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Thursday, February 24, 2005
If God Had Intended Us to Fly He Would Have Never Invented the Railways
Proof that flying is for the birds  Copenhagen Airport.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Snow
 West Norwood Station in the snow this morning. Two inches caused marginal chaos in the London area. Trains on the West Norwood line were about 15-30 minutes late. That's pretty good compared to previous snow falls. Are we getting used to bad weather?
Monday, February 21, 2005
Bus v. Train v. Bike
A cancelled train yesterday cuased me to take an alternative route to work - the bus. I didn't fancy a 20 minute wait for the next train, which would have been standing room only. So, a chance to try out the express X68 bus from West Norwood to Waterloo Bridge.
Two things learned:
1. It's not that much quicker by train - I got to work about 5 minutes later than normal.
2. Judging by the cyclists passing us, I could cycle to work just a s quick as the bus.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Senses Attacked at Victoria Station
Sight: man with a rainbow scarf
Sound: Thom Yorke yapping in my ear
Smell: Delice de France - croissants
Taste: lingering coffee beans
Touch (Pain): my knee gave me gip as I stood up to leave the train
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Bus Etiquette: Part Two
Part two of the things that muck up Bus Etiquette: Is that lady pregnant, or is she just plain fat?
Giving up your seat, as already covered, is a difficult mine field in which to venture your precious little paws. As a lady, and as a lady who can climb stairs, I quite often side step these mine fields, because the golden rule of bus travel is if you're sat upstairs you don't need to give up your seat for no one, no how. Once ensconced upstairs, you don't even need to pay attention to your fellow travellers. You don't even need to look up once at the idiotic fool who has plonked themselves beside you. In fact, it's best you don't. In the winter months, they usually have a streaming cold involving all sorts of bodily fluids that, when you're trapped between them and the wall of the bus, might make you spontaneously throw up such is the wretched foulness of their state. I get trapped in the paranoia of catching colds from people on buses, and have to resist the very strong temptation to strap on a gas mask and start pushing away the unclean. In the summer months, it's almost worse, because their exposed flesh is pressed up against your exposed flesh and it's a whole fleshy sweaty thing that makes my skin crawl to think on it. (What I need, I realise now, is a chauffeur.) So it's best not to look at what's sat beside you at any point ever, and on the upper deck that's perfectly allowable, nay actively encouraged.
But yes. The point in hand. When sitting downstairs, it is assumed that when someone who is a little bit more shaky on the legs, or slightly more laden down, or a bit spakky around the head, gets on the bus, you as the able-bodied or younger or less sanity-imbalanced should give up your seat so the special needs can have a nice sit down while enjoying their day out in the community. And that's fine and dandy and quite as it should be - those in need of seats get seats, those who aren't so needful in the seat department can happily hang on for dear life as the driver takes corners on two wheels and tries to tip the bus on it's side. This system works spectacularly well for the most part. The only problem is, I can never decide who is worthy, and who just looks a bit worthy.
See, if a lady is pregnant, she's in dire need of a seat. She will have been made all fat and round by a gentleman's special hug, and there will be a tiny human baby growing inside her tummy. This makes her ankles sore and her legs swell up, and all these ladies want more than anything in the world is a cigarette and a nice sit down. Since you're not allowed to smoke when you're pregnant, the next best thing is the sit down, and ladies with babies on board like nothing more than a long sit down, particularly on a bus. So the immediately decent thing to do when spying a lady with a large prominent tummy is to offer up your seat for the sake of her and her unborn. And thus introduces the constant conundrum when travelling on the bus - Is that lady merely Fat or is she With Child?
Do you offer the seat and risk calling her a loafing heifer right to her face, or do you ignore her plight and possibly damage her vertebrae forever? Do you give up your seat to someone who basically has spent too much quality time with chocolate, or do you snub the wonderful life givers of this world, those who suffer so that our species can continue?
I find it best to ignore everyone, always, ever.
...A Good Service Operating on All Other Lines...
A wall of people trying to get down to the Victoria Line, blocked due to platform overcrowding.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Victoria Station
Girls in fishnets, red lacy stockings and knee high boots. Can only mean it's Rag Week at some uni or college in town. I reckon it's medical students.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Last Thursday on the bus on the way home from work, I was suddenly and inexplicably surrounded by old people.
The events happened as follows: I got on the bus (no problems, everyone around me was under 30 and slightly odd looking, all perfectly normal for that time of night); I sat downstairs; I opened my OU book; I pumped up the volume on the discman; I immersed myself in the frankly boring world of child psychology.
Two stops later, we were taking longer to upload passengers than usual, so I tore myself away from the fascinating Bowlby theory of attachment and looked up. And lo, there they were. Old people. Hundreds of them. Doddering and wobbling and grinning from ear to ear like a rubbish out take from Cocoon. Where had they come from? Where were they going to? Why were they travelling en masse? All of these questions occurred in rapid succession, but the most pressing thought was: where the hell are they all going to sit?
The dilemma of giving up seats while travelling on public transport is one that I frequently am confronted with, and I have quite a good system for dealing with it - I don't give up my seat. And before you start with the evil looks and the tutting and the stamping of feet and the moral highground, I'd like to tell you that I'm quite, quite evil.
No, the way I get around it is I usually sit upstairs. If anyone is sprightly enough to make it up the stairs on a Dublin bus, you're capable of standing downstairs - and you must be considerably sprightly to climb those stairs, as well as slightly acrobatic, because Dublin bus drivers seem to get extra points or a weekly bonus or at least some kind of sexual thrill if they knock you off your feet while ascending or descending the stairs, such is the veracity to which they dedicate themselves to the task.
But last night, there I was, trapped in a sea of blue rinses and false teeth, hips, knees and bladders. Looking around me, I could see that many other passengers were also feeling the horror I was experiencing, as they looked at this swarm of OAPs wrinkling towards us. We did what we had to do. As one, we all stood up and ran up the stairs, thereby achieving two things:
1. We'd given up our seats like good responsible citizens.
2. We'd rubbed their OAP faces in the fact that we can all still run up stairs.
Friday, February 04, 2005
"It doesn't matter how long you live, if Jesus is in your life"
So sayeth the man bellowing at the top of his lungs at Victoria Station this morning. Yesterday, we only had Southern Railway managers fielding questions from irate commuters.
What will we get on Monday?
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Cycling Commuter Blog
Just came across a new commuting blog. McFlea is chronicling hisher biking into work - flat tyres and all.
I'll be following with interest; will add McFlea to the blogroll; and, ask if s/he wants to guest post.
And, of course, any reader is welcome to contribute to this blog. The e-mail address is on the left.
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