i'm on the train

wall of cheese and filming
Originally uploaded by etcher67

London: It has come to my notice that of those of you who are not a) wearing sensible shoes and backpacks b) speaking french c) travelling in pre-pubescent dayglo herds are on your mobile phone and complaining about your job. Very loudly. At great length. In a monotone voice.

Whilst I sympathise with your employment plight I should just like to point out that the fifteenth round of 'I'm not going to let them treat me like this' is no more effective than the first, and that going on and on (and ON) about it probably isn't going to make you feel any better. I have job problems of my own, London. I do not need to hear yours too. One of these days I might just give in to the temptation to snatch your brand new iPhone and throw it at you. Sorry about that, it's the hormones.

Might I suggest that in future you talk about nice happy things such as your holiday in Malaga, or how much you drank last night? Go ahead and book some cinema tickets, it might cheer you up. I hear Mamma Mia is uplifting.

One other thing: I'm afraid that though I find the intimate details your visits to the hospital or your relationship breakdown fascinating, I'm really not sure that the public is the best place to discuss these things. We can hear, London. All oif it.

shut yer gob

I'm on a self-imposed knitting ban, as my shoulder hurts. I don't think it's the knitting really, but it isn't helping any so I'm taking a few days off.

Fortunately I have just bought the biggest book in the world to read: Peter Ackroyd's 'London: The Biography'*. This tome is so massive that I have serious plans to use it as a kitchen step if I can't get through it. I was quite daunted by its heft and had to be persuaded that I really could read that many pages: just not all at once. Certainly one to avoid carrying in a bag for train reading, unless I want to do the shoulder further damage.

Having flicked through it a bit I can see that the format is eminently readable (not so sure about the language yet), and I am excited to have already had an 'Ooh, that's interesting' moment, which frankly is what reading books about London is all about for me.

Did you know that the use of the word 'gob' was first recorded in 1550? Me neither. That is a officially A Very Long Time Ago; and I now can't wait for page two.


*I bought it at the lovely Crockatt and Powell. Not sure what's happened to their website though, the link is mainly a map.

ukulele me

Wobbling up the road from the station on the way back from an evening in a cellar bar I focus on a couple in front of me. They are arm in arm, one with a guitar case slung over his shoulder and the other swinging what looks suspiciously like an ukulele bag. I am forced by an unseen hand to speed up a little until I am level with them. I eye up the case trying to decide if it contains what I think it does. The thought of someone else in my town playing the uke is very exciting. My staring shows, and I meet the eyes of the bloke with the guitar.

Dare I?

After two bottles of wine? Of course dare I. 'Is that a ukulele?' I ask
'No, it's a t------,'(I can't remember, Its all gone a bit hazy). 'It's a sort of small guitar' says the lady carrying it.
'Cool!' I say; the mistress of intelligent conversation.
'I don't play it,' says the woman, 'I'm carrying it for Jim.'

I suddenly remember that I am in London and should therefore not be having this conversation. Instead of asking the them to tell me more and finding out where he's been playing, asking them round for tea sometime and making them my new best friends like I really ought to, I smile, speed up, and continue wobbling up the road in front of them. I am a bit rubbish.



Thanks to Unreliable Witness both for the tune and the means to post it! :)

been an awful good girl...

I go Christmas shopping. I lurk around Seven Dials with my coat zipped up to my nose and wander in and out of surprisingly quiet shops touching things and then walking away from them. After an hour or so of this I make a very minor present purchase.

Then I go to the London Graphics centre and buy myself two new drawing pens, a new Moleskine notebook (which I dither about for ages as it really is exceptionally expensive for what it is) and a magazine with the strapline 'for Good Looking, Smart People'. (I decide that I am definitely both of these.) These purchases makes me feel like an artist, which is silly really; but it still feels nice. I then spend some considerable time standing in front of rainbow-striped packing tape, trying to come up with a reason why I ought to buy myself some. This makes me feel like a seven-year old, which doesn't feel too bad either.

Abandoning the tape I wander about Covent Garden for a bit in a little bubble of my own making: eat a pasty, ignore the street performers, and do a lot more touching and walking away. As I walk back to the train I am sucked as if by magic into an electrical shop to buy myself some new headphones.

I am good at Christmas shopping.