Tube Travelling 5

Down and outs of the underground

Everything hurts, face scarred, fingers torn and filthy, an empty coffee cup, held out as a container, begging the commuting workers and tourists for spare change. In a changing world less change available. Screen faces ignoring the plight of the stricken and hungry. He looks at the people he is throwing his life out to, nobody engages, nobody sees this person. A person. A soul. Lost but a soul. Lost in the depths of whatever despair is afflicting him. But he studies us. And we ignore him. 

Tube Travelling 4

There are an unusual number of observers on the tube today - 3 out the 12 where usually it is just me. Everyone else lost in their world of screen - games, music, downloads and the usual odd woman engaged in her morning makeup rituals. I briefly cross eyes with the other two, interest in their eyes, reflecting back my own. 

Tube Travelling 3

Years of travelling the same route, then forced to redirect on the whim of the underground bosses - directed walkways and thought-through one way systems that interfere with the age old desire for humans to find the path of least resistance and so in defiance of the rules we walk through no entry tunnels and earn a few more minutes grace on our journeys much to the bemusement of more rule-abiding tourists. 

Tube Travelling 2

An ashy old man in an olive parka sits on the Victoria line holding a plastic bottle of water, his hand is twitching making the bottle squeak in that creaky plastic bottle way, while he watches a large beige woman  transform herself in a morning routine that ought to be performed at home. No preservation of the mystery is left to the imagination - face sculpting with shades of foundation and powder, eye shadow, mascara, lash curlers, under chin shading. Fascinating to the man. Amazing to me that it takes so much makeup to look bare faced.

Tube travelling

The neurotic itchy people seem to pierce my eye more readily than the still calm people. Leg twitching, uncontrolled expressive faces, tics from too many drugs, inability to sit still, those with ants in their pants. Drawing myself to bring up my inner stillness, collecting myself in self awareness, holding each muscle and bone in deliberate poise, extending elegance to counter the messy, jerky, tic-y thing that I am watching. 

Distressed Voting

Never has it been such a difficult decision, faced with an arms-length of choices, it ended up being purely tactical, on the back of a number of alarmist futuristic prognonsis's from old novels (1984) and borrowed novels (kitchen library at work - Tracer by Rob Boffard), and populist media (first episode of Years and Years on BBC). We have been sleep walking into being a state with more CCTV than anywhere else in the world, like we have more dangerous streets than anywhere else or more untrustworthy citizens,  persuaded we need smart meters to watch our energy consumption, a police force using drones to spy on us, and we wonder why we have high anxiety.

Pigeon

There's a pigeon at the cake stall in Kensington High Street Station. One of those soot covered dark street pigeons that London has (alongside the healthier looking white doves, white dove crosses with street pigeons, wood pigeons and collared doves). Clearly a hankering after pink sponge cupcake crumbs this morning. Whether he arrived up the steps from the tube station platform or along the marble tiled atrium from the street passing those-that-can breakfasting at Bills is unclear but I smile at the infiltration of filth into the seeming perfection that is Kensington (they steam clean the pavements here, don't you know) - dog walkers with 6 hounds each walking in Kensington Palace in pristine workout kit, ladies lunching with their lapdogs in their handbags, botoxed and collagened into perfection, elderly couples in appropriate leisure wear (blazer and loud chinos, and a skirt suit). Its certainly far from Seven Sisters - insistent preachers, chewing gum street, beggars, winos, crush of inhabitants mingled with a drunk away crowd and a miserable home crowd (Tottenham supporters - I can never tell from their demeanour whether they have won or lost), overflowing rubbish bins, roots event flyers, fag ends.

Perceptions of Colour

Four youths waiting for a Victoria line train at Kings Cross are arguing about colours. What colour is this? They start asking for second opinions from other passengers. They light on absolutes as colours to check. Is this brown or yellow? The woman is wearing a fluffy mustard zip up jacket. Yellow! Nah brown. Nah it’s orange. I put in my tuppenies-worth - it’s mustard - otherwise known as dark yellow.  They all have a different opinion. One claims to have perfect vision when accused of his eyes not working right. It’s quite likely someone has some colour blindness. Next is a purple coat. They all went purple. They can’t agree on a pink vs purple shade of deep pink (possibly a bit magenta). 

I read a book recently called The Secret Lives of Colours - fantastic book - delving into the history of colours, individually named, some very similar to each other but historically known differently. Stories about their popularity, rise and fall. Fantastically interesting. I wish I had had it with me. For after this book there is no simple yellow, red, blue, green absolutes. There are only shades, nuances and possibilities. No one-dimensional argument can be won when each eye may perceive each hue differently. 

Longing

She’s young, sitting legs crossed, arms up holding a mirror slightly over eye height colouring in her eyebrows, checking they are evenly full. Fluffs her fringe and is finished. She puts away the trappings of beauty, uncrossing her legs, thick thighs in black tights spread as they lean against the seat. Knee high black leather boots. Short denim skirt has ridden up into her lap and reveals the space between her legs - covered but still a revelation of knickers hiding under tights. The man next to me, is watching TV on his mobile. His eyes flick from the screen up her skirt and back. 

Standing while I sit. He has smiling eyes, silver streaked hair and light beard. Talking to his companion, they mirror one another. Design. I expect, of some sort. I have to hold back from reaching out. My hands have a desire to touch the textures of this man. Well worn-in tan leather satchel. Blue corduroy jacket. Thin wool sweater covering round belly. 

My hands are missing the pleasure of Zephaniah in the night - fur, foot pads, curled up body and body heat. The symbiotic pleasure of stroking a purring cat. 

Zephaniah Trouble Thomas

Zephaniah had to be rehomed today. Two male personality clashes. He couldn’t learn to behave.  I’m bereft. Hope it subsides soon.

Waiting

5 mins for a circle line train. Station staff on the tannoy calling for an urgent attendant to a “human spillage on the edge of platform 3”. Image in my head of a pile of falling people over the edge. Then vomit. Vomit not poop I’m hoping.

Top Secrets from the Underground

I don’t know many real secrets of the underground having never worked for them but I do know that at Manor House they have installed a new escalator (the middle one of three) and when it is running (which isn’t often) if you ride it you can race the other people going up. And you know what? You are going to win, because that escalator is super fast - you will overtake about 20 stationary bods without walking yourself. And strangely nobody else seems to notice this joy!

Painting

We have been painting. Continuing on from creating an homage to the Panther's mother we have kept going. For me its about learning to mix the paint and creating a likeness.

Happy New Year (and its almost a twelfth over)

I've been missing. Guilty. Two readers have now mentioned it to me. Sometimes I'm feeling like I have nothing to say, or nothing that can be said, or something. And the phone version of blogger going missing isn't helping me.

I have had a cold for what seems like three months, it comes and goes and resurfaces when I'm just about feeling better, and a back ache that the physiotherapist decided was the pelvis bone rubbing, which was on the left hand side and over the weekend jumped to the right with all the excruciating initial pain it had.

We got a new kitten to keep our remaining cat company - I think they get on - they spend most of their time in the same space but older cat seems to get annoyed with younger cat's playful antics (she doesn't take kindly to be leapt on and straddled with a neck lock, every time she walks past him), and he can't seem to help himself. He is the Panther's cat really - came and sat on him when we went to choose and made the choosing easy. They have a special bromance going on which is a big surprise when the Panther used to be sort of allergic to cats. I keep threatening that its time to castrate him but can't quite bring myself to - scared of changing his personality - quite like the bravery and gusto that he attacks life with - climbing trees, carrying stuff around (last night it was incense sticks, paintbrushes and pens) and the fearlessness that found him mostly submerged in the bath this morning trying to keep his head up. He's a people cat which makes a mad change from our previous two - my sister still doesn't believe they existed since she hasn't seen them. And loves bubbles

We spent Christmas in Dundee, and new years in London revisiting friends we had not been in touch with for some time. And ate haggis for the first time ever (don't tell me what its made of, it just did taste delicious), nips and tatties to celebrate Burns night with a couple of Edinburgers. 

And on the back of that Sunday dinner were given a film tip to watch - French movie - Untouchable, which was excellent. Heart warming romp of a film, clash of cultures, based on a true story.

I'm currently wearing a pair of glasses with a missing arm which for a persistent glasses wearing is a bit unbalancing (I feel skew whiff in the worst possible way) so am off to see if the glasses shop will put a new screw in.