Gertsamtkunstwerk

I will not be moved

Often at stations, there's a lot of people going one way and very few going the other. It's usually the case at Vauxhall Tube in the evening - many people arrive all at once on a train from North and Central London, and transfer to SouthWest trains to the suburbs. Meanwhile, the likes of me drift into the station in dribs and drabs and in much smaller numbers. In that situation, there are widely observed 'rules': those in the minority stay close to one side, and the flood of people in the opposite direction leave a narrow but clear path.

I entered the platform just as the crowd surged off the train. I could have crossed to the train, but only by ducking and weaving across a seven-wide stream of people on the platform. Anyway, I don't like standing in middle carriages; I prefer to walk down to the front and almost always get a seat.

I walk close to the wall and concentrate on people coming at me. One by one, they move slightly to my left, their right, so there are still six lanes of people leaving the platform,  and one lane for me, and my followers, to enter. It's instinctive, automatic and efficient.

Until I encounter HER. One particular woman. I would say maybe late-40s-early-50s. And tall. Remarkably tall. Initially, I thought she was trans, because of the height and the slightly-overdone-not-quite-right parody of femininity. I expected her to move over. She expected me to. I couldn't really, because of the other five or six lanes of people pouring along the platform.

So I stopped.

She was aghast. She had to stop, too.

She glared at me, and moved her weight onto the front of her front foot, fully expecting me to step aside. I didn't.

So, from her lofty height, she looked down and laughed at me. With sheer utter contempt. At which point I realised she was almost certainly a woman. An actual woman parody of femininity.  I stood my ground. She walked round me.

Afterwards I reviewed the events, trying to identify if there was something I should have done differently.  There wasn't. From her point of view, I should have moved out of her direct route, but I would have been trampled by the person next to her, or the one next to them, and so on.

If she hadn't laughed, I would have shrugged it off, assumed she was in a daydream 'miles away'. But that laugh. She was affronted by my impertinence. How dare I not move out of her way! Especially me, a foot smaller than her, not an insecure fashion victim smothered in garish make-up, but quietly negotiating my way through a crowd.

 A lot of people would have moved out of her way. Many don't stand up to bullies. I tried to fantasise in my head that she is universally loathed and thus unhappy, but it doesn't work that way. She'll have legions of like-minded friends who sit in suburban winebars sneering at their imagined inferiors, and having a good laugh together. I could pretend they're not really happy, but they are, because they don't even consider abstract concepts, and they can't empathise, so by believing they're happy, they are.

I must increasingly resemble the sort that won't fight back. A mixture of gender, my (lack of) height, and that I rarely travel in a group. Age is also a factor.

I want to end this on a triumphant note about how I stood up to a bully and won. But I didn't really, because she'll be picking on someone else soon enough, and I'll be picked on by another one just as soon. I can see why people give up and give in. It's upsetting, it does undermine one's self-esteem. It's easier to be passive and to stand aside. But that would depress me just as much.

 

Assault in the supermarket

Popped into the local shop to buy a loaf of bread. Typically for this time of evening, there's a queue to pay. The woman in front of me leaves her basket where she was standing and goes for a wander round. While she's away, three people are called to the checkouts, so I'm in a quandary. Do I stand there & patiently await her return,  causing all the people behind me to start tutting and telling me to move up?  I moved up, past her abandoned basket.

Actually, it wasn't that much of a quandary: I've seen this trick before: do half your shopping, join the queue, and leave your basket as a place-marker while you get several more items.

I've also seen people abandon their shopping and leave the shop. It's radically different from when someone takes maybe three steps to pick up something they've just spotted and returns immediately. Or when somebody says 'please' and 'thank you'. Or 'D'you mind?' or even just acknowledges you are there.

Am I supposed to be a mind reader?

She arrives back and says "Sorry!" and thumps me in the arm, shouting "Move out of the way. I was before you!". To which I replied,

"Keep your hands off me!" Raising my voice, to make sure enough people heard I exclaimed "You hit me!"

"But I left my basket on the floor!"

"You left the queue," I said. She tries pushing me out of the way, then repeatedly shoves me in the calves with her basket.

Again I say "Don't you touch me!" Again she says she left her basket on the floor. Again I say she left the queue. At which point she starts calling me a liar, over and over again, before going off into an incoherent spiel, quite possibly not in English.

Knowing the security guard was hovering, I said calmly "You hit me" and again she calls me a liar as she attempts to push me aside, as her tirade becomes increasingly hysterical.

Objectively, the scenario is 50-50. There is some sort of unspoken rule about how long you can be out of the queue without squandering your place. Leaving your basket there as a trip hazard doesn't make any difference (incidentally where the store staff have already left one of their restocking trollies right by the bread where people customarily queue).

If she had been frail in any way I would probably have conceded. If she had addressed me in a civil manner,  I would have shrugged and thought "I can't be bothered arguing the toss". But because she immediately hit me, and then continued to shove me, I was not prepared to give ground.

I've seen her type before. They think that by calling you a liar, or some other personal insult, you will be cowed, or at least it will distract attention from her. But I only made two statements - a) you hit me and b) you left the queue, both of which she had already confirmed by justifying them by her leaving her basket on the floor! I am fairly certain that she was trying to provoke a racist insult out of me. Do I look that stupid?

 

 

Premature ejaculation

There are bus stops that take you by surprise. If you use them often, you learn to stand up and ring the bell almost as soon as the bus leaves the previous bus-stop. I'm thinking particularly about the bus stop outside the Security Service on Millbank, and the Holmewood Gardens stop on Brixton Hill.

And then there is Vauxhall bus station and Brixton town centre. The bus waits at traffic lights to exit Vauxhall Bridge. It pulls into Vauxhall bus station. It drives very slowly to the end of VBS, then executes a 180 degree turn before driving the entire length back again, and stopping at the bus stop, where I stand up and get off, two steps behind the person who has mumbled 'sorry' in order to squeeze past me at the traffic lights. Similarly at Brixton, except that the slow slow cruise of the bus station punctuated by the volte face is replaced by a shudder shudder bump bump stop jerk jerk creep, unsettling the contents of your stomach, behind a dozen other buses. I stand up only as it stops at the bus-stop; if it's a bus that's terminating, I get off by the front door and am at the pedestrian crossing before the person who's previously pushed me out of the way in order to stand on the stairs for several long minutes.

They don't irritate me but amuse me. So very full of themselves, so stressed out, and for no purpose.

This morning at the crossing, I observed something much more disturbing.

A bus driver calculated that he didn't have enough space to move forward and join the tail end of the standing traffic without having his backside parked across the pedestrian crossing. So he stopped, until his exit from the crossing was clear. My understanding is that this is a correct reading of the Highway Code. This was the cue for about twenty people to cross in front of the bus, despite the traffic lights being green. Rather, one crossed and 19 or so followed him.

From the outside of the bus came a cyclist, peddling along the road. Not one of those 20 looked to see whether anyone was coming. Or if they did:

it's only a cyclist - and a woman in a flowery skirt at that, with a basket on the front of her bike

They just walked into her as she cycled along the road. I was gobsmacked!  If I was her I would have been frightened or angry, surrounded by what was almost a frenzied mob of arseholes unable to control themselves for the extra thirty seconds until the traffic lights turned red and the green man appeared for pedestrians.

Their arrogance is breathtaking, the barely constrained aggression saddening. Not one of them can control his premature ejaculation. I can't help wondering if they get their wanking over as quickly as possible rather than taking time to pleasure their partners (assuming they have a partner).

Overheard

Last night I was at Tannhauser at the Royal Opera House. I am currently in the middle of writing about the substantive matter, including several utterances of words like 'amazing' and 'awesome'. Even though the effect was partly the result of the cumulative awesomeness of three acts, nevertheless I emerged from Act I in a heightened emotional state, somewhat akin to tripping. Just about everyone I have discussed this with, in person or online, is full of praise.

Within inches of the auditorium, moments after the curtain descended on a stunning Act I, I heard a conversation between two people. Their accents were those of people who seem to think that mangled vowels makes them sound grander than could be achieved by use of mere thoughts or vocabulary.

Woman: "Must dry clean your green jacket sometime"

Man: "What"

Woman: "Your green jacket sometime"

Man: "What"

Woman: "Green jacket before Christmas."

It sent my brain reeling. The quotidien can always seem like a comedown, but I fully accept that comments along the line of "I'm going to the loo/we must pick up our drinks/I'm meeting Fred on the terrace" are part and parcel of interval life in any cultural event.

Not only did she sit there during the incredible music thinking about the dry-cleaning, but at the first opportunity she felt compelled to share the results of her wandering mind.

I know that people get frazzled at Christmas. Maybe I can even imagine a situation where the wife is there under sufferance at the husband's behest, when she would rather be at home stuffing mushrooms.

But if you can't compartmentalise and insist on thinking about the dry-cleaning during Wagner, I'd really rather you didn't share. And if you have to share, please not in such stentorian tones. Is it showing off? Trying to prove to those around you that you are so marvellous? Because it really doesn't work!

The Scouser on the bus goes round and round, round and round

First of all, apologies to all nice people from Liverpool, I really don't have anything against you, other than that I'm from Manchester, so I guess the feeling's mutual.

This morning, on the bus. Nearly empty, because it had just started its long journey from Clapham Park to Kings Cross. A Scouse woman follows me upstairs, sits down a few seats away and continues her phone conversation, loudly and in a very pronounced Scouse accent.

It was really boring. She's going to work in Manchester for six months and then maybe travel for a month. Maybe she'll visit you in Cardiff next week, or if you're coming to London, she'll sit with you for the day in hospital (Gert does 'sad face', no need to make fun of that situation, which I wouldn't wish on anyone).

She needs a new suitcase because hers is broken, the bit at the bottom, maybe she can borrow yours, because they cost forty pounds. She's got no belongings as such, just clothes and that. She'll put it on the coach because it's cheaper.

And then, as the bus is sat at the traffic lights outside Lambeth Town Hall, she comes out with:

"Her text said she'd come and pick him up, so I asked him if he was going out with her, but he denied it, so I looked at all the photos and I asked him if he'd been with these girls. I told him I loved him and would forgive him if he told me the truth, and he said, yeah, he'd been with all of them. It was a right surprise, I didn't expect him to say that. So I asked him when he'd been with them, and there was one he'd been with at Uni before me, but all the rest, he's been cheating on me all this time

"I couldn't believe it, everyone said he was perfect, such a neat player, just right for me, I knew when I met him that he was mine, everyone said, no one could believe I'd got such a perfect bloke.

She went down the stairs; I followed her, not because I'm nosey, but because the bus had arrived at the Tube station.

"But I just hate him now for what he's done. I did exactly the same to Buddy, but I don't want anyone to feel like that, so I don't think I'm going to play around and cheat on anyone in the future!"

I was so annoyed: all that time down the hill, she'd bored me stupid about a bloody suitcase. Then we get to Brixton, and suddenly, oh yeah, she's coughing the juicy bits now.

Things that piss me off and are too long to rant about in 140 characters

A bloke came up to me in Sainsburys and said "You've bought too much, hahahaha!"

Yeah, my trolley was full, but it was a small trolley, and it was full mainly with three bulky items. And I only had one more thing to get and then I'd be finished.

Of course, now I'm the bitch who tells a sweet old man to mind his own bloody business and fuck off.

How can anyone possibly judge someone else's shopping to be *too much*. There are just too many variables: you don't know a stranger's household size, you don't know if they're expecting company, or in my case, you don't know how long it's been since they've done a round-up of household goods. Oh crikey, I'm so profligate, me and my washing-up liquid, baked beans, teabags and, yeah, okay, 2 for £1 on Mr Kipling Viennese Whirls.

Oh I know, I guess he's lonely, he was only trying to be friendly, blah-de-blah. Big fucking deal. Why did he pick on me, a lone woman trying to whizz round after work rather than one of the numerous couples with bigger and just as full trolleys. Creepy sod. I'm sick of being the nice person who nods and smiles at men who think that women exist just for their amusement.

Walking on people

When you live in a crowded city, an essential life skill is the ability to negotiate crowded places. During the rush hour in London, it is remarkable how well most people manage to get smoothly from A to B without impeding the ability of others to do similarly.

I also have this belief in life which can be summarised as 'steam gives way to sail'. In other words, make way for the weaker, whether they be physically frailer or merely impeded by luggage, pushchair etc.

On Wednesday morning, I used the busy pelican crossing outside the busy Brixton underground station. I felt someone next to me, trying to edge me out of the way. I refused to give way, because there was nothing impeding her ability to walk straight ahead. Because I didn't stop to let her continue her diagonal walk - across a busy pelican - she decided to cross in front of me anyway, putting her sling-backed foot precisely where my booted foot was descending.

Oh damn, my DM boot scraped the back of her ankle. She turned round; I suggested she walked in a straight line. She then said "It's not your fault, it's not your fault".

You cannot imagine how this irritated me. It was pretty patronising. I knew it wasn't my fault, I had made no attempt to apologise. It had never crossed my mind it was my fault. And I told her: "I know it's not my bloody fault. Walk straight across the road". I even used my hands to indicate straight. I thought - I know your type: you see some overweight middle-aged woman, quite possibly limping, and you think 'Weak! Pushover!" Maybe I'm paranoid, but I really couldn't imagine she'd have tried that with a 6'2" muscular youngish black man. So why me?

I head into the station and realise I'm walking directly at a 30-something man walking in the opposite direction. He realises at precisely the same time. We both edge to our respective lefts, pass closely, not too close, and exchange a small smile of acknowledgement. Neither of us has broken our stride, we've accorded each other respect. It's actually very normal!

I get down to the platform, busy but not crowded. The train is full enough to be nearly ready to go; the next train is already in the other platform*; the platform is not yet clear of people who have arrived. A man appears at my right shoulder and tries to shove me aside (not violent, not an assault, but a jostle for position). I push him back, he turns and glares at me.

One of those days, I think.

He walks into someone coming from the opposite direction,  effecting a shoulder barge, and is glared at. He crosses the path of someone who has to break her stride and stop, to avoid bumping into him. He looked respectable, fit, strong. What gives him the right to impede other's passage so that he gets this Victoria Line train, rather than the next one that will leave in, ooh, 90 seconds.

I walk down the edge of the platform and as I approach the door to my favoured carriage, a man crosses in front of me. He clearly hasn't looked, he has no idea that I'm there, it hasn't crossed his mind he may not be alone. Again my foot comes down precisely where his has landed. He scowls at me.

I I did have a serious think: is it me - three incidents in such a short space of time? I examined the sequence of events and analysed what I did and what I could alternatively have done. I concluded my only alternative choice of action would have been to stop, defer, make way, surrender, be bullied by people younger, fitter and stronger than me. And I won't stand for it. I crafted a battle cry "My only crime is to grow old!"

Then I remembered, I'm not halfway through my expected lifespan yet.  I did amuse myself by thinking: I bet the statistics dictate that at least one of those people will succumb prematurely or suddenly to some accident or illness that makes them weak, at the mercy of the kindness of strangers. And one day, someone strong will bully them to move out of the way - and they'll probably yield, because they know no better!

* end of the line station, with two platforms, train go into alternate platforms, all trains are northbound, if you miss one, you cross over to the other platform

"My mother is..." and other excuses

I would love somebody to post a comment that convinces me that talking at length during an opera - or concert, play or film - is acceptable. I don't know anybody who has the slightest tolerance for anyone who does so, but the behaviour is so commonplace, there must be entire gangs of people out there who can convince me of the positive reasons.

I used to have a housemate and 'friend' (of sorts) who, watching a newly released film, would routinely ask "What's happening next?" or "Why's she doing that?" or "Where are they going?". It used to drive me mad, and it happened whether it was psychological thriller, rom com or whatever. She couldn't bear to wait for the plot to unfold and reveal its denouement, or that people behave/things happen for reasons that aren't immediately apparent.

In my view there are occasions when talking is permitted. Either: 'Fire has been detected in the building' or similar. Or: 'I'm about to (or my companion is) have cardiac arrest or stroke, faint or throw-up'. No one chooses those circumstances, occasionally they are thrust upon us, and we have to deal with them as appropriate. I'm not stupid enough to criticise people who talk in those uncommon circumstances.

I read somewhere that anyone who can't abide human behaviour in the opera house/theatre/concert hall should stay at home in their living room. I would agree that there is a level of sensitivity to other humans that suggests the problem does lie with the observer. For example, I -and others - comment on outbreaks of coughing, and even discuss why it happens in some works/performances and not others. We even moan about particular individuals (Simon Rattle once turned to the audience in between acts and requested that people use handkerchiefs to stifle their coughs). But on balance, we know the occasional cough, sneeze or even loudly dropping something isn't deliberate.

The other day I suddenly couldn't remember if I'd switched off my phone; my companion said she'd kill me if it went off during the performance. I told her she needn't bother, I'd kill myself. I still managed to turn it off long before the house lights went down. My responsibility, you see. I have heard people's phones going off at several performances & it always causes a disruption, not least to the performers.

I really couldn't believe my 'luck' that occurred twice in Simon Boccanegra. The first time was the Friday, when I paid an obscene amount of money to sit in the Orchestra Stalls. Before things started I overheard the two women to my left discussing why they were there. "I thought I might regret it if I didn't come". Perhaps it's just a turn of phrase, but it seemed quite weak compared to my 'Desperate to...wouldn't have missed it for anything..."

The second time was on the Tuesday, when I had paid considerably less, but still more than normal, to be in the Balcony. This time the two women were to my right, the older one I had noticed was in a wheelchair.

Simon Boccanegra starts with a prologue of about half an hour, followed by a pause of a few minutes for scene-changing. On both occasions, I had been disturbed twice by an exchange between the two women during the Prologue. Each of the four exchanges were prolonged, more than merely 'Pass the binoculars, dear'. Each time I feared that these exchanges would continue throughout the performance and ruin my evening.

Each time I used the pause between Prologue and Act 1 to summon up my best manners and say "Please could you refrain from talking during the music".

The first time the younger woman came back with "I have to explain to my mother, she can't hear!". I'm still trying to puzzle that one out - she can't hear, so she had to be told when Plácido Domingo walked onto the stage. She couldn't hear, so she had to have explained what was written in the programme, cast sheet and any synopsis available online, as CD notes or in Kobbé. So, no logic in it, but also so unbelievably rude. I explained that I had paid a lot of money for my ticket. She replied that they had, too. But the difference was, I paid to hear the opera (not them talking). I will freely admit there is nothing in the small print that contractually obliges them not to talk, but there is such a thing as observing conventions, and if they had stopped to think about it - nobody else was talking.

Later in the evening, I had cause to stand up between acts; when I sat down again the silk belt of silk dress inadvertently landed on "mother's" lap. She flicked it away with the utmost contempt, like it was a snotrag or something. And they conspicuously glared at me at every opportunity.

On the Tuesday, the response was "My mother has dementia. I need to explain who Plácido Domingo is".

Ooh, ethical dilemma, here!

I don't suppose many of us will go through life without having someone close - or ourselves - succumb to dementia. I find it impossible to imagine how someone copes with the day-to-day burden of caring for such a person.

It didn't take much effort to imagine that 'mother' may have been a fan of Plácido for decades. I can see exactly why daughter wanted Dementia Mother to witness one final performance from him, maybe even hoping that his wonderfulness would reach a mind that is nearly gone. I'm not hard-hearted, honest.

But I did sense that Dementia Daughter was determined to provoke me into some unwise derogatory comment about dementia. Not me, mate, you see my mother is a social worker (retd.). I simply stated that she didn't need to explain anything and disturb anyone else.

As a post-script, the evening I was seated near Dementia Mother was the night that John Tomlinson sang from the wings whilst Ferruccio Furlanetto, silenced by a throat infection, mimed on stage. I have admired Sir John Tomlinson in many things (as recently as The Minotaur), but I share the consensus that his voice has gone (he's well into his Sixties). There was one bit where he wobbled even more than normal in a way that was spectacularly off-pitch, and Dementia Mother let out a howl of anguish, which seemed a fitting commentary. I laughed to myself.

On stereotypes

A few weeks ago, someone (might even have been my fiancé, can't quite remember!) said "I never judge people by appearances"

"I do," I said. "All the time!" They looked at me aghast. I went on to explain that it's enormous fun to do so to passing strangers, in my head, to create entire imaginary scenarios based upon a fleeting glance. But I never take action based on that judgement. Especially not important stuff such as job appointments etc because it would be crass, stupid, and self-defeating, not to mention illegal.

As I said in my previous post all stereotypes have a basis in truth. Even if the basis is tenuous, and the necessary classification makes massive assumptions about similarities.

Stereotyping someone based upon immutable factors such as gender, race, background etc can lead to disadvantage, discrimination and unfairness. I think stereotyping people on the basis of what they choose to do (hobbies etc) is fair game, even though it's intellectually lazy. I really don't like negative stereotyping.

But, as I say, they usually have a basis in truth.

Imagine these sweeping generalisations:

• Typical black teenager with their socks and sandals and real ale obsession
• Archetypal trainspotter, judging everyone on how rich they are
• Oh, those yummy mummies, so tribal and always brawling in the streets
• Another bloody football fan with their ethnic skirts and organic headscarves
• Typical Guardian reader, playng their loud 'music' on their phone on the back seat of the bus

They just don't work, although of course, I am sure most of us knows someone who fulfills one or more of those statements.

There isn't much point to this post, just something that vaguely amused me in passing.

Vicious Kicking Woman

Wherever you sit in the Amphitheatre at Covent Garden, you have to accept that you are in close proximity to your neighbour. And most of the time you have to accept a level of intimacy that would drive you mad on a flight*

We make choices. Once you know the ROH, you know you can save a fortune by compromising slightly. Front row of the Amphi, slightly restricted view, massive discount (for Manon, my £40 ticket was next to a £65 ticket; I missed a small corner of the stage). For Simon Boccanegra, I had, additionally poor leg room as a result of a cable box (£30 - only for elitist opera snobs though!). It wasn't directly in front of my seat so I didn't need to fold my knees round my neck. Simply couldn't spread my legs. By the way, I'm 5'2" so this wouldn't work for you Tallies: it really sucks for anyone over 5'3" so STAY AWAY from the short people's seats

The man to my left should have entered the row from the left but made the mistake of entering from the right, apologising as he did so. Silly mistake, but, in my view, no harm done, he's unlikely to make the same mistake again, it was well before the house lights went down let alone conductor appeared in pit. Unfortunately, it did happen to coincide with a couple arriving from the left who should have arrived from the right, so they had to crossover, obviously a dread word in an opera house. But he gave them directions politely and firmly, and it worked well.

Except that the woman to the right of me proceeded to hector my left bloke, telling him how inconvenient it was that he had come in from the wrong side and there were signs and, oh you know. I thought it was a bit OTT. Maybe if the overture had started, or the guy had been bumptious or arrogant, then maybe a sarcastic admonition would have been understandable.

In his absence I had been somewhat lolling in his space, but on his arrival I had to restrict myself to my own space. Woman on my right asked me if I could move to my left. I thought about it. I mean, I really did think about it - where is my thigh, where is my arm, is my boob drooping into my right armpit, encroaching on her space. Is maybe my hair a bit big? "No" I replied. I couldn't actually, because the cable box was blocking my leg. She wanted to sit at an angle in her seat and place her legs in front of my seat. Understandable for the view, but not fair.

There is a pause between the Prologue and Act 1, when the house lights come on, and it's a good opportunity to stretch a bit or root around in the handbag.

As the lights dimmed I placed my feet on the floor to give me sufficient leverage to sit properly in my seat. Immediately, I realised I was being kicked. For a split-nano-second I thought it was an unavoidable accidental clash of limbs that occurs in tight spaces.

But, no, this woman had a look of determination on her face as she directed her leg muscles to move back and forth to kick me. For another nano second, I couldn't actually believe it. I then decided: I'm not going to let this bitch ruin my evening, I'm not going to get angry. If I have to say anything at all, it's going to be "Do you have to be so unpleasant?"

At the end of the Gabriele/Amelia love-duet, which is heart-stoppingly beautiful, I had the misfortune of having to let out a suppressed choked cough. No excuses, it happened. At a bad time. And I know it's unpleasant for neighbours when such exquisite music is jarringly interrupted like that. Her tutting lasted longer than my cough, though.

At the start of the second half, I again used the floor to give me heft to sit back in my seat and let my feet dangle (And thus let bitch woman's feet encroach into my space, actually, as it happens). The manoeuvre takes a moment, maybe a second or two. Again, the bitch started kicking me. I said to her "There is no need to kick me!"

"Oh. Right!" she said. No apology, of course, but, also tellingly, no denial. Her whole attitude was like I'd said - it's okay, there's no need to tell me the plot of Simon Boccanegra, or explain something or other that many people may not have known. It was like, she actually thinks there are certain situations where there is a need to kick people.

I actually felt quite shocked about this, really quite upset. I started to dwell on it, and I was struggling to focus on the action on stage, which then made me even angrier, because - well, that was actually what I was there for.

Between the early 80s and mid 90s, I went to a lot of football matches. Usually on the terraces, amidst a crowd which was caricatured as violent, and at best was rough, even if only due to sheer numbers, and jostling. I have never ever been attacked in any way inside a football stadium.  It makes me indignant that I have to go to the Royal Opera House to get kicked, twice, by some dried-up miserable hag.

When the music started after the interval, she spent several minutes rooting in her bag and then rustling the plastic wrapper of a tissue packet; near the end, she pushed a switch to illuminate her digital watch and allowed it to shine in my peripheral vision for more than a fleeting moment. Not that I'm especially bothered, but this was the woman who tutted at my unfortunate splutter.

When the curtain calls were happening, I had my camera out (indifferent photos) and there were flashes going off from all quarters. In her characteristic disagreeable disapproving voice she said "Some people are taking photos". I really wanted to say "What of it? Get over it!" but people like that are so sour-faced petty and disagreeable.

When I entered the row before the start of Manon, I was momentarily disconcerted to see her. She glared at me in the most unpleasant way. How dare she! I had been toying with the idea of reporting her to the ROH for assault** but as I listened to her moaning on, I just started to feel sorry for her.

She sounded angry when she said liked Anna Netrebko; of course it had to be 'She doesn't screech like *that one* from Tuesday'. She sounded really pissed off as she remarked she gets Joseph Calleja and Vittorio Grigolo mixed up (I mean, really, is it because they're both tenors with Southern European names, unlike any other tenor in the history of tenors?) and she sounded bitter as she remarked how well Joseph Calleja had sung on Tuesday.

She had this tone whether talking with her friend or with whom appeared to be a random seat neighbour of 'I'm going to tell you what I'm thinking so that you will know what to think, too'. It seemed that her friend was the cowed sort who would probably appreciate being told what to think. Talk about co-dependent!

I won't be surprised if I encounter this woman again, because I overheard expressing her rationale for seat-choice, which is identical to mine. She is thin and sour-faced. I would have put her at about 50, but her hands are the gnarled and wizzened hands of an old woman. Her hair is dyed black and jars with her skin. She has a glasses case with a a sprinkling of hearts on it. She is a teacher and she is from Manchester originally. Indeed, in her bossiness she displayed the stereotype of the teacher who treats autonomous adults as recalcitrant pupils, and the incessant Moaning was stereotypical Manc. Of course, most teachers aren't bossy and most Mancs don't moan (at least, not incessantly) but I think all stereotypes contain a smidgen of truth. (Some of my relatives and best friends, etc etc!)

The football hooligan in my head has decided if she ever attacks me again, I'm going to glass her. The opera snob in me emphasises this will be only with a broken champagne bottle. But more seriously...I doubt she reads the internet, let alone this blog, but, just in case, consider this a warning - one step out of line and I will escalate this.

* a friend was next to a 'little old lady' with elbow-powered opera glasses pumping up and down as elbow dug into my friend. What you can do? I asked my friend rhetorically. She demonstrated by shrinking her body uncomfortably. She would have been 'well within her rights' politely to request Little Old Lady to stop pumping, but there are social niceties that make one hesitate! Other friends have endured smelly people, sleeping people, talkers, man-flu victims, you name it

** I don't imagine for a moment they would actually do something, but in my mind is the principle that if everyone reports grossly anti-social or criminal behaviour (actually, yes, I was assaulted), a pattern would emerge and eventually the person would become non grata

Bizarre sightings

Last night, as I briefly Twittered, I was at the Odeon Covent Garden for a live screening of Simon Boccanegra from Milan. I didn't Twitter much about it because a) my phone battery was running low* and b) I figured that it was pointless to tweet during the Leaders' Debate^†

There was an interval after Act 1, so, being me, I slipped out the front door of the cinema to have a quick smoke break in the street. There were quite a few people outside, including a group of munchkins holding clipboards.

I suppose it's cruel to say 'munchkins' but these were a remarkable group of men. Not excessively short - I think they were all taller than me. But all of them seemed to have exceptionally short legs, making their rotund bodies seem disproportionately long. They all wore the same 'NHS' specs with bottle lenses and they moved in unison as if choreographed.

Two taxis drew up; they moved like a shoal of fish to the first one, realised it was the wrong one, and moved to the second one. A strangely dressed man got out, and he slipped to the side of the pavement; my friend informed me he was Kim Newman. The munchkins gathered round the other man, to have their photos taken and to get his autograph on pieces of paper attached to their clipboards. By perusal of posters in the cinema foyer, my friend deduced this other man to be Joe Dante - it seemed there was some event connected with the London Independent Film Festival.

I shouldn't really mock,  because I don't see any problem with people having niche interests and I certainly don't see a problem with celebrity-worshipping someone who has an impressive list of achievements on his CV; surely better than celebrity-worshipping on the instructions of the tabloidese. The sort of person that trainspotters would sneer at for being geeks and dorks is far too easy a target to mock.

Hypocritical, too, because even as I write this, I'm engaged in a dialogue on Twitter, part of a bigger campaign I'm waging about how the mainstream media marginalises and mocks older people and non-glamorous women, with the tacit acceptance of otherwise liberal younger people (especially but not exclusively male) in a way that would not be acceptable if the marginalisation and mocking was aimed at gay and BME people (of course I know there are many racist and/or homophobic attacks from the illiberal media, but that's not my point). And in any case, an auditor mocking Aspies is on very shaky ground.

Later in the evening I was on the Tube. Looking around, about half the people in my carriage were using a phone (interesting considering the absence of a signal!). All sorts of shapes and makes and models, all used un-self-consciously and unostentatiously. Except for one man, who gave me the creeps even though there was nothing inherently creepy about him. His particular gadget was a touch-screen one. He stood in the space between the doors in an overtly masculine pose, even thrusting his groin out, as he looked around to make sure everyone could see how cool he was.

He jabbed and jabbed his touchscreen gadget and simultaneously checked that we were all looking on admiringly. A woman opposite me caught my eye and smirked, which set me off, which set her off. He saw us, his shoulders slumped, his gadget went in his pocket, his legs closed, his posture shrunk, his face fell and he shrivelled up in a proverbial corner.

It was just so funny because you simply wouldn't have noticed him if he hadn't been behaving like such a pratt. He looked ordinary and nondescript in the same way as most people do. But he was so determined to show off that he had chosen to spend his disposable income differently from the rest of us - presumably lesser beings -  it was just so funny!

* it has been suggested to me that these batteries only last about six months: ie can't cope with an entire day's data download on one charge**
** I can recharge it at work, but the sockets are well underneath the desk; I'm bored of crawling around on the floor with H&S implications; I do leave it charged in halfway across the office, but then it's not next to me and not mobile!
^† The previous two weeks showed that Twitter was entirely devoted to the Leaders' Debate: people not interested in the debate would tune out of Twitter; for people interested in the debate, their Twitter stream is moving so fast on debate posts, any extraneous material would just complicate matters

Clapham Common

We went there for a picnic yesterday. I don't work Fridays, and Jimmy is free between 3 and 8 so we try and do something together most weeks. We were determined to enjoy the sunshine and hit on the splendid idea of a picnic. Clapham Common was chosen because Jimmy would spend less time getting there (and back) from work, because it's handy for shops from which to buy picnic food, and because there are plenty of bars and coffee shops handy for when the temperature drops.

It has its disadvantages, too. Chiefly that being flat and surrounded by a network of busy roads, without boundary trees, it's impossible to feel you've escaped from the urban jungle. But we knew that, and adjusted our expectations accordingly.

We sat down on a bench on the edge of large open field and began to eat our 'starter'. People passed by and there was a constant hum of traffic from the roads; we were barely aware of them. We looked out across a field and laughed hilariously as a dog chased after a child's football and pushed the child (aged about 8) to the ground. Our laughter turned to "What!" when we realised that the dog was no relation to the child, but happened to be passing him as he played with a teenager, perhaps an older brother, and just randomly forced him to the ground.

As it happens, the child didn't seem very bothered; nor for that matter did the dog's owner. Didn't seem to check whether the child was all right, and didn't put the dog on a lead. They continued on their walk, approaching in our direction, but I assumed the angle they were taking would take them well out of our way. Until the dog bounded over to where we were sitting, threw itself at Jimmy and then stuck its nose into the empty prawn tray he had carefully placed on the ground to separate rubbish out from from good stuff*. The owner followed and laughing said

"Oh, she eats anything she sees..."

I think this was our cue to say "Oh gagaga itchywitchy cudgie coo what a darling dog, can I please please pretty please lick her cutey wutey stomach". We didn't.

The owner tried again mouthing some platitude which didn't include the word 'sorry'. Sharply, Jimmy told her to take it away whilst I sat motionless glaring at her (I was rewarded with the sight of her shrinking and slinking away, cowed by my fearsome glare).

When we finished our starter we walked to another field on the Common, this much closer to Northside. We chose our spot carefully. Sufficiently far away from the two men focused on their ball skills as they quietly and unostentatiously kicked a football between them; and  sufficiently far away from two other parties lying down or picnicking in the glorious afternoon sun. We weren't encroaching on anyone and no one was encroaching on us. Ideal. Well, apart from the police helicopter that hovered and circled for about 15 minutes; again, in theory an irritation, in practice something you accept as an inevitability of urban life.

Until PoodleWoman came along. I wasn't best chuffed when said Poodle took a dump barely ten feet from where we were sitting. I was even less chuffed when it immediately ran over to us and stuck its nose in our food bag. Followed by Poodle Woman herself in no great rush to extricate her dog. Indeed she stood there waiting for us to say "Oodle doodle be my baby gagagagaga ickle cuteywootey." We didn't.

Jimmy told her to take it away. She started saying something resentfully, so I told her to keep her dog under control. Scornfully, she said "I'm supposed to control where the dog goes to the toilet?" I'm sorry I didn't ask her why she wasn't scooping it up - there are bins for that purpose on the Common. Today, someone was probably playing a ball game or letting their child run around in that dog poo (by the way, dogs don't 'go to the toilet'). 

What I did say was that it had stuck its nose in our food bag. She retorted that she had every right. I told her to keep her dog on the lead. As she walked away I said "That's probably what counts for hygiene in her household, letting the dog shit anywhere even when she's preparing food. That's really disgusting. Dirty woman." I did have the satisfaction of watching her shoulders slump as she slinked away; hopefully she felt shame.

Dog poo is disgusting. Indeed any poo from any meat-eating mammal is disgusting. I don't mind horse manure and accept sheep droppings as an inevitable part of the countryside. But dog poo. Eugh. Of course dog owners have the right to exercise their dogs on the Common, I don't dispute that. But rights only exist to the extent they don't interfere with other people's rights - or, to put it bluntly, my right to stick out my arm stops just before my fist hits your face. It is disgraceful when a dog attacks a child; it's disgraceful but inevitable when a dog shits in the open grass - and it's disgusting if the owner fails to pick it up. And it's utterly intolerable that, apparently, we have to put up with other people's dirty animals going through our food. 

I do stop and think - is it something I said, is it something I am doing wrong? Am I sitting in the wrong place, breaking some local unwritten custom-and-practice?

I know we all want our own way all of the time and I have been known to sulk or throw a tantrum when I don't (less so now I'm an adult). But surely, if you use your brain you must realise that it simply isn't possible and it's extremely inconsiderate. Perhaps my problem is that I am a follower of the creed of Deferred Gratification: in other words, by acting in a way that appears to be selfless, I later reap rewards. Obviously, this works best in a fairly closed group: eg if I help someone with a problem say at work, they are likely to help me when I need them maybe two years later, or, at the very least, they speak positively of me to others; that doesn't work so well in wider society. I do firmly believe that if everybody behaved in a fairly considerate way almost all of the time, we would all benefit from society being more harmonious. But that is a big IF because I am having to compete with people who want instant gratification or pursue rational selfishness.

Ironically - and  cross-refer to my post on Streatham Common  - this touches on the theory of The Tragedy of the Commons.

* when we had finished our picnic all the rubbish went in the bin

On Streatham Common

The plan today had been to picnic on Streatham Common. The weather was not in our favour, so instead we had a rather indifferent pub lunch. We decided to walk on the Common, anyway, even if just to avoid the horrendous traffic queues on the High Road and catch a bus home.

For those of you that don't know, Streatham Common is a fairly large piece of green space. It's not massive, but it's certainly not a pocket park. It's certainly plenty big enough for kids to run around, especially on a weekday more-or-less in school term

View Larger Map

We stopped at the café halfway up and went to drink our coffees at the outside tables. I suppose there's about a dozen tables in a fenced-in space, just enough space in between them and no space for any more.

It was fairly busy, a party of five over there, a Mum and baby there, man and dog there, Mum with two quiet sitting children, woman with a book, us, and That Lot. Specifically two women of my age and eight girls age about 7 or 8, running around, screeching, yelling at each other. Perfectly legitimate play, and of course, it's healthy for children to run around. But in totally the wrong place. I had to keep interrupting what I was saying as another brat ran past screaming down my ear-hole.

Jimmy went to the loo, as I turned round yet again to glare at the screaming kids, I realised Woman-With-A-Book was looking exasperated. She turned to me and said "Can't they shut them up, they're completely ignoring them." Emboldened I went up to the women supposedly in charge of them, and said "There's a whole great big Common, do they have run around screaming in here, when people are trying to sit down quietly?"

One of them laughed. Not quite in my face, but clearly she thought it an absolute hoot that these children she was supposedly looking after (but was in fact ignoring) were being pains. So I mimicked her laugh back in her face, and she didn't like that. However, they  decided they were going. "Than God for that!" I exclaimed in a stage whisper. "We get the message," said the other arsehole bitch. But I didn't think they had, because there was no attempt to say to the kids "This isn't the best place to be running around screaming"

In time we finished our coffees and left the café and headed for the Rookery. I love The Rookery, a delightful secret. I don't go often because it's not so close to home; sadly I didn't go often either when it was much closer.

On Been There it says:

A beautiful Victorian garden in the middle of Streatham Common. Queen Victoria visited for the now gone spa waters  Tranquil even at the height of summer, an oasis in the middle of south London.

Indeed, outside is a sign saying in big letters "This is a quiet garden" and lists the activities that aren't permitted. It doesn't actually say 'No Noisy Brats' or even 'All children should be kept on leads' but *everyone* knows that people go there to read or contemplate.

But not this lot, oh no. The ghastly women sat on a bench on the terrace and the kids ran amok screaming their heads off as they chased round, their noise echoing round the natural bowl or amphitheatre. We tried to get away from them, not entirely possible because they were so loud, and when we returned to the main drag, we saw several independent adults looking at them, in annoyance or bewilderment; something was said, and suddenly, they cleared off again. 

This makes me really angry. As I say, I do think kids should get out and run around. There's a large well-equipped children's playground, there is a large open green space, so why they hell are they doing their running around specifically in areas not designed for it.

I am sick and tired of going out to places and having what should be a relaxing walk or sit-down ruined by out-of-control, atrociously parented children. I know I am not alone in this. I only had to look at the faces of the other café customers and the body-language of the other people in the Rookery that I am very much not alone in this.

It was abundantly clear to me that the ridiculous bints supposedly in charge of these children did not have the slightest clue what the matter was. These were women who knew each other via NCT classes and were dressed very presentably in clothes from shops such as Next, M&S: almost certainly educated and seemingly fairly prosperous.

Exactly the sort of people who complain loudly at how child-unfriendly Britain is. These ghastly women have probably ended up at home moaning to their husbands (who probably don't get home until after the children have gone to bed!) at how hostile everybody is to us 'just because we've got children'.

These two women were supposed to be looking after other people's children. I am not sure whether they were doing it for pay, or as part of a reciprocal arrangement, or as a favour (perhaps the school has failed to open, unexpectedly). But they were failing in their duty. These children encouraged to behave as if the world revolves around them grow up into teenagers and then adults who retain a sense of entitlement and are utterly bewildered as the rest of the world turns against them in hostility and disgust.

I think it's extremely unfair that these people behave like this. Not surprisingly, there were several elderly people in the Rookery; don't they have as much right to their relaxation as these kids?

It's very unfair to the children whose parents do know how to parent - the two sat quietly in the  café, or the little boy walking round the gardens with his nanny. It's unfair to anybody who has gone to the Rookery specifically for its advertised 'quiet' and its reputation for tranquillity.

And, actually, it's very unfair to the children themselves. They are not being taught about boundaries, about how we co-exist in a crowded city on a small island, or about consideration for others. It's all very well being right-on and going to NCT classes, but parenting doesn't stop there. I suspect that the children get a very clear message of being marginal to the lives of the adults who couldn't care less about them, who refuse to communicate or engage with them.

 

Rubbish ways to spend New Years Eve

1. At home alone, watching TV - as I have done for the past two years. I also did this once back in the early 90s when I developed a desperately sore throat just after one of my siblings had been diagnosed with glandular fever and the other with 'query glandular fever'. It almost works if you have a backlog of films, but it still feels shite to know 'everyone else' is enjoying themself.
2. At home with one's mother watching TV. This is possible worse that 1,  because you don't even get to choose what you watch, so you have to sit through Clive James's Review of the Year and the Best of Val Doonican.
3. At a Raymond Gubbay New Year's Eve Classical Gala at the Barbican fetauring an unrehearsed pick-up orchestra and third-rate jobbing opera singers that no one has actually heard of*
4. At a 'bring-a-bottle' party where you only know the host, her partner and one other person, you're not single enough to be on the pull, it's too noisy and crowded to conduct a conversation, you end up drinking really acidy wine, and you still have to get home unmolested.
5. In a pub or even a restaurant full of random strangers who have received the message that tonight is the night to party and want to demonstrate how unconventional and rebellious they are by partying wildly and celebrating the amazing and extraordinary fact that December 21st is changing into January 1st

However, having given this due consideration, I have concluded that there is possibly a worse way to spend NYE, and I don't mean: in hospital, prison etc.

This morning, walking from Millbank to the office, I saw several piles of crash barriers and signs pointing to 'Fireworks Viewing Area', and it hit me.

Imagine spending New Year's Eve standing in a crowd of other people, kettled on Horseferry Road or some other Westminster backstreet, in order to watch 7.5 minutes of fireworks (reduced from 10 because of the credit crunch) and then walk amidst that same shuffling crowd of people to a tube or rail station to wait an hour or more to get onto an overcrowded train. All of this technically without (banned) alcohol and certainly without access to loos or seating areas.

Happy New Year everyone.

You may have gathered I'm not a big fan of NYE - forced jollity for no real reason, that only manages to happen because some people slog their guts out working in unpleasant conditions and where other people are forced to surrender their autonomy in order to survive or escape the wisdom of crowds.

I kind of get the point of why people party, but wouldn't it make far more sense to do so on the first day of Spring. In any case, does anybody actually describe a NYE party or event as fun, enjoyable or memorable - particularly in coparison to birthday and housewarming parties and spontaneous nights out! And, of course, the price for all this - Double Bubble!

*but are still far more talented that Katherine Jenkins

A silly lie

The other night I was at the Barbican for Messiah. Tickets helpfully state which door to use to enter the auditorium, and doors are clearly marked. I walked up to my allocated door, where there was a surprisingly large and slow-moving queue . I see little point in walking a long way to join the back of a queue when I reason that the queue will eventually diminish; I am careful to be a tail-ender rather than a straggler. I soon saw the cause of the queue - just one steward on the door who was probably new and took an age to check each ticket and direct people to their seats.

I was one of the last people to enter the hall  but I still had enough time to make myself comfortable before the conductor's arrival signalled time to settle down.

I walked up to my seat, on the aisle, on the front row. I was momentarily disconcerted by seeing someone's coat on the seat, so I turned to the woman in the next seat and said "Excuse me please". The woman next to her (they seemed to be together) reached over and moved her coat.

I thought nothing more of it. I've done it myself - anticipated the non-arrival of someone in an adjacent seat and used the space to my advantage. I think it's human nature, not just in concert halls, but on public transport, in bars and other public spaces. I want you to be in no doubt, I really wasn't upset or stressed about it. It was just a 'thing' that was resolved with the absolute minimum of fuss from both sides.

Believe me, I was far more disturbed by the constant chorus of coughing and throat-clearing that punctuated most of the performance, and caused wry, almost incredulous, smirks from the orchestra when they paused before the Pastoral Symphony to allow for the admittance of latecomers.

After the interval, when I was re-taking my seat, the woman next-but-one to me, the coat owner, challenged me as to what was my seat number. I told her, she asked whether I was sure. I was absolutely sure. She suggested that possibly my seat was the next number up and across the aisle. I was firm that I had gone to the right seat.

She explained that they don't usually sell that seat which is why she put her coat there. More in the way of justification than apology.  I said something along the lines of I normally go downstairs but had only bought my ticket last week, and there had been nothing downstairs that appealed; I also explained that there had a been a long queue to enter the hall. I'm way too civilised for my own good!

Afterwards, I was thinking, and could not help concluding she was talking poppycock. The seat I had was sold as 'restricted view, hand rail'. The handrail did not restrict my view in any significant way that couldn't be corrected by a minute adjustment of eyes or head. It had the advantage of being on the front row and at the aisle. 

Now, I can't prove her wrong. I look at several upcoming concerts and find that that seat is unavailable, as are the ones that she and her companion were sitting in and many others that are central and front. Other concerts are listed as 'sold out' so I can't determine whether they are sold out including or excluding that seat. But it defies logic.

For any of those sold-out concerts coming up or for last week's Otello, there would be countless people delighted to get a front row aisle seat, regardless that it blocks off a tiny section of the stage at any given time. It defies logic that the Barbican declines to put it on sale (with 'restriction' warning.) Perhaps it is one they habitually hold back as a 'house seat', either to give as a freebie to some ligger or else for logistical reasons.

I think I am reasonably good at spotting malice and I don't think this woman was being malicious. I tend to ascribe apparent stupidity to actual stupidity.I don't think she was being stupid. I concluded that she was just being shabby and dishonourable. I didn't feel she had any need to explain or apologise, but given that she felt the need, it would have been far more gracious to say "I'm sorry, I assumed that because the seat was empty at 7pm that it would be empty for the evening, my mistake."

I don't even mind the implication that I had invaded her perceived right to use the 'usually' vacant seat for her convenience. I just see no need for post hoc fictional justifications that blame someone else, in this case The Barbican. Having been entirely unperturbed by the coat-on-a-seat, I was left feeling at the very least peeved that she had lied to me in a way that was a bit contemptuous, treating me as a bit of a fool.

The man in my box for the Creation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had all sorts of replies lined up eg

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

or

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it with people?

I have just ordered my neighbour out of my house.

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

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

1 Gert Cottage
London
SW2 xxx

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

Her address therefore is

Cow Cottage
London
SW2 xxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

The delights of a Victoria Line strike

Such as happened today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carols from Kings - not good

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

And every year I am disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

Birds bearings and the school run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gert 2 Oaf on Bus 0

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

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

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

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

Goodwill fatigue

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

This week I have had good turns forced upon me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being on holiday

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

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

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

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

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

Carnival Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did he hot wire that?" I said.

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

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

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

What people wear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Give me strength...

...and failing that, give me skills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knowing Me Knowing You

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

What characteristic do you despise?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parasitus Rexus (Future)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No such thing as society

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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