On my walk to the station I often see the "smartest" paperboy in town. Hmm, yeah, smart, that's right.
This lad does his morning round on his scrappy little scooter. To be honest, I could be out of touch with the morning round going rates these days, but I don't imagine he gets more than 20 quid a week.
So. 20 quid minus, say, 10 quid on fuel, leaves him a tenner a week. By my troth, given the fact that he would do it just as quick on a push bike, which would also keep him fit, this guy is a bit of a wally.
Wally? Don't be harsh. Misguided, that's all. My hero would be furious.
I miss my hero. I used to see him every morning as I walked to Brighton station. Everyday we would pass each other around 7am.
To start with I ignored him. I'm that kinda guy. Keep myself to myself, especially at 7am. Over time I noticed that this gentleman (my hero) had some kind of "special" status with the other bods that were around at that time.
The postmen, the street cleaners, the paperboys, the milkmen, the commuters, the cats, the dogs...everyone, they all worshiped this guy, and he responded to them all.
I would guess he was 60ish. With the people he met he was daily greeting them, asking after their health, continuing running jokes, and all this on the move - a quick "what a lovely day", or "and you're dad is back on his feet again now?" or "that was a good game of football last night, wasn't it?" and so on.
Feeling missed out, one morning I sent a nod and a "mornin'" in his direction, and I was in. From then on it was a "mornin'" or "nice day for a stroll eh?!" or "glad I brought my brolly!" or "Spurs were unlucky last night". I was included.
I assumed he was on his way back from a night shift of some sort, or on his way past me to the hospital for a day shift. Then I realised he worked at a newsagent, sorting out the papers for the rounds each morning. And all with a cheery attitude and a heart to know everyone he saw each day.
But I tell you what, he would have not have been impressed with this kid, the smartest *cough cough* paperboy in town.
Friday, 15 August 2008
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Clowns and ice-cream vans (a guest entry by The Friday Joker)
I am not the only person in this world who finds clowns to be not only not particularly funny, but also a little scary. I know this because I have found out that there is a technical term for the irrational and abnormal fear of clowns (coulrophobia). What the technical term for a perfectly rational and normal fear of clowns is, I have yet to discover.
However, these strange fears are by no means limited to men with large shoes, collapsing cars and implausible orange wigs. I have long found ice-cream vans with their catchy tunes to be not only extremely annoying (which they undoubtedly are) but also somewhat disturbing, as though they were a sort of modern equivalent of the Pied Piper. A number of weeks ago, I went for a walk through a leafy part of northern Brighton, and, everywhere I went, I could hear the frighteningly jolly jingle of an ice cream van (“If you go down to the woods today, you’re in for a big surprise”). This carried on, street after street, lane after lane, until I fully expected to see Mr Whippy waiting for me around the next corner. Even when I reached home and ran into my bedroom (perhaps to hide?) I could hear, through my window, the sound of the ominous purveyor of iced confectionary, as if to say "You got away this time, but in the future you might not be so fortunate".
Perhaps the only way out of this maze of fear and unreason is for me to don a clown-suit and begin dispensing ice-cream to children in a brightly coloured van with a catchy jingle. Now that, surely, would be a disturbing sight.
The Friday Joker
However, these strange fears are by no means limited to men with large shoes, collapsing cars and implausible orange wigs. I have long found ice-cream vans with their catchy tunes to be not only extremely annoying (which they undoubtedly are) but also somewhat disturbing, as though they were a sort of modern equivalent of the Pied Piper. A number of weeks ago, I went for a walk through a leafy part of northern Brighton, and, everywhere I went, I could hear the frighteningly jolly jingle of an ice cream van (“If you go down to the woods today, you’re in for a big surprise”). This carried on, street after street, lane after lane, until I fully expected to see Mr Whippy waiting for me around the next corner. Even when I reached home and ran into my bedroom (perhaps to hide?) I could hear, through my window, the sound of the ominous purveyor of iced confectionary, as if to say "You got away this time, but in the future you might not be so fortunate".
Perhaps the only way out of this maze of fear and unreason is for me to don a clown-suit and begin dispensing ice-cream to children in a brightly coloured van with a catchy jingle. Now that, surely, would be a disturbing sight.
The Friday Joker
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
When Ivanhoe killed my Kiwi Fruit
Yesterday got off to a bad start when I overslept. It was only my wife's alertness (unusual for that time) that saved me. The day got even worse when some schmuck ignored countless free seats in my carriage to take the spot next to me.
Schmuck? Be graceful I tell myself. Schmuck is a bit harsh. He's just flagrantly breaking the rules, the standards, the protocol. Protocol, the conventions or standards that define the right way to live.
He had clearly not read the handbook. Why would anyone completely ignore all those free seats?
I had just taken my seat, and was just getting into my routine. Flicking through the sports pages of the free paper. Berbatov gone yet? Nope. I took out my magazine and book, and then bang, this violator of protocol plonked himself right down beside me.
I moved and found a new seat.
The protocol is simple. You should never sit next to another commuter until all other options are exhausted. A free pair of seats should always be chosen above a partially occupied pair.
So if you get on a train and you have to choose between sitting in a vacant pair of seats, or taking a free seat next to someone, you always do the former. There are a few exceptions to this. If you have heavy luggage with you, then sitting in a seat right next to the luggage holding area is allowed - even if that means violating said protocol. But this commuter showed a total disregard and lack of respect for the most basic of rules.
It is all to do with personal space. The daily grind tests us all, and therefore at all times protocol should be followed to keep us all sane.
Unfortunately there are protocol violators everywhere. There used to be a commuter on one of the Brighton trains whose goal (I can only assume) was to ignore protocol and drive me crazy. I would see him on the platform at Preston Park in his Bellocian coat. He would get on the train and head straight towards me. Not even the old "evil eye" would deter him. Vast swathes of unpopulated seating areas would not tempt him one bit. He knew exactly which seat he wanted.
Remember this. It is impossible to dissuade a determined protocol violator.
But there are a few techniques I recommend that can make a difference. There's the old "evil eye". And then the old "bag on the seat" trick. This can only legitimately be used when there are free groupings of seats available. You can use this to give the illusion that the seats next to you are taken and deflect the protocol violator towards a free pair or group of seats. Note, leaving a bag on the seat of a crowded train is a violation in itself. That forces a seatless commuter to ask you to move it, even though there are no other seats.
There are a few other variations of this, such as holding your paper in such an expansive way that it has the "puffer fish" effect, again giving the impression that your area is taken. Again, on a crowded train this is also a violation.
Anyway, this guy was a protocol violator and I simply had to walk away.
The day hit rock-bottom when I found my banana and kiwi obliterated at the foot of my bag. Actually, obliterated is the wrong word. That implies there was no trace of the fruit. But oh yes, there was definitely a trace...
I don't want to talk about it, but I believe they were crushed to death by either my lunchbox or my hardcover copy of Ivanhoe. My money would be on Ivanhoe.
The day redeemed itself when I tasted my apple. The apple was coated in kiwi juice, and was absolutely delicious. If there's ever a call for GM fruit, it's an apple-kiwi hybrid.
Schmuck? Be graceful I tell myself. Schmuck is a bit harsh. He's just flagrantly breaking the rules, the standards, the protocol. Protocol, the conventions or standards that define the right way to live.
He had clearly not read the handbook. Why would anyone completely ignore all those free seats?
I had just taken my seat, and was just getting into my routine. Flicking through the sports pages of the free paper. Berbatov gone yet? Nope. I took out my magazine and book, and then bang, this violator of protocol plonked himself right down beside me.
I moved and found a new seat.
The protocol is simple. You should never sit next to another commuter until all other options are exhausted. A free pair of seats should always be chosen above a partially occupied pair.
So if you get on a train and you have to choose between sitting in a vacant pair of seats, or taking a free seat next to someone, you always do the former. There are a few exceptions to this. If you have heavy luggage with you, then sitting in a seat right next to the luggage holding area is allowed - even if that means violating said protocol. But this commuter showed a total disregard and lack of respect for the most basic of rules.
It is all to do with personal space. The daily grind tests us all, and therefore at all times protocol should be followed to keep us all sane.
Unfortunately there are protocol violators everywhere. There used to be a commuter on one of the Brighton trains whose goal (I can only assume) was to ignore protocol and drive me crazy. I would see him on the platform at Preston Park in his Bellocian coat. He would get on the train and head straight towards me. Not even the old "evil eye" would deter him. Vast swathes of unpopulated seating areas would not tempt him one bit. He knew exactly which seat he wanted.
Remember this. It is impossible to dissuade a determined protocol violator.
But there are a few techniques I recommend that can make a difference. There's the old "evil eye". And then the old "bag on the seat" trick. This can only legitimately be used when there are free groupings of seats available. You can use this to give the illusion that the seats next to you are taken and deflect the protocol violator towards a free pair or group of seats. Note, leaving a bag on the seat of a crowded train is a violation in itself. That forces a seatless commuter to ask you to move it, even though there are no other seats.
There are a few other variations of this, such as holding your paper in such an expansive way that it has the "puffer fish" effect, again giving the impression that your area is taken. Again, on a crowded train this is also a violation.
Anyway, this guy was a protocol violator and I simply had to walk away.
The day hit rock-bottom when I found my banana and kiwi obliterated at the foot of my bag. Actually, obliterated is the wrong word. That implies there was no trace of the fruit. But oh yes, there was definitely a trace...
I don't want to talk about it, but I believe they were crushed to death by either my lunchbox or my hardcover copy of Ivanhoe. My money would be on Ivanhoe.
The day redeemed itself when I tasted my apple. The apple was coated in kiwi juice, and was absolutely delicious. If there's ever a call for GM fruit, it's an apple-kiwi hybrid.
Monday, 11 August 2008
Old men and their shorts
Entering the gym I was hit by the beat of the 80s. An old man was rolling around on one of those giant rubber balls. I've never been sure what those things are for, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. But what is it with old men and their shorts? He was wearing a pair of "old man" shorts - you know, those tiny shorts with stripes up the side that only marathon runners and old men wear.
This old man was brilliant, some day I'll emulate him. When he wasn't rolling around on the rubber ball he was doing step-ups, perfectly in time with the 80s anthem in the background (I imgane he'd done this routine before), his crazy white hair towering magnificently.
Every now and then he got out one of those "squeeze and squirt" cleaning bottles, and wiped down the apparatus, including things that he had not even used. To be fair to him, he was probably assuming that some sweaty monster had previously used them. Come to think of it, he was probably assuming that I was that sweaty monster.
When he left he took his 80s anthem out of the CD player. I already knew it was his. He even put the radio on for the rest of us. What a great bloke. He reminded me of a retired partner of our sister company, a 70-year-old with shingles that beat me at squash. I decided that enough was enough and gave up squash.
The funny thing about gyms is that there's always some awful radio station blaring (Heart, Kiss...), yet everyone in the gym is listening to their ipod. At least this old man brought his magical 80s anthem and was letting us all know. And there's always one of those rowers. You know, the guy who is on the rowing machine when you arrive, and is stll there when you leave, rowing, rowing, rowing. The annoying thing about these rowers is that they tend to be bored, watching everyone else. I wish they'd point the rowing machines at the wall.
The other day we were down the Duke, when an old man burst through the door. He was wearing the tiniest pair of "old man" shorts, and tucked in to them was a checked shirt, fully undone. Nice. He was carrying a pool que, and forced his way into a bar billiards game that was already running . The lads that were playing were furious. I won't be emulating his look but if I ever fancy a game of bar billiards and can't be bothered to wait...
This old man was brilliant, some day I'll emulate him. When he wasn't rolling around on the rubber ball he was doing step-ups, perfectly in time with the 80s anthem in the background (I imgane he'd done this routine before), his crazy white hair towering magnificently.
Every now and then he got out one of those "squeeze and squirt" cleaning bottles, and wiped down the apparatus, including things that he had not even used. To be fair to him, he was probably assuming that some sweaty monster had previously used them. Come to think of it, he was probably assuming that I was that sweaty monster.
When he left he took his 80s anthem out of the CD player. I already knew it was his. He even put the radio on for the rest of us. What a great bloke. He reminded me of a retired partner of our sister company, a 70-year-old with shingles that beat me at squash. I decided that enough was enough and gave up squash.
The funny thing about gyms is that there's always some awful radio station blaring (Heart, Kiss...), yet everyone in the gym is listening to their ipod. At least this old man brought his magical 80s anthem and was letting us all know. And there's always one of those rowers. You know, the guy who is on the rowing machine when you arrive, and is stll there when you leave, rowing, rowing, rowing. The annoying thing about these rowers is that they tend to be bored, watching everyone else. I wish they'd point the rowing machines at the wall.
The other day we were down the Duke, when an old man burst through the door. He was wearing the tiniest pair of "old man" shorts, and tucked in to them was a checked shirt, fully undone. Nice. He was carrying a pool que, and forced his way into a bar billiards game that was already running . The lads that were playing were furious. I won't be emulating his look but if I ever fancy a game of bar billiards and can't be bothered to wait...
Saturday, 9 August 2008
Lager & Lemonade. With Ice.
When the time is right, I love Pearl Jam. Like right now, as I (horror of horrors) flick through the Daily Mail, sipping Young's Special, over a lovely quiet lunch break. I dislike the Daily Mail, or as Rod Liddle recently put it, that 'sulphurous organ of Satan', but it is the pub's free paper and there is nothing superior available. Note, by superior I don't mean the Guardian or the Independent.
I'm distracted by a guy at the bar, ordering what appears to be his third "Lager and lemonade with ice". I'd always thought that only a Des (designated driver) would drink that, but this guy certainly wasn't a Des. Two other guys come in and order Fosters. Come on. Who would drink Fosters with such a fine array of Young's? What kind of person...
Everyone loves a free paper. The other day I was skimming through one of the free papers on the train, acutely aware that the guy across the aisle was reading it over my shoulder and eagerly anticipating the moment when I had finished with it. This is clearly against train protocol, which states that "the personal space of a paper holder should be respected at all times, even if the paper in question is a free paper". I was done with the paper pretty quick (most of it is trashy celebrity gossip - why would I want to read about rich socialites messing up their lives and frittering away their time?), and when my antagonist was looking out the window the other way I subtly slid the paper onto the table by my window. You know, about as far away from him as possible.
Cruel? Perhaps. In hindsight it sounds like some sort of psychological experiment. But it was an innocent impulse, an application of natural justice if you like. Before I'm attacked for my cruelty by some Guardian readers, let me just say that normally I offer the free paper to the person next to me. In fact, if he had asked if he could have it when I had finished I would have obliged with the gentleness of a lamb. But after reading over my shoulder and circling like a vulture he deserved it.
My subtle movement was spotted immediately. "Can I have it?!", he blurted, loudly and to the whole carriage. He then scrambled across, before snatching the paper off the table. I felt terrible.
Right now, Pearl Jam, Beer and the Daily Mail are the perfect combination. Last night I ate a fabulous steak, and today I got a piece of software running 90% faster. The thought crosses my mind that had those two been combined that would have been an even better combination.
I'm distracted by a guy at the bar, ordering what appears to be his third "Lager and lemonade with ice". I'd always thought that only a Des (designated driver) would drink that, but this guy certainly wasn't a Des. Two other guys come in and order Fosters. Come on. Who would drink Fosters with such a fine array of Young's? What kind of person...
Everyone loves a free paper. The other day I was skimming through one of the free papers on the train, acutely aware that the guy across the aisle was reading it over my shoulder and eagerly anticipating the moment when I had finished with it. This is clearly against train protocol, which states that "the personal space of a paper holder should be respected at all times, even if the paper in question is a free paper". I was done with the paper pretty quick (most of it is trashy celebrity gossip - why would I want to read about rich socialites messing up their lives and frittering away their time?), and when my antagonist was looking out the window the other way I subtly slid the paper onto the table by my window. You know, about as far away from him as possible.
Cruel? Perhaps. In hindsight it sounds like some sort of psychological experiment. But it was an innocent impulse, an application of natural justice if you like. Before I'm attacked for my cruelty by some Guardian readers, let me just say that normally I offer the free paper to the person next to me. In fact, if he had asked if he could have it when I had finished I would have obliged with the gentleness of a lamb. But after reading over my shoulder and circling like a vulture he deserved it.
My subtle movement was spotted immediately. "Can I have it?!", he blurted, loudly and to the whole carriage. He then scrambled across, before snatching the paper off the table. I felt terrible.
Right now, Pearl Jam, Beer and the Daily Mail are the perfect combination. Last night I ate a fabulous steak, and today I got a piece of software running 90% faster. The thought crosses my mind that had those two been combined that would have been an even better combination.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Café du France
A typical lunch break. My first stop is the cash point. The problem is always the same. I only need a quid for my can of Coke, but I have to take out a tenner. I've always hated this. The remaining nine pounds just fritters away. Life would be so much better if the ATM could cough up a single pound coin.
The problem with pedestrianised town centres is charity collectors. Today they're out in force. When I first started working here I stopped and engaged with them (I was too polite to say no). I don't do this any more.
The thing is, I have decided what I will give, and who I will give to, and these guys are so persistent and commission-driven that stopping to chat is like being beaten with a fly trap. Don't get me wrong, charities do wonderful things in this world. It is simply that having to walk past four or five of these guys twice, on the way out and on the way in, three lunch breaks a week, is just too much. On a good run only two of them will approach, but on a bad day it could be every one. Twice. You end up feeling like Ted Striker in Airplane.
A number of options are available:
"Man of Steel"
This is my favourite, and simply requires you to walk determinedly by, looking neither to the left nor right, avoiding all eye contact and smiles. It's not always easy to blank them, but is probably the most efficient option.
"Give in Always"
This one speaks for itself. My least favourite option.
"Say No like a Gentleman"
Don your hat and take your cane, this is where you stride past with an air of grace and kindness, giving them a firm no, but with a gentleman's smile.
"Oh, is that my phone?"
This is also known as the "cop-out" method. You simply pretend you are on the phone. This is a tad deceitful, but can be made genuine by making a real phone call (if you have one to make).
"Bad Samaritan"
No prizes for this one - just cross over to the other side. Note, this can be tricky if there are a lot of charity collectors (there usually are), as they often spread themselves out to cover all available space.
"Covert Op"
Take cover, and slink, dodge and scurry your way round them, ducking behind other pedestrians, lampposts, flowerbeds.
Today I am the bad Samaritan of Steel, zig-zagging my way between the charity collectors, my face set with a steely "even Clint would be in awe" glare.
Café du France. This always makes me chuckle. A "French" café in Surrey that is run by Poles. In an ideal world there would be a mad triangle - an English café in Poland run by Frenchmen, and a Polish café in France run by some Englishmen. Bizarrely as I write I hear "English, French, Polish, English, French, Polish" going round my head to the tune of the Three Blind Mice. Now that's weird.
I like this place because it is cheap, and because of the table-service. The problem with Costa (& the rest) is the noise, and the queues, and worst of all, they're so expensive. Why spend twice as much money AND queue for a quarter of my lunch break?
The Poles own two cafés, one either end of town. All the staff are Polish, which I have no problem with (I actually find it quite nice, almost self-contained in fact), but I wonder what the "equal ops" brigade would say. I guess there are equal opportunities amongst the Polish...
I take my can of Coke and sit down. A glass and ice are brought immediately - it is just so nice for things to be speedy - and this is where I normally take out my book. Right now it's Ivanhoe, and I love the frequent use of the word knave, which I'm told means boy, but that's not important right now.
Anyway, lunch break is over now (after all, I have spent it writing this), time to venture back down the street. I take the long route through the indoor shopping centre (for some reason the charity collectors are not allowed in there), but still have to pass one final sentinel. But I'm in luck, a "cancel out" unfolds right before me. This is when one charity collector is chatting to another, forcing them both out of play and providing a temporary opening. I took the opening and it made my day.
The problem with pedestrianised town centres is charity collectors. Today they're out in force. When I first started working here I stopped and engaged with them (I was too polite to say no). I don't do this any more.
The thing is, I have decided what I will give, and who I will give to, and these guys are so persistent and commission-driven that stopping to chat is like being beaten with a fly trap. Don't get me wrong, charities do wonderful things in this world. It is simply that having to walk past four or five of these guys twice, on the way out and on the way in, three lunch breaks a week, is just too much. On a good run only two of them will approach, but on a bad day it could be every one. Twice. You end up feeling like Ted Striker in Airplane.
A number of options are available:
"Man of Steel"
This is my favourite, and simply requires you to walk determinedly by, looking neither to the left nor right, avoiding all eye contact and smiles. It's not always easy to blank them, but is probably the most efficient option.
"Give in Always"
This one speaks for itself. My least favourite option.
"Say No like a Gentleman"
Don your hat and take your cane, this is where you stride past with an air of grace and kindness, giving them a firm no, but with a gentleman's smile.
"Oh, is that my phone?"
This is also known as the "cop-out" method. You simply pretend you are on the phone. This is a tad deceitful, but can be made genuine by making a real phone call (if you have one to make).
"Bad Samaritan"
No prizes for this one - just cross over to the other side. Note, this can be tricky if there are a lot of charity collectors (there usually are), as they often spread themselves out to cover all available space.
"Covert Op"
Take cover, and slink, dodge and scurry your way round them, ducking behind other pedestrians, lampposts, flowerbeds.
Today I am the bad Samaritan of Steel, zig-zagging my way between the charity collectors, my face set with a steely "even Clint would be in awe" glare.
Café du France. This always makes me chuckle. A "French" café in Surrey that is run by Poles. In an ideal world there would be a mad triangle - an English café in Poland run by Frenchmen, and a Polish café in France run by some Englishmen. Bizarrely as I write I hear "English, French, Polish, English, French, Polish" going round my head to the tune of the Three Blind Mice. Now that's weird.
I like this place because it is cheap, and because of the table-service. The problem with Costa (& the rest) is the noise, and the queues, and worst of all, they're so expensive. Why spend twice as much money AND queue for a quarter of my lunch break?
The Poles own two cafés, one either end of town. All the staff are Polish, which I have no problem with (I actually find it quite nice, almost self-contained in fact), but I wonder what the "equal ops" brigade would say. I guess there are equal opportunities amongst the Polish...
I take my can of Coke and sit down. A glass and ice are brought immediately - it is just so nice for things to be speedy - and this is where I normally take out my book. Right now it's Ivanhoe, and I love the frequent use of the word knave, which I'm told means boy, but that's not important right now.
Anyway, lunch break is over now (after all, I have spent it writing this), time to venture back down the street. I take the long route through the indoor shopping centre (for some reason the charity collectors are not allowed in there), but still have to pass one final sentinel. But I'm in luck, a "cancel out" unfolds right before me. This is when one charity collector is chatting to another, forcing them both out of play and providing a temporary opening. I took the opening and it made my day.
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
Eccentric Commuters
The best thing about commuting is the eccentrics. They come out in force. It is possible the proportion of eccentrics amongst commuters is no different from elsewhere, but I'll tell you what, every day I see commuting eccentrics exhibit their stuff in true style. Before I continue, some kind of disclaimer is necessary. Shouldn't I be leaving these people alone, and mind my own business? Am I being cruel? Nah, when you see the same people every day for weeks, months, years, we all watch each other with a kind of weird commuter familiarity. And besides, there's probably some guy writing about me now ("some gimp keeps watching me, grinning as though he is writing a blog entry about me in his mind...").
Take the M&S guy. Every morning I seem him stuffing his face with M&S food (it's not just food, it's…). The little fruit salads in plastic boxes, the über-expensive little smoothies, the packets of miniature croissants. Every evening I seem him on the way home, scoffing on a bag of M&S goodies. The little pasta dishes in plastic boxes, the über-expensive little packets of nuts and crisps. Big deal, you say, what's your problem with that? No problem at all, I guess I'm just a bit freaked about by the intensity and the maths. That must be a fifty-squid-a-week habit (excluding lunch). Having said that, it's not just food, it's M&S food…
Waiting for the Brighton train home I always see the same two gentlemen. They stand chatting like old buddies until the train pulls in. As the train grinds to a halt, one gentleman stays exactly where he is, and the other gentleman scurries 20 feet up the platform and gets in the next carriage. This happens every day without fail. I can't quite work it out. Perhaps they aren't really buddies at all, and they are colleagues just "being polite" before giving each other space. It could be a simple matter of routine - before they knew each other they used these particular carriages. Perhaps the gain of their chosen carriages (placing them marginally closer to their own station's exit point) far out ways the pleasure of each other's company. Perhaps we'll never know, but if anyone has any other suggestions then please send them my way.
And then there is the chap in the plush grey suit. I haven't seen him in a while, but I used to see him a couple of days a week on the way home. I would arrive on the platform and there he'd be, waiting for our train, always dressed in a plush grey suit. I would head up the platform, and get in the rear carriage when the train arrived. As the train pulled away he would enter my carriage from the previous one, always looking a bit frantic, and then take a seat in my carriage. This happened so often that once I actually waited long enough on the platform to watch him get in to the first carriage, before he entered my rear carriage as usual. It's just so random! Maybe he was always waiting for a colleague or friend down that end of the platform, and when they didn't show he would head up the train. Maybe he just enjoyed the march up the train. Most likely it is just an elaborate conspiracy to confuse me.
And last but not least, the "Boots lady". For a while I had a connection at Gatwick Airport, and every morning I saw this lady alight from my train and head into Boots (just to clear my name, I would see her heading to and from Boots because I would usually be on my way to get a coffee). I assumed it was her lunch, and thought nothing of it. Then one day I was shopping in (another) Boots during my lunch break, and there she was - she worked at Boots! A mystery.
And after all that, I'll leave these people alone.
Take the M&S guy. Every morning I seem him stuffing his face with M&S food (it's not just food, it's…). The little fruit salads in plastic boxes, the über-expensive little smoothies, the packets of miniature croissants. Every evening I seem him on the way home, scoffing on a bag of M&S goodies. The little pasta dishes in plastic boxes, the über-expensive little packets of nuts and crisps. Big deal, you say, what's your problem with that? No problem at all, I guess I'm just a bit freaked about by the intensity and the maths. That must be a fifty-squid-a-week habit (excluding lunch). Having said that, it's not just food, it's M&S food…
Waiting for the Brighton train home I always see the same two gentlemen. They stand chatting like old buddies until the train pulls in. As the train grinds to a halt, one gentleman stays exactly where he is, and the other gentleman scurries 20 feet up the platform and gets in the next carriage. This happens every day without fail. I can't quite work it out. Perhaps they aren't really buddies at all, and they are colleagues just "being polite" before giving each other space. It could be a simple matter of routine - before they knew each other they used these particular carriages. Perhaps the gain of their chosen carriages (placing them marginally closer to their own station's exit point) far out ways the pleasure of each other's company. Perhaps we'll never know, but if anyone has any other suggestions then please send them my way.
And then there is the chap in the plush grey suit. I haven't seen him in a while, but I used to see him a couple of days a week on the way home. I would arrive on the platform and there he'd be, waiting for our train, always dressed in a plush grey suit. I would head up the platform, and get in the rear carriage when the train arrived. As the train pulled away he would enter my carriage from the previous one, always looking a bit frantic, and then take a seat in my carriage. This happened so often that once I actually waited long enough on the platform to watch him get in to the first carriage, before he entered my rear carriage as usual. It's just so random! Maybe he was always waiting for a colleague or friend down that end of the platform, and when they didn't show he would head up the train. Maybe he just enjoyed the march up the train. Most likely it is just an elaborate conspiracy to confuse me.
And last but not least, the "Boots lady". For a while I had a connection at Gatwick Airport, and every morning I saw this lady alight from my train and head into Boots (just to clear my name, I would see her heading to and from Boots because I would usually be on my way to get a coffee). I assumed it was her lunch, and thought nothing of it. Then one day I was shopping in (another) Boots during my lunch break, and there she was - she worked at Boots! A mystery.
And after all that, I'll leave these people alone.
Monday, 4 August 2008
Dragons' Den
My problem with Dragons' Den is that it is not extreme enough. The Dragons should be seated in towering vampire chairs at the back of a mahoosive cave, full of holes, lizards, fire and bats. Behind them should be a wall of fire, and the entrepreneurs should have to walk the full length of the cave dragging their goods. On the way out (if no deal is met) they should be chased by wolves.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
The Protocol Of Living
Once again a Friday night demonstrates to me that some people just do not get it. Life has protocol, and as Clint Eastwood would say, there are two kinds of men (or women) in this world. There are those that live and abide by life protocol, and those that just do not get it. Actually, there is a third kind. The kind that simply violate protocol.
Take personal space. There are simple rules regarding it, and rules exist to cater for any and every situation. When walking on the pavement, there is a always an acceptable distance between yourself and those in front on behind. The onus is obviously on those behind behind - you can only see the people in front - the one with the most responsibility is the one at the back!
The acceptable pavement distance is clearly a variable. In a busy town center, with all the noise and bustle and crowded pavements, the acceptable distance is actually extremely small. However when enjoying a romantic chat while walking over, say, Shoreham footbridge, on a quiet evening, the acceptable distance is much greater. You can imagine my frustration when walking over Shoreham footbridge last night, having an in depth chat with my lovely wife, and some chimp is walking right behind us.
Who does that, and why?! I don't understand the mindset, I mean, "Yuh, there's a nice couple in front enjoying a deep and meaningful, I'll walk right up their backsides just to let them know I'm here." Arrgh who are these people, and where do they come from?
The rules are simple. Give those in front the personal space that the situation demands. If they are going too slow, then speed up and overtake. What could be so difficult?
And then there are the neighbours in the flat next to ours. 2am we wake up to thumping music and lots of loud laughter. We bang on the wall. Let's hold that thought. Banging was really the only option. Getting dressed, going downstairs and outside, round to the next block's communal door, and trying to guess which buzzer, before eventually being stabbed by a group of drunken thugs who did not appreciate the intrusion, was not our idea of fun. But banging on the wall is the standard protocol for this kind of situation. It means "too loud, sorry to bother you, but please turn it down (it IS 2am for Pete's sake)".
So how did they respond? Well, not quite in the cultured fashion we were looking for. "Don't knock on the ******* wall.", a whiny voice screamed, "You'll knock the ******* pictures off." The music was turned up further, and we could just make out the whiny "...knocking on my ******* wall" appended to every sentence. I kept my sanity by imaging a group of drunken revellers, ears bleeding, stumbling around the other side of the wall trying to put the pictures back up...
Take personal space. There are simple rules regarding it, and rules exist to cater for any and every situation. When walking on the pavement, there is a always an acceptable distance between yourself and those in front on behind. The onus is obviously on those behind behind - you can only see the people in front - the one with the most responsibility is the one at the back!
The acceptable pavement distance is clearly a variable. In a busy town center, with all the noise and bustle and crowded pavements, the acceptable distance is actually extremely small. However when enjoying a romantic chat while walking over, say, Shoreham footbridge, on a quiet evening, the acceptable distance is much greater. You can imagine my frustration when walking over Shoreham footbridge last night, having an in depth chat with my lovely wife, and some chimp is walking right behind us.
Who does that, and why?! I don't understand the mindset, I mean, "Yuh, there's a nice couple in front enjoying a deep and meaningful, I'll walk right up their backsides just to let them know I'm here." Arrgh who are these people, and where do they come from?
The rules are simple. Give those in front the personal space that the situation demands. If they are going too slow, then speed up and overtake. What could be so difficult?
And then there are the neighbours in the flat next to ours. 2am we wake up to thumping music and lots of loud laughter. We bang on the wall. Let's hold that thought. Banging was really the only option. Getting dressed, going downstairs and outside, round to the next block's communal door, and trying to guess which buzzer, before eventually being stabbed by a group of drunken thugs who did not appreciate the intrusion, was not our idea of fun. But banging on the wall is the standard protocol for this kind of situation. It means "too loud, sorry to bother you, but please turn it down (it IS 2am for Pete's sake)".
So how did they respond? Well, not quite in the cultured fashion we were looking for. "Don't knock on the ******* wall.", a whiny voice screamed, "You'll knock the ******* pictures off." The music was turned up further, and we could just make out the whiny "...knocking on my ******* wall" appended to every sentence. I kept my sanity by imaging a group of drunken revellers, ears bleeding, stumbling around the other side of the wall trying to put the pictures back up...
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