Cocktails and Records

I know that living in a city can be a pretty efficient way of removing any semblance of civility from your life, but even this recent exchange on the morning tube managed to surprise me.

As usual I am sitting engrossed in my book pretending to ignore everything going on around me, including in this case, a minor scuffle taking place by the tube doors. From the mêlée a male voice suddenly pipes up saying ‘Please don’t push me.’

‘You’re too slow’ is the curt response he receives from a woman striding my way.

‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got a bad leg’ he replies apologetically, collapsing into a seat near the door.

I discreetly lower my book and take a peep. The woman is a middle-aged, well dressed and clearly off to work in some kind of office. In other circumstances, I might describe her as kindly looking. But not now. Definitely not now.

‘So?’ she snaps ‘You’re too slow. I had to actually get on you know.’

‘I have a bad leg…’ he protests quietly. He looks as though he is around my age and not the sort of person who usually enjoys getting into scraps with middle-aged women on public transport. He also has a bad leg.

Is she going to recognise this and apologise? Like hell she is. ‘Well, you shouldn’t be on the tube then. People like you shouldn’t be allowed on.’

He, like the rest of quietly listening carriage, is clearly flabbergasted by this. But he just sighs and says matter-of-factly ‘Please have some compassion.’

This is a mistake.

She yells across the carriage at him ‘I have no compassion!‘

There is no answer to this. He goes silent and pulls out a book. The rest of us rustle our papers, shuffle our feet and avoid looking at the woman with no compassion.

A converation overheard on the train:

‘Hi Joan*, fancy seeing you here. It’s been ages since we last saw each other. How’s your new house extension? Is it finished yet?’
‘Yes. It’s really nice thanks.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘The best thing is that the kids have their own rooms and that we’ve got a cupboard for the ironing board’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s just the right size for the ironing board.’
‘That’s useful. Can you keep the hoover in there too?’
‘Yes, I put both of them in the same cupboard.’
‘Oh, I do that too.’
‘And you know how we used to have that grey hoover? Well, I gave it to Mary and bought a new one. It’s grey too, but that slightly darker shade of grey.’
‘Oh, I know that shade. And it fits in the cupboard?’
‘Yes, right alongside the ironing board. I bought a new ironing board cover too’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s lovely, all yellow but with a bit of green to go with those curtains in the kitchen, you know the ones?’
‘Yes, well, that cupboard sounds really good.’
‘It is good, yes. We might even put a shelf in!’
‘Now that would be useful.’
‘Yes, maybe two if I can convince Jack to do it…’
‘Well, this is my stop. It’s been lovely to see you and catch up. We really must meet up soon’.

* names changed to protect the boring

Looking to entertain some visiting friends over the weekend, we found ourselves in a Bloomsbury restaurant on Saturday night. And fortunately for us, entertainment was unwittingly the forté of the restaurant we chose.

It started off well. We enter the semi-full restaurant, explain that we haven’t made a booking and the four of us are still allocated a nice table. We begin flicking through the menu and the wine list, assuming that a waiter would soon come to take our order – as normally happens in these situations. A waiter did arrive, not to take our order though, but to remove all the wine glasses from the table.

Seeing our confusion, another waiter comes over and helps him take away the rest.

Waiter No.2 then returns and asks whether we’d like to order drinks. W. orders a bottle of Merlot. ‘What number is that sir?‘ Waiter No.2 asks, leaning over and helpfully pointing out that all the drinks have numbers. It’s No.17. Job done, he swiftly leaves before we can order anything else.

At this point, Waiter No.3 turns up, asking us whether we had made a booking. ‘No‘ W. replies. This answer is clearly unsatisfactory. Waiter No.3 comes round to the other end of the table and whispers to me ‘Are you sure you haven’t made a booking? ‘. ‘No‘ I assure him ‘we haven’t. Is that a problem?’. ‘No‘ he says, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Some moments later all hell breaks loose in the kitchen. We hear shouting, clashing and banging. Finally, Waiter No.1 emerges sheepishly bringing all the wine glasses back out. Unfortunately, we make things difficult for him by pointing out that only three of us are drinking the wine. Ever helpful, Waiter No. 2 arrives and interrogates heavily pregnant F. ‘You’re not drinking wine? What are you drinking then?’

Drinks eventually sorted out, it’s time to order food. But not without more shouting from the kitchen and Waiter No.1 returning to assure us that everything is alright. ‘There has been a problem’ he says ‘but it is ok now.’

It is fine. Until the food starts to arrive. Three of the starters come from the kitchen and we patiently wait for the fourth. Waiter No.2 notices that something is amiss. He comes over and goes to clear away the knives and forks from in front of the still-waiting R. Waiter No.3 arrives with the dish and glares at Waiter No.2 who backs away quickly.

Not put off by the guffaws from our table, Waiter No.1 re-emerges and whispers again that there has been a problem, but its fine and we’re not to worry.  

Thankfully for the rest of evening, it is fine. We order another bottle of No.17 and enjoy the food, which is exceptionally good. Luckily for them.

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.