Disgruntled Commuter

Nice Weather for Ducks

I hate to point out the bleeding obvious but the following facts appeared to have escaped those responsible for the rail infrastructure of our country.


Britain is a cold, windy, and above all wet little island.


The chances, therefore, of stepping out at around 5:30 on any evening, winter or summer, and thinking 'Oh what a lovely evening for sitting out unprotected from the elements' are fairly small. Unless you're a duck.


The sort of protection provided at a small suburban station (say, Kew Bridge, for sake of argument) consists of a couple of things the size and shape of a bus shelter, suitable for maybe eight strangers, or at a pinch fifteen good friends intent on an orgy. Or, indeed, a goodly number of ducks.


The number of people waiting for a train this evening at Kew Bridge was more like forty or fifty, most of whom were either hunched miserably in the rain, with the rest trying unsuccessfully to huddle under one of the two bus shelter type things, without coming into contact with any strangers' body parts.


And no ducks.


And to add insult to dampness, the trains have started running late. 15 minutes in total today. Time to start counting?
1.12.05 18:56


Walking Blues

I have been unable to use my bike all week while my hand recovers from valiantly fighting off last weekend's paving stone attack, which has meant walking 20 minutes in the cold, dark wet in the morning and 20 minutes back in the cold, dark wet in the evening. All of which was bad enough before I realised this morning that the sock-shoe combination I had unwisely chosen to wear was one of the sock-swallowing kind. I had the choice of hopping down the road pulling my socks up at every other step like an errant schoolchild or simply letting my socks gradually work their way down until they were concertina-ed around my feet and I could bear it no more. The problem is worn elastic on the socks and shoes which have reached the 'comfortable but disintegrating' stage of the great shoe life cycle. It looks like I'm going to have to get in touch with my inner girl and go shoe shopping. Either that or it's socks on the Christmas list again...
2.12.05 18:32


You Have Arrived

There are some things that, sadly, can't be done on public transport and moving sofas across London is one of them (but oh what a blog that would be) so the other half and I have hired a van for the weekend and are busy using it to do any number of van-driver type things although I haven't yet let him buy a tabloid or spend half the day in a lay-by drinking tea strong enough to stand a spoon up in.


What he did get to do was play with his Tom-tom - and no, that is not a euphemism, it's a satellite navigation system that comes with his iPaq. Give Tom-tom woman a postcode and she will direct you there in a soothingly husky voice, with just enough of an edge of asperity if she has to repeat herself ('As soon as possible, turn around. Then turn left.Turn left now.') to suggest that continued disobedience would be punished severely. As I always used to be the navigator on car journeys I was a little put out by my apparent obsolescence. But it turns out that she's not perfect either, as this little comparison shows:


On the one hand Tom-tom woman:
Is never on the wrong page of the map, or too busy arguing with the radio to point out the next turn.
Has never knowingly said 'you know when I say left I mean right.'
Does not take a sharp inward breath when you are tailgating someone at ninety miles an hour.
Doesn't sulk or argue when her route is criticised or her advice is ignored.
Doesn't appear to be capable of bursting into tears.


On the other hand Disgruntled Commuter:
Does not have an inexplicable fondness for Kingston town centre during the Saturday shopping rush in the run up to Christmas.
Does not insist on repeatedly navigating you the wrong way up a one way street.
Does not lose sight of her satellites, suddenly decide you are on a different street heading in the wrong direction and panic, repeatedly calling for left and right turns.
Does not run out of batteries, switch off, and abandon you in the middle of Chiswick.


Fortunately we had brought a back up: me and the A-Z. I think the current score is 3-2 to me on penalties. After extra time.
3.12.05 18:47


Catapostrophe

Sorry to get all Lynne Truss on you for a moment but I passed a sign today that had misused (or rather omitted) an apostrophe and something in me snapped. I'm not talking about a hand written sign put up by someone whose job is selling fruit and veg., I'm talking about a sign that was professionally produced and printed without anyone - the customer, the person who created the sign, the punctuation police - pointing out that it was completely illiterate. It's not the only one. There's a cafe round the corner that spells out in neon - and it was obviously tricky to get the apostrophe in there as it had to have its own individual bulb - that it sells "snack's" (and yes I had to type that about three times before I could override my own subconscious and put the damn thing in). But that's not the one that really bugs me. The one that really bugs me is the one in the underpass on the way to Vauxhall, the one I pass twice a day and the one that gets me every time. It's annoying enough as it is that they've chosen to create a naff yet sadly unvandalisable mural celebrating the history of Vauxhall - or at least the history of Vauxhall as it was before they knocked it all down to put in an underpass - without it committing such illiteracies as:


"They say when you're born in Lambeth / They give you a silver shovel / to keep the river wide. / Its friendly rivalry"


What on earth is that supposed to mean? It only makes what little sense it does if the apostrophe is included in "it's" and even then it's pushing it.


The thing is, the rules for using apostrophes are not difficult. It's not like the comma. Anyone who reads this blog regularly will be aware that I use the standard comma placement rule (stick one in if the sentence starts looking a bit long - if you've already used too many commas try a semi-colon, or, if you're feeling really daring, try a colon. When in doubt you can't go wrong with dashes...). Using commas correctly involves properly understanding grammar, things like 'defining clauses' and the like, and I don't - I was part of the generation that didn't get beyond the verb, the noun and the adjective at school. But even I know about apostrophes. The rules just aren't very complicated at all. A child could undersatand them. A properly educated greengrocer could understand them. But, it seems, the person in charge of naff mural design in Lambeth simply can't, or can't be bothered - which is worse.


OK, so it's not really a catastrophe if an apostrophe is misplaced here or there, even in printed material. But English is ambiguous enough without removing one of the little clues that helps us disentangle our written sentences. And if the people who are supposed to be in charge can't get them right, then who will?


I leave you with this (probably apocryphal) sign that makes my point:


Residents refuse to be left here


... And there will now be a slight pause while I hurriedly check back through the archives of my blog for stray, missing or redundant apostrophes ...
5.12.05 18:38


Taking the ... Michael

This morning, crossing the road, I almost walked into a man relieving himself on a street corner - nothing furtive about it, just peeing away with his back to the main road. And a week or so before we were in Hampton Wick - hardly gritty urban London, a suburb that could have been designed with the words 'leafy' in mind - climbing up the stairs to the platform when we saw another man just pissing into the corner of the stairs at five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. I'm sorry, but did I miss the announcement that it was now OK to pee in public, any time of the day or night? Was there a Public Urination (Promotion) Act that I unaccountably overlooked? The thing about both these encounters was that I wasn't shocked; I wasn't even surprised. And the culprits didn't react to my noticing them with any sort of shame or embarrassment. If anything, the look I got was more along the lines of 'Excuse me, can't you see I'm having a pee? Would you give me a bit of privacy here, please?'


The thing is, guys (and yes, it is always guys in my experience although maybe 24 hour binge drinking will see to that), it stinks. The whole of London seems to be affected. Anywhere you are, any time of the day or night, you can pass a corner or turn down a street and then, wham, a blast of rank stale urine. The whole city smells like a badly cleaned public toilet. It's foul. And I don't think we should put up with it any more.


There's not much you lads can do about it, apart from keeping it zipped of course, but for us girls there is one thing we can try. Public ridicule. Point and laugh. Especially these days when it's nice and cold and there's not much to laugh at. I think it's time to start a campaign.
6.12.05 22:55


It's Like they Passed a Law

I had the day off today and decided to spend it Christmas shopping in central London - not quite as mad as it seems because, during the morning at least, there aren't too many other shoppers about on a weekday. After about an hour and a half I found I had been in and out of a dozen shops and bought precisely nothing.


The problem was that I was on the lookout for presents, whereas the shops were full of gifts. Presents are nice things that you give to people who want them. 'Gifts', on the other hand, are entirely useless things designed purely to be bought, wrapped up, exchanged for other gifts with people you don't know very well or like very much, unwrapped and then thrown away (by the ruthless) or left lying around in attics by the rest of us. I'm talking novelty salt shakers. I'm talking anything with a reindeer on it. I'm talking strange food gifts, like bottles of chilli peppers, or boxed olive oil, or anything chocolate covered that wasn't originally designed to be chocolate covered. The really organised should buy their presents in October, not because they can then spend the next two months being insufferably smug (although that would be a bonus) but because in October the shops are still reasonably full of the sort of stuff you might want to buy, instead of being full of tinsel and flashing lights and scented crap that plays tinny renditions of Jingle Bells until you want to throw it in the fire.


Anyway, after I'd fought my way through the Christmas carols and the tables piled with 'humorous' books and novelty 'reindeer poo' I found that some shops were still selling reasonable amounts of stuff, and that's when I encountered my next problem. Somebody has outlawed the selling of lambswool sweaters for women. Or so it would seem. The sweater present was the easy one, the gimme, the one I wasn't worried about. I'd just go to Marks and Sparks and buy one, no problem, right? Wrong. Where have I been? M&S has gone trendy, trendy enough that a basic sweater is no longer an option. For men, yes, men can still buy items of clothes that are not fashionable. But not women. Women must buy rayon sweaters, or cashmere sweaters because that is the law. And they must buy them in this season's colours, as that is also the law. I tried everywhere, the stodgiest shops I could think of - Austin Reed, Burberry, Scottish Woollen Mills - and not one of them dared buck the trend. Somewhere there must be a clandestine shop, approached down a back alleyway, accessible only to those in the know, where women's clothing can be purchased that does not conform in every detail to the writ laid down for this season's clothing, but I couldn't find it. In the end I was faced with a choice: 90 quid for a cashmere sweater, or a cardigan.


Next year everyone's definitely getting goats.

7.12.05 17:47


Don't Mention the War

Disgruntled Commuter is off to Berlin for a couple of days. Back on Monday with reports of more adventures.
8.12.05 13:05


 [next page]