Wow it's nearly been a year

And I have a new blog new blog...

http://downandoutinlondon.tumblr.com/

Blogger served me well but tumblr is prettier, plus you can link to cool content...

probably noone even noticed i'd gone

toodles

x

The prophecy comes true

One of the first posts I wrote on this here blog was about how potentially dangerous stairs on buses are and how I feared the descent from the upper to lower deck on a daily basis.

I was sitting on the top deck of the 388- an irregular but handy little number that takes me from Blackfriars to Shoreditch. Its often deserted and so I like to go to the top deck, sit at the front and pretend I am king of the bus, I will occasionally whisper under my breath as I take up my new found office 'Ahhh king of the bus'. When it's sunny I can shut my eyes, prop my feet up on the shelf and bask in the glory of my kingdom.

The bus neared its destination and I noticed it was on diversion, the traffic had been horrendous and I thought I better make a dash for the next stop before it went off piste. There was a red light and there, I thought, was my chance to get down the stairs. I picked up my bag, and abdicated my throne. I stepped onto the top step- it was going well and then onto the second- ha this is easy- I was,after all, until a few moments earlier king of the bus, going down stairs should be easy for someone like me. And then The bus jolted forward. I lost my grip, my shoulder ricocheted hard on to the wall and some how I spun round on my heel making me fall backwards. I was not gracefully gliding down these stars I was crashing and bouncing and swearing. My back smashed against the wall at the bottom and propelled me to the ground as if I had been wrestled by some invisible assailant. It seemed to happen embarrassingly slowly and I found my self lying on the lower deck, on my back wondering if I was broken.

Surely someone is going to help me. Perhaps there is no one on the bus. But then I heard a hearty laugh. From a man. with a WALKING STICK. Men with walking sticks shouldn't laugh at people falling over. But then I surmised that perhaps this was sweet revenge and he looked a bit mad- so I left him to his amusement. Until he laughed again and nodded at me. There was no hand to help me up, no 'are you ok?' just a gentle mocking laughter as if he had been watching a fat person falling over whilst eating a cake. It was the morning of April 1st, perhaps this man took me for a fool

The walking stick clearly wasn't going to come to my aid but surely someone else might. I assumed that the bus was empty until I turned to the backseats, which were full. Of mostly middle class looking women. Staring. At me, me clearly in pain sprawled indelicately across the floor. And not one of them helped me or asked if I was ok, they just watched me, as if I was on television. One women made a half hearted attempt-she half stood up out of her seat before she decided, actually no, she wouldn't. Which I think is worse some how; to think of helping, to show willing but not commitment.

C****S

As it transpired I was left unscathed but for a disappointing bruise and a slightly pathetic limp-that looks fake.

I've no idea why they didn't help. Maybe they didn't like the fact that I'd been king of the bus. Pride does come before a fall they say- except the other day when I got confused and said pride after a fall-which of course makes no sense- but I think is a sentiment not without merit.

I ought to add that when I regaled my friend at work with this tale she said

"Oh my god, thats awful, and have you hurt your face?" SHe pointed at my chin.

"No" I said quietly "Thats a spot"

Embarrassed silence.

Currying Favour

It was with sorrow that my housemate and I bid adieu to our washing machine. It had produced some fine work over the years, clean sheets, clean trousers... other clean things (although I only moved in a few weeks ago so this is pure conjecture).

So with a heavy a heart, a heavy hangover (the washing machine wake was a good one) and a heavier credit card I stood in Currys waiting for my housemate to come and chose a new washing machine.

Whilst I was waiting I explored the Aladdin's cave of competitively priced electronic goods until I happened upon a TV aerial that peaked my interest.

'Excuse me' I said to a man assigned to the TV department. 'How much is this?'

He took the box and beckoned me to follow him past promises of high definition, elaborate home cinemas and plasma televisions the size of market towns. We arrived at a computer and he paused and then turned to me and said...

'Can I just say something, I don't want you to be offended.'

'Oh no' I thought silently, he's going to tell me how tired I look and that my mascara has run down my sleep deprived face thus compounding the problem. Oh why is life lived in HD?

'OK' I capitulated.

'Now' he said seriously in a gentle Caribbean accent 'this is going to sound very unprofessional.'

I wanted to shout out: 'Yes, I know I went to bed at three and yes, I am still wearing yesterdays make up, but its Saturday and I am allowed to let my- as yet unwashed- hair down.'

'You have....' He paused again before sighing heavily and shaking his head 'The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.'

'Ha!' say I to government studies into binge drinking- I thrive upon anything above and beyond the recommended number of units.

'I don't mean to stare, but seriously, I could look at them all day, so blue, so so blue.' He cocked his head to one side, as I laughed nervously. 'With that kind of beauty what am I supposed to do?'

I coughed loudly. From flattering to weird in just two easy steps.

He continued in this vein for a while until I said 'Stop it!' in a tone that said 'Thanks but also desist, you're creepy and you still haven't told me the cost of the aerial.'

'Ok' he said understanding my intonation 'I will stop.' He tried but then he started again 'But I am just going to have to look this way' He dramatically pointed in the other direction 'Because I cannot look at you, it pains me.'

Thanks a lot Keats!

So there we stood there for what seemed like an awkward hour or two whilst the computer crashed three times. In silence he forcedly looked the other way as if I was Medusa whilst I stared at my shoes and thought of terminal illnesses and dug my fingernails into my palms in an effort not to laugh.

'£34.99' He said triumphantly. 'But, you know, when Mr right comes along, tell him if he does anything wrong he has to come to me.'

I stayed silent but raised a confused eyebrow, I wanted to say 'But I don't even know your name and anyway in the unlikely event that Mr right does come along but then does something heinous how does one contact you? Should I just march him into Currys and make him wait until your shift?'

'And another thing' He continued sagely, passing the aerial back to me. 'Be careful, because there are a lot of sharks out there.'

I assumed he meant in terms of men and not actual sharks.

The traffic was at a standstill through Cambridge Circus. It was Friday night and every where you looked there were people angrily texting friends to tell them they were going to be late.

There was condensation dripping down the windows that made it seem like the bus was sweating under the pressure of it's passengers expectations.

Then a robotic voice said:

"This bus is changing it's destination. Please wait for further instructions..."

No further instructions came and the over weight middle aged man with a squint who sat next to me said loudly

"Uhh well I guess we're going to Timbuktu then."

We didn't.

Last Night

I dreamt that I was running around the sloping decks of The Titanic with a group of Chinese people who were being chased by hedgehogs that had been genetically engineered by Chairman Mao to run and track down dissidents.

I've been thinking about when the next really embarrassing thing is going to happen to me. It could happen at any time, at any place. It probably won't happen tonight because it is 20.10 and I am staying at my parents house and there is no one else here.

Tomorrow, however, I might go to Cambridge to do some last minute Christmas shopping, there has been a cold snap, the pavements are like slightly crap ice rinks, perhaps the next embarrassing thing will happen then. All I do know is that at some point something embarrassing is going to happen to me but no one knows when.

The death of the two tailed spider

I went into the bathroom and froze. There sat an enormous spider, with a spike coming out of its back that looked like it wanted to kill me.

What happened next?

Well, first of all I stood at the otherside of the door and threw hairgrips at it I am, afterall, a girl. I hit it but it was precariously balanced on a soap dish and the hairgrips were too small to make an impact. So then I stood there for twenty minutes wondering if it was poisonous.

Then I looked at my flip flop. I took it off and tried to kill it by holding the flipflop at either end and then pushing down firmly, but then it danced away. So I put my flip flop back on.

I shut the bathroom door for a while and tried to pretend it wasn't there. But then I couldn't
convince myself that it wasn't there. Even when I almost believed myself, I knew I was lying.

So I opened the door again. It was still on the soap dish. Then I realised there was a large water bottle. So I tried to stab it. But then it jumped. And disappeared into a bucket. Which had water in it. The spider swam around. So I stabbed it again. And then it pretended to be dead. So I scrapped it across the side of the bucket with the edge of the bottle. And then it was definately dead. And then I went to sleep!

Blood on my hands.

michael?

I was sitting on the floor cushions in the restaurant of my hotel. It was about eleven o'clock at night. Every so often the power would short and plunge the guests into darkness. A group of Israeli's sat to my left listening to bad music and smoking too many drugs.

One of the Israeli's had a jokey conversation with the waiter and ordered a drink as the waiter headed out i called for an orange juice. He nodded and smiled and headed into the darkness.

Ten minutes later after an interesting conversation with an Israeli Marxist a different waiter returned. On his tray sat a glass of juice.

'Michael' He called but was met with silence. 'Michael' He shouted again. We all looked at one another. There was no Michael here.
'Michael' The waiter persisted. Still no answer. Then the first waiter arrived. He took the tray from his colleague and bellowed.
'MICHAEL?!'
Michael was no where to be seen. The waiters shrugged at one another as the first waiter said more quietly.
'Michael?'
The two waiters whispered in the half light.

'Excuse me' I said. 'Is that an orange juice?'
'Yes. Michael?' the waiter replied.
'No Sarah although I might look like a Michael but that's definitely my drink.'

The waiter passed me the glass of juice to laughter of stoned Israelis.

A drop of Sherry

I was standing in boots looking at blusher (as if my face wasn't embarrassing enough) when I noticed an old lady bent over her zimmer frame looking at lip stick. How brilliant, I thought that at that age she still wore lipstick.

I was in the queue later and the old women went to counter and asked for some assistance.

'Hello, sorry dear I've forgotten my glasses and I can't find this shade' She pulled out a stick of lipstick from her handbag. The lady behind the counter smiled and said something patronising like;

'Not having a very good day are we?'

I don't know why people insist of saying 'we' instead of 'you' to the ill, injured or infirm.

'No dear' Replied the women, now smiling relieved to have some help.

They walked over to the make up stand and the shop assistant looked at the various different lipsticks. They chatted away like they were old friends, which perhaps they were.

'So' said the shop assistant 'What is the name of this shade?'

'A Drop of Sherry' Replied the old women.

The highlight of my day

I hate the sound of dry felt tip pens on paper. In fact hate is a bit weak; abhor, loathe, despise, I am perhaps even phobic. I don't know why or how it started but I literally can't bear it. If I accidentally find myself writing with a dry felt tip pen my instant reaction is to jump away in horror and contort my body into shapes of disgust, like some people do if they accidentally find a maggot in an apple they are eating or a severed finger in a crisp packet. Everyone has something they can't bare and this is my nails down a blackboard, my cracking of knuckles, my Bono.

Once when I was at work I had to leave the room because one of my colleagues was labelling up an envelope with an old marker pen; my eyes began to water and I excused myself immediately for fear I might vomit.

So, it was to my horror that a few days ago during rush hour, weighed down by bags, unable to move, I sat on the Piccadilly line next to a husband and wife couple who were trying to establish which one of the many highlighters they had in their bag worked.

Dry pen after dry pen was dragged across scrap paper as they tried to draw attention to some sentence or other. They were probably in their sixties and they had more highlighter pens than an average office. This succession and repetition of neon lasted my entire journey, why would they have so many dried up marker pens, and what was so important that they must highlight it now?

My eyes began to water, of all the people they could sit next to, they had to sit next to me, probably the only person on the entire tube network with an irrational fear of dry nibs. I scowled at them as I turned up my ipod, but the scrapping noise penetrated even that. I dug my fingers into the palm of my hands but the pain did nothing to dull the actual pain of being there. They must have wondered why I was tutting and scowling and listening to Canned Heat so loudly. Little did they know or understand what they were putting me through. I gagged twice and the second time coincided with their joy of finding a working highlighter.

I shuddered and huffed and alighted at Finsbury park.

Roadkill

I continue to wobble around the countryside on my 14th birthday present. The main aim of these explorations is to not get fat but also to get out of the house. 

On Saturday I cycled home from my brothers house in Cambridge, I say cycle, stagger would be more accurate. It is about 18 miles and flat all the way which makes it easy but also means there are no downward hills to make you forget what you're doing for a minute. It took me about two hours which I didn't think was too bad and I went the long way round so as to avoid the traffic. At one point I thought I'd discovered a new species of rodent, a massive rat possibly, but then I realised it was a rabbit with his ears back who scampered into a corn field when I approached him.

I have also seen a lot of dead things:

x2 rats

x3 pheasants

x1 deer- so newly dead he would have been alive five minutes earlier.

x1 tail without a body

x1 fox

x loads of hedgehogs but they don't count because they are born to be flattened.

x1 Perfectly decent looking pair of levis discarded in a field. I considered picking them up but then became worried they might be of importance to an impending murder enquiry so left them where they were.

I also saw a mini tornado in a field but that sounds like a lie and so I won't waste my time describing it to you.

Shortly before I fell in to a ditch

Blick-Breeze

I am currently on a break from work (ahem... unemployed) and am staying with my parents in the 'picturesque market town of Saffron Walden'.  Here in the rolling Essex countryside you can admire the 15th century church, buy a portrait of Victoria Beckham (in pastels) for £120 in the local library and then get drunk in Wetherspoons before starting a fight in the street with some squaddies. 

Having now exhausted the options above I am filling my time incrementally, with worthy pursuits, such as; reading, baking, ironing and today I can add to this litany; cycling. 

My dad kindly retrieved my bike from the shed and pumped up the cracked tyres as I dusted it down, screaming loudly whenever  a spider emerged from the mud guard and tried to eat me. The bike was a birthday present for my 14th birthday, and was received all those years ago after rather obsessive research on my part, it is a dusty purple and green Raleigh with twelve gears and a bit of rust. Apart from the ominous squeaking breaks and the cobwebs that had soldered themselves to the handlebars, it is in remarkably good condition given its recent lack of activity.

Having relinquished my membership to the gym and spent the last week eating curries and fry ups (not at the same time) I was long overdue some exercise. I heaved my bike round the side of the house and on to the not-very-mean-at-all streets. I cycled down the road in competition with a teenage boy with ill-advised bleach blond hair and headed out of town, past Audley End House and straight towards the middle of nowhere. 

The middle of nowhere is a nice place to be, bar the M11 that runs a scar across the countryside, the constant swoosh of speeding vehicles is rarely silenced. I rode around the country roads without any kind of map or direction, occasionally singing Beyonce, and thinking about and deciding against a gin and tonic stop. I cycled over the motorway bridge, got mild vertigo and then staggered up a rather steep hill. 

The sharp afternoon sunlight on the chalky soil of the fields made it look like a strange kind of sea, so I stopped to take a picture. I haphazardly left my bike at the side of the road at an odd angle (that prompted one driver to slow right down to check no one had been knocked off it) and jumped over a ditch to find the right angle for the shot. As I took the photo I was dive bombed by a wasp- from a distance I would have appeared to be dancing. The wasp wouldn't leave me alone so I did a strange,wobbly staccato run back to my bike. I leapt over the ditch and looked around for the wasp. I had outrun it. Ha I laugh in the face of you-wasp. I stood there for a second and there was a loud buzzing that hit me on the face, I screamed raised my arms into the air and fell backwards into the ditch. 

As luck would have it the ditch wasn't deep, the wasp did not succeed in stinging me and I had just managed to avoid a cluster of nettles. I jumped up quickly, the road was deserted so my dignity was in tact. As I lifted my bike up from the ground an old lady pulled up beside me. Strangely I was a bit unnerved. Maybe she was an old aged murderer. Instead of cycling away, I waited, just to see if she was. She took quite a long time to get out of the car and I stood there nervously- I just had to know.

"Hello" I said.

"He-low" She replied in an incredibly posh voice.

"Lovely day" I said-this is what people say to each other in the countryside.

"Yeasss, I am just going to see if there are any blick-breeze". That's blackberries to you and I.

She wasn't a murderer.

"Good luck" I said before mounting my bicycle, I looked out for Blick-Breeze, but its near the end of the season and they all looked a bit hopeless so i shouldn't think she was very successful. 

Oi...

Today I encountered a rubbish beggar.

She was sitting next to a row of cash points. Rather than meekly asking for money, or starting up a conversation she just shouted:

"Oi, YOU GOT ANY MONEY?" 

She was a bit frightening and so I politely ignored her. Then she screeched once again

"Oi, YOU GOT ANY MONEY?" I shrugged.

"Oi" She jumped up and I flinched. "Oi" She shouted again. I smiled at her trying not to look too middle class and scared. "Not you love" she pushed me out of the way and headed towards a long haired Frenchmen "Can I buy a fag off you?" She stood inches from his face and whilst she phrased it as a question it was  in fact a demand. 

The Frenchmen looked at her, shrugged and with cigarette stuck to his bottom lip mumbled nonchalantly  "Non, you can 'ave one". (This is a dead description because surely everything a French person mumbles is nonchalant)

"Cheers mate" She said before returning to her concrete sofa and shouting "Oi, YOU GOT ANY MONEY?"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cgq78FqrPXI&feature=player_embedded#t=41

Me: Please can I have an orange juice and lemonade.

Barman: Sure.

Gets bottle of orange juice and puts it into glass.

Barman: Ice?

Me: Yes please. Are you going to put any lemonade in that?

Barman: Excuse me?

Me: Lemonade?

Barman: Lemonade?

Me: Yes. I asked for an orange juice and lemonade?

Barman: An orangejuice WITH lemonade!?!

Me: Yes.

Barman looks confused.

Me: Orange juice and lemonade. In the same glass. I'm not sure what more I can tell you...

Barman: Ok.

Passport to nowhere

I hate any kind of bureaucracy as it induces in me Kafkaesque delusion. Last year I had to fill out a tax return for the first time and received many hours of therapy from various staff members at the inland revenue who would gently reassure me that it was 'unlikely I would go to prison for fraud.'  So it was with a heavy heart that I booked an appointment to get a new passport.

As the fear of form filling set in so did the horror of the passport photo. A passport photo, like a dog, is not just for Christmas; it travels with you, for ten years, and if you get kidnapped in a foreign country it ends up on the news. This panicked me. I must remember to supply my friends with a series of approved photographs that they can distribute to news agencies in that event. 

Vanity took me to Snappy Snaps to have a real person take my picture rather than a machine with a voice. I don't think the women in the shop understood the gravity of the situation and after several attempts I settled for an average representation of my features. In the photo I have the complexion of cheddar and one eyebrow raised in a quizzical fashion, I hope this is not seen as an affront to immigration officials at airports, I am not questioning their authority nor the splendour of their country. 

When I arrived at the passport office my slightly disappointing photo suddenly didn't seem so bad as I looked at the girl in front of me in the queue . She was about 18, with the longest false eyelashes I have ever seen and bright blue hair; something I fear she will come to regret when she is 25 and a lawyer travelling to Washington DC for her 'big break'.

At the passport office,they believe themselves to be an airport-perhaps because of the association of travel. As a result your belongings are x-rayed and you are frisked, but the staff are very nice and as they frisk you ask if you are having a nice day and tell you that you look a bit tired and that its lucky you are going on a holiday soon. 

I was issued with a ticket with a number on it, like at a deli counter. I sat down and waited for my number to be called. 1969. This was harder than it sounds as the numbers are called out without any logical order. 

'1987'

'2045'

'30040'

'1'

They might as well be shouting out;

'cow'

'sandwich'

'orange juice'

'girl guides'

I was there for about 20 minutes when the robot voice of god boomed

'1961'

Nobody moved. There was a pause of a few minutes 

'1961'

Still no takers. 'What an idiot!' I thought.  '...why would you take a ticket and leave without telling anyone?' I tutted and muttered something about people being inconsiderate. '1961' was called a few more times before they gave up.

A few minutes later:

'1969'

I stood up and showed a man with a walkie-talkie my ticket so he could tell me which counter to go to. He looked at me. He looked at my ticket.

'You've missed it!' He said.

'What? No I haven't!' I said indignantly as I snatched the ticket back. There in black emboldened numbers was written;

'1961'

I shouldn't hate bureaucracy, its not bureaucracy's fault, its mine.

 

You know...for bears

The other day I was standing at the bar of a once brilliant- now awful- pub in Islington whose declivity is reflected in the fact that the menu doesn't refer to cheese as cheese but rather as "cow's curd."

The women standing next to me was incredibly posh with blond hair and an expensive handbag; she was anything between 28 and 40 years old- probably closer to 28 but her sloaney outfit betrayed her youth. She was in conversation with the bar man, I had been waiting a while and so resented their false camaraderie until the conversation turned...

Woman: Oh god I'm just so shattered at the moment...

Barman: Really?

Woman: Yah, my sister and I have just started a charity. I'm working all the hours God's sends its farking awful.

Barman: That sounds great though, what kind of charity?

Woman: A bear charity.

Barman: A bear charity?

Woman: Yes, that's right, a charity for bears

Barman: What kind of bears?

Woman: ALL bears (she pauses) we DON'T discriminate.

God bless you Islington. God bless you

In the right direction

I've discovered my new favourite thing, it costs me nothing, but fills me with self worth and a sense of achievement.  

London makes people so inhibited that they will happily stand for hours lost and  confused, squinting at a map not wishing to ask for help. It is my belief that there are probably people who have been standing on street corners in Soho for months- not selling their wares but rather trying to establish where.

I won't just help people who ask me...no the real work is to be done with those who won't or can't ask. Their little lost faces light up as I point them in the right direction, they weep with gratitude and I stride off...often in the wrong direction- but that doesn't matter because at least they know where they are going.

I would recommend you try it; it's budget philanthropy for those who can't afford the real thing.