Gertsamtkunstwerk

Random but connected thoughts on children

Reminded and inspired by Blue Witch

Eighteen months ago at a wedding I was chatting with Richard, a lovely bloke I've know from Uni. Conversation got onto gun crime, as it does when you live in Brixton (me) and Green Lanes (him). There had recently been a gun battle between rival drug gangs on Green Lanes. Richard was, understandably, alarmed. Because he's got a child. because, presumably, those without children just don't give a shit about random senseless violence...

Yesterday, another friend had an unpleasant incident down Peckham way. Some 'orrible teens and pre-teens threw some eggs at her car. So she chased them, and tried to give them a talking to - asking them where their parents were and one snotty bitch said contemptuously "Ha! Do you expect our parents to play with us?" and sneered at Friend. So Friend went into a nearby shop, bought half a dozen eggs and broke them over the kids. Now she's concerned that the police will be after her for assaulting minors (she's a semi-qualified barrister and is planning to train a s a teacher). I advised her to say Yes Officer, No Officer and be polite; to seek advice from her criminal lawyer friend, not her accountant friend, and if the police wanted to pursue the matter, I would put the word out and make her a cause celebre with the backing of 90%+ of the population. I told her it wasn't the cleverest thing she'd ever done, but not the end of the world.

I said to her husband, who is a really great guy, that she could have ended up swerving onto the pavement and hitting someone. He made some comment about "Yeah, she had the children in the car..." Now, I'm not having a go, but any car crash is potentially nasty.

BTW, what is your opinion on the egg incident?

Introduce breeding licences?

Dumped Baby 'a mistake'

(The couple) left baby Hayden on an eighth-floor landing in their apartment block after a drunken row. But Nicola's mother "This is unlike my girl. I'm sure she meant to bring the baby back into the apartment after the row. Hopefully this misunderstanding can be sorted out and mother and baby can be reunited."

Ha, this is just the sort of mistake people make every day. You know how it is, you get drunk, and you leave a tiny, helpless baby outside. I suppose it's a bit like me getting drunk the other week and leaving my sandals outside the front door. Silly me!

The school holidays began a few days ago. There's someone I know (not a friend). She has a five year old kid, she's on benefits and her partner works - clever that. Every day she's in the pub at ten o'clock, until well into the evening. The kid's a nuisance, she's going to take it to her mother's. She's spending �60 a week on dope.

Why did she have the kid in the first place? Why didn't she keep her legs closed? Contraception isn't rocket science. Maybe it would have been to have had it aborted. (I know, that sounds cruel, but...). In my Utopia kids like that would be taken away from their so-called parents and put in the care of people who understand the concept of 'care' and 'responsibility'

I know that loads of people have accidental children, but I also know that most of those people quickly wake up to their responsibilities. I'm talking about the arsehole minority, safe in the knowledge that given another seven or eight years that woman's child will be terrorising the neighbourhood.

The Drug Poshers

Ex-public schoolboys ran coke empire like white collar firm.

I love the quote

Long, a former merchant banker, used his knowledge of spreadsheets and databases to keep records for the gang.

Ooh, Spreadsheets. You've got to admire the intelligence of a man capable of keeping transaction records on a Spreadsheet!

I am absolutely fascinated by the role cocaine plays in evolution. Something to do with Survival of the Fittest, or Natural Selection.

On my scale of morality, the selling of charlie to City high-flyers and celebrities is at worst venal, and possibly not immoral at all. (Of course, the law of the land says else).

I sometimes divide people into two categories - those who take cocaine and those who don't. In general, those who do eventually fall flat on their face. Those who don't have given themselves a head-start in the race for survival. Am I right that longterm use impedes one's ability to propogate the species?

Perspective

It is, however, somewhat reassuring that within minutes of the match ending, my Sitemeter page is full of searches for 'dogging' in various English towns.

I think it somehow displays the Blitz Spirit that all around England people are standing up from the sofa, draining the last dregs of piss poor lager (or, in our case, Chablis Premier Cru) and saying, "By 'eck England lost in a plucky fight against the Portuguese. Ay up me duck, let's cheer usselves up with a spot of exhibitionist random group sex in a car park. Let's see what Lush Gert has to offer us today..."

Modern Manners

I was at a bus stop in Streatham. I could see my bus coming. Three teenage lads leaped across the road and with scant regard to those around them, walked directly in front of me - pushing-in, without the actual 'pushing'. Inwardly I tutted and sighed - they were confirming my prejudices about teenage boys.

Then they stopped, and waited for a woman with a buggy, and three elderly people to board before them. They didn't take any of the available seats downstairs, yet they didn't obstruct the gangway by huddling in the aisle.

A woman with a buggy was coming out of the shop. The aisle is narrow, so I stood aside to let her pass. She did not look at me. I commented to the newsagent that it would be nice to get some thanks - nothing major, a slight tilt of the head, or a flicker of the eyelids, or a twitch of the mouth muscles. I don't expect eternal gratitude, or a formal thank you. But just a brief, subtle acknowledgement would be nice.

Sigh

Bring back the shell suit?

What not to wear

I have to say, the chavs round here are still wearing shellsuits, and leggings with white stilettos.

Of this list, I have worn

• leggings - which, actually, are fabulous for slobbing round the house, and most people I know have sworn by them when pregnant
• white stilettos - I had a pair of three-inch white stilettos when I was a bridesmaid to my sister; I changed into canvas pumps as soon as the sit-down bit was over; one of my cousins, yes, Ginny, it's you I'm thinking about, thought my white stilettos hilarious
• bodies with poppers - guilty, I'm afraid, But it was a nice satin and old lace body that looked just fab
• shoulder pads - was it possible to buy a suit in the early to mid nineties without shoulder pads?
• stonewash jeans - I had a pair in the late Eighties
• dungarees - yup, very early eighties, though...

Oh god, I was a walking fashion catastrophe.

Thick, or what...?

Boasting 'Lunatic' Proud of Drunken Crash

This geezer failed his theory test three times.

It amazes me that anybody* can fail the theory test at all. Let alone three times.

Maybe I'm just naive

* Yes, I know that there are realms of people with general or specific learning difficulties, but there's nothing in this article to suggest that this man is one of them...

A night at the opera

I felt very sophisticated walking around the Coliseum, listening to the oohs and aahs about the refurbishment, and the gasps about the cornucopia of Ladies' loos. I've been here already, I've seen the phantasmagoric refurb. I haven't queued for the loo.

Two intervals, therefore order two drinks. The first serving man was unable to take interval orders, so I stood waiting for ages whilst everybody else got served with fifteen bottles of wine, seven coffees, and a plate of cakes for interval two. Eventually served, the second interval drink was keyed in as a single. Not good enough, but I just want to down my first large one of the evening. Only fifteen minutes to curtain up.

I took my seat. Next to peasants. Granted, they didn't look like peasants, her with her Windsmoor labels prominently displayed. His face saying, 'I'm a self-made business man you will respect me.' However, I judge people by behaviour. Four times in the first act (forty minutes) they indulged in conversation. Oblivious to the glares of me, and three people in front. As I coldly politely wriggled past at the interval I hissed with iron in my venom, "It is customary not to talk during the performance". They, however, were not responsible for the mobile phone that went off during the introduction to Recondita Armonia.

I grabbed my drink and hot-footed it downstairs to the smoking area (St Martin's Lane...). One group of people are arguing that they will go out even though they've left their ticket in their box. When told there would be no readmission without ticket, the woman declared, "I'm with the company and I'll use the stage door". Another woman is complaining about the bar on taking glasses outside - it's the law, says the bouncer. Rubbish, she says, I was drinking my wine outside before, do I have to choose between wine and cigarette, why can't I have a cigarette and wine at the same time. Rubbish, I'm thinking, all those pubs just up the road spill out onto the street, why should different laws apply to them as to the Colisseum. Besides, when we banned street drinking in Brixton, we made it specifically not apply to yuppies spilling out from wine bars, only to the underclass.

Outside, a smoker takes a can of G&T from her bag. Hm, I thought, she gets to have her cake and eat it. I can see it now, future intervals at English National Opera being characterised by hordes of opera-loving smokers surreptitiously tippling their Tennants Super as they overspill into the periphery of Trafalgar Square.

In the second act the self-made Windsmoor peasants move along to the two empty seats on the row. And desist from speaking. I so rock! I'm probably the haughty snoot that deters peasants from going to the Opera (all power to me, then!)

In the second interval, where my 'small gin is diluted by that dread product, ice, I watch the amiable bickering of a long-married eccentric middle-aged-to-young-elderly couple. He wants to stay inside and drink, she wants to go out and smoke. They go their separate ways. Then she decides she wants to read the programme, and orders the bouncer to tell her husband (who has wandered off into the Coliseum�s bowels) to give her the programme. Husband returns chunnering that "You're no company at all." I get an inconcealable fit of the giggles and gulp my gin to make my exit to the street and nicotine bliss.

I return to my seat long before the bell and eavesdrop on the conversation of the couple behind. He's insisting on reading the programme, they decide they're going to go the Met to see Salome, because the Met doesn't discriminate against fat people - (although Salome seems sufficiently elfin-like to do the Dance of the Seven Veils).

He asks her whether it was like this last time she came. She replied that it was truly awful. She was repeatedly awakened during "The Mask of Orpheus" to the ghastly plink of dissonant strings. He says that when he makes money, he will fund a revival of the Mask of Orpheus because something so epoch-makingly bad must be worth a revival. Meanwhile she has spotted Geoffrey Howe in a box, so I quickly put my binoculars to my eye and see a grotesque caricature of a Tory grandee, with enormous stomach hanging over the parapet. She says, "He looks like a Punch Cartoon," and breaks into giggles.

And the opera - Tosca? It was lovely. Clare Rutter was divine as Tosca, and sang Vissi d'Arte soaringly sweetly. Julian Gavin was good as Cavaradossi, with a gorgeous E Lucevan le stelle and a good Recondita Armonia. Stephen Kechulius as Scarpia was brash and unlikeable. The orchestra was lush. The final scenes - the firing squad and Tosca's leap -were heartstopping.

But I still contend that, even in English, surtitles would help. I heard two separate people comment that Covent Garden uses surtitles even for operas in English.

Punishment by loud music

There is far too much loud 'music' being played in cars round here. If I am sat at home, with my music playing fairly loud, and I hear and feel the thundering bass from a car waiting at the traffic lights, I tend to think that, not only is it anti-social, but it is highly unlikely that the driver is in full control of the vehicle.

It is offensive to impose one's tastes on other people. A few years ago I had a discussion with a Residents' Association Chair. She also objected to others' loud music, partly on those grounds. She said she often thought about blasting opera loud into the air of Brixton. And was amused that when my father used to tinker with the car outside the house he would have opera playing loudly, and my mother would come out and tell him to turn 'the racket' down, in much the same way that she would tell my sibs and me to turn down our racket.

The Guardian has a discussion on the Rhyme and punishment

A few years ago I had to be at the Town Hall at 9 am on Saturday to participate in interviews for a Chief Officer position. I then had to run around and pack before heading in the evening to my friend's house to rise early on the Sunday to drive to Fishguard for a mid-afternoon ferrry.

My then neighbours (tenants) saw no harm in having booming bass until about four o'clock in the morning. I did go round and politely asked them for consideration. On my second attempt, meeting contempt, I said they would be sorry. Sadly, I expect they were too stoned to hear the loud final movement of Beethoven's loud ninth symphony played very loud at eight o'clock in the morning.

Currently I have no next door neighbours...

The Balkanisation of Britain

We're all in a class apart

Really fascinating analysis of the demography of Britain. I can identify with

Looked at in the round London is a foreign country, independent of the rest of Britain...The case of inner London, where the young poor and rich mingle but don't meet, is more extreme.

I joked with Jimmy last night, "How many people do you know who go to Covent Garden one week and Wimbledon dogs the next?"

Great egalitarian me! But, in all honesty, what Covent Garden and Wimbledon Dogs have in common is that they are filled with people living in their own little cocoon and thinking either that everybody is like them or that The Other is so different as to be alien.

I think Sociology is a fascinating subject. Unfortunately, the Sociology I studied as a first year undergraduate was so dry, abstract, pretentious and divorced from actually studying society that it bored me.

The unbearable banality of reading

I perused the magazines in the newsagent. All of the mid-to down-market and many of the glam women's titles featured on their front pages stories of extreme weight-loss - 'I went from Size 28 to Size 12' 'Lose 7 lbs in a week'. Prominent on many covers, especially of the celebrity magazines, were Jordan, Kerry, Jade and such people. Magazine editors know what sells. One can only assume that these are the pitches that guarantee sales.

I'm not making out that I'm better than the average drone; I am, however, fascinated by the interplay between the mass media and the masses.

Reading about people's lives is fascinating. I have so many biographies on my bookshelves, and, heck, blogging is a lot about reading about other people's lives. Over the years, I have lost count of the times I have bought a newspaper or magazine solely because someone I like is featured, in an interview, or an in-depth report, or a photo-shoot. But I do like to think I am discriminating. That I'm actually interested in the person because of their sporting/acting/singing/politicking skills. Or at the very least, because they are a hunk that I fancy. I wouldn't buy a magazine because it featured JordanJadeKerry because they have nothing to say. Or perhaps I am merely guilty of arrogant conceit.

It's tempting to conclude that there is a big conspiracy going on to brainwash the plebs so that they don't dare think about the issues that matter, and hold nobody accountable. But there is no evidence that it's an organised conspiracy. These magazines exist solely to make money; they make money from advertising revenues, which, I assume increase in line with readership figures. Advertising must increase sales - otherwise it wouldn't happen.

Advertising is not all about brainwashing. Assuming we accept a society where the buying of goods and services is fairly fundamental to our lives (and I accept I willingly partake in that society), it is helpful to have information about the goods and services. Fortunately, I have the ability, education and training to filter much of that information. I just wonder whether people who are buying into the "Lose 5 stone and be JordanJadeKerry" are as gullible in the way that they process advertising.

Or perhaps I am being unduly condescending. Perhaps the majority of people who read about JordanJadeKerry are capable of being sceptical, treat the whole charade as a meaningless circus, giggle at the superficiality of these ciphers, and give thanks for their reasonably comfortable, reasonably simple, reasonably happy lives of ordinariness, fulfillment and joy.

What is actually far more disturbing, especially in my own reaction, is headline "I was raped by my own son". What part of my brain filtered that as something that would be interesting to read? Fortunately, a split second later I felt a revulsion at myself. And yet, the magazine editors know what sells.

Probably, I am not alone in being luridly drawn to and simultaneously repulsed by a story designed to horrify and titllate in equal measure. I suspect that the inclusion of that story - as well as the 'I kept my rapist's baby'; 'I was the next victim of the Camden ripper' stories - illuminates our society more clearly than any number of 'I became a size 8 JordanJadeKerry'.

Blow-up

I'm still behind with my blog reading, but you mustn't miss Scary Duck's story about the football inflatables. ..Funny how trends suddenly appear and disappear again...

I recall the sense of indignation and outrage in Nottingham when Nottinghamshire's finest Boys in Blues, still looking for a role following their brutality during the miners' strike, decided to declare inflatable trees to be lethal weapons. Mind you, it did give the nice white middle-class boys from Buckinghamshire a genuine reason to be anti-police*

The demise of the football inflatable: on a par with the disappearance of the football rattle

*of course, times have changed, and I fully acknowledge that the police are, without exception, an asset to society, akin to social workers in their kindness. But that was the Thatcherite Eighties, a whole different world.

Manners

Cathy has an interesting take on The art of holding doors

I will admit to being a practitioner of 'hold it and pass it to the next person'.

What amazes me in the office and in hotels is that if I hold open the door for members of the lower-classes* who are carrying a heavy or bulky load they all feed a need to express their gratitude in most effusive terms dolloped with a huge undertone of surprise.

I can only surmise that I am in a tiny minority of 'suits' that feel it is basic common sense and courtesy to hold a door pen for someone less able. But there again, courtesy is my middle name. (Oh, wait, it's actally my surname - hey, to what extent does one's name, family or given, influence one's personality?)

My particular bugbear occurs in the workplace. You wait inthe lift lobby so long that you have exchanged phone numbers with and promised to be godmother to the children of the random vague-colleagues stood there. The lift comes, and despite the fact that half a dozen of you have been stood there long enough to qualify for a long-service medal, some twunt comes straight from the front door and gets into the lift before the group of lifelong buddies that has been formed in the lift lobby. And I thought we were supposed to be 'civil' servants.

*For the avoidance of confusion, I use this ironically...

Blinkered patriotism

By mere accident of birth I happen to be British. I'm fiercely patritotic in the weird ways and totally unpatriotic in the predictable ways of the scoundrel.

Isn't the British attitude to alcohol and drunkenness so ace as to be worthy of celebration as a national trait?

(or do I mean English? I get so terribly confused).

People watching

When I arrived at the Fairfield Hall, the concert goers and those going to the Ashcroft were standing around waiting in the foyer. It was fun, although not difficult, to work out who was going to the concert and who to the theatre. Although someone playing the same game would have put me down as Puppetry of the Penis

I went to my seat; as I was settling a couple walked in to take the seats behind me and just alongside another couple. One of the other couple said "I've got to have another op; they've found another gallstone. I asked whether they're taking them out one by one."

Oh dear god, I thought. I really can't stand it when people strike up these artifical superficial friendship type-things just by dint of having regular proximate seats in the same venue.

After the interval I went back to my seat, and the couple behind me were talking to a woman alongside them, who had previously given me a "We're both here on our own, we're both women approaching middle age; let's be friends" look (no! no! no!).

"Oh, we see them a lot. Mainly at the London Mozart Players, but they're also in our National Trust Group. I always say hello and smile. But I really don't want to know about his operations..."

The great leveller

In hospital Accident and Emergency Departments, you see all sorts of human life. Of course, the majority sit there quietly, anxiously, in pain perhaps, waiting, waiting, waiting. In a place like Tooting, you get a real socio-economic and ethnic mix, people whose lives probably don't cross otherwise.

A woman arrived, and greeted a friend. The friend was in for an ECG, the first woman was waiting for her partner "who's come off his bike - again...". It seems that his motorbike had ended up under a car, and as various friends of both patients arrived, they discussed whether or not the car driver was in the slightest bit concerned that he had knocked over a biker. The conclusion "Probably not".

Jimmy went out for a cigarette; when he returned he remarked on a group I had seen going out. One of the women was having a stroke and was waiting to be admitted, meanwhile, she had her left arm paralysing as she desperately smoked the last (but one) fag of a condemned woman. We concluded that that would be me in X years time. Incidentally, smoking is banned in the (open air) carpark at St George's, except in designated smoking booths. Like anyone pays attention...

A young man asked for a cigarette. I couldn't work out where mine were, so I said my boyfriend's outside, he'll give you one, which he did, but the young man wandered back into the waiting area and through into 'majors' with a lit cigarette. He was looking for his cab, which arrived and he got in the cab smoking, and had to throw it out the window. (I would have politely asked the cabbie to wait one minute whilst I finished).

A group arrived. Mother my age, daughter about fourteen, two boys aged maybe five and six. The boys proceeded to run round the waiting area, absolutely no control. Later the girl was outside smoking.

When I was waiting to be seen by the doctor, I needed a new dressing. A woman was brought in. I heard the paramedic briefing the nurse. She was 80, and had fallen the previous day, gone to her GP, who had said that if she got worse she should call the ambulance. The paramedic said that she had the best pace and steadiness he had seen in an 80 year old. She had her daughter and grandson with her. Actually, I was surprised, the daughter only looked mid-thirties. The boy was about ten. He sat quietly, behaving, and even when he went outside, presumably through boredom, he stood quietly, huddled in his anorak.

A woman with a tiny baby (too tiny to support her own head) were called in to see nurse. The woman spent ages gesturing. Eventually the young man she was with stood up and ambled over. I assumed he was the father. He looked on another planet and clearly unconcerned about his partner, and seemingly not bothered to hold the child.

While we were waiting for our cab, there was a couple sat opposite us, the man using his phone. I initially wondered what part of "Switch off mobile phones" he didn't understand. But I forgave him; the woman who was, maybe, Polish or Czech, had had a panic attack on a bus. It became clear he was a stranger and had accompanied her to hospital and was ringing her friends to get one to come down, making sure they knew how to find the hospital, and was trying to reassure the young woman.

Another woman started yelling and shouting about Equal Opportunities and Tony Blair; she had come for an injection and she wasn't going to be treated like this. Security appeared and chatted to her in a non-confrontational way; she asked whether he was the 999. Sniggers all round the waiting room. I exchanged smiles with the man with a nasty eye injury and frequent winces of pain. Katerina said calmly but firmly to injection woman "I've had a panic attack and if you carry on shouting, I'll have another one, so please don't shout." We exchanged smiles. The security guard explained to injection woman that she should be patient and wait quietly like everyone else.

It was a quiet night, 1.5 hours waiting for minors, which was shutting at midnight.

Eavesdropping another life

Terry overhears a Pinteresque line.

I had a similar one. "So there was this open phone conversation going on outside the boys' room. Charlie and Lewis were very upset so I took them out on the balcony. The strange thing is there was this black Ford Fiesta hire car patrolling outside the chalet three hours ago. And it turns out that she's his third wife and he's abducted his children before."

Rudeness unleashed

The great thing about moving buildings is knowing that you can be really rude to people and know you won't see them again.

I waited for the lift to go up. It arrived, but the arrow on the control panel and the disembodied woman from Brooklyn told it was going down. Next to me some woman said, "Excuse me, do you want the lift or not?" Her tone was aggressive. Her friend said to her calmly, "It's going down."

"I wanted to go for the ride," she said. You may well laugh, recounting the tale later Caroline said she needs to get out more. In fairness, she then explained "That bloke with the boxes often gets in." I wanted to say that that bloke with the boxes is John, he's a colleague of yours, and his moving the boxes, a job he's been doing at least twenty years, is a vital function for the organisation. Instead, I was thinking - she would not have spoken to me if she knew what grade I was. Should I point out to her that I am an SEO - in her organisation that is someone who sits at the right hand of god. In my organisation, it's a core grade. Then I worried, was I being gradist? I'm not into inappropriate gradism.

Meanwhile, she had reached her floor and got out. A man got in, and came up to my floor, even though he is not of my floor. Someone else wanting to ride the lift, no doubt. "You shouldn't look that miserable," he said. "It's only halfway through the week. You never know, you might win the lottery tonight." I had never seen him before, so there was no way he would know that I am normally a cheerful jokey person.

I decided to let rip. "It is incredibly rude to talk to people like that. You have absolutely no idea what's going on in people's lives." With that, I was through the door into our office and he was on his downwards ride. Recounting the tale to Karen and Caroline, they both gave examples of when people had used the "Cheer up, don't look so miserable," to someone just widowed and someone on their mother's anniversary. For me, I was just absorbed in inconsequential thought. But how was he to know?

Later, overheard in Boots, "...because I moved her poxy suitcase. It's not like the aisle isn't big enough but she didn't care where she put the poxy thing." Seeing a woman - a tourist - standing a clear foot from her suitcase, I smiled.

Observations

Overheard at Euston Station the other day:

Man: I didn't realise that Chester was so near to Wales
Woman: Yes, a lot of our people go into Wales quite often - there's some good shopping places...

(You know the drill - Mandarin Gert thinks are in italics)
Gert: The beautiful and varied landscape of North Wales summed in one pithy phrase 'there's some good shopping places'

Outside the office this morning. Man takes lid off polystyrene cup, places in gutter. Man pours content of polystyrene cup into drain. Man places empty polystyrene cup in gutter.

Gert: There's a bin just over there, you know... (points to bin ten feet away)
Man: I'm not frigging walking over there. Everyone else does it. Why shouldn't I?

Gert: Would I be justified in killing him right now?

Assault on stations

I put my ticket into the barrier at the station. A small hand reached out to grab it as it was thrown out of the barrier. Instinctively, I pushed the small hand away. I turned my head.

"It's not funny!" I said to the grandmother and went to get my train.

Bizarre behaviour. The child was about three and was standing on an elevated part of the barrier structure as grandmother stood a few feet away grinning inanely in adoration of the brat.

I can't imagine there was much risk of any danger to the child. I don't suppose he was sub-contracted by the ticket touts to nick travelcards for resale. Still, I hit the child. Not exactly deliberately, but I had paid nearly a thousand pounds for my travelcard just last week. Could I have been up on a charge of assault or child abuse, sacked from work and my reputation in tatters?

If that behaviour is tolerated when the child is three, who knows what he will be doing at twelve.

On a slightly related note, I am increasingly haunted by something I witnessed at Streatham hill a few weeks back. I think I was too traumatised at the time even to blog about it.

I was doing the usual shuffle up the crowded stairs, walking on the extreme left. On my right was a middle-aged bearded bloke, an academic or government scientist by the look of him. To the right of him, coming down was another man, ugly and tall, yabbering into his mobile, displaying too much gold jewellery. I don't know what happened, but the man coming down landed a firm and loud punch on the jaw of the bearded man. Bearded man lurched and half fell against me. I fell against the wall, banging my elbow.

I tried to forget about it but it's coming back to haunt my dreams. I can't remember when it was, only that I was coming from Croydon via Balham and it was hot. And I was early.

I think the bearded man must have insulted the pride of the drug-dealing man for having the temerity to want to walk up stairs. Tough, there were two or three hundred other people doing the same, and the train had already departed.

Modern Manners

Only five out of ten on a Do you know modern manners?.

Mind you, I was answering them in a vacuum. When going to a dinner party it's pretty normal to notify of dietary needs - and a good host should ask, anyway.

Bollocks to air kissing. To me there's three ways to greet people - proper kiss (cheek, not tongues, obviously...), handshake, or "Hello".

Of course it's okay to ask wedding guests for cash. One set of friends asked for cash donations towards two carefully chosen charities.

The cocaine at the dinner table. Hmm. Naivety - I have never ever seen cocaine in its recreational form, and the thought of my dinner party invitees taking it out in my home is laughable. Frankly, I wouldn't mind as such, but I am absolutely certain that the quality of conversation would deteriorate rapidly, and this ruin my dinner party...

Cacophonous collision of age and youth

with Jimmy and I as bemused bystanding tweenies

Eastbourne. A seaside resort on the South Coast of England. Not far in miles from either Brighton or London but a lifetime away for its people.

Eastbourne is a resort for elderly people. I have stayed in two different Eastbourne hotels and they have both - unlike any other hotel I know - insisted on keys being left at reception for 'fire reasons'. The trendy winebar has a sign in the window "Pot of tea and a cake £1.90".

We chose Eastbourne because it is not Brighton. We chose wisely. What a place to people-watch.

As we emerged on Saturday afternoon to take a prom we saw many very elderly people, some of them accompanied by care assistants, many with wheelchairs or scooters, and a majority, it seemed, with walking sticks. If you can't walk very far, there is little better than to sit on Eastbourne prom amidst the colourful, if municipally formal, flowerbeds, soaking in the September sun, sensibly wrapped in a cardigan.

We were in Wetherspoons for a couple of hours. Quite unlike any other Wetherspoons I have been in. A large and crowded pub, with probably only thirty people older than me.

It was tremendous fun to watch the fashion parade to and fro the loos. Nearly every woman took her drink with her (WKD or Aftershock or Smirnoff Ice or Breezer...in Wetherspoons that sells Real Ale for £1.59 and Chablis for £9.95 a bottle). I can understand the desire no to have anything slipped in, but I wondered what was wrong with the age-old to one's mate "Watch me drink while I go and pee." Only thing was - not one woman went to the loo alone. Every last one went with a mate.

The clothes on display were hilarious. Not one woman looked comfortable. It is sad that so many women dare to wear a shoulderless, strapless top and then lack the confidence to wear it properly. Result - rounded shoulders and a premature Dowagers Hump. Shoes so tight and high that necessitate hopping from foot to foot every few moments - and long before the clubs even open! Constant checking that the micro-mini hasn't ridden up above the knickers. Thankfully few thongs above waistband. There was one, though. Cropped top, skirt down on her hips, utility knicks above the waistband, and still she fidgeted constantly to ensure they were fashionably displaying. Unfortunately she also displayed a midriff that yelled 'puppy fat'.

One wore white shoes with a black outfit. One looked absolutely fab in a black top and flowing black trousers. Ruined by fuschia court shoes. There was the woman with the shoes that tied round her calves, like ballet shoes, and they separated the flesh into individual lumps. Her mate who was exceptionally tall, and thin, in five inch heels, who spent the entire time with her knees bent self-consciously at 45 degrees. Elegant slim woman in a black-and-white harlequin top and skirt ,and her frumpy fatty mate in the identical outfit. The girl in the pleasant black outfit. Shame she had to tie a horizontally striped scarf around her to make her bum, yes, look enormous in it.

I'm struggling to describe the men. All of them were in shirts and trousers and shoes. I couldn't decide whether it was the cut of shirt and design of shoe that shouted 'ned', Or that the shirt was always outside the trousers. I concluded that, above all, it was the splayed-feet walking. And the trio with hoops in both ears - most of the men just had a hoop in one ear.

Then we looked more closely. Many of them were children. The boys looked about sixteen, some of the girls were barely into their teens. The most sophisticated were probably no more than nineteen. It was a parade of meat, desperate to pull, shouting hormones. Most of the girls will be parents by twenty. The boys too, but they will return to join the thirty-year old 'dirty old men' poised at the junction for the loos, waiting to pounce on the girl who wants a sophis'iki'ed older man.

At three o'clock the concert began in the bandstand. From quarter past two the pensioners congregated to ensure the best deckchair in the house. Some of the men placed knotted handkerchiefs over their balded heads. The conductor introduced the first piece - the 'National' Anthem. As one, the pensioners rose, out of respect.

Earlier we had been sitting near the pier eating our fish and chips and mushy peas. A group went by - four Asian women in their thirties with six or seven children, the boys with the little Sikh topknot. They spoke to each other in the language of their parents. The old lady next to us "I don't fink dey should be allowed to come here if dey can't speak English." Who said they can't speak English?

Earlier still, on the beach, a family sat down near to us. Too near and too loud. Except for the older daughter, who was about thirteen and incapable of speech. Little sis (9 or 10) and Dad played in the sea. Mother relaxed and watched the waves. Teenager didn't remove her jacket, sat with her back to the sea and her family, and spent half an hour repeatedly picking up pebbles and dropping them again.

Two young girls - 11 or 12 - walked to the water's edge and enjoyed paddling their feet. Repeatedly, they unconsciously checked that the writing on their knickers was clearly visible above the low-slung waistlines of their denim skirts. They joined their friends and indulged in pebble throwing at each other. And me, just before I glared furiously.

Royston Vasey in Eastbourne

We followed a sign to 'Local Shops'. We went in this shop that I think was a general store and there was this weird woman behind the till. There were some spirits bottles, but just a selection of five or six miniatures where I would expect to see dozens of 70 cl bottles. The shelves were half empty, containing a few tins of spam, toilet rolls etc. I asked whether she sold cigarettes: she said she had some. I asked whether she had Richmond Superkings. She said "You'd better go to the other shop."

I was rather disappointed. I really thought she was going to say "This is a local shop for local people. There's nothing for you here."

Dress code

Looking around, not just in my office, but also en route this morning and in the Victoria Station area morning and lunchtime, there is a very high proportion of men wearing black, dark grey, navy etc suit-type trousers. I don't understand it. One of my colleagues, who is out of the office today, wears light white cotton trousers on hot days, and I think he looks entirely appropriate, despite being somewhat overweight. I could not bear to wear any of my trouser suits today, not even my summer suit, (which has a nylon lining, which will have to go, I think). I am currently wearing a beige cotton skirt and a blue tee-shirt. I don't think I would wear them if I had a meeting, but my female colleagues are dressed similarly, or in cotton dresses, except for one black woman who feels the cold. Our admin bloke is even wearing a tie.

It's not like we have a dress code here, just, as auditors, you tend to dress a certain way. Throughout my career I have often dressed down in the office, especially in the summer, but my managers have always been able to trust me to dress appropriately for meetings. Ten years ago I had a meeting with some terribly senior chap who was popping in at half eight en route from Cheltenham to Whitehall. I decided to wear my thoroughly gorgeous red suit with black velvet collar and cuffs. Afterwards, my manager said he knew what I would wear. I must have pulled a face, because, hurriedly, he said, "No, no, I mean, I knew you would want to create a professional impression."

Smoke break update

Chap has just run out of Collections calling "Excuse me! Excuse me!" at two women crossing the road. They turned round. "This is yours," he said, and passed one a wallet. She gasped, and profusely thanked him.

Stupid traveller

Some people were talking about this at work - stories of stupid questions British tourists ask when on holiday.

Then there was the guy who went to Orlando. On returning from his holiday, he called his tour operator in a rage. He had been expecting an ocean-view room. The operator explained that this was not possible, because Orlando is in the middle of the state. “Don’t lie to me,” he replied. “I looked on the map, and Florida is a very thin state.”

Childlessness and the child obsessed society

I have said before that I can't stand the use of the word 'family' to mean 'children' - as in, family entertainment or a family room in a pub. I see this as just spin by advertisers/marketers. cynically pushing the right buttons to increase their profits.

I have also ranted before about people who believe that their status of parents makes them either morally superior or above the norms of society. And that those without children are somehow dysfunctional.

I get fed up by people who randomly produce sprogs with little thought to the consequences, and expect me to pay for their carelessness.

Listen here. I have a few more words. If you conceive and bear a child it shows no skill or ability on your part - just a happenstance of nature. Obnoxious or inappropriate behaviour is not justified because 'they're only playing' (also a common excuse by dog owners). Selfish behaviour, endangering the lives, safety or environment of others is not justified by your desire to cosset your brats darlings.

If you have a made a choice not to have children, that is your right and you should never have to justify that choice, except to your life partner. However, you must always recognise when you make a choice and expect it to be respected, that other people, who make a different choice, also expect respect for that choice. Also understand that people change their feelings and views as they mature.

It's easy go on an anti-child crusade without really understanding that reproduction will carry on. Put simply, there is a basic biological urge to reproduce. People will argue that as intelligent human beings we are above basic instincts. Remember that the next time you wolf down a burger or shag your partner.

When I was a child the Websters at number 9 were anti-child. not in a nasty way, they were always civil, but they objected to their taxes paying for education. In the endearing political analysis of an 8-year-old, I opined that if it wasn't for Education, children wouldn't grow up to design better caravans. As well as being in the caravan club, they were, needless to say, staunch Tories.

I find the idea of society renewing itself and progressing as exciting. I am excited at the prospect of new life, even though I sometimes despair that that new life doesn't really stand a chance right from the beginning. I do not object to my taxes being spent on measures to alleviate child poverty, and because of that I thoroughly endorse any measures to discourage people from having accidetal and unwanted children. (I also know of very many accidental children who became very much wanted. Maybe you, or your children, are one of those).

I also believe that children are people. I can't stand the parents who believe that every anecdote about their child is the most interesting and/or funny thing ever. I've worked with two like that and at times I've wanted to kill them. I also know, even just on my blogroll there are about ten people who regularly involve their children in their blogging and a few more who do so tangentially. They would not be on my blogroll if I didn't like it. Sometimes those children have problems, sometimes they achieve amazing things. No more or less interesting than blogging about train journeys, poor customer service, passively consuming light entertainment, or the state of the world.

People also say that they oppose fertility treatment on the NHS. Well, la-di-da. How delightful for them. It's easy to get contraception on the NHS. It's easy to get treatment for stupid accidents occurred when partaking in unnecessary pursuits. Or resulting from the abuse of alcohol, or smoking. (I know, I've been there!). Or sexually transmitted infections. I've even heard people say that pregnancy is a disease that should not be treated on the NHS.

There is a spurious argument that says it's wrong that infertility is regarded as a malfunction or a disease. Well, actually, pathologically, it is. There again, there are polls that indicate people oppose AIDS treatment on the NHS.

If you are childless, and would like to have children, and believe that you have the maturity to bring a child up sensibly, and want to create a new life, and want to improve society by instilling values, and want the joy of seeing the world through new eyes, and are able to take the hardship of sleeplessness and wipe up the mess, and withstand the tantrums, and dread the problems of teenage, and resent the "I Know My Rights" parasite brigade, and know that you can do a better job than two thirds of the population, and most of all, know that you have an infinite pool of love to give, then no amount of dogmatic ranting will change your view.

And you can also believe that your life has meaning beyond the ache for the above. Perhaps that's the wisdom of early middle age.

Cycle of poverty

Jimmy has known Liz since she was a baby. She's now twenty. She worked with him three days a week, whilst she went to college. She auditioned for Pop Idol, she took part in street theatre. After a year out, she was destined to go to Drama College this coming Autumn.

At Christmas, she resigned in solidarity with Thieving Scouser when Jimmy pointed out that TS had been taking the tip money (she'd also been dipping the till - takings are well up since the mass resignation, and Alex, "The Polish Girl" does the work of three English women).

Liz went to work at a shoe shop. She is now pregnant by the manager of the shoe shop. He's married.

It just makes me want to bang my head repeatedly against the desk. It's not difficult to go on the Pill. Why didn't he use a condom. I despair at the cycle of lives being ruined by a blatant disregard for contraception. Liz won't go to drama college, now. Great start for the child with no Dad. The mother of Liz's nephews has had five children by three different men, and one of them is a mother herself. Liz's brother has a child with Kadie who used to work in the pub but is now with another bloke and their child. Liz's brother is in and out of prison and doesn't pay Child Support. The children have a bag of crisps for breakfast which ruins their appetite for a sausage sandwich. The parents are all entirely indifferent to the behaviour, and, one suspects, the welfare of the brats. The mothers are resentful of people who haven't fucked up their lives and aren't dependent on Income Support. I just feel the monotonous depression of yet another meaningless life being created with the sole purpose of creating another meaningless life in twenty years.

Bus tours of Britain

David Aaronovitch reports from three dire days touring Britain on tourst coach tours. I have done coach tours in the US, Spain and Egypt. They were far far better than these he describes. I wonder if his were reflective of the overall standard, or whether he just picked some bad ones.

Don't the French have laws against this?

Needless to say, it is worrying when a twelve year old girl runs off with a 31-year-old man. However, I can't let it escape without comment on the delightful spelling of Shevaun. I wonder if they realise it should be Siobhan or Siobhain? I used to have a list of such mistakes, unfortunately, the only one I can remember is Sean. Pronounced 'Seen'.

I have a feeling that in France you can only register a child's name if it is an official name, as per a centrally held register. There are clearly drawbacks to such a prescriptive system, but there are obvious advantages also!