Cocktails and Records

An excerpt from a conversation between myself and an advertising sales person for a certain well-known free newspaper available in London:

Them: So you read X newspaper?
Me: Actually, I don’t. Not frequently anyway.
Them: You don’t? Do you live in London?
Me: Yes.
Them: And you travel on the tube?
Me: Yes.
Them: And you don’t read X?
Me: No.
Them: Really?
Me: Yes.
Them: You must read Y [well-known rival London freesheet] then?
Me: No, I don’t really read that either.
Them: What do you do on the tube then?
Me: I read my book…
Them: Really… You read books? Well, I guess you could do that… But let me just confirm - you don’t read X?
Me: No.
Them: Or Y?
Me: No.
Them: You read books?
Me: Look, would you just send me your rate card?
Them: Certainly, but you really should read X when you’re next on the tube.

After my experience with the Chancer last week, I’m beginning to feel like I live in an alternative travel universe. Or is reading a book on public transport actually really weird and I just haven’t realised it yet?

Another train journey, another encounter with a fellow Londoner. This time I was walking through the station when a middle aged man came up to me. He was wearing a suit and looked relatively normal. Not that this means anything.

‘Excuse me’  he says ‘but do you know how to get to Holloway from here?’
‘Not exactly, but I think there is a bus. The guys who work here at the station will probably know the number.’
‘Thanks.’

I assume the encounter is over and think nothing of it. He however, has had a bright idea:

‘Do you want to come for a drink?’
‘No, sorry.’ I say.
‘What, don’t you like Holloway?’
‘No. I just don’t want to go for a drink. I’m going home.’
‘Are you gay?’

Obviously I must be. Not wanting to go for a drink in Holloway with some random bloke I’ve exchanged two sentences with at the station clearly indicates that I am gay. If only all things in life were so easily determined.

‘I’m going now.’  I say as I turn to leave.
‘Please tell me you’re gay.’ he sighs as I walk away.

Would it have been kinder to tell him I was?

I didn’t sleep very well last night so was quite tired when I boarded my train this morning. Clearly one of my fellow passengers was suffering from a similar affliction - I found him curled up asleep in the opposite doorway. I let him be, went on into the carriage and sat down with my book.

The sleeper slept on, but didn’t stir when we got to the end of the line at Liverpool Street station. In response, the other people in the carriage, rather than wake or confront the sleeper, attempted to gingerly step over him, eventually waking him in the process.

Oblivious to stares from the gathering queue of people waiting to leave the train, the sleeper picked himself up, smoothed down his clothes, picked up his bag and hopped off the train as though it was a perfectly normal morning.

You have to admire people who can truly sleep anywhere.

Some things never fail to put a smile on my face - Teenage Fanclub songs, Charlie Brooker’s Guardian columns, the theme tune to 70s sitcom Man about the House, ugg boots… Yes, ugg boots, the Australian ‘fashion footwear’, are absolutely guaranteed to make me smirk.

You see, where I grew up in the 80s, the sort of people who wore ugg boots were the sort of people who freely and shamelessly teamed said boots with skin tight black jeans, t-shirts advertising a particular variety of bourbon and a mullet hair cut. If you wanted to advertise yourself as the kind of bloke whose idea of a good time was driving repeatedly up and down the main street in a hotted up car with a slab of VB beer in the back, sharing your AC/DC records with the whole town, then you wore ugg boots.

So obviously when I saw some trendy 20-something women with Jennifer Anniston hairdos yesterday wearing ugg boots I just couldn’t stop myself from smiling.  Ah, cultural context is everything isn’t it?

As if to prove that good weather really does bring out the best in usually reticent Londoners (either that or everyone other than me is relishing the prospect of Boris Johnson as mayor), a fellow passenger on the bus, after loudly proclaiming that summer has arrived, offered around cans of Diamond White cider and pork pies to fellow passengers. He was completely wasted but, hey, the sun was shining and Boris is banning drinking on public transport.

It’s been lovely, sunny and warm here in London this week. And apart from the instant good cheer that the sun seems to bring out in people, I can revel in my ongoing amusement at the difference between British and Australian attitudes towards weather.

As soon as the thermostat hits 20 degrees, people in the UK start stripping their clothes off, wearing strappy footwear to work, drinking al fresco and saying that they’re roasting. Even when it’s cloudy and there is a gale blowing. I will never forget my boss in Glasgow who used to start wearing sandals to work at the first sign of summer sun because that meant that it was officially hot.  

In comparison, people in the perpetually mild city of Sydney start throwing on their hats, gloves and scarves the minute it gets around 12 - 15 degrees. A handful of days under 10 degrees constitutes a cold snap and leads to discussion about just how freezing cold it is. I will never forget a colleague in Sydney who was always prepared for the worst and carried a cardigan with her all summer - just in case the temperature dipped below 30.

Thankfully though, I am comparatively immune to this and manage to wear much the same clothes all year round in both countries. I’ve rarely worn a winter coat in Sydney and I’ve rarely worn a summer dress in the UK. Perhaps this year?

A couple of members of my tai chi class were milling around waiting for class to begin the other day. For once we didn’t lament our lack of practice during the past week but instead discussed our day jobs:

‘So how long have you been working in the maritime industry?’ an older classmate asked another woman of about my age.

She looked perplexed. She works for an accountancy firm in the City.

Then it suddenly dawned on both of us where this misunderstanding had come from.

She was wearing a British Sea Power t-shirt.

It’s usually quite quiet in the City of London on weekend afternoons. Sadly, it wasn’t quiet enough last Saturday afternoon.

I was running a bit late and rushing to a talk at the Barbican Arts Centre when I hit the usually very busy thoroughfare that is Moorgate. There wasn’t much traffic, but I dutifully stopped at the pedestrian crossing.

Behind me was a man with a pram and a 6 year old girl. ‘Why don’t you press the button?’ the father said cheerily to his daughter - the very moment my hand hit the metal. I turned to give her a ‘sorry’ kind of smile. She glared back. Clearly I had ruined her day.

So we stood there waiting at the lights. The traffic cleared, but the lights did not change. I had just decided to make a run for it when the old lady who had by now joined us commented ‘I think that it’s great that you’re teaching your family to cross the road properly.’

I grimace. Can’t she tell that these are not my children? Do I look like the sort of person who has children?  I try to ignore her and look at my watch to estimate just how late I could potentially be if I don’t cross the road now.

‘Yes’ she continues ‘It’s really great that you’re being such responsible parents.’

I kind of make a half hearted, embarrassed gesture and say that we’re not actually together. However, she doesn’t hear me and continues to rub the situation in: ‘We could easily cross now, but I suppose that we should lead by example and wait for the green man. How old is your daughter?’

Again, I try and unsuccessfully indicate that we’re not together. The father helps out by doing absolutely nothing other than smirking. His daughter continues to glare. I am glued to the pavement. The old lady looks at me a bit strangely, but makes yet another comment about how nice it is to see good parenting these days.

The lights still don’t change even though there is no traffic now. I look at the father. He continues to smirk.

Something snaps inside me and I just bolt across the road. I don’t look back and I don’t stop. I run all the way to the Barbican.