Gertsamtkunstwerk

Journey from hell

Well, the Barbican actually.

There are so many different ways of getting home from the Barbican, none of them exactly convenient, but all adequate.

This evening I chose to get the Circle Line round from Barbican to Kings X and then the Victoria line down to God's Own Country.

It's actually not especially wise at the moment, because all the building work (Channel Tunnel related - what's wrong with keeping the terminus in God's Own Country?) means you have to walk three times round the station just to transfer.

Just before I descended the Escalator to the Victoria Line, I spotted a board and heard an announcement that there were severe delays on the Northbound VL, due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park - which I believe is somewhere in the Badlands of North London. Smugly I thought, it will be plain sailing to God's Own Country and confidently mounted my tube train, poised to take me swiftly to God's Own Country.

It sat there and sat there, and an announcement came that it was delayed due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park. I sighed. Why do the north Londoners' local difficulties have to become our problem?

Two young women opposite me sighed and complained. One reassured the other - it will be okay when we get past Finsbury Park. I was thinking of leaning over and pointing out that it wasn't going through Finsbury Park. They had previously been discussing the cost of renting in Walthamstow.

Five minutes later the train arrived at Highbury and Islington. Oops. For the absolute and utter first time in my life I got a Tube going in the wrong direction.

Due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park affecting the Victoria Line in both it took ages to get back to Kings X where it sat and sat and sat, whilst the heater blasted out extremely hot air and made me feel extremely claustrophobic.

I got off and ascended the escalator surreally bereft of any adverts - I have never seen an Underground escalator without adverts. I paused for a fag on the mainline station and re-descended to the Northern Line, where I got a frequent and fast train that took me direct to Clapham Common where I picked up a bus practically to my door. The sad irony was that this train passed through Moorgate, handy-ish and convenient-ish for the Barbican, and I could probably have been home at least half an hour or more earlier. Well, the concert finished at 9.30, I reached home at eleven.

I've only lived in London for fourteen years, with an extra 18 months as an Essex girl. You'd think I'd know the Tube by now.

Super duper jumbo

New airbus unveiled

According to the Evening Standard - which, in fairness, is probably copying straight from Airbus's Press Release -

The Airbus A380 will carry 550 passengers and offer inflight bars and self-service kitchens.

Um, maybe. Maybe there will be planes, or parts of planes, set aside for Business or First Class customers to sit in lounge-style seats. Meanwhile, it will be business as usual in steerage - pile 'em high, sell 'em cheap. We can complain all we like about being herded like cattle. Simple economics dictate that we will pay more for comfort.

The ES is running a poll - 'will you use the superjumbo'. My response - why not? Are they trying to create a fake but insidious climate of misplaced fear? At the end of the day, it's an aeroplane. they've been around for a hundred years. They are a relatively safe way to travel, and I would be prepared to believe, safer than they ever have been. It's all a bit Daily Mailish, really, like being frightened of foreigners and MMR jabs.

Fag-break observations

A car pulled upside the office. A 'D'-reg (as in 2 years older than me) Morris Minor 1000. Half the people hanging around or passing-by stared at it. I do believe there are times when it's not rude to stare. And that's one of them.

They are such beautiful cars - slightly elongated, a quasi estate. That extraordinary turquoise colour and that beautiful wood frame. Also, the proper handle on the back/boot door.

Of course, they are extremely impractical, environmentally unfriendly, poorly suspended, not robust in a collision. But, aesthetically beautiful. There's a modern car on the market, styled to be reminiscent of the 1930s, but with all the advantages of modern engineering. I love them aesthetically.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if someone recreated the styling of a Morris Minor 1000.

According to the Morris Minor Family Tree, the model I saw was a Traveller. When we were children, Pauline had a toy Morris Minor GPO van. But, I'm wondering, why was it green? And where is it now?

Also outside work, I saw an ambassadorial (or High Commissionarial) car 1 RLB, heading for the Palace. Of which nation, I wonder.

Rail crash

I haven't really said anything. Not much to say. The Guardian Leader says it all, really.

If, and I know it's just if at the moment, this was a suicide bid by the car driver, it is an extraordinarily selfish way to do it. Surely suicide should be a private decision and a private action.

Or it might be some arrogant 'I know best' bastard who believed that the level crossing didn't apply to them, becaue it's just Rules, from Them, the Authority people, and why should I comply with Them?

On the other hand, the poor sod might just have broken down. What a fucking nightmare place to break down.

I don't really like level crossings. Excluding trams, which don't count, there are none near me. I don't think I've used one since I visited Custom House in Avonmouth in about 1996.

The Mirror says

The number of deaths at railway crossings has risen, experts said last night.

But most are caused by drivers trying to dodge the barriers.

Arseholes.

Sixteen months to go

For the 159. I feel kind of privileged it's holding out so long. We will need to have a wake in Wetherspoons (local for the Bus Garage).

When I was a child, two aunts (and uncles) and nine cousins lived in Thornton Heath. Indeed, my very first holiday was to Forn'oneaf. My father's uncle lived in St John's Wood. The 159 ran from Croydon to St John's Wood.

Sometime in the Eighties, the 159 got a whole portion chopped off and renamed the 139. It just ran to Baker Street. And then it started at Forn'oneaf Pond. Then it got truncated to Streatham Garage, which is no longer a garage. In theory. It often stops short at Brixton Garage, which is, actually, in Streatham.

28 January 2006. But I'm sure we'll see more-and-more two door buses between then and now. And I guess it will be the right time for me to change my life.

Head vs Heart

The last stop

I'm a Routemaster fan. It's in the blood. My grandfather drove a Routemaster for Salford Corporation. Back in the days. Best bus route ever - he would take Coronation Street stars to filming and on the way back Manchester United players to training. Don't laugh. On a bus.

He bought me a toy Routemaster from Stretford Precinct. I loved it. It stood about six or eight inches tall, and had cogs, so that when you gave it a push it carried on driving. One day before I went to school, my mother asked if my brother could pay with my toys. I said yes, everything but my bus, which is locked in the wardrobe. I got home and she told me he had thrown my bus out of the back door and it had shattered. He wasn't tall enough to unlock the wardrobe.

About fourteen years ago he bought me a Routemaster, about 2 inches tall, Route 38. About ten years ago I got a set of six 1960s vehicles - it was a Radio Times/Radio 2/Children in Need offer. One of the six is a Routemaster. About three years ago my nephew and niece bought me four inch tall Routemaster, Route 12.

They're gone from Route 137, which goes past my house, but they're still on the 159. People always opt for the 159 rather than any other route to get them down the A23. It loads faster, spending less time at bus stops for people to fumble for change. The windows open properly with a wonderful mechanical crank handle, not like the new model buses where the windows forbid any air movement. If you're downstairs you can pull the rope to ring the bell. You can jump off at the traffic lights, which, when I lived in Streatham, often made the difference between getting or missing the train from Streatham Hill. It's great to stand on the platform as they sail round Trafalgar Square - old layout Trafalgar Square - better than a trip to Alton Towers.

But they are a relic of a bygone era. The new buses are far better for accessibility, and I have a fondness for Bendy Buses. My nephew said he saw a double decker bendy bus on the M62 the other week.

I must get a photo of 159s before they disappear. I could write half my life story based on the 159 route.

Car crash stats

Britain's worst drivers have brown cars.

Interesting little piece. I would treat the stats with extreme caution. It's interesting to see that a small proportion of Dorises and Mavises male insurance claims, but if we're going to generalise, I expect that most Dorises and Mavises put in low mileage, leaving the long distance driving to, er, Archie and Ernest. Actually, Archie and Ernest probably only pootle around town with the occasional <100-mile-round trip for a day out.

Sam, Phil and Rob are probably putting in the miles as Mondeo Man, as are Juliet, Natalie and Justine.

I would suggest that the more miles you drive per year, the more likelihood you have of being in accident, regardless of your standard of driving.

Arterial Roads

A quick google is not frightfully helpful, so I have to rely on my memory.

As far I know, the Arterial Roads had their heyday in the 1930s, with the creep of suburbia, the rise of the three bedroomed semi, and four-bedroomed detached, paralleled by the extraordinary social change brought about by the Metropolitan Railway.

Most cities and towns have an arterial road. The A127 sweeping across South Essex is even known as the Southend Arterial Road. The Western Avenue is another, as is the East Lancs as it ploughs through the Greater Manchester conurbation. The North Circular approaching Brent Cross from the West has characteristics. I've seen them in other cities and towns over the years. The Nottingham Boulevards are similar, although different.

On Saturday we took the A20 through Lee, Eltham and other commuter suburbs of SE London.

The characteristics are uniform. A straight-ish road, generally dual carriageway, usually with two lanes per carriageways, lined with 1930s villas, set a small distance back from the road, often, although not always, with a subsidiary access/service road. Even the footbridges are cloned across the country.

The history of Arterial Roads would be a superb subject to study. It would be fascinating to see the extent to which they were planned and designed together, and to look at the population changes. These houses were the first built for the motor car. How did they change the behavioural patterns of their inhabitants - did they drive to work, did they motor down to the coast?

So much to learn, so little time in which to learn it...!

A curse on your 4x4

Catherine Bennett test drives two 'SUV's My car's bigger than yours. And points out that

in a collision, pedestrians are 75% more likely to be killed by an SUV than by a conventional vehicle.

Back in January, when it began to snow, I made some acerbic comment that all the 4x4 drivers will be coming into their own. One colleague, who is very sweet, but very naive, said entirely sincerely that 4x4s are ideal for snowy conditions - remember I work in London, not an Alpine region. Another colleague, whose father lives in the Pennine region between Hyde and Saddleworth, spluttered in incredulity, seeing no purpose for a 4x4 in a city.

When my brother was doing night calls to remote farming communities in East Yorkshire (I call him 'Veterinary' but he doesn't really remember 'All Creatures Great and Small' from the TV), and when he was following the jockeys round the course at Beverley races, he appreciated a 4x4. And also recognises the hilarity of them on the school run in the lowlands.

Bus porn

Do check out Jag's picture of London Transport new Club Class bus. On Route 79, anyway. I can't see them coming to Route 417 anytime soon.

There is a thought amongst m'colleagues that these new buses should have a buffet area with a trolley service of drinks and light refreshments. Furthermore, London Buses ought to operate class discimination, with specially roped-off areas out of bounds to oiks and smelly people.

Travel travails

The schools have broken up and with them, half the non-essential workers in Christendom. Fantastic. Will make moving about London so much easier. She thought.

(You know what's coming next, don't you?)

Why is it, on schooldays, the bus takes thirty five minutes to get to Croydon, yet today it took an hour?

After my meeting I went to East Croydon station and was pleased to note that a train was due any minute. Although I was slightly perturbed that it was formed only of four carriages, not the usual eight or nine, or the highly desirable twelve, I was not too bothered - remember, the schools have broken up and half the essential workers with them. Not so happy when the PA system boomed into life with "We regret to announce that this train is reported as full and standing." Still, as it drew into the station, it clearly wasn't packed to the gunnels. I joined the queue at the door nearest to me, using my elbow tactically to dispel boarders - or, rather the woman who tried to push between me and the train. A woman sat just inside the door was complaining to the people in front of me. "Surely there are other doors on the train - can't you use the other doors?" A queue was formed at each door.

I managed to get inside, and realised that it would be impossible to reach the empty standing space because of the enormous suitcases lying in the aisle. One person managed to shout "Move down," and a couple of people got on behind me. Old bag (she was about my age, but an old bag) was still chuntering on about using other doors 'because of the amount of luggage in the carriage'. Oh, luggage randomly appearing in a bizarre act of god, or, in fact, luggage that had for the most part been plonked in the aisle by people recently arrived at Gatwick, cheapskates prepared to pay for a flight but won't use the Gatwick Express which has space to carry luggage. (When recounting this tale over lunch my colleagues suggested that I was being unreasonable - I protested my right to be unreasonable when I am being inconvenienced, besides these suitcases were enormous!). Old Bag Next th'Door had her own enormous suitcase sitting in a seat. A seat where I could have sat if it wasn't for the Very Large Suitcase. I tried to hold onto the luggage rack, but, being a very small blogger, it was difficult - my finger tips just managed to reach, but it was no way to support myself against the inevitable jolts and sways of the train. Instead I leaned against the Very Large Suitcase of Old Bag Next Th'Door, who kept glaring at me. I so wanted her to say something to me - I had my speech all rehearsed, perhaps something along the lines of "A modicum of meekness and humility would not be out of place from you." She didn't say anything. Another speech wasted! As an aside, looking round the carriage, I did wonder when the Railway By-law was abolished which said that children under five should not occupy a seat when fare-paying passengers are standing.

As I came out of the train at Covent Garden, there were repeated announcements that there are x (maybe 179, I'm not sure) stairs up, and this is the equivalent of a fifteen storey building, customers are strongly recommended to wait for the next available lift. Next to me was a mother and father and boys of 12 and 8, say. Mother asked how many the lift held. "All of us, no problem," I said. "Especially if people move in close. And if they don't, just shove." Eight year old looked at me in wonder and amazement, that lady is telling us to shove. So I turned to him, leaned down a little and conspiratorially said, "A few rugby tackles..." He giggled. His older brother helped me in shoving forward a few people taking up far to much space at the front of the lift - it was for the benefit of others...

After our team lunch I caught the Northern Line back. At Waterloo a man got on with a can of strong lager who was obviously quite lagered. He sat opposite me. He lunged at the woman next to him, who went and sat on the other side of her boyfriend. Drunk asked the man why she had moved - doesn't she like me? I think this couple were French or African and were trying to be polite in a bemused way, but were clearly uncomfortable with this guy. Next to me was a little girl, 4 or 5, with her mother, mid twenties, who was wearing a headscarf, probably Moslem. He leaned forward to the little girl and asked her if she was looking forward to seeing Father Christmas. The little girl moved closer to her mother who instinctively put a protective arm around her, drawing her in closer. The man tried the man on his other side, then, getting no reply, returned to the French/African man, who was looking increasingly awkward. "No eye contact," I thought, looking studiously into the next third-of-carriage, to the initial puzzlement of a man there who thought I was looking at him, but then noticed the drunk guy lurching in his seat.

As the train approached Kennington, the drunk guy, having failed to get my attention by calling me "Darling" or "Dear" or something, decided to attract it by pulling my trouser leg and rubbing my calf.

(Everyone who knows me has a tale to tell about going into one about inappropriate touching from strangers).

I went into one. Very dignified, entirely verbal. "How dare you touch me! You have no right to touch me. Don't ever touch me! Don't ever touch anyone like that!" He asked what he had done. "You're intimidating everyone around you."

We all got off at Kennington, because the train was terminating; he stumbles and falls over onto the other platform. Suddenly I'm surrounded by young men, one, an Aussie asking if I'm alright, and me explaining sheepishly it was nothing, he was intimidating other people, me I don't give a shit, and the man who was sat next to me, and the one opposite him (next to drunk guy) nodding vigorously backing me up. Just before the connecting train came again, the Aussie guy said he had reported the drunk guy to the station staff and the police had been called. Deeply embarrassed, I thanked the Aussie guy and explained about the couple and the mother with the young child.

I remembered in time that Brixton Station is closed for three weeks ("More Like Four" said an ole geezer when the announcement was made going home last Friday) for asbestos removal. I got out of Clapham Common and home without further incident.

The last few days before Christmas, the schools have broken up, and with them half the non-essential workers. Public transport is quiet.

Great tube announcements of our time

"The trine in front is conked aht"

The carriage sniggered. Why there should be sniggering when a London Undergorund driver talks in Lannan is beyond me, but...

and yes, we were stuck in the tunnel, but not for very long...

Forgive me some tears

End of an era for Concorde - it will take some getting used to. I can't believe that I will never see or hear again that beautiful plane, which has just about grown up with me. Both of us products of a bygone age. As well as seeing her numerous times approaching or leaving Heathrow, I have seen her in the Manchester area a handful of times, and, once, coming out of JFK over the Hudson.

But I've never flown in her.

It really hurts.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck

Pixie should count herself lucky that her umbrella doesn't collapse every twenty yards. And that she didn't have to walk from Victoria to Clapham Common, a distance of about three miles, only to get home and find out that the power was restored fifteen minutes after leaving Victoria. (I had questioned someone outside Queenstown Road Station and she said that trains were running but few and far between, and full). In truth, it was not a bad walk. Although it would have been better without pissy rain and hurty shoulder. Also better without Doc Marten sandals, although I was thankful I wasn't in kitten heels. It would have been better if I had a functioning digicam and could have taken some cool pics of the crowds milling round Victoria. "K-os," said one woman on her mobile. "You f***ing moron!" I said to the pinstripe who barged me out of the way. It would have been better without the smell of newly watered sewage rising in a foul miasma. It would also have been better if I hadn't lost the courage of my convictions, thinking I was heading West when I was, indeed heading South East. The BBC says there were power cuts in Brixton. As you can see I am not currently affected. I take the view that if my clock, answerphone and video stay programmed, then my freezer's okay. I'm going to stick my neck out and say that I bet this was caused by sudden and unexpected rain, because the f***ing infrastructure in this f***ing country can't f***ing cope with an f***ing moderate shower. And now I've got hiccups. Ah, well, the Blitz spirit. It makes me proud (blahblahblahblah repeat ad nauseam). PS The joys of rail privatisation - a separate, yet almost identical, announcement  was made in each half of the station. One was aimed at South Central customers, the other at Connex South-Eastern. PPS Tfl have a Press Release. Right, I'm prioritising London Bloggers on my Blogread!

Beautiful noise

Yesterday, I missed her - ironically, I was too busy fiddling the monopod onto the camera. This evening, just after seven, she roared over, a beautiful white dart of light against a sky turning pink. At nine o'clock, her lights cleaved through the darkening sky, her engine the epitome of power. She'll soon be arriving in New York, if that's where she's going. Twice this evening I rushed into the garden to see her fly over. I won't have many more chances. I'm not a plane spotter, but I will mourn the passing of this era. We have grown up together and it won't be the same without her. I was in a meeting on the day she retook to the skies after being laid off. The meeting paused. Some people went to the window. There was very nearly applause.

Taken in June

August is the silly season

Trains slow as UK swelters

I was going to post a rant along the lines (slowly, obviously) of "Isn't this bloody typical of Britain, we get temperatures which are normal for most of the rest of the world and only we have to slow our trains down."

But my train-spotting colleague has informed me that it is standard practice in most countires to slow the trains down. Not perhaps in France, where safety is not a high consideration, but many other countries.

So I need to rant about the inability of journalists to research basic facts, and how they make a story out of a non-story. Amateurs.

I don't think it will affect my line which, I don't think exceeds ten miles an hour in any point of its journey.

Billions for roads

There are days when not a single news story grabs my attention. I currently have 24 BBC News tabs open.

£7bn scheme to tackle congestion. I am pleased that new and re-opened rail schemes are 'being considered' and that there is some investment in buses...in the West Midlands. I also think it is positive that schemes that are specifically environmentally damaging - as opposed to just generally - are not going ahead. I am singularly under-impressed by the Tory Tim Collins describing the road-building as 'belated'.

Overall, I am not impressed. There is strong evidence that traffic expands to fill the available road space. I also watched a TV programme a few years back that suggested that the M25 was like Guinness - if everybody travelled at 50mph and kept a sensible distance people would actually travel more quickly than trying to drive at 70-80 mph and constantly stopping and starting.

It would also impress me more if I could see more evidence of investment to ensure that it doesn't take the hour and three quarters to travel the 60 miles from London Victoria to Whitstable that we experienced on Sunday.

With Alastair Darling planning to pave much of the country with motorways and John Prescott planning to build ten millions home on the Green Belt, I suspect that most of lowland England, at least will become one shapeless urban sprawl. I am already of the belief, evidenced by own eyes, that there is just one field that separates Greater Greater Manchester and Greater Merseyside. It is extremely difficult to go anywhere in lowland England without seeing urbanisation.

The Environment Groups also comment. The Green Party, as usual, get it entirely wrong, by saying the pedestrianisation of towns is a great success, whereas there is a school of thought which believes that pedestrianised towns encourage attacks on the person.

I think the congestion charge in London is a splendid thing, and would advocate its extension to other congested cities. I would not wish to see tolls on motorways and by-passes, because this would just encourage people to drive through towns. I was deeply influenced by a series of TV series called Six English Towns, which showed the dreadful churn of vehicles grinding bumper-to-bumper through historically and aesthetically interesting towns.

Go-ahead for East London Line

It's good to hear that the Tube scheme back on track, despite the best efforts of a man (Charles Windsor) who never has to travel on an overcrowded underground train network.

I know that it will extend it to Clapham Junction, and I am fairly certain that it will run quite close to my little patch of South West London. Such a shame that Transport for London's links all return a 404 error!

Fortunately, Hackney Council has provided a copy of the map. It seems that round this way it will run on existing lines but join up in quite an intelligent way. So, if I ever need to go to Canada Water I could probably knock half an hour off the journey. That would have been useful three years ago when I had to audit schools in that area!

Car crash

The Evening Standard headline screams London Train Crash. Let's set aside that the crash happened in Evesham, and the London connection was merely its destination. It was, technically, a road traffic accident, caused by the careless driver of a road traffic vehicle. It is, in my opinion, no more newsworthy than the accident at my local junction on Saturday, caused, no doubt, by one car driver jumping an amber, or red, light and another anticipating the green. The air ambulance attended the scene.

The Standard also reports flood on the M25. Drivers 'accidentally' drove into it. Would that have been because they were travelling too fast to anticipate and avoid hazards?

Death on the road

Five killed in M1 crash

It's very unusual for road traffic accidents to get such prominent news coverage - generally, they're dull and un-newsworthy, unlike train and air crashes, which are rare and memorable. This is clearly different - it involves vehicles newly returned from Iraq. The fact that the region is at a standstill, and England have a match tonight, is reminiscent of that TV programme the other week - I'll find the link in due course.

I note the quote

The Ministry of Defence (MoD) says a civilian vehicle pulled in front of the transporter, causing it to jack-knife

I have a friend who always says, you may regard yourself to be a safe driver but can you prevent the murderous stupidity of other drivers? Cos it's cool, clever and funny to cut in front of something. Especially an artic carrying heavy vehicles.

I hope that the Press and various lobby organisations will call for a public enquiry into the number on deaths of Britain 's roads and introduce measures to minimise those deaths.

Quite why these vehicles couldn't have been transported by train is beyond me.

Updated to correct a few typos - our internet link at work is so piss poor I just publish and be damned.

What price safety?

A few months ago, bored on a train journey, I read an interview in the Nottingham Graduate with some eminent chap who has been involved in most rail accident investigations.

His thesis - challenging and counter-intuitive - is that it is a mistake to focus too heavily on rail safety. In the initial days after a rail crash, the increased number of deaths in car crashes on motorways and trunk roads far exceeds those in the actual rail crash.

Every time a railcrash such as Ladbroke Grove or Hatfield occurs, there is clamour from the public, politicians and the Press for much more money to be spent on rail safety.

Yet, the making railways safe makes railways slow, and far less attractive to busy travellers, who take to the motorways and trunk roads. Based on string theory, the cost of saving the handful of lives lost each year on the railways would be a far greater number of lives lost on the roads.

Joke over!

Come on, own up. Who put the email around that everybody was to put "What is the latest train to leave London for Manchester before 09:00 today" into a search engine and then hit my site. The requests are coming in from different search engines, different IPs, even slightly different wording. First I was baffled, then paranoid. Now I 'm just amused!

There was one at 9 this morning, or you could have got the 8.30 and changed. This evening the 1955 is direct; you can get the 20:35 and change at Warrington Bank Quay for Oxford Road (from where you can get a bus, if there are no trains). If you get the nine o'clock and change at Stafford, you can be at Piccadilly at midnight twenty six.

The things you drive me to. Tsk, tsk!

Daily musings

The journey so far has been eventful. There was a broken down bus just yards south of (before) my stop. It was stopped in the outer of two lanes. In the inside lane was a van parked on a double red. All the North bound traffic had to go onto the southbound carriageway, yet the southbound traffic insisted on its right to two lanes.

The bus I got on was packed out. The driver kept telling people to move down even though there was no space to move into. Nevertheless, at each stop he let more people on, and each time asked us to move down. At the penultimate stop before Brixton, a man standing close to the driver's cab said quite loudly, "The irony is that 90% of people will get off at Brixton."

The bus approached the stretch of road with three bus-stops opposite the Tube, in the outside lane, passing all other buses and stopping only at the red traffic light for the pedestrian crossing. People, myself included, began to mutter things like 'bus-stop'. As the driver passed the Body Shop and was heading for M&S, somebody asked him to stop and let us off. He protested that nobody had rung the bell (to my mind, a feeble excuse) - someone said that he ought to know everyone gets off at the Tube. (Brixton is said to be the busiest non-interchange Underground station in London. In truth it interchanges with at least a dozen bus routes bringing a ceaseless throng from four directions).

Someone else pointed out that it wasn't a request stop, therefore he was obliged to stop. A chorus resonated of "Yeah, not a request stop". Bemused, exasperated glances were exchanged. I contributed a "It's Monday morning - welcome to a new week." (There's always one embarrassing hag making stupid remarks, and it's often me!)

After work I had a bizarre conversation with someone I used to work with up until five years ago. We were, I think, 'friends-in-the-workplace', often discussing a wide range of subjects over a cigarette, but not close enough to stay in touch after I left. I explained where I was working; he asked me whether I had moved. I wasn't entirely sure what he meant. I think I would have seen him the Christmas after I left, when I had just finished a short-term contract with an accountancy firm. But perhaps he thought I was still at the old place. Whenever I see people from there, they give the impression of time never having moved on, as if they're still on the same old treadmill they were back in 98. Whereas I am on my sixth job since then, and have an entirely different outlook on audit, and, last week no withstanding, work in general.

And finally today, I cam to a dreadful dreadful dreadful conclusion. Dreadful, anyway, for an English woman's who's a quarter Irish. I think I have a slight intolerance to tea. Not 'Bel's tea, which was most welcome this afternoon, but the stuff I get out of the cupboard at work. every afternoon at work I have a slight ickiness. I've blamed it on quasi-flu; I've blamed it on the air-conditioning; I've blamed it on colleagues. But, the ickiness is a milky feeling that makes me burp. I drink milk by the quart at home, so it's not milk. I can only conclude it's tea. I shall have to change my habits of my entire adulthood of spending the afternoon guzzling tea by the bucketful.

Dear dear what a shame

Transport meltdown in snow . Sometimes I get slightly irritated by people - colleagues, generally - who say "ooh, I couldn't live in London." I get really riled by the Smug Gits who think that because Brixton is known for shootings and drug addicts, and ssshh, don't mention it, you know, different people. And they talk about "Quality of Life" in their Middle England idyll.

Sometimes I just gloat. Problems getting home? Nah, not me. Gridlock? Never noticed. Tubes not running? Victoria Line's underground. I travelled by South London metro. Overground. Crosses a couple of commons, but it's all very urban. Okay, it was delayed for ten minutes by a signal failure at Gateway-to-the-South. But that's normal! Dedum dedum dedum.

Note to self: Never ever move to Middle England.

Assaulted by a bus

I realise that I am stepping onto vodkabird territory here, but I just have to rant about this.

I came out of Somerfield and spotted a magical 417 coming round the corner, heading to the bus stop. (The 417 is magical because it takes me to my door, particularly handy when I have just emerged from Somerfield! It's also magical when it turns up.) I knew that if I ran I would catch it, even with my lugubrious running, even having come out of Somerfield.

I ran, and to my delight, when I got to the door of the bus, there was somebody stood paying the driver. I heaved my carcass onto the bus, only to feel a sharp and heavy thump on my left waist (the bit where my circumference lessens - I reckon it's good for another five years). I went half sprawling onto the floor, unable to put out my left arm which was carrying a Somerfield bag, unable to put out my right arm because it was fishing in my shoulder bag for my Travelcard. Winded and angry, but not expressing my rage, I spoke to the bus driver.

"What was that about?" He muttered something. I continued, saying that he had shut the door on me and knocked me over. He said he hadn't seen me, I hadn't been at the bus stop when he got there, I'd been running for the bus. I pointed out that I was standing on the platform when he shut the door. He probably couldn't see me because somebody was standing between him and me.

He shrugged and pulled one of those faces, as if it was of marginal concern to him. I flounced to my seat. As I did I said, "An apology would be nice!" This cow sat in the front seat turned round and stared at me, then glared at me. I scowled at her. Didn't she notice? I fell over. I was hit by a closing bus door. That was three hours ago. I can still feel it.

I know I should have got his number, but, you know, I had almost fallen to the ground, hit by a closing bus door. I was shocked. You get shock when assaulted by a bus.

Durham to Brixton in record slow time

Some of this was written live, some in retrospect

A chap at Durham station said he had been waiting an hour, which suggested a cancelled train. Maggie and I caught the Trans-Pennine Express to Darlington, where we found that the train from Edinburgh had been cancelled. (The second Inter-City cancellation of the day: not that they told us, just put the letters "CAN" under the time due on the very confusing screen.)

As we whiled away forty minutes in the station buffet I said that I hoped that this weekend was the Prime Minister's constituency weekend, because he uses Darlington Station to get to Trimdon, where he lives, and I think it's crucial for important people to know what we have to suffer.

Sitting on a train resolutely going nowhere (sat in Doncaster), it finally left 10 minutes late. The guard train manager apologised for not being able to run a trolley service due to the number of people standing throughout the train. It comes to a rather steep halt, sending my - thankfully empty - coffee cup hurtling towards my lap. Does it make me feel better or worse to know that the bloke sat across the aisle reading New Statesman is Minister of State for Transport? At least, assuming he hasn't been moved in the reshuffle.

 

UpdateThe train is 25 minutes late out of Grantham, and will stop additionally at Peterborough and Stevenage. Meanwhile, the loo nearest to me is now refusing to flush, which rather stymied my attempt to p*ss on Grantham!

 

UpdateKings Cross 17:55. Only 4 1/2 hours from Durham. Pity it's timetabled at 3. Arriving at Kings Cross, I asked John Spellar whether he had been reshuffled. He smiled and then said, "No. Unless I have since I got on the train." He laughed. I think I probably did that right. He's not frightfully famous, so is only gong to be recognised by political junkies like me. But if I had spoken earlier in the journey, it might have been unnerving. One should leave Government Ministers to travel in peace. Maggie Thatcher was once confronted by an angry member of the public, and almost never travelled by train again, vowing to let the railways die by starving them of cash. A Transport minister will learn more by enduring the hardships that the hoi polloi endure than being told about them.

 

Written in retrospect, but formed in my head as I travelled

Arriving at Kings Cross, people are forming long queues on the platform (as well as the Concourse) to board an already full train. I wandered aimlessly round Kings Cross trying to find the entrance to the underground. Where is it? Oh, it's where there is a seething mass of humanity.

Walk down the passage. Think 'You stupid stupid man, don't push people and tell them to get a move on - we're all trying to move. It's quite crowded.' Is that a queue for tickets or a shuffle to the ticket barriers? Dare I make a darting run? Oh, look the barriers are open, it's a free for all. De dum de dum de dum. It's going to be hot on the Tube.

"Beep Beep Beep Beep. All passengers please evacuate the station due to a reported emergency." Alison from Lambeth Education says hello. I check I heard the announcement right. She says she's not staying in the station in an emergency. We lose each other in the crowd. Overhear man say to women, "Always get out immediately. You don't want to be last out." My heart is racing. I'm old enough to be frightened by the thought of an emergency at Kings Cross

The announcement is now saying that London Underground is closed due to over-crowding. Do they really mean the whole of London Underground or just this station? Is the Minister still around to hear and see this? Is it right for them to say it's an Emergency when it's *just* over-crowding? If they do that too often will we just shrug and ignore it? But if they say it's overcrowding, we'll just shrug and ignore it.

I'll go for a bus. No, I won't, that will probably take an hour and a half to crawl through the City and to Camberwell before heading up to Brixton. Thameslink to Tulse Hill, or Streatham. And cab. Sod it, cab home from here. Help - that queue is enormous and not moving. Now they're telling us to walk to Euston and Euston Square. In which direction? Surely they'll be just as crowded.

I'll just get a bus to somewhere, anywhere - Victoria, London Bridge, Waterloo....Not with bus queues that long. Maybe I'll just follow the crowd in the long procession - like a demonstration? - maybe they're going to Euston. Jeez, the road outside Kings Cross is a building site. A building site with lots of holes, filled with dirty rain water.

Look, you stupid teenage boy, yes that woman did say ouch when she walked into your bag. Perhaps it hurt. It's not funny. It's crowded here. The pavement is narrow is and puddled. Actually, if I cross Euston Road that will be better. The pavement is wider and not as crowded. Maybe I can pick up a bus heading to *South Central*. "Yes, you stupid man, I did just walk across the pavement in front of you. I'M HEADING FOR THE PEDESTRIAN CROSSING. TOSSER!" If only I had said it, not merely thought it.

My bag is heavy with audit papers and my back aches. Ooh, look it's Euston. I'd better cross the road again. That is one enormous puddle on the road by the pedestrian crossing. I'll join those two men standing well back from the kerb. That third man should have joined in. That van's just soaked him. Green man. Hitch up trousers, wade through puddle. It's still a bit of a walk to Euston Station. Someone's begging on the walkway. "Spare some change?" Under my breath I mutter "F*ck off", hating myself for it and knowing that I used to have compassion. I fear the next time I will say it out loud.

Into Euston station. As I pass briefly through the mainline station I hear the Holyhead train being announced, followed by "Please note that there is very limited standard accommodation on this train." The ticket hall at Euston is very congested. Head down head down, walk briskly. At least the barriers are locked open. De dum de dum de dum de dum.

Train in platform! Quick walk, find carriage with space. Why is that drunk walking zigzagged on the platform impeding my passage? "Move out of the bloody way!" There, I've said it. Out loud. Everyone heard me. I am going to get this train. I break the golden rule. I use my shoulder to stop the door from closing. People glare at me. Sod them. I'm 34 years old and I've never done it before.

I don't get a seat. I'm going to stand and lean. Oh no, some bloke's singing. Reach Oxford Circus. Is she glaring at me, because I'm not moving down the train? Sod sod sod. I've got my leaning place and I'm staying here 'til I get a seat at Victoria. Woo, Brixton! Five to seven! Brace yourself. Bet there's crowds at the bus-stop spilling onto the road, waiting in frustrated anger for a bus. Good heavens, barely a soul. Ooh, here comes a bus. Nearly empty! I'm sitting downstairs, the luxury of one seat for me and one for my bags.

Why is this bus sitting at this bus stop for so long? Oh heck, it's not sitting at the bus stop, it's in a queue of traffic. A queue of traffic that isn't moving. Moves slowly. Picks up speed to a snail's pace. Oh great, someone's dug up Brixton Hill. One line of traffic, bus lanes with big trenches in them. Finally, my stop. Off the bus. That's a very big gang of menacing-looking youths. Quick, get across the road, now, don't walk to the crossing. Sh*t, I missed that gap in the traffic. There's a lot of them! I'm trembling. Bang! I jump as a loud firework gets thrown in the road. Phew! Green Man. Short Walk up the road. Home. Half past seven. It's only taken six hours.

Griping about public transport

Part 1 (for today!)

For those unfamiliar with the London Underground, right click here to open a window with the map. Stations I mention below contain a colour to assist finding it on the map. Strike through denotes the Black Northern Line

In theory, London Underground is a wonderful system, which, especially when combined with Light Rapid Transit, can take you to most corners of one of the world's greatest cities (except Streatham!). In practice, it doesn't always work like that.

On Monday, my sister and family arrived to spend a few days in London. They were staying in a hotel in Kensington, rather than with me, in order to be more central for attractions. They had planned to travel to GloucesterRoad on the Northern and Piccadilly Lines, but I advised that the change at Leicester Square would be challenging with two young children and luggage. I suggested that they walk round to Euston Square to get the Circle Line, which, although longer, was less hassle. Soon after five, Pauline phoned to say that the Circle Line had been suspended. I subsequently found out that it was due to a security alert at Victoria.

On Wednesday, I arrived at Brixton Tube at 9.25. On reaching platform level there was an announcement that the next train would arrive in five minutes - a long time for the Victoria Line in peak hours. This was repeated at intervals for the next ten minutes, with the number occasionally changing in an ad-hoc non-sequential manner, coupled with an *explanation* regarding a defective train at Pimlico.

Inexorably, the crowds on Platform 2 grew and grew. We were told that the next train would be arriving at Platform 1, so we surged as one through the walkways and fought like savages to secure a place on the train. The driver of the train announced that we were to get off; the train was defective and would be going to the sidings. "For f*ck's sake!" I exclaimed, and my eyes were met by eyes saying, "I'll second that!"

Back to platform 1, and, yay, I got a seat! I was lucky. The train was absolutely packed, cattle-class style. (Bear in mind that Brixton is just the first station on the line). A very hassled station staff said, "I think this is the first train out", prompting others to echo my previous expletive. It finally left Brixton at 9.50, a full twenty five minutes after I had gone underground. As the train progressed northwards, thousands were left standing on the platforms. I arrived at work at five past ten and apologised to John whom I was supposed to be meeting with at ten. He said he had heard it on the radio as he left home at ten past eight. So, nearly two hours to shift a defective train. Sue, who lives in Tooting, and normally changes at Stockwell was annoyed because there had been no announcement on the Northern Line about the Victoria Line being closed. She got off a Charing Cross Northern Line train, only to have to get on a Bank branch and because of over-crowding at Kennington, ended up having to go to Victoria via the City, which added an hour to her journey.

On Wednesday evening, Jimmy and I met up with Pauline and family at Covent Garden. On the way back we changed for the Victoria Line at Green Park and had to wait five minutes. I don't know how long others had been waiting, but the platform was five deep, which is unusual at nine o'clock.

On Thursday I was at Brixton soon after eight. Not a train to be seen, so I joined the growing numbers of people waiting on Platform 2. It was then announced that the next train would go into Platform 1, prompting a human tidal wave to move through the walkway that connects the platforms.

(Later, I will relate how it took six hours, rather than three and a half, to travel from Durham to my home in Brixton!)