disgruntled commuter
Flying Low
I'm sure I can't be the only London commuter who's transfixed by the flashing judge case. It's not so much the nature of the offence, it's the reported reaction - or lack of reaction - of his fellow commuters that's got me fascinated. The arresting officer said 'It would be a very extraordinary thing to do, to have walked on to a crowded commuter rail service with one's penis hanging out. If that had happened I would have expected somebody to point it out' - but that just goes to show how little he travels on the trains. Would you have pointed it out? Or would you, as the witness herself claims she did, decide simply to pretend nothing was happening, to avoid drawing attention to him because it might have been an accident? I'd have thought that if he did have his zip undone by mistake, the kindest thing would be to let him know, before anyone else noticed, but I can sympathise with the whole burying-ones-head-in-the-sand - or in this case, the newspaper - reaction to a flasher.
I like to think I'd have said something if it happened to me, but I'm not sure I would. I know I wouldn't have had the presence of mind to get my camera out and take a photo. But I do know one thing - I'd have rushed home and blogged about it straight away. Do you think that would stand up in court?
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Anecdotage
Nothing* interesting happened to me today - it was Monday, what do you expect - so I'm reduced to relaying stories that others have told me. We were discussing the perils of cycling over Putney Bridge and a colleague told me the tale of a friend of his who got cut up on his bike there by a 4X4 driver. Unfortunately for the driver, they subsequently got stuck in a traffic jam, allowing the friend to cycle up alongside, reach into the opened window, and remove the keys from the ignition. Oh Sweet Revenge. It would have been sweeter if he'd then chucked them into the Thames (or at least - because that would probably count as criminal damage - chucked something that looked like the keys into the Thames), instead of giving them back, but everyone's a critic...
So, as I'm short of material today, I'll let you lot do the writing: What small but perfectly-formed acts of urban revenge have you or your friends or friends of friends actually committed? And which ones have you just fantasised about?
*Well, almost nothing. I did notice that the otherwise soberly besuited middle-aged chap sitting opposite me on the train this evening was wearing scratch-n-sniff socks, but even I can't eke that out into a whole blog entry.
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Like-a-Bike...
... Only not actually a bike.
Having finally seen one in the flesh, I can now reveal the disadvantages of those really really tiny little folding bikes:
1. You look like you're riding a customised roller skate
2. Even the mildest pot-hole will take out your wheel, let along the bike-eating ones we have in Lambeth
3. I can overtake you
That last has got to be the most humiliating of all...
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Not Even the Whole Nine Yards
More like the six lousy feet. That's all I had to cycle this morning to get past the last of the parked cars on the narrow one-way street so I could pull over and let Mr Maroon Cavalier pass me. Two yards. I was doing my best to hold the road, I'd looked over my shoulder twice to let him know I knew he was there (just in case he thought I was Lambeth's only deaf-blind cyclist & had come out without my dog), and I was cycling as fast as my little legs would go. He had mere seconds to wait before he could pass me in safety. But even that was too long, for that would violate the first cardinal rule of driving like an utter twat: Car must pass bike. Car. MUST. Pass. Bike. Pass... Bike... Paaasss...Biiiike...*
So he passed. No matter that there was barely enough room. No matter that I had to use some extremely unladylike hand signals on him and his good wife to relieve my feelings on the matter. Nano-seconds had been shaved off his journey, and the honour of maroon Cavalier drivers everywhere had been upheld.
* this may also be the first cardinal rule of driving like a zombie
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Thank You for not Ruining My Day
I don't know why this is so annoying, but it is. Yesterday I'd worked a little later than usual and timed my arrival at the station just right - the long train, my favourite door, a 3-by-2 set of seats all to myself. Everything was shaping up for the perfect journey home. Until a woman came through from the next carriage - having obviously not found anyone she wanted to annoy enough in there - and plonked herself down next to me. RIGHT next to me. There were five empty seats she could have chosen in the set, and four of them would have been fine. But no. She had to sit in the one that had us thigh-to-thigh. Everyone should know by now - surely - that this is just wrong.
Now I know, I know, anyone who takes a sardine-formation train home has zero sympathy for my plight on this one. But you have to admit it's irritating. It would have been irritating even if she hadn't filled in the next 25 minutes with putting her bag on the outer seat and doing her makeup and eating a snack and then having a long phone conversation in which every other word was 'actually'. If she had sat down there and single-handedly saved the world from global warming, or discovered the cure for AIDS, I'd still have hated her. But what was I to do? I couldn't say anything - it would just have been too petty. I couldn't move - too pointed. All I could do was flick out the pages of my newspaper and send out waves of silent hatred and hope she got the hint. She didn't. She just sat there tranquilly right beside me, snacking and preening and phoning, with acres of empty seats spread out around us. She didn't even have the decency to get out at Clapham Junction.
Why do people do this? Why? Why?
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Thank You For Not Smirking
Oh joy. A new announcement to join the regular tannoyances about security and the weekend engineering festivities. 'In order to comply with Government Legislation,' it announces, leaving us wondering if there's any other kind, 'All South West Train stations will be non-smoking from July 1st.'
What, all of them? Vauxhall I can sort of see - the platforms are open air for the most part, but they are also a workplace for the poor sods who have to wave off the trains, so I suppose they have the right not to get people's smoke in their eyes (and indeed not have to pick up their butts) but Kew Bridge? Not only is Kew Bridge by no stretch of the imagination an enclosed space but it's an unstaffed station so nobody works there, unless you count the ticket machine which, frankly, I don't. And I wonder how they're planning on enforcing it. Maybe they'll station someone there whose job is solely to tell people not to smoke, so it can be his or her workplace and thus covered under the act. Or maybe they'll just get one of those shouty CCTV cameras and boss us about remotely.
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Ware Oh Ware
Overheard on the train:
Ticket Guy: Tickets please
Passenger: I'd like two singles to Ware
Ticket Guy: Two singles to where?
Passenger: That's what I said.
The old ones are the best ones, don't you think? No? Ah well, it amused me. Perhaps you had to be there.
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