There’s No Need To Top Up

In hindsight, agreeing to commute for a total of 4 hours every day wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made. Not so much the journey itself – a drive, 3 trains and a 15 minute walk – more the resentment of losing sleep and losing most of my evenings for the past 8 months.

So I’ve done the sensible thing and found a new job 45 minutes closer to home. A commute that’ll still feature a drive and a 15 minute walk but just the one train. No more London Underground. No more DLR. No more being bowled over by umbrella wielding commuters intent on obeying a Pavlovian-type sprint response to the doors-closing beeping sound, despite the next train being (literally in peak times) a minute away. No more calculations to determine the most optimum route through the bowels of London (the Jubilee to Victoria Line interchange saves me about 30 seconds over the DLR to Northern Line one. What should I do with those 30 seconds?).

45 minutes doesn’t sound much. But it’s an hour and a half per day. Effectively I’ll get a full working day back by the end of the week.

As of this Monday morning, I have one week to go. The underground countdown starts today.

So if you’re thinking of taking on a 2-hour-each-way commute, don’t do it. Life’s far too short and you’ll just resort to writing endless nonsense in a blog that starts its life as a well-meaning, optimstic ode to the weird world of commuting but gradually becomes a dirge of drivel.

Random Train Thoughts

I’ve never kissed a girl as tall as me.

They should let men pee test toilets before they buy them, if the apparent difficulty one of our guests had is anything to go by.

Being tiny is a definite advantage on a busy tube train. But only in winter.

The people that bemoan the use of messaging on mobile phones have no idea what they’re missing out on. When the Wi-Fi signal appears at each tube stop, so do the random smiles when the messages arrive. It’s a cheery sight on an otherwise miserable journey.

Linked-In has turned everybody into a job tart. This is a good thing. Especially if you’re a job pimp.

Nearly 3 years after leaving China, I still can’t get the 11 note Family Mart tune out of my head.

If commuters did the conga rather than shuffling would that be more efficient?

The best taxi company in the world is definitely Pyjama Cabs.

Look, I’m tired and my brain is restless.

Sister Sledge and A Terrorist’s Pledge

After a sleepless night, a delayed overground train and a strange Tube journey (I offer my seat to lady wearing “Baby on board” badge, she glares at me like I’ve gone mad), my walk into the office was a proper grumpy one.

My phone currently has a more varied selection of songs than normal courtesy of a recent holiday (where I suspected – correctly as it turned out – I’d be playing music to a wider audience than just me). So, midway through my grumpy stroll, Sister Sledge’s “He’s the greatest dancer” popped up. I most certainly am not, but for no apparent reason (other than perhaps a suppressed love of disco) this cheered me up immediately.

Later on, during a break at work, I read about the 28 (at time of writing) people killed in Tunisia and a decapitation in France at the murderous hands of suspected religiously-motivated terrorists. I make no anti-religious statements in this blog, largely because I don’t really care what people choose to believe in, but this kind of brought my mood back down again.

I genuinely don’t understand: if there’s no joy or love – only hate – in the religion you seek solace in, then ultimately who’s purpose are you serving? Isn’t that the job of the other fella? It’s an argument that expressed in the most articulate form I can muster is: “You don’t believe the same thing as me, therefore you deserve to die.”

So while you work it out; while you fight it out; while you slaughter it out, would you mind leaving the rest of us out of it please?

I’ve been listening to BBC 6Music this afternoon – they’ve been covering the Glastonbury festival, which is where I’d normally expect to be at this time of year (missed out on tickets). I’m envious of those attending: a different world in which two hundred thousand people can gather on a farm for a few days, forget about the outside world and never once be tempted to kill each other regardless of beliefs.

6Music have been playing non Glastonbury related songs too. Just before I left, they played “We Are Family”, by Sister Sledge. I discoed my way to the DLR station.

In Praise Of: Cellos

After mostly complaining in recent blogs, I just thought I’d write about cellos for a bit.

There’s a level of commitment amongst certain musicians that puts the rest of us to shame. Seeing a cellist struggle to bundle a giant instrument case onto a busy London Underground train was a particularly admirable sight.

Never mind the ticket barriers presumably thinking Mr Cello is another human (taking the French steer on the gender of musical instruments here), how do you get them onto the escalator and physically onto the Tube without knocking everyone over or blocking the “in a bit of a hurry” lane?

Thanks to the ubiquity of guitars, I’ve been lucky enough to strum along late at night in a Cuban Bar; I’ve mesmerised midnight Chinese revellers with my boozy renditions of popular indie tunes whilst sat on the steps outside Jing’An station in Shanghai. But you tend not to stumble upon a stray cello when roaming the streets on holiday.

Shame really – can’t beat the deep, soulful sound of a cello late at night. Unless I’m attempting to play it like a guitar, that is. It doesn’t work – I’ve tried.

So to all you cellists – I promise not to get grumpy if you’re blocking the escalator. That you’re able to lug your giant string instrument around London at all is ridiculously impressive.

An Umbrella Rant

Apologies in advance – bit ranty this one.

In an earlier post about being elected mayor of London, I listed the number one thing on my list to ban was golf umbrellas.  I hereby declare it my mission to get the damn things banned long before then.

On the London Underground, it’s packed. This evening I found a rare seat but some git with a soaking wet bloody parasol stood in front of me. You’re damn right there’s nowhere to put it sunshine – it’s too big! Don’t give me and the other passengers who now have wet legs an apologetic look. And another bloke – when you’re walking through the carriage with your dripping brolly leaving a trail of wet people behind you- THINK!  Leave the thing at home and take a brolly just big enough for your head next time even though I know it won’t cover your ego.

Even worse is when you’re walking up the escalators. It’s not a sword. Keeping it by your side and knocking all the people on your right… How can you not notice!?  How can you not feel the death stares in your oblivious skull? 
Ban Golf Umbrellas now!

In my Goth years, I used to permanently carry an umbrella, for rain is the known mortal enemy of Goth hair. It was a small brolly with a hook. I used to hook it to the inside armpit of my leather jacket. Thus not impacting anyone. If you carried your golf umbrella on the inside of your stripey suit, we’d all be a lot happier.

What cheered me up sightly was noticing the irony of so many people absolutely soaking wet whilst declaring through the medium of brand advertising that they were in fact “Super Dry”.

Squished

Of all the challenges of traveling on a packed London underground train (personal space, smells, protecting my skull, having the Daily Mail within my line of sight, etc) there’s none I struggle with more than people trying to talk to me when I’m within kissing distance of them.

Fortunately, this happens rarely; my earphones and half asleep demeanor usually serving as an effective conversational barrier.

This morning my commute was an hour later than normal, a mistake I won’t make again after spending 12 minutes wedged between several hundred other people also trying desperately hard to semi-permanently breathe-in, thus making their bodies smaller than usual and less likely to come into contact with body parts that aren’t their own.

After elbowing the same lady in the head twice, I took it upon myself to remove an earphone (to remove both would be an invitation to converse) and apologised. She took it in good grace, and started to talk about how the train seemed busier than normal. This was a lovely thing for a stranger on a train to do of course.

Polite conversation ensued, but with another dialogue taking place in my head: “You’re too close to have this conversation! She’s missed a bit of makeup on the edge of her nose! Back away, back away!”

It’s absolutely lovely that people are prepared to talk to total strangers, and had we been an hour earlier, it would have made that part of the commute far more enjoyable than normal.

As it was, I had a 5 minute discussion squished up against a glass partition, engaging in conversation at a distance I’d only expect my wife to suffer.

I need some of those giant over-ear headphones. The ones that make you look like Mickey Mouse on a bad ear day. Unless you’re Minnie Mouse, they definitely don’t invite conversation.

The Etiquette of Lifts

I once had a debate with a feminist over the rights and wrongs of lift (elevator if you’re American) etiquette.  We both agreed by default it should be first arrived, first in. But we didn’t agree to the exceptions to those rules.

It’s been drilled into me since a kid that it should always be “ladies first” and so while waiting for a lift, if a lady arrived after me, I’d always let her in first. My new feminist acquaintance argued this was effectively institutionalised sexism, little better than me accepting and never challenging any equivalent racist views. As in: if one’s race should fair no better in society than any other race, why should one’s sex? I argued the need for separation of sexes in many aspects of life (sports, changing rooms, shopping for bras) proved that society necessarily differentiated between sexes in a way that it should never do over race.

She found it demeaning that this attitude meant I felt women needed to go first in queues.  She challenged this notion, refusing to accept “tradition”, “culture” or “politeness” as a valid defence. Why should somebody go first just because they happen to be a woman?

Ultimately, I conceded she had a valid point.

The same is ostensibly true of the London Underground – if lucky enough to have a seat, I’ll readily relinquish it for those pregnant or unable to stand (age, disability, drunkenness, etc). However, I freely admit I am more likely to offer my seat to an elderly lady than an elderly man. 

When I started a new job a couple of years ago, I did try to bear in mind this “institutionalised sexism” perspective when waiting for a lift.  But it gets a little awkward when every other man in the company seems to follow the same rules as I previously did, with my new feminist credentials neither respected nor understood. 

I started another new job a few months ago.  I walk up the stairs.

How To Amuse Yourself Underground

Onboard the London Underground every day, I tend to look around. People are far more interesting than advertisements, next-stop scrolling notifications or the floor.  Occasionally I’ll meet somebody’s eye and get a smile of acknowledgement or a baffled “What you looking at me for?” death stare.

I look around and wonder what the bloke wearing trousers baggy enough to get both legs in one thinks of those of us in suits. I wonder what the hippy lady with natural skin and wild grey hair thinks of the lady next to her intricately applying makeup in layers so thin a 3D printer could do a faster job.

As I look around, my mind wanders and I may well remember something funny.  This can (and has) result in looks of sheer panic on the faces of people – particularly blokes – if I happen to catch their eye as I’m beaming away at some distant memory.

Of course that makes things even funnier.

“Smile”

As stubborn as I am (and I am), I do occasionally listen to advice.  Sometimes, I even follow it.

I have a friend; the best sort of friend who doesn’t hide behind platitudes and sentimentality when it comes to offering advice. She once accused me of not smiling enough. Admittedly, this from a person whose smile beams Jedi mind tricks unto those that come across it (“Yes, of course I’ll give you a new laptop”, “Why yes of course I’ll cancel my other meetings to discuss your priorities”, etc).  But I took the advice onboard nonetheless.

This evening, had I uttered the phrase “Excuse me mate, but could you move down a bit please – it’s a little cramped in here” to the flustered looking man on a packed underground train with an angry scowl on my face, he may well have continued to stand his ample ground. Said with a smile on my face, he shuffled up and several other commuters also smiled with relief.

A smile gets me a free cake in Costa Coffee, a meeting room when there are none and an upgrade to first class on a stupidly busy train at cheap weekend rates for me and a few friends when it’s not the weekend. 

A smile can stave off anger; it can bring onboard those who may otherwise oppose; it can influence when faced with a level of stubbornness mirroring my own.

I’ve not traditionally been an outwardly sentimental person, but it’s funny how a smile doesn’t only brighten my own day.

And I get free cake.