Gertsamtkunstwerk

Exactly how jealous are you?

I thought I might just show you the view from my desk at ten to six on Thursday evening.

Tired of London, tired of life?

I have a feeling that I am pissed off with London. I never thought it would happen. I chose to move here, to fulfill a longterm ambition.

The reasons for living here are many - it's glamorous and cultural, I don't have to mix with people I don't want to, I can choose my friends, I don't have the neighbours prying into my business.

Get a grip - when do I ever do cultural things? Not frightfully interested - except for music. I don't really go out with friends very often, preferring to be with Jimmy. We don't go to glamorous places, preferring to go to restaurants and pubs, or, ocassionally to the cinema.

I loved the Outdoors Life on holiday. Walking and walking, being in boats - we failed to actually hire a self-driven boat. I enjoyed the Fort Bill fashion parade - the strutting of Berghaus and Regatta, the sneaky scutiny of footwear to ensure that it's suitable...for the pub. I feel most comfortable in walking boots and fleece. Who needs an umbrella when you have a kagoul. I love the ostentatious parading of walking poles. I like the feeling of sitting cosy and tired in a pub after a streneous mountain walk, looking round seeing other people the same - tangled hair, windswept faces, glowing eyes.

And I return to London and see the litter on the streets, the human detritus swilling in the drains, the losers looking only for their next fix, the fashion ratrace of the shallow rich and the sheeplike poor, the hatred and fear, the intimidation and dejection. The eating of junk and the mindless gym-going.

I'm tired of London, but hungry for life.

Guided tour of Brixton

Changing the guard with black tourism

This looks like something that I would definitely like to do. So what that I'm white. Local history rocks!

And I totally agree with the fact that children are taught too much American history. A few months ago a child in Jimmy's cafe was overheard telling her mother that in the old days whites and blacks had to sit in different parts of the bus.

Um, no. Good heavens, there has been some dreadful examples of racism in the modern age, but not apartheid.

Same tune to a different beat

Marks and Spencer, lunchtime. My sandwiches were being scanned. I was fumbling in my purse for money. Someone plonked a yoghurt down on the counter. I handed over my money. I was knocked sideways by the suitcase of some aggressive tourist.

"Would you not push into me?" I said.

"I wasn't looking at you," she said, with a hint of condecension in her heavily accented voice, and proceeded to hand over her sandwiches to the till woman, who had not yet given me my change.

"Do you mind!" says I.

"Don't worry, " she said to me with utter patronising, condescension. Rushing Pushing Russian.

She bloody assaulted me.

I'm a liberal, tolerant minded person, but it crosses my mind - if this sort of behaviour pushes me to the limits of my Liberal Tolerant Valuing Diversity, is it any great surprise that others react with less tolerance?

What am I to do - set up a category on here called "Queue jumping?" Make my own sandwiches before I go to work? Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Tourists. Grrr.

I hereby declare the London Tourist season open. (This is not dissimilar to the opening of the Grouse season).

Lunchtime, Boots. Two adjacent tills were open. One queue had formed, and people went to either till as appropriate. I was at front of queue. Two tourists put themselves immediately behind man paying at till. As soon he finished I jumped in smart and was served. The body-language and exasperated laughter of tourists made it clear that they really believed I had queue-jumped. And left me feeling guilty although my conscience was totally clear - they were probably still at Gatwick when I joined the queue.

Five more months of this. Joy.

(We should be allowed to shoot them.)

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.

Streets of London

Don't be fooled into thinking from the post below that London is an unpleasant place. Far from it. I went shopping this evening, mainly Christmas presents, because I'm seeing my mother, siblings and neplings this weekend. I was also looking for an outfit to wear to a friend's wedding in a week's time. I saw a gorgeous dress in Ann Harvey, but concluded it was slightly too 'evening' for a wedding. Plus, I don't pay for £89 for something I'll only probably wear five times.

I have to confess I also treated myself to a couple of boxes of candles from BHS, £10 each reduced from £15. One's in cream, one's in red. Each contains a floating candle bowl, two votive holders, two tealight holdres, a dinner candle holder, a couple of dozen beads, and 27 candles in four different designs.

It was a very stress-free experience. The shops were not too busy, just like a *normal* Thursday night. Admitttedly, I am a very focussed shopper, not into browsing and dithering. the shops looked lovely, and the lights on Oxford Street are, for once, worth seeing - all white, but with no ghastly commercialism-sponsored-by-Tango.

The only shop in which I got annoyed was the Disney Store which is just the most cretinous place on the planet. All I wanted was gift vouchers. It takes a combination of three staff to get them - unlike every other shop which keeps them in the till. The woman on the till said there were no cards. The man who passed them to me said there were cards. The man who got them from the store said there were no envelopes. I told them they were 'tacky'. I do not understand why they want your name, as well as your signature, on the switch receipt. I hate the way they call you a guest. As in "Please stand aside so I can serve the next guest." Next time I go in I will wear a big sign saying "Just serve me, dammit. I'm only here on sufferance."

And there wil be a next time. My sister gets Disney vouchers for birthday AND Christmas. My nephew looked like following in his mother's footsteps when he requested Disney vouchers for his sixth birthday. He was a lot easier this time: HMV, DVD. More like his father. Although my sister and nephew both collect Beanies. My brother-in-law and niece do not approve. My mother has already bought the Barbie keyboard (as in, piano) from me for my niece, which saves me lugging it.

I decided to get a cab home - I don't have a car, so I don't apologise for the occasional taxi ride. He took me the slightly longer, but quicker route - via Sloane Square, Albert Bridge, Battersea and across Clapham Common. We went to Sloane Square via Eaton Square, one of the world's most exclusive addresses. It is a gorgeous square, with magnificent houses. As we drove through there, I thought, if I were rich enough I would live there. It would be handy for the office. Then, I remembered, if I were rich enough to live there, I most certainly would not be going to the office!

You may be interested to know that the dominant christmas decoration style on Cheyne Walk is trees with white lights. I think that's how mine will be too. (Or the two foot artifical tree I bought from Woolworths in 1991).

Incidentally, in attempting (unsuccessfully) to find pictures of Cheyne Walk, I came across these the photos taken by people who have walked from Teddington to Charing Cross and the Width of the A-Z, which only reminds me of how little I know of this great city of mine.

Then I discover that Teddington to Charing X man also has pictures of Nottingham University campus, including the famous cherry trees at the top of Cherry Tree Hill and - sob - demolition of the cowsheds.

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.