Fragile images and slippery paths

For those that fear Rachel is based upon them I have to say fear not there are many more examples. I am an avid people watcher and that, rather sadly, makes writing all the easier. For me it is not about the immediate and tangible aspects of what you see but what lies beneath the surface of that first image. Allow me to share two examples.

I spotted what should, by ages alone, have been a father and daughter pairing in the pub last night. The couple should not have necessitated a second glance but something about the young girl cried out. I’m not sure that I could pick out what it was that drew me to look closer but there was clearly more to the story.

It may have been the almost alabaster make up, not quite in keeping with the style of the clothes. Was this selected as a rebellion? Some outer indication that all was not well. Or was it that the foundation was applied to thickly for such young skin, not juvenile application but mature and deliberate over application. I know that you will all think of over indulgent nights followed by messy makeup but there was something more in this face. It was as if the mask that she chose to hide behind had subtle, possibly subconscious, clues offered like a code that would never be deciphered.

Whatever that clue was it drew my eye, almost instinctively, to her ring finger which seemed almost too fragile for the jewellery which adorned it. An engagement ring that was uncomfortably close to theatrical jewellery blurred the boundaries of childish dress up and the adult implications of marriage. The guy shepherded his ward into a booth, perhaps it was pure chance that she became pinned in a corner. I couldn’t help reflecting on the tortured soul that cried out from eyes far too dark for one so young.

The next time I glanced over the man was planting a kiss on his partner, her hands clasped in his. Rather than a firm and loving grasp the large hands seemed to trap the young girls hands, like a butterfly incapable of escape. There were clearly choices that this young girl had made and, I don’t doubt, reasons for those choices but there was a sad oblivion in the eyes that spoke of being trapped.

This morning I left the hotel at 4.30 am and was surprised to see a young lady slipping on the frosty path in front of me. The venues opposite the hotel are ‘lock ups’ that is to say that there is no residential accommodation despite, in some cases, appearances. As she righted herself and tottered to a less frosty area it was clear that she had left a pub. There were no lights on and certainly there is no licence in the area that extends to such an early hour.

As I came nearer I realised that it was not just the 4 inch heels that seemed inappropriate for conditions, the general dress was that of a night out and not an early morning start. Shoulder length dark hair was strewn over her shoulders in the way that only a ‘five finger brush’ can achieve confirming this was the end of a long night. The ‘lucky’ night had ended like Cinderella’s ball and the walk, or totter, of shame had begun.

The excitement of last night’s whispered conspiracies had given way to sober guilt or worry. Fumbling in her bag for a phone that had doubtless been turned off last night she took another slide on the pavement. The elegant beauty that had strode into the pub and inspired the late night now an oddly dressed foal trying to control her own legs.

You can tell me that both of these women were free to make their choices. You can tell me that I am reading too much into what I see, that these ladies are happy. But in these two examples, as in everyone that I see, I believe there is an undercurrent of fear, insecurities and need. Perhaps it is part of the ‘broken wings syndrome’ but the story that I see is not an empowered one but a sad one. I see women who are misguided and shackled by their own misunderstanding of their ‘value’ in life.

So girls, when you read Rachel’s story remember that she is all around you and probably as close as you think. Guys when you tell me of conquests and I seem to glaze over I’m sorry it’s just that my perspective is different.

Economy shopping, sage and onion warfare and Christmas Nazis

I had one of those mornings on Saturday that are normally the reserve of the young. I retired at a sensible time and had no need to set an alarm and was awaken by the hour chime from my wristwatch. I was very surprised to look at my watch and realise that it was 10 am! I never sleep that late but clearly, as mothers everywhere would say, I must have needed it. The odd thing is that as you get older you lose the ability to recover lost sleep so I feel as exhausted today as I did on Friday, go figure.

I have now decided to withdraw any grocery shopping from Asda following another disastrous delivery. In fairness this weeks delivery lad was clearly some way short of the full ticket, rather than use a trolley he carried 3 plastic trays up to my second floor flat. Whilst the choice of trolley is his alone I was gobsmacked when he said “there is one more, I will go and get it” looking out of the window I saw that he had left his truck with the doors open! On the return journey he got lost in the elevator, this is some achievement given that there are only four floors. He explained that we had substitutions and I asked if this was a weekend thing, presuming more people shopped in store at the weekend “oh no there are always loads of substitutions”.

He seemed generally surprised that I didn’t want the substitutions, see I do learn, but set about offloading items. As he scanned each item he remarked on the price and concluded with “wow you have saved £37” excuse me? I have lost nearly half of my shopping how is that a saving? bloody idiot. One item that was an issue was the duvet set and sheet that I had purchased, a nice cream with print. The duvet set had been substituted but not the sheet, this was either to minimise the substitutions or because the picker was colour blind but the result did not match. “you can have that sheer back as well fella” was not the right thing to say the sheet, you see, had not been substituted it was what I had ordered. Having explained the concept of matching bed linen a number of times I gave up, I may as well have tried to explain the theory of relativity “I don’t want it”.

Having reluctantly agreed to take the sheet back the delivery guy had 8 items plus the sheet, not too difficult one would hope. After three recounts he accepted that all was well but still looked at me as if I was a street magician who had just tricked him out of a can of soup. I looked to Google for advice and was told that Asda have by far the worst reputation for home deliveries but rather more worryingly I found stories from people who entrusted their Christmas shop to home delivery. These are people who are really into Christmas but think that they have discovered a sneaky way around the queues in stores. They book a delivery slot early and then are distraught that some of their goods are unavailable, despite their advanced planning. If any of these people are reading this then allow me to explain, you book the delivery and not the goods. The goods that you will receive are the result of a combination of the list that you provide and some spotty youth picking them. This is as far from the high-end ‘personal shopper’ as one can get.

Have you seen UK grocery stores in the run up to Christmas? you take your life in your hands just entering. Does anybody seriously think that a disinterested youth on minimum wage will fight the general population to get the items on your list? £6.50 per hour to go head to head with Mrs Smith over that last packet of sage and onion, not a hope. If you want to indulge in the festive insanity then you must do so in person or suffer the consequences of shopping by proxy.

Whilst on the subject of the festive season I would like to point out that, despite contrary opinion, it is optional. I choose not to indulge in the insanity of the season in any way, shape or form and that is a choice that I am eminently comfortable with. I spoke to a friend in the pub recently who will be at home for Christmas for the first time this year, having worked at Christmas previously. Unfortunately I was too late to give him the advice he needed and he has now been collared into the season, albeit unwillingly. An invitation to spend Christmas with his daughter and her family at Christmas seemed innocent and was accepted only then did the plot reveal itself. Christmas will be spent with the cast of a small budget movie, there will be extended family from both sides and other friends who ‘have nowhere to go’, he is trapped into an event that he doesn’t want to attend.

I have explained to him that at Christmas people are overcome by a desire to share what they believe the season is about. Normally nice people become deceitful, plotting and scheming nefarious plans to entrap the naïve. We accept that some people don’t eat meat, some don’t drink and some smoke but at Christmas we turn into Nazis! Just because there is no tree in my house it doesn’t mean that I spend the day darning socks and warming myself over a bloody candle, that was a Disney movie! I personally detest the season and all that comes with it, from October to January I tolerate the silliness but it does nothing for me. Please don’t worry about me, I have never had visits from the ghosts of Christmas past that was Disney as well. Can I ask that this year when we “think about those that will be alone at Christmas”, as we are always asked to do, we accept that some people like that.

Dirty sex, envy and early darts

This morning was one of those when I had ‘normal’ envy. In get this every now and again but I’m blaming this episode on a facebook chat with a friend yesterday (you know who you are). And so this morning when I arose and collected the technical papers for the next couple of days I felt a pang of jealousy for those that live in ‘normality’. I have never lived in such a world despite my aspirations but I think it must be nice.

Allow me to expand a little on the normality of which I speak. As I walked to the train station in the early hours I passed households that were normal. In these houses the occasional light was on as somebody stirred. It was a tad early but later there would be warm embraces and tender kisses to start the day. The guys in these houses would start their day happy in the knowledge of children at school and housework completed. These are the guys that return home to dinner that isn’t microwaved, that help their children with homework and discuss the day.

This world of normality doesn’t involve working long days and continuing at home. This normality is driven by a purpose, by some sketchy plan. There is a partnership behind this normality that faces it’s challenges and remains strong. This is the normal that leaves a warm bed and returns to a home rather than a place. I know that this is a normal of stereotypes and that it’s never all good behind the curtains but it’s still there.

I may still have some ‘life mobility’ issues but in general I am successful in my professional life. I have travelled the world and am lucky to enjoy my career. I’m not sure that I ever realised that the choice between career and life was mutually exclusive. Please don’t misunderstand me I am not bemoaning my lot but that doesn’t mean I can’t get a little envious occasionally does it?

I travelled to town today with the early commuter set and as always they were a revelation. The group of women that sat behind me were debating the drama of washing your hair before work. This debate occurred at 6am, what time did they have to get up to wash their hair? Unless they all had some rampant and rather filthy sex last night there was no need for that! They then went on to demonstrate one of the issues a large percentage of the working class have, complacency.

Having discussed how ‘projects will always go over budget’ they went on to discuss finish times. One woman explained that early on in her role she had asked if she could leave at 16.30 rather than the prescribed 17.00. Brilliantly the reason for this early dart was that she was a woman, go figure? Anyway, having negotiated half an hour she kept chipping away at it and is now on the 15.08 train but her boss ‘doesn’t care.

In case said person should read this post allow me to clear up her misunderstanding. Either your boss does care and you are next on the list for redundancy or he really doesn’t care and you’re both on the list! I fail to see what benefit you can bring to a company if they don’t notice that your working short days. I do look forward to hearing that she has been laid off or, preferably, sacked!

Well it’s not all about you

I had one of those incongruous walks to work this morning. Outside of the station, at 06:00, I passed a carefree couple who had just discovered a bench and sat down to roll a cigarette. The bench was convenient because it is difficult to roll a cigarette whilst drinking beer and walking. None of the workaday stress for this couple, no moaning about working late or not having time for each other, these guys were sorted. As I walked past them I walked through a veritable sea of cigarette ends as I crossed the grass in front of the NHS ‘dependence unit’. I have noted before that this building has a lift that scales more floors than were built, almost in anticipation of future demand. As I turned to look up at the building I saw that the lights were on as an army of low paid cleaners busied themselves preparing the building for the day. 

When I walk past later today I will pass a collection of relaxed smokers, drinking a beer and playing with their dogs. Don’t misunderstand me, that’s not the life for me but then either is cleaning their mess up at 6 am for minimum wage.

 Another incongruity caught my eye in the newspaper yesterday. Following the announcement of fare rises on public transport the RMT union decided to show their support for passengers. The guy pictured at Kings Cross holding a placard that read “Cut fares not staff” seemed oblivious to the oxymoron that he was supporting. Given the public and press venom every time Bob Crow’s followers take a day off in support of gold plated pensions or the lack of full cream milk in the canteen, it seems insane to think that they can claim that they support the passengers. Let’s be brutally honest the passengers don’t want the support of the unions other than in turning up for work regularly and this is probably a step too far.

 I would guess that the jobs comment was based on the ‘leaked’ document that shows that LU are considering removing ticket staff from all but a few stations. The press decried this saying “who will explain the system”, “who will sell occasional tickets to those that don’t use Oyster cards” and “who will explain the machines?” I can only think that such pieces are written by those that have never visited London; certainly they have not used the metro. The people behind the bullet proof glass of the ticket office never leave to assist with machines for a start. Tourists trying to purchase simple tickets are berated, in a language unknown to them, for their inability to understand one of the most complicated transport systems on the planet. This is not unique to tourists, Londoners are also expected to know the intricacies of the network and be fluent in the language of the tube. If you dare to present at a ticket office with a question you will be offered an answer in a language unintelligible to anyone other than another member of staff and then met with a look that clearly indicates that you are an imbecile. 

If you don’t believe me then feel free to try it, ask at a ticket office window whether you can have an adult single to Mornington Crescent and the only word that you will understand in the answer is “Oyster”. I think it is the result of attempts, years ago, by London Underground to breed a super race that could live underground. Being brought up by rats and tramps has meant these ‘children of the deep’ have developed an entirely new dialect. In short I would take a machine, coded by a ten year old, in Russian, over queuing politely to be called a moron. 

In case it seems that I am being unfairly biased against the metro I should point out that stupid people are available on other transport systems to. The route to my hotel in Derby involves crossing the station; this is an agreed route with the train operator. Generally you present yourself at the barrier and advise that you’re “just crossing” and are allowed to enter and exit. I tried this on Monday and was met with “are you going to the hotel?” Impressed at the deduction I answered yes and then it went wrong, apparently I should show my hotel card at the gate. I explained that this was not possible because I had not checked in yet, indeed I was on my way to perform this very activity. The young lady struggled with the concept that a person could be going to a hotel but not have come from there and I was seriously considering drawing a picture that included hotel and home. We agreed to disagree in the end with a disparaging “next time show your card” met by “next time I will have one”.

Think that it’s just the staff? Think again. Last night I met a guy remonstrating with the barrier guard because he had “lost” his ticket. The barrier guard was adamant that the guy needed to buy a ticket to exit the station. Having waited a couple of minutes I caught the guard attention and said “just passing through” and he opened the barrier for me. As I walked away I heard a complete change of tack from the fair dodging passenger who suddenly remembered he was “just passing through”, needless to say this new plan was unsuccessful.