksack I managed to hit the woman in front of me. She said 'ow!'. I'm not sure whether I had clipped her with my ring or had hit her sunglasses. Naturally, I apologised but I did think 'Stupid Clumsy Gert'.

Changing trains at Oxford Circus (the busiest station on London Underground that isn't a Mainline terminal interchange, I believe) some lout pushed onto the train before anyone had got off. I glared at him, he scowled back defiantly. I said "Wait till people have got off." He said "Fuck off bitch". Jimmy, who was behind me said that several people glared at the lout.

This morning, I boarded the bus at Vauxhall and heard that too familiar sound of Primary School class coming from upstairs. I decided to sit downstairs. Several people presumably also thought the same as me, not all of them got seats. Two in particular came to my notice.

There was plenty of standing room but one woman insisted in standing in the door well. At the next two stops people had to squeeze round her as she was planted firmly in the way. At Tate Britain it rapidly came clear that the school party was coming down the stairs. After a teacher and two small children had got off, one woman, previously seated, calculated that by the time they had all got off, she might as well walk to the next stop, so she stood up, pushed the children (aged 7 or 8), as well as stoutly planted stout woman, out of her way. But stout woman continued to stand there, in the way of the small children, and the adults who were counting heads. Two stops further on was my stop; even though the bus was emptying, she still stood in the doorwell. She was a squeeze to get past.

At work, I followed a man into a lift which held his companion and one other person, although can hold more (12? 20? I'm really not sure). He stopped just inside the door and I walked into him, my boob hitting his elbow. I apologised, and then, I thought, that's his fault, he could have moved inside the lift. I should have him for sexual assault! And his trousers were too tight round the tackle (that seems to be the fashion all of a sudden, I wish it wasn't).

In Brixton this evening, I saw a 45 coming. The 45 is a special bus. Not in that way, but it takes me closer to home than other routes, so I prefer it. There are too many buses for the space available outside Brixton Tube (but insufficient to meet demand; it's an insoluble problem, short of extending the Tube southwards). I stuck my arm out to make it stop and realised to my horror I had whacked a woman in her stomach. "Sorry sorry sorry!" I exclaimed. She burst out laughing, and exclaimed "I want that 45!" (She had walked out into the road in her determination to get it, and she got off at the last stop, as I did).

I suppose someone is going to pick up the incidents of bad manners and say "Hey, that's London, it won't happen in my small dull town," while ignoring the good manners and the camaraderie, and refusing to acknowledge they are also London. But I think what is more remarkable is that I just seem to have had a run of these incidents; normally, one negotiates around skilfully, not hitting people, barely noticing the people who play by the rules, and, of course, acknowledging the small acts of kindness.

* 80 this year!

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.

Atheist bus

Bus slogan generator

On RTAs and related matters

Last night coming home, I was very nearly witness to a horrendous car crash. I was walking from my bus stop to my road. My road crosses the South Circular at a junction with traffic lights, and pedestrian crossings, and car smashes are commonplace.

From behind me came a bus. It had just started its long journey to Kings Cross. My bus is only the second on its route and strangely, there was no one waiting to board. Even more strangely, I was the only person to have got off my bus at my stop. More strange still was the almost complete lack of other vehicles on the usually busy S. Circular. This was 7 pm. The bus driver put his foot down, determined to get through the lights before they changed. I don't think he was exceeding the 40 mph speed limit, but it seemed fast because it's rarely possible, not at that time.

It was alarming to actually watch a potential car crash unfold before me. I could see the blue Fiat move away from the gap in the Central Reservation to complete its right turn* into my road. I could see the bus seemingly gathering speed as the noticeable incline plateaus. I was visualising the impact of a speeding bus driving into the side of a flimsy car. I even looked to see if there were passengers were on the bus. I reached into my bag for my phone. The Fiat driver accelerated sharply and the bus managed to pass by with inches to spare. Crash averted!

I then fell to thinking about what I should do? I was the only person on foot - where was everybody? My instinct was already to dial 999. For whom should I ask? By the time I got home I decided that I would ask for police and ambulance. I wouldn't know if an ambulance was actually required. But better to err on the side of caution. It's hardly a crank call - a bus has just ploughed into a car. I don't know the number of casualties. I can give precise location.  How calm would I be?

If there were casualties I would not really know what to do. Except, dial 999, make sure no clever clogs tries to move someone who may have a neck or spinal injury, and try and persuade the dazed but otherwise unharmed from fleeing. Do I then have to hang around for the police and ambulance to arrive, particularly important considering that I had an increasingly urgent need to get home? Have I done my duty by calling 999 and giving my details. If I am required to give a witness statement they will know how to contact me.

Inconsequential in the end, but it was an experience that made me question my ability to react correctly. I then read Mr Reynolds account of being cut out from a crashed car Under the Plastic - all in a day's work for him.

And then, while reading a completely unrelated news story I came across Accidents on Long Island. My first reaction was that it is sensationalist or mawkish, but then I decided, it's clever.

There are no bodies, dead or maimed. Just smashed up car after smashed up car. Obviously, many of the recent ones are in snow or ice. Irrespective of the weather conditions, most of the explanations given are 'lost control of vehicle'.

I would imagine that many of those drivers thought they were in control, many probably thought they were good drivers. I would imagine that many misunderestimated the road conditions, which is pretty unforgiveable.

What also struck me, not as a hard-and-fast rule, but as an underlying theme, is that most of the SUV/4x4s etc overturned, whereas most of the normal cars remained upright.

All these tales and pictures of car smashes are common place. Sometimes people leave with no more than trivial injuries and a tale to tell, but so often, lives are destroyed, or changed beyond recognition. We treat it as normal, as an inevitable side-effect of the convenience of being able to go wherever and whenever.

I know many people who justify driving around for personal safety reasons, which I'm not knocking - it's about perceptions - although I think I'd rather be momentarily terrified by a figure emerging from a shadow then be cut out of twisted metal, or worse.

But what does amaze me is the number of people who think I am putting myself at risk by walking around an urban area at night (I am) but seem to have no perception of the risk of driving. I have a friend who has remarked, "I know I'm safe driver but there are so many arseholes out there I drive as if everybody's an arsehole" - which, of course, increases the safety of her driving. (Although no doubt in ten or thirty years time,if not now, the arseholes will cariacature her as timid 'old woman' as they speed on towards their encounter with a telegraph** pole).

* in Britain, Ireland, India, Australia, New Zealand and a few other places we drive on the left, so if you drive on the right, mentally reverse these terms

** why do we call them telegraph poles when they generally carry telephone wires?

Back to life, back to reality

I know that most people had the Big Struggle Back yesterday. As I don't work Mondays, I had to face it today, even though I had managed one solitary day last week.

I don't do Christmas New Year blah de blah but I do do hibernation and slobbing. The swimming baths were closed for the two weeks, which has to be the work of a genius, when so many people are off school and work...!

I kept saying to myself I will go for a bike ride today, but then made pathetic excuses about the weather. That was, until I remembered it is traditional to hibernate and slob at this time, and thought, nah, slob and hibernate!

I seemed to have a series of conversations today either about 'this is it now, it's a long time 'til the next break' or 'isn't it cold? isn't it freezing?'. Which although humdrum and mundane has to be better than discussing Christmas hopes destined to be dashed.

I did get a bit excited on the way to work when I realised that there was not a hindrance in my way. All my struggles of the past few months through dug-up roads, diverted traffic and shifted bus-stops  seemed to be over. Same on the way home, it really is amazing, not an obstacle to be found.

Except that when I stepped off the bus across the road from Gert Cottage. I saw cones. I scrutinised them closely and realised that they were turning the two-lane Westbound carriageway into one lane. No doubt to be dug up very very soon. More worryingly there is a man-at-work sign at the end of Gert Cottage Boulevard, as well as a road-narrows sign. So, back to normality on the roads being dug up.

On the way to work I noticed that Woollies was still open. I got a bit excited and resolved that today would be the day I lose my virginity. My shoplifting virginity, that is. I even confided this in my manager who said it would be closed by the time I got there this evening and anyway it would be completely bare. He was, of course, right. But I peered dolefully in through the shutters, my last glimpse of an institution that has been part of my life since before I can remember: Altrincham, Southend, Streatham, and Brixton. I don't remember there being one in Beeston, nor, bizarrely, can I recall if there was or wasn't one in Sale, ever.

I didn't help my mission to shoplift by going swimming before I ever got as far as Woollies. Oh, that was hilarious. I had confided in a friend that, as I hadn't been for three weeks I wasn't sure how it would go, also I predicted that it would be really crowded. My confidante laughed, knowing as well as I do how many people make short-lived resolutions to get fit in the New Year.

Actually, the pool was only marginally busier than it was in, say, November. Although a helluva lot busier than it was the week before Christmas. What made me laugh more was the gym, which is a sort of balcony with big picture windows above the swimming pool. Now, that was crowded! The most telling observation in the swimming pool was the ratio of sensible one piece costumes to teeny bikinis. Normally, I would say the ratio is 9:1. Today, the bikinis won.

As soon as I got in, I realised that three weeks of near-total slobbiness had taken its toll. I knew that anyway, it was so obvious from the flabbiness that has returned round the muscles I had had oh so briefly. But then after doing a couple of lengths as a warm up, and realising that that was effortless, without increase in pulse or breathing, I felt so very pleased with myself, and remembered that in Snakes and Ladders someone eventually finishes at square 100; given enough time and abolition of sudden-death competition, everyone will get there.

I am not going to pretend that I spent ages in the pool nor that I did dozens and dozens of lengths. I stopped at the point where my thigh muscles started to ache - in a good way - and went for a soak in the shower. For the second time today, a shower simply wasn't hot enough. I don't think there is any fundamental problem with either my home shower or the one at the Recreation Centre. I think it's just about perception and I can't understand it any more than I can understand the ambient temperature in my house.

The thermostat tells me that my house, which feels really cold, is actually no colder than on one of those mild autumn nights when I come home and feel that the house is like a sauna. I know that one of the quirks of living in an old (pre-Victorian) house without hermetically-sealed plastic window frames is that there are draughts, or healthy ventilation, I call it. But surely, surely, temperature is absolute. It might take more work from the boiler to get it there, and a gas meter* spinning like a whirling dervish, but once it's there, it's temperature, surely!

By the way, I'm just being very English moaning about the weather. We don't really do weather, even though we have plenty of it. I know it isn't really cold, like cold places are cold. But it's colder than most of us pretend we can remember. Tonight's minimum is forecast to be -4, and wind chill -10, with freezing at sea level, and the max tomorrow is 3, with a wind chill of -2. So, it's just unusually cold compared to recent winters. But not like cold cold.

I have just weighed myself, purely for the sake of the blog. I now weigh six kilogrammes less than when I started swimming again in August. This means that I am now fourteen kilogrammes heavier than the maximum ideal weight for my height. Perhaps this is because of the muscles wasting away, but hopefully it is also about fat disappearing. I never set out to lose weight per se; I knew I had to get fir for life, also I wanted to reduce my dress size because I would simply have a wider choice of clothes to buy if my dress size reduced.

My muscles have increased, the fat has decreased. Most importantly, I feel better physically and psychologically. Oh, that endorphin¹ glow on the bus! I believe I look better, too, at least, people have told me this. Interestingly, the one thing that hasn't changed is my dress size, because my belly still resembles a small hill and my my back muscles have strengthened. So the loss of some fat from the hips and the increased definition of my waist count for nothing!

However, by doing this slowly, by starting when it suited me not when the calendar said so, by avoiding stupid fad or crash diets, by not obsessing about food, by not deleting from my life the sensuality of taste, by incorporating a moderate and enjoyable exercise regime into my life, I firmly believe that I will transform my body in a way that will endure.

*yeah, I know, it's digital, they don't spin these days

¹ did you know that this is a compound word from 'endogenous' and 'morphine'

My right arm has been chopped off...

I feel surrounded and trapped by holes in the road. And assorted other things. All of it is for my long-term benefit, and as an experienced maker of omelettes, I know only too well the truism about breaking eggs.

All over London, and, I believe, beyond (yes, even in the wilderness of 'outside the M25') holes are appearing for the repair of the Victorian Water Mains. Over the summer and into the autumn, it was a constant guessing game - where will my bus stop be today, will my bus stop even exist?  This was exacerbated by Thames House (spooky!) landscaping works on Millbank. Brixton Town Centre is currently a mess, as a pavement-widening and landscaping scheme progresses - which will be excellent when finished. It holds up north-bound traffic in the morning, so I, like most people get off a stop early and walk.

In the evening, the southbound stops have been moved. Admittedly, not a great distance, but an inconvenience for those with mobility problems, heavy luggage or shopping, or uncomfortable shoes. Two stops combined into one makes it difficult to judge where to stand to catch the right bus.

I like to catch a specific bus that turns right to drop me nearer my house. However, there are gas works from the beginning of last month to the end of this that cause traffic congestion, adding ten or fifteen minutes bus time for the sake of a five minute walk. These gas works also mean that the buses from Clapham Common that usually stop outside my door have been diverted, necessitating an extra walk from that direction. And on weekday evenings, the Victoria Line and thus Brixton tube, closes early; it is often not open at weekends.

Two weeks ago the Victorian Water Main renewal project arrived in Gert Cottage Boulevard. They think we live in Norwood! I thought it was Brixton (Hill), but we seem to have been rebranded as Clapham Park although phone companies think we are Tulse Hill and Royal Mail, Streatham Hill. This was a minor inconvenience - apart from the tarmac we have walked into the house, the plant that has been damaged, the builder who yelled 'you forking count' (or somesuch) right outside my living room window. They did give us three days notice of one of the days we would be without water, although not the other two non-consecutive days. They've gone now and did tidy up well, even meticulously painting back the yellow lines in bright yellow paint on the fresh tarmac, so they look weird beside the years old faded barely visible double yellows!

Oh, and they seem to have damaged the phone line. I noticed my broadband connection was intermittent last Monday. I did nothing about it initially because these things often pass. But it has continued to be intermittent and deteriorating (forget downloading; forget surfing), so I called BT. They said there is a fault on the line and engineers will fix it tomorrow. Jimmy is startled that people in India can find a 'copper fault' outside our front door! It's currently a bit like Pay as You Go Dial-Up but not as quick or convenient.

And because things never go wrong singly, I think my mp3 player is buggered and the washing machine needs nudging on from 'rinse' to 'spin'!

Great nostalgia

London to Brighton in 4 minute, in the 1950s

And the 1980s colour update, in 3½ minutes

Nightmail

and the 1980s British Rail advert

On the buses

On Monday I caught two buses up to Camberwell, changing at Brixton. On both buses there were people in wheelchairs. I only really noticed because the bus takes a bit longer at bus stops when it has to let the ramp down and take it up again. I saw a few people in wheelchairs in and around Kings College Hospital, but that's to be expected. Back in Brixton, there was someone in a wheelchair in Marks, and I saw a further two on the way home. This morning I noticed a bus in the bus station with its ramp down, I then noticed someone wheeling away. And this evening there was someone on my bus in a wheelchair. I have seen a further three people in wheelchairs, not including a woman at work I often chat with. I don't think that in my entire life before this week I have experienced four people on buses in wheelchairs, let alone four in one week. I wonder if there's a week of Direct Action going on or whether it's just that having noticed one I am more aware of others.

I was stood at a bus stop not far from work. I noticed a man and a girl standing there. She was about seven or eight, him very early twenties. I thought he's too young to be her father, then I thought, maybe not. I didn't especially notice or judge him, although, in retrospect, I reviewed whether I had done so subconsciously. He was black, wearing a baseball cap sideways, puffa jacket, looked a bit, not rough, but not exactly posh. As I made to get on the bus, he made the girl stand back and let me on first. Naturally, I expressed my thanks.

Upstairs on the bus two fairly posh nicely spoken white boys, about 12 or 13, were listening to some hip hop on the phone of one of the boys. Oh god, I thought, I'm glad I'm only going a few stops. The black man, with an unmistakable Sarf London accent said, "Turn that crap off..." "Why?" asked one of the boys. "Because it's crap..." said the man. They complied.

Oysters on trains

ATOC’S position on Oyster Pay-as-You-Go

All London train operators will be responding positively to Transport for London’s (TfL) proposal for Oyster pay-as-you-go (PAYG) and want to move forward with discussions aimed at implementing it on the railway in London.

This is of considerable interest to me because I actually live nearer to Streatham Hill BR station than to any Tube, and as I work part-time I am an avid PAYG user. This has acted as a disincentive to use trains - although, in reality, they were great when I worked next door to Victoria station, not so great being quite a distance.

In an ideal world, there would be no reason not to have PAYG on trains, but I know how long already it takes to clear the platform at Streatham Hill in the evening as people file two-by-two up two flights of stairs (don't even mention accessibility). If gates were installed I doubt it would be clear before the next train arrived fifteen minutes later, even non-gated readers will slow the process down. There's a photo on the up-platform at Streatham Hill of the station in 1906; it hasn't changed in that time and is inadequate for current needs. But I'm not sure that rebuilding a station is a priority for infrastructure, especially if it would mean closing it for an extended period of time.

Sunday night

I went out last night. I love it when you've stood at Stockwell for nearly 37 minutes, and are suddenly building up hope, what with the Dot Matrix indicator saying "Edgware via Bank 1" to see a scrolling marquee announcing "Please avoid the Northern Line due to severe delays. Tickets accepted on local buses..." It poses a real dilemma. Do I get this train coming, and live in fear of there being no connecting service at Kennington, or do I follow instructions and get the bus, even though there's a perfectly adequate Victoria Line running just yards behind me. I worked out my strategy. Fortunately, a Charing X train turned up immediately at Kennington. Phew!

There's a screen at Brixton that tells you when there are delays on lines. It's super-douper 21st century state of the art, quite possibly up-to-the-minute, centrally controlled and widely distributed piece of information. But like everyone else, I prefer the intermediate tech of the colour coded whiteboard and its enigmatic messages - Passenger Incident, Faulty Train, Driver's Teabreak. I made the last one up.

I met up with my friends and we proceeded to enjoy the English National Opera's Gala in aid of the ENO Pension Fund. Two, maybe three, world-class singers, plus an impressive array of has-beens, also-rans and wannabes. Not to mention an illustrious line-up of no-shows. Perhaps I shall write more at length, but I'm not really sure what, other than "it was enjoyable; the Gilbert and Sullivan was terminably naff; I really can do without 'Opera in English';". Highlights - Simon "Shirtless" Keenlyside opened up with something from Pagliacci before, presumably, pulling on his leathers, mounting his motorbike and speeding off into the sunset up the M4; the party from Traviata - okay the bullfight scene was a bit contrived and English but it all came together. The soprano, Linda Richardson, was rather lovely, and by supreme serendipity I had just hours previously booked a fun Raymond Gubbay Opera Gala at the Barbican, with her in the line-up, so that's good! The tenor was Wynne Evans. Not top drawer but definitely worth a mention of praise.

The highlight and the lowlight managed to combine in one ensemble, the Soave sia Il vento (from Cosi) where the mezzo manage to be so totally off pitch it was astounding, and then suddenly, this gorgeous baritone comes out shiningly sublime in that wonderful phrase (much more gorgeous than on the not-to-be-sniffed-at recording I have indoors - the Karl Böhm set, where Walter Berry is the Don Alfonso). The baritone in question was the lovely Gerald Finley, taking this on at short notice after Sir Thomas "Don Alfonso" Allen cancelled. It was one of those moments-to-be-cherished that make all the indifferent and mediocre nights out well worth it. So when Tom retires, or retires Don Alfonso, will Gerald be stepping in?

Afterwards, it being a fund-raiser a whole collection of celebrity charity muggers posed with collecting buckets. It's on occasions like this that you do really start to wonder about the Great British Public. Michael Portillo had been specifically thanked from the stage for heading up the committee. As we were going down the stairs, I overheard this woman saying "I wonder if Michael Portillo's going to be there with collecting bucket". One of her friends pointed out that he was actually very visible near the front door with a preposterously bright blue shirt and brilliant tie. Later he was seen with collecting bucket, so this woman - would you believe it -, to the obvious disdain of her friends, actually went and put her money in Portillo's bucket, and was rewarded (?) with an Ooze of Portillo-esque charm. Later, when this same woman was leaving the pub, she spotted the selfsame Portillo crossing over towards Trafalgar Square.

Some of us, with long memories, shudder.

One thing I can't understand about the Northern Line. why is it, even in the evenings, even on a Sunday evening, there are more City trains than West End trains. It makes sense during the day, but the City's almost dead at night at weekends, and it's a pain waiting for a Charing X train that turns up packed to the rafters, and then having to change at Kennington.

Cross-river tramway

Cross-river tram debate to begin

Consultation is expected to start this week and will continue until January 2007.

When I first saw the proposals for this maybe five years ago my immediate reaction was frustration that it was planned to stop at Brixton Town Centre. It seems that all these proposals for massive investment in London's public transport infrastructure and which will undoubtedly bring major benefits to South London, are by passing those areas of population density clustered round the A23 from Brixton down to West Croydon. But if you live where I live, the nearest tube stations involve and will involve walks of half an hour; the nearest railway station (Streatham Hill) is a branch of a branch line.

If you draw a line on a map from Crystal Palace to Balham to Brixton, you create a triangle within which the population equivalent of a small city will eternally be entirely without Underground or Light Rapid Transit. I am guessing that there are logistical problems - I don't think a tram could fit on Brixton Hill without destroying Rush Common, a move I would oppose, unless the road was closed to private motor vehicles, which I would support, but I suspect would be politically unpopular, even though a tram system would improve far more lives than banning cars would inconvenience.

I will contribute to this consultation and will copy my views to my MP.

Booster seats for pre-teens with attitude

Take your seats

The comments seem to fall into two categories.

1. How dare someone expect me to spend £20 to keep my child safe and who's going to enforce it, anyway? Your child, your decision...Stupid law what about adults under 150cm? Maybe they should consider the risk factors and decide whether, in the light of research, they may wish to use a booster seat. For their own safety. No one's told me Well, I knew and I don't have a child or a car. So go on, who won Big Brother? What's the latest must have 'designer' handbag. Priorities, heh! Poor done-down victim me. Get over it.

2. If it has been found to be a risk, what on earth are the car manufacturers doing about it? Bugger all it seems. Greedy grasping capitalist bastards. With their adverts for safety and 'family' cars.

World Cup Own Goal

Rail Strike next Tuesday afternoon/Wednesday morning, timed to coincide with England's match against Sweden.

A Rail Strike affects not only those who normally travel by train but those who travel by car or by bus/tube becaus eof displacement - I doubt I shall be able to get a bus to the Tube on Wednesday morning because they will pass by full of people who usually catch the train from Streatham Hill.

On Tuesday, people will want to get home for the football. The train strike will inconvenience that.

On Wednesday, people will want to set out earlier because of the train strike and despite the fact that they might have been drinking.

Just because in 1998 a Tube Strike coincided with a Monday afternoon game and became an unofficial day-off, and thus a popular move - in hot weather - doesn't mean that the public are going to welcome anything that actually interferes with their freedom to watch Engerland.

The Trots who are running most of the Unions nowadays are so full of shit pre-revolutionary fervour they on't have a clue about human behaviour.

Assault?

I am not sure what the precise legal position is but it is an issue I have blogged before. Sometimes, I have to concede it's at least partly my fault - one day last week three people apologised for walking into me, which was nice, but three in one day makes me think I was in klutz-mode, and I was to blame.

Yesterday had not started well. Running late anyway, I could find neither my Oyster Card nor my office pass, which eventually turned up in totally the wrong place, which is senseless on a weekday. As I left the house, I wondered if I had my phone with me, and a cursory glance in my bag was fruitless, so I had to go back inside to see if it was in an obvious place - it wasn't. I used the house phone to call it and discovered it to be in the special phone pocket in my handbag.

I was fortunate that the moment I sat down on the bus on Brixton Hill the rain began to lash down. And I mean lash - poor visibility, the works. And yet when I alighted at Brixton for the Tube, it had stopped!

As I walked from platform to escalators at Vauxhall a man ran into me. He was running - not trotting, not jogging, not that sort of awkward walk-run hybrid that people like me do, but running. Fast. Straight into me. Banging against my left shoulder and chest area, bouncing off and continuing his frantic headlong pelt to the Victoria Line. Note, Victoria Line , the line that runs at intervals of a minute or two, and seldom more than five, in the daytime.

I was shocked, winded, thrown off balance, and about five people gave me looks of "WTF was that about?" I got to the escalator and realised that my shoulder, upper arm and chest hurt. And I was shaking. And suddenly I burst into tears and thought "I've been assaulted." I'll grant that it was not the man's deliberate intention directly to maim, but, surely, there comes a point that one's behaviour is so reckless that a reasonable person would conclude there was a high probability of it leading to injury. If one is so arrogantly and ignorantly self-centred so as to not understand, or not care about, the consequences of one's action it must amount to intent, at least in common sense. Whether that would stand up in court is another matter.

In tears and shaking, I approached the LUL chap in charge of opening the Assistance Gate and said what had happened. He led me into the control room and sat me down, and got me a cup of water. Another LUL chap asked if I needed to go to hospital. I would say full marks to Tom and the other chap for being sweet and supportive and understanding.

It was still hurting when I got to work and got into the daily farce of furniture removing (more of, later), which was impossible to do with one arm, so when I dropped a monitor crash bang I burst into tears again.

Eventually, the arm stopped hurting, and the shock and indignity wore off, and I concluded that it was a minor incident. I am adamant that it was not an accident; if the circumstances had led to a death (far-fetched but for the sake of argument), the victim's family could reasonably press for manslaughter.

But another important lesson I learnt was that - in the initial moments and hours after something unpleasant happens to someone, their reaction is not proportional to the severity of the incident. More than a day later, I am able to conclude that it was of minor consequence, but when shocked and upset, reactions are not logical. They can be a product of a culmination of other things, too - sometimes when I drop or walk into something, I laugh at my own expense; sometimes I curse; and other times I conclude that everything's going wrong. And for anybody who's dealing with someone in such circumstances, it is wise to pay no heed to the objective facts. So, thanks to Yim who was sweet and supportive and told me to sit down, have a coffee, and suggested that I went home, or called Jimmy.

Criminal Injustice

A hit-and-run driver has been jailed for 18 months over the death of student Abigail Craen.

He sped off after crashing into her on a pedestrian crossing and propelling her 30 metres along the road.

Accidents happen.

This was not an accident.

He behaved in a way that a reasonable person would reasonably assume might cause injury or death. I'm not suggesting that he intended to kill anybody. But as a direct result of his actions, someone is dead. He jumped a red light at speed; in addition he was driving without insurance (which isn't dangerous in itself but can indicate a calllous disregard).

If he had been involved in a provoked fight outside a pub and had killed his combatant, he would have been prosecuted for manslaughter. He would have had to serve a number of years, not just a few months. If he had been in possession of drugs, or selling them to consenting adults, he would have been sent down for years and years.

But somehow, because his wilful actions involved a motor vehicle, he just has to spend another four months in prison. I do not think that is just.

Pictures of the week

subtitle: The meaning of signs

I can't decide which one I prefer:

Temporary sign seen at Russell Square Tube Station: This is why I love London

Let's All Go To Penrith...

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.

Search requests

Someone's just landed on my site with a search request for "BBC4 Routemaster Night"

Have you any idea how trembling with excitement I am at that?

And you do know how pissed ff I am that I shall be in blooody Coventry on the very very last day of Routemasters. At my local garage. As in so local it's three bus-stops away.

Really pissed off.

One Five Nine

It's become rather strange.

The 38 has died and been reborn as a bendy.

Just one bus route remains as a Routemaster.

It's a little snapshot of my life.

When I was a child and lived way oop north, we would occasionally visit relatives in Thornton Heath - or Forn Eaf, as it's more properly known.

In those days, the 159 ran from Thornton Heath Pond to St John's Wood. Past the Oval, over Westminster Bridge, round Trafalgar Square, to Madame Tussauds, and I expect, to Lords and Abbey Road Studios.

Bu the time I moved to Streatham, the 139 had been invented and the 159 was running from Streatham Garage to Baker Street. Streatham Garage's closed, so the 159 is based at Brixton Garage, confusingly situated on Streatham Hill. However, there are too many buses for Brixton Garage and they were causing congestion on the A23. So there is now an overflow Brixton Garage, on Brixton Garage, in the old LCC tramsheds

When I lived in Streatham, near St Leonard's, to get the 159 often meant the day started well. It sped up Streatham High Road, and often stopped at the lights right outside Streatham Hill station, sometimes making the difference between catching that train or having to wait as much as 19 minutes for the next one. Conversely, how irritating is it to be on a 159 that decides to change its driver and guard at Brixton Garage, when all you want to do is pop down to buy a few things in Streatham.

Anachronistically, the ticket machine on a 159 cannot distinguish between peak and off-peak, so if you get that bus, as opposed to any other, before 9.30, your Oyster Prepaid only debits the off-peak fare. It all comes out on the wash by the end of the day, though, as Oyster caps my prepay to the Travelcard rate. I no longer even monitor my Oyster; every ten days or so, I get an email to say that £20 has transferred from my bank account to my Oyster Card. Cool, or what (I got a free tenner the first time I did this...).

A certain non-Observant newspaper claimed yesterday that the demise of the 38 was the end of Routemasters in London. Lazy journalism. Pretty much par for the course.

I'm angry that we have our residential Unit Conference on the days leading up to 9 December. Yes, I'll be home by the evening. But by then it will be too late. It will be a Big Day. And I shall miss it. The 159 is, technically, my home-to-work bus, although I rarely use it as such.

I don't know if we go bendy or double-decker.

Progress must proceed. The Routemasters are narrow, probably not fuel efficient, not especially accessible, and dangerous, it seems, as people fall off the back. Their advantages in easy-boarding and speed down the roads are being eroded, rightly, with the reduction - and, in the central area, elimination - of cash fares on board. With an Oyster prepay, there is no need to pay a cash fare. With improved bus lanes, especially on the A23 and over Vauxhall Bridge, there is a distinct advantage in travelling by bus, any bus.

But the Routemasters are iconic. My Grandad used to drive one in Salford. I have three toy Routemasters on display in my home.

Just 39 days to go

Diamond Geezer blogs the 38 by Routemaster and Bendybus