Volume knobs

It's been a while since I've ranted about the tube, but rest assured, the grapes of wrath are still flourishing, usually on a twice daily basis. My current bête noir(e?) is a group I have classified as Voluntary Yellers. Of course, it is an accepted fact among all but the most moronic of Britons that anyone who raises their voice above a whisper on any form of public transport should be forcibly ejected immediately and, if possible, muted permanently as punishment. In spite of this, there are still some travelers who find it difficult to monitor their personal volume, who are forced by virtue of rush hour to stand millimeters from their companion but are nonetheless unable to regulate their voice to a reasonable level. These are the Involuntary Yellers, and I'm afraid I must confess that on this subject I cannot be entirely objective: my dear papa has been a lifelong member of the IYs and thus I am choosing not to attack this group. For now.

The Voluntary Yellers are something else altogether. These are people who kindly and completely unnecessarily choose to project their fascinating conversations across the tube or bus for the listening pleasure of anyone in a three mile radius. On three occasions in the past week, I have had to bear the irritation of two or more people who have chosen to sit, not in adjacent seats in a vacant carriage, but across an aisle from each other, and who conduct their conversation at levels loud enough to cause tinnitus. Just to ice my bigot cake, it has appeared to me that the more inane the topic of discussion and the more grating the accents of these individuals, the louder their voices. South Africans and Irish tube users seem particularly un-self-aware, although predictably the worst culprits are our friends from across the pond.

From a psychological standpoint, I can understand the power-wielding rush of knowing other people are listening to what you're spouting off about - but there's something tragically teenagerish about it all, an insecurity that compels individuals who feel unheard in the rest of their lives to inflict themselves on powerless commuters instead. On paper, I'm tolerant. But in practice, I glower. And then I huff. And then I pointedly insert my iPod headphones. Petty acts of pointed revenge, of course, make no difference - if anything, it gives their behaviour recognition, thus encouraging its continuation - but I don't have time to counsel them into maturity on the Northern Line. Instead, I must suffer the Voluntary Yellers in silence and hope that they eventually come to blush at their lack of courtesy.

On another note, here are three things I love:
1. My new Vacuvin. Meh, it's impossible to be consistently liberal.
2. Prospect magazine. I've just received my second trial issue and I'm still hooked.
3. Charlie's story last Saturday about her terrible shiny lime green bridesmaid's dress with its unsightly brown stain on the rear. Her explanation: she sat in paté.