Late-ish night London is alive. When I'm out after dark I go home a convoluted route: by getting the bus from Clapham Common I avoid the slightly intimidating nature of Brixton and I get a bus almost to my door (this avoids a walk up a road where any sort of ne'er do well could be lurking behind the unbroken line of cars parked bumper-to-bumper - many people walk down the middle of the road...how cars rob us of our freedom)
On the Piccadilly line a group of Merkin teenagers were shrieking like a bunch of infant school children. Vaguely annoying but I don't suppose 'quiet' is in their armoury. Anyway they were enjoying themselves and were happy, and it was only for two stops.
On the Secret-Gert-Change-At-Green-Park-Route-Without-Walking™ my path crossed that of an elderly lame man. Being the sort of person who gives way to elderly lame, I paused; being a gentleman, he paused. Simultaneously, we both realised what the other was doing, he smiled, a smile that asked to be returned, so I returned it and he smiled more. He won, I had to go first.
On the Vic I was sat opposite a young man. Perhaps not even a man, maybe a boy. He was eating. Eating a McDonalds burger thing. For a couple of minutes I watched transfixed but revolted I could take it no more and moved seats. I composed a list of reasons why he shouldn't do that. a) it's bad manners to eat in a public non-eating space; b) it's bad manners to eat with your mouth open (but manners are an irrelevancy); it's repulsive to other people to snatch off enormous mouthfuls and chomp chomp chomp (but other people are an irrelevancy); he gave no indication of savouring the taste he was experiencing; it's not good for the digestion to eat on the hoof (it's called that because it's what animals - not humans - ); his hands were all over the burger thing and I wondered how clean his hands were - someone who has no compunction about eating on the Tube is unlikely to be scrupulous about personal hygiene. Not my problem. Still, at Stockwell, when he went left I went right.
I decided a definition of hot is when you see the train arriving before you feel the air it displaces. But I might be wrong.
Step onto the Northern Line and it reeks of beer. It's extraordinary. I've noticed this before. Strictly Northern, not Victoria.
All seats taken so I stood in the door area, with a pole to hold onto. Another woman walked down the carriage; a man offered her his seat. With a friendly smile she declined. Hmm, I thought, he's only offering her that seat because she's young, beautiful and wearing a very short skirt. Bloke opposite smirks. He's seen the short skirt, he sees that First Bloke has perfect line of vision. First Bloke offers me seat. Hmm, I thought, you're only offering me because I'm old, frumpy and wearing a very long skirt (so long that every time I moved my chair at work, it ran over my trailing skirt). I decline politely. I looked at First Bloke. Southern European or South American. Cute. I had a delightful selection on my Random Play - Kirsty MacColl's Days; Kelly Watch the Stars; and something chirpy and upbeat from the Boo Radleys. Possibly not the best selection of music to enjoy after a splendid evening at the Marriage of Figaro, but strangely they fitted my mood of being chirpy and upbeat, at the end of a busy and enjoyable day, where everything went right. If I had had a pole rather than a mere rail, there might have been the freakish sight of a plump not-yet-middle-aged woman in extra long skirt pole-dancing on the Northern Line.
Clapham Common. Tis strange. It's been reconfigured. The railings have been removed from outside the Tube, which is good. Railings are to keep mere people off the road, so as not to inconvenience cars. What I sometimes fear is that ne'erdowells will trap victim against the railings, the railings denying them the means to escape.
The bus stop has also moved closer to the Tube. This does mean that the walk from Tube to bus has been reduced. Good. However, it does tempt people like me to walkstraight out of Tube and across the road. Must remember to look, listen* and look again. the shelter hasn't been moved. Duh! What happens if it rains? Also the Countdown hasn't moved. Which is silly. Although the Countdown is not much use at Clapham Common: the 417 starts there so never shows up. Much sillier at Brixton. The one outside Kentucky Fried Rat was removed to deter the ne'erdowells and drug-dealers. Countdown also removed, so it's impossible to know when the 45 is due. The 45 is a Good Bus. It turns the corner and drops me almost outside my house, thus avoiding that walk along the road with the car-parking configured to give maximum cover to miscreants and muggers and minimum convenience to people.
Nothing happened on the bus, it just conveyed me home swiftly and safely.
I ♥ London Transport. For all it's irritations and flaws, it's the lifeblood of London and it's what makes us free.
* not easy when plugged into earphones...
