Avenues

Sometimes life does things that you just aren't expecting.

For instance one morning you may come across a crumpled five pound note in the street. 'Ah,' you'll think to yourself, 'I'm going to treat myself to a coffee and a bagel with this free, slightly smelly, crumpled five pound note.' And you'll hurry along to the nearest coffee shop, not looking where you are going and get run over buy a bus. The five pound will whaft out of your hand and float onto the pavement for someone else to pick up. 


You weren't expecting the five pound note. You weren't expecting the bus. 


When is it that we should take note of the unexpected? The above example is flighty whimsy, but life is a tricksy bastard . . . 


Imagine. I am walking down a path.  There is green either side of me and the track below is made of small shale pebbles. In front of me I see a fork, behind which, both avenues look identical, although I know they will be different. I stand patient and wait for a sign. Nothing presents itself and so I start off down the right-hand path. I stop. Slowly I reverse and walk back to the fork. Staring the choice hard in the face I want for something to change. I sit on the floor and wait. Time shifts. The grass grows brown and everything moves on. The light rises and falls, descending me into darkness. Years pass; there are no signs but I continue to wait. One morning I awake, in front of the fork, and stand. My knees creak as I push myself off the floor. I look at my hands. The skin on them folds and wrinkles. I am old. My hair cascades down my back and is a blanket of coarse grey so long it trails far beyond my waist. I turn to the fork no longer angry, no longer determined; now I am only tired. I turn left. A heaviness is upon my legs that I have never felt before and it is an effort to walk down the avenue. But I do, and I continue. I just keep walking. I am too old to care about the right avenue now. 


Both avenues lead to the same place. 


Life is a tricksy bastard, and who knows which avenue is the right one. Ultimately, though, does it really matter?

If I were in a Western...

If I were in a Western I'd want to wear big cowboy boots and an oversized hat. One of my teeth would be missing - except it wouldn't really... I'd have covered it in soot so it looked like it was missing. There'd be a red and white spotty rag tied around my neck and I'd have a snarl... When I raised my lip on the right-hand side of my mouth my gappy teeth would show.


It would be dusty. Everywhere dusty, and so scorching hot the wooden shacks on either side of the dry road would wobble when you looked at them. An old man in a hat with a beard so long it touched his chest would sit outside a long closed chemist - hat tipped over his eyes, would sleep. His snore gently wafting on the heat-waves. Four empty beer bottles left under his chair, long forgotten and sand coated, attracting roaches and giant ants.


And there I'd be. Hat too big and shoes too clumpy. My gun in my holster I'd have just left the saloon after drinking 'Smokey Joe's Cough Medicine'... clunk clunk clunk, go my boots.
"Hey thur..." Shouts a stout, dark haired, dirty looking man.
"Who, me?"
"Yar, you... You're new in these here parts"
"I am"
"Well thun I say it's time for a showdown"


Cue tumbleweeds. (And a bit of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly music.)


 We walk up to stand face to face. He smells of sour beer, his stubble days old and gritty. The heat is rising and a bird flies past. He has a lazy eye which makes me grin, but not too much for I am frightened he may shoot me like a dog if I laugh in his face. There is an ant crawling on my knee and I want to squish it, but now is not the time..We turn... back to back.


"On three, we walk" I say, "and after four paces we turn... and then....."
"And thun...."
"One. Two. Three"


Slowly our backs leave each other. I hear his boots grind into the stones. My hands shake by my holster. Beads of sweat forming on my brow I imagine sweat trickling from under his hat. Step four, I spin round and the sun momentarily strikes my face. I turn, he turns... there's a lot of turning going on. Guns out of holster...


BANG -simultaneous.


Silence. Nothing happens. Time has stopped as smoke slowly drifts out of our guns. The town hall clock stops ticking...


Together we fall. Both hit. My hat, too big, slides off the back of my head as I fall backward. He crumples down, gun slipping out of his hand, knees buckling forward. Eight paces apart falling together. His face crashes to the dirt, stones searing into his cheek. I smash onto the road sand puffing out from underneath me. I see the brilliant blue sky above. The sun strikes my face again... I think about his lazy eye. I start laughing.


If I were in a western.

Leaves and stuff

Autumn.


I LOVE autumn. Why? Pleases refer to the list below:


i) It's cold. Cold enough for scarfs and hats, and gloves and warm wooly coats.
ii) It's also cold enough for hot chocolates and soups. (It's even cold enough to eat a Magnum really slowly because it doesn't start to melt as quickly, which is fun.) 
iii) Sometimes it's even cold enough for snow, but failing that... at least a biting frost.
iv) There's leaves, everywhere. 
v) These leaves are amazing colours: orange, yellow, green, brown, caramel, crimson, umber, amber, bambi (hang on...), lime, chocolate, gold.
vi) I get to wear a coat that makes me look like Paddington Bear
vii) It's closer to my birthday
vii) It's closer to Christmas
viii) Drinking red wine by a fire on which you propose to roast chestnuts and cook marshmallows until you realise it's electric. 
ix) Going for a walk on a freezing a brilliantly blue day is unbeatable.
x) Whilst on that walk you can kick through the fallen leave (see points ix and v for reference)
xi) If you're really lucky you can watch someone else kicking through the leaves and accidently kicking hidden dog poo
xii) If you're really unlucky that person isn't someone else, it's you.
xiii) The nights draw in and walking home as dusk falls whilst wrapped in your warm wears (see point i), watching the sky turn the same colours of the leaves feels secretly magical.
xiv) Hot Toddies at any time of the day are allowed, in fact they are encouraged.
xv) Everything feels fresh and new and crisp and clean, even though the leaves are actually dying and you keep treading in dog shit.
xvi) Conkers
xvii) Seeing hedgehogs with their prickly little backs and their squidgy faces.
xviii) Having the chimney sweep come around (I don't know why I've included this... I've never had this happen)
xix) Bonfires and peoples glowing faces when stood around them. 




They are the reasons I love autumn. It also smells nice, a little like frozen musty honey.. which sounds disgusting but it isn't. 
I think i'd going to go to the park now to watch some people kick through the leaves... and maybe get a little surprise. A poo surprise. 

Umbrellas

I live in England. In England it rains. A lot. So some clever man a long time ago (about 4,000 years) invented the umbrella. Initially the umbrella was used for protection against the sun... until someone FAR cleverer than the man who used it for protection again the sun, used it for protection against the rain. Clever.

I don't have an umbrella. I had one... until Sunday... and now I don't have one anymore... but someone one the 18.48 to Twickenham does. Why are umbrellas so easy to lose? There are hundreds of different designs (my favourite are the ones that look like frogs or bears or giraffes), that you can buy from a plethora of outlets. There are automatic ones, see through ones, expandable, single-sized, group-sized... even hat umbrellas... But every single person I have ever met has lost at least one umbrella. Maybe it's because they are seen as disposable that we regularly forget, lose, break or steal them. And don't say you've never stolen an umbrella... Everyone's stolen an umbrella. It's wet, it's dark, no one's looking and then: 'shwiip', in a flash you are the proud new owner of an umbrella. But you're not proud are you? Not just because you're a dirty thief, but also because even if it was bought legitimately, no one is ever proud of an umbrella. Does anyone EVER remember going into a bar after sheltering yourself from the rain with your brand new brolly and saying 'Oh look everyone, look at my brand new umbrella... isn't it marvelous'... No, because nobody does that. Umbrellas aren't marvelous, they aren't really anything accept useful. And I think that's a little sad. 

For something that has become absolutely indispensable when it rains and completely redundant when it doesn't, I think we ought to have a little more care. The umbrella. A solitary object, forlorn without its owner and positively smug when cradled in the hand of someone keeping dry. They may look like weird caped spiders when they are 'put up', but they should be respected for the service they provide for us. 

Maybe, just maybe, the next time you buy one you could keep an eye on it. Make sure that when you're on the tube or the bus you don't, just because it's suddenly sunny, leave it weeping rainy tears forgotten underneath your empty seat. Take it with you. Umbrellas, I think, like the sunshine too... after all it was their original purpose, you wouldn't want to deny them of that now, would you?

And, as an afterthought.... if you're the dirty thief who stole my umbrella, give it back... you dry bastard. 

Locks, Keys and Oily Puddles.

I read a book the other day -it's a great book- and within said book there was a chapter on keys. The book, which was good, suddenly got great. I was lying on my bed reading about plugs and staples (yes, really) and then suddenly the 'Key Chapter'.  -Just to help make things slightly clearer, this book is non fiction (no, it's not the B&Q catalogue), but it somehow manages to contain all the brilliance and excitement of novel -about keys no less. 


So, the Key Chapter (the pun, I realise now, is actually a very good one). Keys: Curious, magical and always to be born in pairs. I don't mean you always have two keys, more elegant than that... without the lock there is no key. Without the key a lock becomes redundant. A lone key, minus lock, somehow still looks full of promise... a solitary lock, however, looks heavy and still, like it will sleep for a hundred years until it hears the distinctive 'chilink' of the key that once used to fit.  This chapter, so beautifully written, got me to thinking: What things do I like and why? Do I particularly like freshly cleaned glass jars along a window sill because of the glass, or the jar? -Or even, I hear you shout, the window sill -don't be ridiculous. If I like the bristles all splayed outwards on a used toothbrush, does that mean the next person does? I'm not sure, but I've tried to come up with a list of some of the things I like, and the reasonings why. Maybe, as you read this, you will realise we have the exact same likes, everyone who reads this, and we'll discover and worldwide phenomenon love for cold floor tiles. Maybe not. 

• Glass jars, freshly cleaned, along a window sill (bet you didn't see that one coming). 
• The backs of old picture frames. They've nearly always got something written on the back of them, which is usually interesting or at least in funny handwriting. Start checking.
• Small clumps of moss that have ended up, somehow, on grey concrete. Bright green on dull grey-very pretty. And they generally look like giant caterpillars. 
• Running my hands along privet hedges. I don't suppose the owners of the hedges are keen for passers by to do this but it feels nice, crunchy leaves and spikey branches.
• Oily puddles. Obvious. Magical.
• The miniature version of anything. I believe in fairies.
• The noise that happens when you have a full jar of water and you turn it upside down over the sink. Puh. 
• An old envelope with the scribbles of people I know on it. This feels somehow wrong to read, so I like it.
• Finding tiny bugs on plants. I imagine the leaves are like a fairground ride for them, all big and drooping. 
• Mixed sweets in a huge jar. Hmmm... maybe I just like jars.
• Having butterflies land on my nose. This has never happened.

Maybe it's the magic?

The oil rainbow that dances within a once murky puddle suggests more wonderment in the world. As you look down, the puddle inches from your converse trainers, the colours waltz. If you push your head slightly forward you can see your face, warped by ripples, covered in pinks and blues, the sky above you a merge of green and yellow. The street around you is normal. Do you have the urge to jump in? Dip one trainer into the puddle only to realise its depth is unlimited. Ankle follows foot, the other toe still on concrete... rainbow colours sweeping up your leg. Plunging further in, now both hips submerged, greens and vibrant pinks shooting up your torso and streaking onto your face. As your head is finally pulled under, your hands, the last thing to go, now purple and orange in glorious swathes across your fingers, wave goodbye to the dull street and delicately, just perfectly, disappear from view. The puddle, coming to a stand still once more, is calm. Another passer by walks along the street from which you have vanished, and ignores it completely. Rainbows gone, it is just another dank area of water, no magic, no possibility.   

Curious...

Beginnings and the things that follow.

This is the beginning of a blog. You will read it through, and then will come the end. 

Everything, as the tibetans say, is made of a beginning and an ending. Nothing that ever starts will continue to be forever. Even a black hole will cease, although by it’s own definition it is one continual end. Life, not to sound like a bore, is made up of these starts and finishes. It need not be a race, we are not in the one hundred meter sprint. We aren’t even in a 3000m cross country run… but after the start pistol has sounded there is only one definite that will follow. You may fall over a rock, you may slip on a slug, you may think you hear someone call your name and, whilst turning, smash your face into a tree. You may do all of these things, or none. But at some point the race will be over, whatever else happens. 

Now, this all sounds increasingly morbid. To clarify, this blog is not about death, not in its immediate sense. It’s not about The Art of Living and Dying, although that is a very interesting and recommended read. It’s about things when they begin and end, and what happens when they do. 

When you finish your ice cream the obvious consequence is to reach into the freezer and fill you bowl again to stop the ‘finish’ from happening. This can only be done for so long. You either come to the end of the tub, or realise the 2nd and 3rd trips to the corner shop were unnecessary, indulgent and greedy. You could just stop. Your ice cream would come to an end. There would be no more… but almost instantly something else would begin. It may be a thirst. Your teeth might ache. You may feel full. From the end becomes a beginning.  These beginnings can be huge and of massive significance, equally they can be so infinitesimally tiny they go almost unnoticed, but that inception, that moment of creation is there. They are the ones to watch out for. 

You’ve written a letter (on paper, your internet is broken and you’ve remember you, at some point in your schooling, were taught how to use a pen), you sign off, place your pen to one side and fold the paper. You get your envelope and place your missive within it. Lick, stick. You get a stamp, cursing the ridiculous new stamp system the Post Office has put in place; IS this a large letter or not? What actually specifies a ‘large letter’? Idiots, you think. You uncertainly make the call, it’s not large, it’s medium… and the fools haven’t got a medium letter stamp (or a small for that matter), so a regular one will have to do. Stamp affixed you walk, letter in hand, to the post box at the end of your road. It boarded up. You still have a letter and no means of posting it. The next post box is 10 minutes away… it’s a nice day, you decide to walk for the fresh air. It’s glorious outside and you have a letter to post, what’s ten minutes? The walk takes you through a series of little streets and back roads. You see a cat, it sees you. You both stop. What you want for it to do is either talk or display the skills of a super ninja cat. It does neither, just looks at you, blinks and pads off. You keep walking and the post box is within your sight. It’s not boarded up. It open like a smiley red mouth wanting to eat your letter. You post. ‘Thuth’ it sounds as it falls on the pile of letters already on their journey. You turn and walk home.

On that journey were hundreds, if not thousands, of beginnings and endings. You probably noticed three, maybe four. What would have happened if you choose to take a different road? Began on a different path… Would you end up at a different post box? Would you have ‘ended’ your search for a post box all together? What if you’d stopped at just finishing your letter… and the ‘start’ of actually posting it had never happened? So many moments of conception and conclusion that were never realised.  

I guess when it comes down to it, sometimes, there’s choice. It’s that choice that makes things interesting. What do I choose to start and what do I choose to finish? Will I follow the cat? Will I then enter the Matrix?

Everything that starts will finish. Everything. It’s the moments along the way to watch out for. Unless it’s ice cream, and then I’d say just enjoy the lot, although maybe that's just as true for life. 

Transport

I, for the most part, like London Transport.


I can imagine an instant recoil as you read those words. Like and London Transport without the 'I fucking don't' in the middle.


I don't travel on tubes, and maybe this is part of the reason. You won't see me on a tube for Love nor Money, or for 'ease of journey'... and don't understand why you lot do it either. Tiny carriages packed full of sweaty, angry commuters, all breathing into one another's faces... and then the tube -the size of a Hornby model train- stutters to a halt in a tunnel. Oh Yes Please. I'd love that. I would love to be stuck 25ft underground with no means of escape with a group of nauseating humans all despising each other for stealing precious, albeit boiling, oxygen. Sweat leaking from every place I didn't think possible as the 40 degrees heat rises rapidly... Only to be told ABSOLTULEY NOTHING by the 'driver' at the front of the tube, who is probably just a Debenhams shop mannequin. I'm getting sweaty palmed just typing about it (which is ironic as that is making it harder to type).


I have no idea whether tube journeys give TFL a good or a bad name... although I'll presume it's bad as I don't hear much good about them. Does it depend on which colour line you travel on I wonder? Or it is an all round bad service. Could there be anything done to improve it? Now, as a non tube-traveller, I surely shouldn't be allowed to answer that question, but this is my blog so I'm ruddy well going to.


What could be done to improve the tube (besides removing it all together) ?

• i) Having the tube carriages, and everything within them, painted the same colour as the line it's on. For instance the District Line would be Grass Green on the outside. The internal would be Apple Green and the seats- Minty Green

• ia) Further to point i) all tube lines would now have food services running in them but the food served would be the same colour as the line : Central line -Strawberries, Circle line - mash, Picadilly -Bluberries, Northern -Marmite or licorice, Bakerloo -chocolate, Jubilee -tin foil... It's a great idea.

• ii) Having morris dancers in each carriage to cheer people up when the tube gets stuck. It wouldn't become annoying.

• iii) The picadilly line, which is the deepest, wouldn't have any tubes running through it at all. Only tunnels full of water. You would get to work on a giant flume.

• iv) At night times the carriages would have mirror balls.

• v) The circle line would have all its stops removed. And would go around much faster. A bit like Alton Towers.

You see the possibilities are endless.


Bus journeys, to me, are far more pleasant. The jolly bus driver at the front who waves 'hullo' as you hop on board, the old man in the flat cap sitting beside you who tells you about his beautiful wife at home who he's taking some flowers to, the wandering scenery of lush trees and acres of foliage... Ok so that's all crap. The bus drivers a grumpy sod who wishes you were on the tube instead of making his day hell, the man in the flap cap stinks and keeps staring at you and there's kids at the back of the bus listening to Kphat, or whatever the hell he's called, at full volume . But it's not the tube. I can see trees, and sky, and every now and then I can see someone on the street smiling. And I think that's nice.


So I guess that's why I like London Transport. You can't really go wrong with a bus. If it breaks down -jump on another, if it's hot and humid -open the window. For all the reasons I hate the tube, I love the bus. And I think you should too. Unless you're agoraphobic.