OtherHalf and I went on excursion to feed the ducks. There’s a lake about ten minutes walk away so we trod down the lanes at the back of houses en route to the lake. Even though this was not officially a litter pickup exercise, I still kept an eye out for abandoned treasure. Sure enough just off the main street on the sidewalk, there was a child’s buggy, new and unused. It made me sad. I can’t imagine why anyone would dump this. We passed a bus stop. An open suitcase lay on the bench. OtherHalf steered me down a nearby back alley as I was just about to leap off to investigate.
Armed with some left over bread we headed down to the lake. Bread isn’t good news for ducks but this was a special loaf stuffed with olives and pumpkin seed. I figured it would give them some nutrients. The ducks started congregating as we approached. They seemed to be expecting us. Maybe they posted look out ducks on our route. Oh – oh seagulls too. Flinging bread to a gaggle of ducks is one thing, but doing it with seagulls around often puts in the ducks in danger. The seagulls are brutal. They dive bomb the ducks in an effort to take the food. It’s a feeding frenzy.
Anyway today we tried to feed only the ducks. It was such an enjoyable experience. Ducks flapped their wings and quacked everywhere. Some got cheeky, climbed on the boardwalk and tried to take the bread right out of the bag. We did not condone that behaviour so they got none. One duck grabbed its booty and flew off with it, chased by six seagulls. Round and round the lake the duck flew, weaving in and out, trying to shake off the bandits. No such luck. Eventually the duck returned and splash landed near us, exhausted and minus a mouthful of food.
After all the bread was gone, we set off home again. We went past the Blogtrain and I caught sight of one missing high heeled black shoes I’d seen a couple of days back. Darn it and I was hoping the one legged disco dancer was out having a blast on the dance floor with it. We trundled up beside the railway line and spotted a green and white bathroom weigh scale on the side of the path. It seemed to be in perfect working order. I resisted the impulse to climb aboard and check my stats as to be honest I’m feeling bloated from the cranberry sauce, turkey, mint chocolate and many glasses of Chardonnay. If its there next week, maybe I’ll give it a whirl. However the scale looks far too valuable. You can bet your bottom dollar it will be gone tomorrow. I’m not surprised by anything I see along the path these days. I’m expecting to find the kitchen sink any minute. With a matching tile unit of course.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
The Best Things in Life are Purple
Excellent news. I wandered back to the spot where I left the shoes and the tins of purple stuff. If you haven't a clue what I am talking about, mosey on back and read the previous entry. The purple playdo was gone. The high heeled shoes and the runners were no longer there too. Well almost. Further down the path there was a patch of grass to the right, and the white shoes were strewn there, looking distinctly forlorn. And one of the black high heeled shoes was lying there too, discarded. What happened to the other black shoe? Maybe picked up by a one legged disco dancer? Perhaps not, I suspect it had been thrown into someone’s backyard or on to the rail tracks. I decided that no one really wanted the shoes, now that they were soaked and dirty, so I dropped them into my black garbage bag.
I walked down the lane past Party House. The house is in disrepair, rented out and the occupants have parties most weekends. We’ve had no trouble from them. Occasionally we're awakened at around 2am by the steady base beat of unidentifiable music. This morning there was a beer bottle out front. Only one. Well there’s five cents for my troubles. A better class of beer this time though, a real pale ale. Party House rose in my estimation. In the middle of the road there was a broken car aerial. I added it to the collection in the garbage bag. All the paper I'd picked up today was soaked so the bag was getting pretty darn heavy this morning.
Just then another neighbour Blonde Olivia, called down to say hello from her deck, where she was smoking in a rather fetching purple housecoat, which matched the colour of the playdo quite nicely. We commiserated over the vast quantities of food and drink we’d consumed over Christmas. And that now were we paying for it. O picks up litter too. Recently she’d found two syringes right on the steps to her garden. Charming. She has two little boys who play round there all the time. I’m thinking I have a partner in crime in Olivia, maybe we can get together a litter posse in the spring and make serious inroads in to the more litter ridden areas round the BlogTrain.
I walked past Hedgerow House opposite the station. Yesterday instead of clothes strewn the hedge, there was what looked like a golf cart. As I mentioned in the previous diary, I think Hedgerow Neighbour finds this loot in his front yard and it’s his way of getting rid of it. OtherHalf agreed this time that this was not an art student project. Clearly the cart was too good to pass up as it was gone. I was disappointed not to see at least a pair of purple underpants strewn on the hedge today. The world has gone to hell in a hand basket, I’m telling you.
I walked down the lane past Party House. The house is in disrepair, rented out and the occupants have parties most weekends. We’ve had no trouble from them. Occasionally we're awakened at around 2am by the steady base beat of unidentifiable music. This morning there was a beer bottle out front. Only one. Well there’s five cents for my troubles. A better class of beer this time though, a real pale ale. Party House rose in my estimation. In the middle of the road there was a broken car aerial. I added it to the collection in the garbage bag. All the paper I'd picked up today was soaked so the bag was getting pretty darn heavy this morning.
Just then another neighbour Blonde Olivia, called down to say hello from her deck, where she was smoking in a rather fetching purple housecoat, which matched the colour of the playdo quite nicely. We commiserated over the vast quantities of food and drink we’d consumed over Christmas. And that now were we paying for it. O picks up litter too. Recently she’d found two syringes right on the steps to her garden. Charming. She has two little boys who play round there all the time. I’m thinking I have a partner in crime in Olivia, maybe we can get together a litter posse in the spring and make serious inroads in to the more litter ridden areas round the BlogTrain.
I walked past Hedgerow House opposite the station. Yesterday instead of clothes strewn the hedge, there was what looked like a golf cart. As I mentioned in the previous diary, I think Hedgerow Neighbour finds this loot in his front yard and it’s his way of getting rid of it. OtherHalf agreed this time that this was not an art student project. Clearly the cart was too good to pass up as it was gone. I was disappointed not to see at least a pair of purple underpants strewn on the hedge today. The world has gone to hell in a hand basket, I’m telling you.
Monday, December 27, 2004
High Heels, Syringes and Weird Purple Stuff
I was out on a jaunt to pick up litter this morning. The most common items I collect are transit tickets, fast food wrappers and coffee cups. Honest to God, if Starbucks, McDonalds and Subway paid you five cents for every used paper coffee cup or wrapper you returned to their moneymaking stores, they would get kudos and goodwill and there’d be a lot less litter on the street and in my backyard.
I usually stick to the block round the house but today, feeling a little more adventurous, I wandered down the street towards the BlogTrain (our trusty light rail system, not without problems, but that’s a story for another day). Today’s haul, besides copious amounts of paper litter: two rather menacing looking used syringes, one Sleeman’s beer bottle, three pairs of brand new shoes and three little round silver tins with what looked like purple plasticine packed inside. In this age of terror, thoughts of plastic explosive came to mind - yes, I've been watching too many Bruce Willis movies - but closer inspection of the label indicated it was playdo. And yes, I wear gloves to pick up this dubious collection.
The shoes were dumped behind a tree. A pair of black high heels, a pair of white court shoes and some rather snazzy running shoes. The BlogTrain line connects with a shopping centre a few stops away so I assume they were stolen from there. So what’s the deal – you steal stuff, decide what you can fence then dump the rest? The shoes were not in boxes and there was no store identification so not exactly something I could report to the police. They've also been exposed to the pouring rain we've been having for the last few days. I put them out neatly in a row in the hopes that someone would pick them up and take them home. Granted they need to be dried out and thoroughly cleaned. But surely someone could give those sexy black heels a run for their money on the dance floor at the All Night Jazz Club?
As I laid them out by the hedgerow beside the station, a light bulb went on. There’s a house opposite the station with a low hedge. Every so often I’ve seen clothes strewn on the hedge, sometimes for days, and I’ve wondered what that was all about. OtherHalf suggested it was some kind of art project with attitude. Yes, thankyou, next suggestion? But now I reckon that folks dump stolen property in the front yard, and that’s his way of getting people to take it away. Stolen goods –on the hedge - free to good home.
OK, a quick summary of where I stand on litter. I pick it up. It’s also a good way to get to know my neighbours and talk to people. I’m also a believer in the broken window syndrome. The people who have tendency to commit crime usually need something tip the balance between committing and not committing the crime. They see a broken window, they think rule and order has gone the way of the dodo, so it’s ok to break windows, and worse. So it goes for litter. Litter on the ground begets litter. Malcolm Gladwell, quoting various academics, has written quite extensively about this in his book called The Tipping Point.
So next time I go on the neighbourhood litter pickup maybe there will be one less syringe, two tins of purple playdo instead of three and maybe those black high heels will be kicking up a storm somewhere else. I hope so.
That’s it for today. See you again soon.
I usually stick to the block round the house but today, feeling a little more adventurous, I wandered down the street towards the BlogTrain (our trusty light rail system, not without problems, but that’s a story for another day). Today’s haul, besides copious amounts of paper litter: two rather menacing looking used syringes, one Sleeman’s beer bottle, three pairs of brand new shoes and three little round silver tins with what looked like purple plasticine packed inside. In this age of terror, thoughts of plastic explosive came to mind - yes, I've been watching too many Bruce Willis movies - but closer inspection of the label indicated it was playdo. And yes, I wear gloves to pick up this dubious collection.
The shoes were dumped behind a tree. A pair of black high heels, a pair of white court shoes and some rather snazzy running shoes. The BlogTrain line connects with a shopping centre a few stops away so I assume they were stolen from there. So what’s the deal – you steal stuff, decide what you can fence then dump the rest? The shoes were not in boxes and there was no store identification so not exactly something I could report to the police. They've also been exposed to the pouring rain we've been having for the last few days. I put them out neatly in a row in the hopes that someone would pick them up and take them home. Granted they need to be dried out and thoroughly cleaned. But surely someone could give those sexy black heels a run for their money on the dance floor at the All Night Jazz Club?
As I laid them out by the hedgerow beside the station, a light bulb went on. There’s a house opposite the station with a low hedge. Every so often I’ve seen clothes strewn on the hedge, sometimes for days, and I’ve wondered what that was all about. OtherHalf suggested it was some kind of art project with attitude. Yes, thankyou, next suggestion? But now I reckon that folks dump stolen property in the front yard, and that’s his way of getting people to take it away. Stolen goods –on the hedge - free to good home.
OK, a quick summary of where I stand on litter. I pick it up. It’s also a good way to get to know my neighbours and talk to people. I’m also a believer in the broken window syndrome. The people who have tendency to commit crime usually need something tip the balance between committing and not committing the crime. They see a broken window, they think rule and order has gone the way of the dodo, so it’s ok to break windows, and worse. So it goes for litter. Litter on the ground begets litter. Malcolm Gladwell, quoting various academics, has written quite extensively about this in his book called The Tipping Point.
So next time I go on the neighbourhood litter pickup maybe there will be one less syringe, two tins of purple playdo instead of three and maybe those black high heels will be kicking up a storm somewhere else. I hope so.
That’s it for today. See you again soon.
Monday, April 05, 2004
Dead Cell Phones and Other Thankful Mercies
I used to be one of those people who complained bitterly about those folks who drove cars, sat on buses, ate in posh restaurants, got their hair done or worse still, they were in the midst of conversation with you - and their crime? They talked on their cell phones, dangerously close to infringing noise bylaws.
Previous to the last decade, I wonder how people managed to survive without cell phones. Why is it now that some people can’t choose a halibut from the fish selection at the supermarket without consulting their nearest and dearest. Would “dinner” be monumentally ruined if they picked the wrong fish?
But this is not the end of the woe. What is worse is that there are phones with cameras on board so now you can send home a picture of the fish that you are about to serve at the dinner table. I can just imagine the conversation between a husband at the store, and his wife sitting at the computer at home.
“Honey,” she says, “the halibut looks a tad green around the gills to me. Get me a picture of the rainbow trout”.
“No, honey,” she says after seeing the next downloaded picture, “I need to see the whole of the fish, not just its gills.”
Where will it all end? Maybe there will be a groundswell of dislike against intrusive cell phone users, and we’ll see them having to join the ranks of smokers shivering outside buildings, the omni present phone attached to their ears.
I like the system in Australia. I found out when I was visiting Sydney that if the police catch you driving while you are on the phone, you get a ticket. Tickets add up to points on your license. Too many points and your license is suspended. I’d be in favour of having that law in place here. But I’d go further and ban the use of cell phones in restaurants. There is nothing more annoying than when your delightful meal is interrupted by the shrill ring of the cell phone in the next booth. There is then the scramble to find the phone, followed by one very loud half of a conversation. Of course, it’s almost impossible not to try and imagine what is being said at the other end of the phone.
“Hello”A brief silence follows.
“I’m in the middle of dinner, can I call you back?” This is good news, she is trying to end the call quickly. No but wait…
“You did what on the patio?”
This is said quite loudly. I think the whole restaurant is tuned into this now.
“With..”
“No way!” A pregnant pause follows.
“Where is Barry ?”Then she lowers her voice.“Listen. Put some clothes on. I’ll be over in half an hour”
“Bye.”
Unfortunately the woman who took the call in the neighbouring booth was alone so we never found out the whole story.
I recently witnessed a cell phone being put to an excellent use. I was in a café with rustic, but rickety, tables and chairs. Our table wobbled precariously, the bowls of steaming hot soup threatened to spill with every movement. Looking round for something to wedge under the offending table leg, the only item available was my friend’s cell phone. This did the job perfectly.
However there was one small problem. Half way through the meal, the phone rang. My friend scurried under the table to answer it. Meanwhile a waiter helped me steady the table to prevent tomato soup from running all over the tabletop. Fortunately the phone conversation was brief and the phone resumed its rightful place beneath the table.
Despite deep misgivings, a year ago I broke down and bought a cell phone. I went into business with a partner. We installed computer equipment at medical practices and we needed to be available for clients to call at all hours of the day and night. Sure, the phone came in handy in the early days, but hardly used after that. It soon became clear that I needed to get the minimum package because I only used the phone once in a blue moon, like if my rust bucket excuse for a car gave up the ghost along a dark rainy road with no payphone for miles. I loved my car dearly but she could be cantankerous and recently she started consuming enough oil to keep Kuwait busy for generations to come.
So on Sunday I decided to was time to go into the mall to switch monthly phone packages. First major problem, I couldn't remember my cell phone number. Bright Spark here hadn't charged up the phone. It was dead as a dodo. And of course the number was in the address book in the phone's memory. I’ve heard of people who put the phone in the oven in an attempt to revive it, but that sounded very dubious to me, almost as suspect as putting the phone in the microwave. Somewhat ridiculously, I ended up calling a friend on a regular phone and got him to tell me what my own phone number was. So dead phone in hand with dead phone's number, I marched into the store asking to change the package. The woman smiled at me very pleasantly whilst telling me she couldn't help me but she knew someone who could. She gave me the number to call, but could not help suggest that there was a stylish new pink phone that “everyone was buying” that she could highly recommend to me. I hurried out of the store clutching the telephone company’s number.
So fast forward back home. I was determined to settle this now and not pay one more cent than I needed to. I dialed the phone company. I got the telephone menu labyrinth from hell. No, I don't speak French. No, I don't want billing information. No, I don't know my pass code. (It's probably the name of the fluffy rabbit I had as a child or the nickname of my big-eared biology teacher.) No, I won't pass go and collect two hundred dollars. I kept on forgetting which menu I was in and tried to get back to the top so I could find which sequence of buttons to press to speak to a live person, as opposed to a lifeless recording. I had to re-dial the phone number and start from scratch three times. Finally I got a message saying that I could speak to a customer service representative the following morning. It was clearly time to have a glass of red wine and seethe.
Next morning I dialled the phone company from work and after waiting for ten minutes I got through to an amiable sounding woman. We sailed through the details until she asked me my date of birth as identification. I was in an open plan office. So I whispered the answer as I really wanted the guy in the next cubicle to think I was still in the vicinity of twenty nine.
Anyway the upshot of all this is that I cut down my allowable minutes on the blasted phone to virtually nil. I would wean myself off soon enough. And then I could go back to complaining about Simon the Stockbroker who sat in front of me on the bus each morning and bought one stock and for all I know probably sold it at triple the price by the time we arrived downtown. Better still, maybe I could get his number and have rogue callers ringing him at 5am to ensure he got no sleep, missed the bus and left us all in peace.
Excuse me while I go turn my cell phone off. Hmm, not necessary, it's still as dead as a blooming dodo.
Previous to the last decade, I wonder how people managed to survive without cell phones. Why is it now that some people can’t choose a halibut from the fish selection at the supermarket without consulting their nearest and dearest. Would “dinner” be monumentally ruined if they picked the wrong fish?
But this is not the end of the woe. What is worse is that there are phones with cameras on board so now you can send home a picture of the fish that you are about to serve at the dinner table. I can just imagine the conversation between a husband at the store, and his wife sitting at the computer at home.
“Honey,” she says, “the halibut looks a tad green around the gills to me. Get me a picture of the rainbow trout”.
“No, honey,” she says after seeing the next downloaded picture, “I need to see the whole of the fish, not just its gills.”
Where will it all end? Maybe there will be a groundswell of dislike against intrusive cell phone users, and we’ll see them having to join the ranks of smokers shivering outside buildings, the omni present phone attached to their ears.
I like the system in Australia. I found out when I was visiting Sydney that if the police catch you driving while you are on the phone, you get a ticket. Tickets add up to points on your license. Too many points and your license is suspended. I’d be in favour of having that law in place here. But I’d go further and ban the use of cell phones in restaurants. There is nothing more annoying than when your delightful meal is interrupted by the shrill ring of the cell phone in the next booth. There is then the scramble to find the phone, followed by one very loud half of a conversation. Of course, it’s almost impossible not to try and imagine what is being said at the other end of the phone.
“Hello”A brief silence follows.
“I’m in the middle of dinner, can I call you back?” This is good news, she is trying to end the call quickly. No but wait…
“You did what on the patio?”
This is said quite loudly. I think the whole restaurant is tuned into this now.
“With..”
“No way!” A pregnant pause follows.
“Where is Barry ?”Then she lowers her voice.“Listen. Put some clothes on. I’ll be over in half an hour”
“Bye.”
Unfortunately the woman who took the call in the neighbouring booth was alone so we never found out the whole story.
I recently witnessed a cell phone being put to an excellent use. I was in a café with rustic, but rickety, tables and chairs. Our table wobbled precariously, the bowls of steaming hot soup threatened to spill with every movement. Looking round for something to wedge under the offending table leg, the only item available was my friend’s cell phone. This did the job perfectly.
However there was one small problem. Half way through the meal, the phone rang. My friend scurried under the table to answer it. Meanwhile a waiter helped me steady the table to prevent tomato soup from running all over the tabletop. Fortunately the phone conversation was brief and the phone resumed its rightful place beneath the table.
Despite deep misgivings, a year ago I broke down and bought a cell phone. I went into business with a partner. We installed computer equipment at medical practices and we needed to be available for clients to call at all hours of the day and night. Sure, the phone came in handy in the early days, but hardly used after that. It soon became clear that I needed to get the minimum package because I only used the phone once in a blue moon, like if my rust bucket excuse for a car gave up the ghost along a dark rainy road with no payphone for miles. I loved my car dearly but she could be cantankerous and recently she started consuming enough oil to keep Kuwait busy for generations to come.
So on Sunday I decided to was time to go into the mall to switch monthly phone packages. First major problem, I couldn't remember my cell phone number. Bright Spark here hadn't charged up the phone. It was dead as a dodo. And of course the number was in the address book in the phone's memory. I’ve heard of people who put the phone in the oven in an attempt to revive it, but that sounded very dubious to me, almost as suspect as putting the phone in the microwave. Somewhat ridiculously, I ended up calling a friend on a regular phone and got him to tell me what my own phone number was. So dead phone in hand with dead phone's number, I marched into the store asking to change the package. The woman smiled at me very pleasantly whilst telling me she couldn't help me but she knew someone who could. She gave me the number to call, but could not help suggest that there was a stylish new pink phone that “everyone was buying” that she could highly recommend to me. I hurried out of the store clutching the telephone company’s number.
So fast forward back home. I was determined to settle this now and not pay one more cent than I needed to. I dialed the phone company. I got the telephone menu labyrinth from hell. No, I don't speak French. No, I don't want billing information. No, I don't know my pass code. (It's probably the name of the fluffy rabbit I had as a child or the nickname of my big-eared biology teacher.) No, I won't pass go and collect two hundred dollars. I kept on forgetting which menu I was in and tried to get back to the top so I could find which sequence of buttons to press to speak to a live person, as opposed to a lifeless recording. I had to re-dial the phone number and start from scratch three times. Finally I got a message saying that I could speak to a customer service representative the following morning. It was clearly time to have a glass of red wine and seethe.
Next morning I dialled the phone company from work and after waiting for ten minutes I got through to an amiable sounding woman. We sailed through the details until she asked me my date of birth as identification. I was in an open plan office. So I whispered the answer as I really wanted the guy in the next cubicle to think I was still in the vicinity of twenty nine.
Anyway the upshot of all this is that I cut down my allowable minutes on the blasted phone to virtually nil. I would wean myself off soon enough. And then I could go back to complaining about Simon the Stockbroker who sat in front of me on the bus each morning and bought one stock and for all I know probably sold it at triple the price by the time we arrived downtown. Better still, maybe I could get his number and have rogue callers ringing him at 5am to ensure he got no sleep, missed the bus and left us all in peace.
Excuse me while I go turn my cell phone off. Hmm, not necessary, it's still as dead as a blooming dodo.
Friday, February 27, 2004
I'm on Medication but You should Be
A couple of days ago, after a hastily prepared breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I donned a dark blue coat, wrapped a purple scarf around my neck, and located my purse and house keys. Locking the front door behind me, I headed down the steps to the street. The laurel hedge lay in wait for me as usual, a reminder of my past discretions. I almost vanquished it the previous November, cutting it from eight foot in height right down to eighteen inches, a knee-jerk reaction after the break-in at our house. The hedge provided a very dense curtain behind which potential thieves could hide and it had to go. So I hacked at it over several evenings while the torrential rain poured, getting to know a few bemused neighbours in the process.
The lady in the bungalow opposite us came over with her equally inquisitive white Scottie dog and asked if everything was alright. I looked at her dog poking round my muddied shoes, smiled grimly and said that the laurel hedge and I could not co-exist. She looked at me pityingly and dragged Scottie away.
The following day, Gigi from next door brought over a plate of specially baked Portuguese doughnuts.
“This will give you strength to fight the hedge!” she whispered knowingly. “Your husband, he is sick, no? " I shook my head. “He no help you with the cut cut?”Again I shook my head. My other half would have nothing to do with the massacre of the laurel hedge, which was totally ok by me. “That is a disgrace”, she muttered, and left.
Now the stark roughly cut branches reared up out of the ground, with hardly a leaf in sight. I made a mental note that serious landscaping was needed come the spring as I trundled down the road towards the sky train. My job was in the city centre. I walked quickly and within a few minutes arrived at the station. There was obviously a cull on free loaders, as a uniformed inspector firmly asked for my ticket before I could get on to the platform.
It was seven thirty and still dark. The lights of a distant train were visible, becoming ever brighter as it approached the station. The train came to a halt, and I walked on board. The cars were mostly full, with standing room only for newcomers. I stood, eyeing the adverts on the inside of the car as the train moved away from the platform. There were a few common themes: pregnancy tests, educational courses and the ubiquitous ad for those sinking into financial catastrophe.
“If you are facing bankruptcy, we can help!” blared the ad with a picture of a man who managed to look terribly handsome and terribly worried at the same time. Next to it was another advert telling us how we could all become chartered accountants in just three years and we did not have to quit our day jobs. While the thought of changing jobs was appealing, the idea of becoming a chartered accountant was even less so.
I looked around me. We had an assorted crowd today – some asleep, some gazing blindly off into space, others half way through reading the latest bestseller. The faint smell of nicotine emanated from the young women in a green coat next to me. I tried to ignore the incessant drum beat from the not so silent headphones of the rap music fan standing to the other side of her.
On commutes such as these, I considered reading a book with an interesting title on the train just to get a reaction. How about “The Island of the Secret Love Nun” with the equally lurid cover, or that well loved pamphlet, “Lock Picking Simplified.” The problem was, with everyone wrapped up in their own world, I did not think anyone would notice.
Two stops after I got on, the train drew up to Hyde Street Station. A sizeable woman of about fifty edged her way into the compartment. She was professionally dressed in a maroon suit, and sported blond streaked wavy hair. At that moment I glanced down the other end of the train, which in retrospect, was a pity, because I missed the pivotal moment of the journey.
Immediately I heard a commotion to the side of me and I turned back to see the woman in the dark red suit being ejected from the train by a stockily built man. He had dark curly collar length hair, a black sports jacket, blue jeans and runners. This was no gentle nudge. I saw him use both hands to push her violently out of the train. She fell backwards on to the platform.
A moment later, the woman came barrelling back in to the train, spewing colourful invective and proceeded to kick the perpetrator. He responded by punching her.
In the meantime the incongruously cheerful jingle sounded to denote that the train was departing the station. The doors closed with the two warring parties very much on board and the train left the station, quickly picking up speed. The kicking, shoving and swearing continued, not six feet away from where I stood.
This was a packed train. About sixty people witnessed the scene. In the immediate aftermath, except for some shuffling of feet, there was a stunned silence. Nobody spoke and nobody moved; well apart from the two people apparently determined to beat the life out of each other. It became obvious that they weren’t about to stop anytime soon.
“You bastard,” she yelled repeatedly, “You threw me off the train”.
“You’re crazy,” he shouted. “Get off me.”
She slapped him round the side of the face, causing him to curse and wince. He shoved her backwards against the side of the car.
After the initial shock I was thinking of ways to intervene without risk to life and limb. These two individuals were not short of stature. A black belt in martial arts might be of assistance in situations like this. For a moment, I thought that someone needed to tell the driver and quickly. Then I remembered that on these computer operated trains, we had no driver. I imagined that I wasn’t the only one thinking about what to do next and how to stop this mayhem. Perhaps some of us were thinking about the incident in Narrowton a few weeks back when a bystander intervened in a fight in front of a restaurant and paid for it with her life. Whilst I was pondering the situation, a man next to me stepped into the breach. He was six foot tall, not a hair on his head, dressed in casual business clothes. He stepped towards them.
“Come on, now, you two, tone it down, tone it down,” he said.
The two of them, still punching and kicking each other, either did not hear or chose to ignore him, and carried on fighting. Sir Lancelot did not give up. He put himself between them, earning a swipe across the chest from the man, but he persisted and forced them apart. Arms flailed and legs swung, the swearing continued. He pulled the woman away from the man, talking firmly but calmly all the time.
“Tone it down; this isn’t the way to settle things.”
Separated from her attacker, the women, who had an Australian accent, tried to bait him.
“I’m on medication, but you should be.” she flung at him.
I thought that was an interesting choice of words. As if to say, she was crazy but what was his excuse?
He ignored her, looking the other way. Lancelot stayed between them, continually talking softly to the women, stopping her from starting the fracas again. An uneasy calm prevailed in the carriage.
A couple of stops later, the woman got off with the shining knight, and they left, all the while she complained about how terrible the other man had been, and that he should be arrested.
The train carried on towards Bognor Street. As it entered the station, the train stopped, and came to a complete stand still for about thirty seconds, the doors remaining shut. Three guards on the platform peered into each carriage. Clearly someone had pressed the silent alarm.
After a few moments the train moved forward again, coming to a halt. I looked at the man who had been in the fight. He looked small, insignificant somehow, blending in with the crowd. He stepped off the train at the same time that I did. No one pointed him out, and no one stopped him. The crowd flowed out of the platform and up the escalator. I watched him as he disappeared from sight, trying to retain his description in my mind.
I proceeded to the office, describing the incident to my colleagues. I was sure the story was relayed in dozens of workplaces across the city. In thirty minutes or less, I imagined over a thousand people knew about the fight, each with a different picture of the events earlier that morning. I wondered if Lancelot told the story with himself as the hero. I imagined not; he did not seem the type. Quiet, effective action appeared to be his mode of operation.
I thought about the incident frequently for the rest of the day. I wondered what the women had done to provoke such a violent reaction from a total stranger. Maybe she had bumped into him. It still did not explain the force of his reaction.
As I walked home that evening, I slowly walked along the footpath to my home. The laurel hedge, eighteen inches in height, lay in front of me again. I stood and stared at it. I contemplated that if sixty people in a crowd did nothing while a fight went on under their collective noses, what were the chances of anyone intervening if they saw someone trying to break into our home? Was all that cutting for nought? I silently apologized to the remains of the hedge as I slowly climbed the steps into the house.
The lady in the bungalow opposite us came over with her equally inquisitive white Scottie dog and asked if everything was alright. I looked at her dog poking round my muddied shoes, smiled grimly and said that the laurel hedge and I could not co-exist. She looked at me pityingly and dragged Scottie away.
The following day, Gigi from next door brought over a plate of specially baked Portuguese doughnuts.
“This will give you strength to fight the hedge!” she whispered knowingly. “Your husband, he is sick, no? " I shook my head. “He no help you with the cut cut?”Again I shook my head. My other half would have nothing to do with the massacre of the laurel hedge, which was totally ok by me. “That is a disgrace”, she muttered, and left.
Now the stark roughly cut branches reared up out of the ground, with hardly a leaf in sight. I made a mental note that serious landscaping was needed come the spring as I trundled down the road towards the sky train. My job was in the city centre. I walked quickly and within a few minutes arrived at the station. There was obviously a cull on free loaders, as a uniformed inspector firmly asked for my ticket before I could get on to the platform.
It was seven thirty and still dark. The lights of a distant train were visible, becoming ever brighter as it approached the station. The train came to a halt, and I walked on board. The cars were mostly full, with standing room only for newcomers. I stood, eyeing the adverts on the inside of the car as the train moved away from the platform. There were a few common themes: pregnancy tests, educational courses and the ubiquitous ad for those sinking into financial catastrophe.
“If you are facing bankruptcy, we can help!” blared the ad with a picture of a man who managed to look terribly handsome and terribly worried at the same time. Next to it was another advert telling us how we could all become chartered accountants in just three years and we did not have to quit our day jobs. While the thought of changing jobs was appealing, the idea of becoming a chartered accountant was even less so.
I looked around me. We had an assorted crowd today – some asleep, some gazing blindly off into space, others half way through reading the latest bestseller. The faint smell of nicotine emanated from the young women in a green coat next to me. I tried to ignore the incessant drum beat from the not so silent headphones of the rap music fan standing to the other side of her.
On commutes such as these, I considered reading a book with an interesting title on the train just to get a reaction. How about “The Island of the Secret Love Nun” with the equally lurid cover, or that well loved pamphlet, “Lock Picking Simplified.” The problem was, with everyone wrapped up in their own world, I did not think anyone would notice.
Two stops after I got on, the train drew up to Hyde Street Station. A sizeable woman of about fifty edged her way into the compartment. She was professionally dressed in a maroon suit, and sported blond streaked wavy hair. At that moment I glanced down the other end of the train, which in retrospect, was a pity, because I missed the pivotal moment of the journey.
Immediately I heard a commotion to the side of me and I turned back to see the woman in the dark red suit being ejected from the train by a stockily built man. He had dark curly collar length hair, a black sports jacket, blue jeans and runners. This was no gentle nudge. I saw him use both hands to push her violently out of the train. She fell backwards on to the platform.
A moment later, the woman came barrelling back in to the train, spewing colourful invective and proceeded to kick the perpetrator. He responded by punching her.
In the meantime the incongruously cheerful jingle sounded to denote that the train was departing the station. The doors closed with the two warring parties very much on board and the train left the station, quickly picking up speed. The kicking, shoving and swearing continued, not six feet away from where I stood.
This was a packed train. About sixty people witnessed the scene. In the immediate aftermath, except for some shuffling of feet, there was a stunned silence. Nobody spoke and nobody moved; well apart from the two people apparently determined to beat the life out of each other. It became obvious that they weren’t about to stop anytime soon.
“You bastard,” she yelled repeatedly, “You threw me off the train”.
“You’re crazy,” he shouted. “Get off me.”
She slapped him round the side of the face, causing him to curse and wince. He shoved her backwards against the side of the car.
After the initial shock I was thinking of ways to intervene without risk to life and limb. These two individuals were not short of stature. A black belt in martial arts might be of assistance in situations like this. For a moment, I thought that someone needed to tell the driver and quickly. Then I remembered that on these computer operated trains, we had no driver. I imagined that I wasn’t the only one thinking about what to do next and how to stop this mayhem. Perhaps some of us were thinking about the incident in Narrowton a few weeks back when a bystander intervened in a fight in front of a restaurant and paid for it with her life. Whilst I was pondering the situation, a man next to me stepped into the breach. He was six foot tall, not a hair on his head, dressed in casual business clothes. He stepped towards them.
“Come on, now, you two, tone it down, tone it down,” he said.
The two of them, still punching and kicking each other, either did not hear or chose to ignore him, and carried on fighting. Sir Lancelot did not give up. He put himself between them, earning a swipe across the chest from the man, but he persisted and forced them apart. Arms flailed and legs swung, the swearing continued. He pulled the woman away from the man, talking firmly but calmly all the time.
“Tone it down; this isn’t the way to settle things.”
Separated from her attacker, the women, who had an Australian accent, tried to bait him.
“I’m on medication, but you should be.” she flung at him.
I thought that was an interesting choice of words. As if to say, she was crazy but what was his excuse?
He ignored her, looking the other way. Lancelot stayed between them, continually talking softly to the women, stopping her from starting the fracas again. An uneasy calm prevailed in the carriage.
A couple of stops later, the woman got off with the shining knight, and they left, all the while she complained about how terrible the other man had been, and that he should be arrested.
The train carried on towards Bognor Street. As it entered the station, the train stopped, and came to a complete stand still for about thirty seconds, the doors remaining shut. Three guards on the platform peered into each carriage. Clearly someone had pressed the silent alarm.
After a few moments the train moved forward again, coming to a halt. I looked at the man who had been in the fight. He looked small, insignificant somehow, blending in with the crowd. He stepped off the train at the same time that I did. No one pointed him out, and no one stopped him. The crowd flowed out of the platform and up the escalator. I watched him as he disappeared from sight, trying to retain his description in my mind.
I proceeded to the office, describing the incident to my colleagues. I was sure the story was relayed in dozens of workplaces across the city. In thirty minutes or less, I imagined over a thousand people knew about the fight, each with a different picture of the events earlier that morning. I wondered if Lancelot told the story with himself as the hero. I imagined not; he did not seem the type. Quiet, effective action appeared to be his mode of operation.
I thought about the incident frequently for the rest of the day. I wondered what the women had done to provoke such a violent reaction from a total stranger. Maybe she had bumped into him. It still did not explain the force of his reaction.
As I walked home that evening, I slowly walked along the footpath to my home. The laurel hedge, eighteen inches in height, lay in front of me again. I stood and stared at it. I contemplated that if sixty people in a crowd did nothing while a fight went on under their collective noses, what were the chances of anyone intervening if they saw someone trying to break into our home? Was all that cutting for nought? I silently apologized to the remains of the hedge as I slowly climbed the steps into the house.
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