Breath of fresh air?

It's been an unforgettable few hours for British politics. The pendulum of public opinion has swung from left to right for decades. Now we have a bit of both, and frankly, no one knows whether or not it'll be a fantastic experiment or a hideous mess. So I'm going to hold fire with my opinions until we get some fallout - at least for the next hour or so, anyway. I will say that I do want it to work, even though that may mean that I one day have to praise members of the Tory party. But we'll see.

In the absence of a gripping liveblog updating me on the coalition discussions every six seconds, I now have almost nothing to do [see doodle]. In my personal life, the snake has beaten a retreat along with Gordo. I got up this morning, did yoga and washed my hair, a series of actions that have a similar level of signifcance to a perfectly normal, healthy person going on a weeklong intensive detox in Bali. After two days of no make-up, greasy hair and no exercise, I now feel like a new person. A new person who still hasn't heard from the short guy but who's now deleted his number and stopped worrying about it. I'd texted him yesterday morning telling him he wasn't flirting nearly enough and then, when I didn't receive a reply, texted him again yesterday evening saying, and I quote, 'Meh. Lame. I'm replying to the magician.' Pathetic? Sure, but it made me feel better.

Now I'm sitting here researching the Chinese visa application process and trying to distract myself so that I don't go back to the vending machine for a second packet of crisps. Nothing funny is happening here, although it may amuse you to hear that, in a vivid display of karma's sizeable powers, I (possibly unfairly) wiggled my way onto the rammed tube this morning, ukulele on my back, and then, smugly in position, had to endure the frankly unendurable morning breath of the businessman to my left for around 45 seconds. I wasn't sure whether I'd rather smell it or breathe through my mouth and then inhale the particles, but neither of us could move our heads due to space restrictions so I was forced to adopt a mix 'n' match combination procedure. He was presumably unaware of the solid bulkiness of his emissions, but they were eye-wateringly pungent, suggestive of a thick, yellow coating on the tongue like cranberry-flecked Cathedral City from weeks of coffee and dairy. I can't pretend to know his motives, but the man was unquestionably anti-toothpaste. Thankfully I was able to rotate approximately 80 degrees at the next station but I did notice that the hand that he was using to grip onto the safety rail was wearing a wedding band. Pity that woman, readers. If ever there was a justification for separate beds, he was it.

Ill Behaviour

Sometimes something happens in front of me, and although it is fascinating and extraordinary at the time, the thought that pops into my head is not 'Ohmygod, that's fascinating and extraordinary,' but 'Ohmygod I can't WAIT to write about this.'

That happened this morning.

I was on a fairly packed commuter tube northbound, standing in the central atrium bit, leaning against the glass partition that separates the standing section from the seats. Despite the high density of people, I'd managed to angle myself so that I could read my book, the brilliant River of Time by Jon Swain, tales of 1970s Cambodia and Vietnam so potent and engrossing that I momentarily forgot where I was. But suddenly, across the width of the carriage, by the opposite doors, someone sneezed - a strange, cracking noise that jerked my attention. I looked up from my book. There, a metre or so away, was a young man who, from the mouth down, was completely covered in opaque white vomit. It had clearly taken him utterly by surprise. Several people around him had been splattered by the force of the eruption. It was all over him, down his chin, his shirt, over his suit jacket which he'd draped over one arm; thick, smooth emissions like emulsion paint, but with small yellow items flecked within. I'm guessing he'd had something like the world's largest ever bowl of Ricicles for breakfast. A matter of seconds later, we pulled in to a station and he exited. The remaining people looked around, some horrified, some smiling, all silently listening to their own world, white headphones snaking into their ears. It was British tolerance at its best.

The space vacated by the puker stood empty for a couple of stops, and in that time, I was able to secure a seat, three away from the vomit-covered partition on the same side. The girl sitting next to the partition had a good half pint of vomit sliding down the other side of the glass to her left, but she appeared to be calm. Then a man boarded the train, saw the rare area of space, pushed through to stand in it and then leant on the partition, covering his dark jacket in another man's sick before 9am. Disappointing. When another passenger alerted him to his nightmare, he dealt with it well, blushing and giggling rather than getting angry, and later helpfully pointed out the offending matter to another young man who had been about to make a similar mistake. It was all rather cheery. And a tube first for me.

It brought to mind my old hairdresser, Helen, who told me that when she had been pregnant she'd suffered really badly from morning sickness, and was always ill on the train to work every morning. At first, she'd held it in until a station, and then got off and been sick into a bin, and got back on the next train, but eventually she just took a plastic bag on board with her every morning and was quietly sick into it without even getting up from her seat. I was fairly disgusted at the time but if I'm ever pregnant, maybe I'll understand. Somehow I don't think morning sickness was the cause of the sneeze-chunder explosion I witnessed this morning, though. Unless science has moved on very quickly in the last week without my knowledge.

On an unrelated subject, last night I went to see Trash City at the Roundhouse. It was a weird cabaret spectacle with a fantastic set and bizarre performances including a vast black man dressed head to toe in white tulle singing a terrible version of Fix You by Coldplay, several strange transvestite geishas doing dance routines to what Chris described as nineties-influenced big beat, whipped cream, Alice Cooper, an hilarious song called something like 'Everyone's Fucking But Me', weird acrobatics, pole-dancing robots, nude women smeared in something resembling Marmite and then eating fire, heart-shaped balloons, feathers, and a vast dinosaur made out of reclaimed metal and a motorbike engine that thudded its way through the crowd as a finale. I love things like that. I don't really understand them, I don't have a clue what motivates people to put them together, but it's good to be out of the usual headspace, a bit like a legal LSD trip without the comedown or the panic about violent flashbacks which clearly never really happen but which we were warned about so persuasively at school that I have never done acid - something about a woman who was driving her kids down the motorway twenty years after she took a tab, and started seeing huge insects flying towards her and swerved to avoid them and wrote off her car, killing herself and her kids. And then another girl who stabbed herself to death in the bath with nail scissors, which, in retrospect, I'm not sure is even possible. Still, the horror stories worked. And Trash City is cool.

Hormoanal again

I am very hormonal at the moment. This month, the hormonalism entails being monosyllabic, exhausted to the point of nausea, unmotivated, pointlessly but painfully nostalgic and in possession of a slightly blotchy face. Sometimes it sucks being female. I was bemoaning my lot last night over dinner with Murray, specifically with reference to the fact that if you meet a single guy aged 31, the normal assumption is that he is happily single and has choosen to be so, whereas if you meet a single girl of the same age, the vision that comes to mind is of a rabid dog, salivating, howling and desperate to get her claws into her next victim. Whether it is true or not that no 31 year old girl really wants to be single is not the issue - the fact is, society makes her feel like a failure. It's freaking annoying, especially if, like me, you have no current desire to be in a relationship whatsoever - and I gained Murray's pity, which was some consolation. I think.

On a positive note, the play we went to see last night pre-dinner was really good, almost excellent. Three Days of Rain starred the compelling James McAvoy (who I'm sure must be unattractively full of himself in real life but yet I can't stop liking him), and two other less-famous people. On the basis of this production alone, it appears that the more famous you are, the better your American accent. James had the fewest slip-ups, while Nigel was OK except on words like 'York' and when he went into shouty mode, and the female actor was the least well-known and sounded a bit like she was in a Cornish AmDram production of Guys and Dolls. But with the exception of the distracting accents, the play was pretty fantastic. The script stole the show, fast-paced, unpatronising and very funny, and for the most part, the actors pulled off the speed of the dialogue with dexterity. The Shaftesbury Avenue theatre was packed and, after an initial panic that no one was going to stop whispering and rustling all night, I calmed down and have to admit that the audience was largely well behaved, with the exception of the girl on the other side of Murray who had a distractingly intermittent coughing fit involving crackly Strepsils packets for the final three or four minutes of the play. I nearly killed her but I'd noticed how nice her vintage dress was at the interval so I was slightly more forgiving than normal, and just settled for a death-inducing glower as we filed out.

This morning I had an unpleasant shock as I reached the tube station opposite my flat. The nice people who work there usually liven up our commute with a thought-provoking Quote of the Day, written on a whiteboard near the ticket barriers. Past morale-boosters have been by Oscar Wilde, Seneca and Jane Austen. But when I went past today and scanned the board hastily for its pearl of wisdom, I became aware that it seemed a little more vacuous and unremarkable than usual. When I saw the quotation's owner, I realised why: it was Brittany Murphy, star of Clueless and 8 Mile. I'm sure Brittany is a lovely and intelligent girl, but on a level with Seneca? I think possibly not. I scooped my lower jaw off the tiled floor and was about to file a complaint when I realised that I was running seven minutes late, due to my inability to get out of bed this morning on account of my hormones. So I scuttled down the escalator, levered myself onto a carriage, unrolled Prospect from my bag and got on with another day in the life. Politics class tonight. Woop.

Shiny happy person

When I mounted the downward escalator (not sure about mounted, but bear with me) this morning and prepared to continue my brisk descent to the tube, the man in front of me stopped abruptly and, in an unusual move, turned to face the moving handrail on the right hand side. I paused to look at him more closely and saw that he had extended his leg and was holding his battered, black, leather lace-up underneath the coarse bristles at the edge of the step, giving himself a free shoeshine. The seamlessness of his actions suggested this was a well-rehearsed routine. As a fellow follower of precision rituals, I rather admired his panache. Pleasing.

I found this photograph in the Guardian this morning and emailed it to Laura. We both agreed that our working lives would be significantly improved with the addition of a baby lemur, especially one who uses a wide-eyed teddy bear as a surrogate mother. I have read that pet cafes are becoming increasingly popular in urban areas of Asia - they are full of cats and other furry friends, and you pay somewhere between £5 and £10 per hour to sit and mingle with the various animals. Sounds like a bargain to me. And if the cafe could supply a few kittens and puppies, rather than cats and dogs, I think they could up their rates rather dramatically. Hmmm. I feel a career move coming on...

Cosy commute

In a shocking twist on normal events, this morning I was running slightly late for work. It was one of those days where, even though I knew full well I was running late, I still dawdled through my usual routine, staying in bed far too long, brushing my teeth quite slowly and being indecisive about my outfit. Consequently, once I was en route, I knew I had no time to spare. I scampered across to the tube, trotted briskly down the escalator, and saw with some dismay that the northbound platform was fairly packed. Undeterred, I strode down to my customary spot, ready to disembark at the other end perfectly in line with my destination stop's exit to street level, and took my place at the appropriate huddle of fellow commuters, waiting for the next train. It came. It left. I remained behind the yellow line. There hadn't been a hope in hell of getting on. The next one pulled up a couple of minutes later and I saw a tiny foothole where I thought I could pop my dainty size tens. Assuming a waif-like demeanour, I stepped up onto the carriage floor and levered myself in. The nice lady in front of me tried to be accommodating, but there was nowhere for her to go. She was facing in to the rammed carriage, with her back to me, so all I could do was spoon her, almost resting my head on her shoulder to avoid being decapitated by the curve of the closing doors. We remained in this intimate position for one stop, when things calmed down a bit and we could find our own tiny pocket of space with less physical contact. And really, it hadn't been that bad. What was weird, however, was that when the train arrived at my destination, she too disembarked. And above ground, I saw her again, walking just ahead of me in her distinctive little blue hat. My interest piqued, I carried on monitoring where she was going and it wasn't long before we both walked into the building where I work, and got into the same lift, and got out at the same floor. I'd never noticed her before, and there are several hundred people who work on this floor, but I felt acutely aware that the fact that we'd been snuggling together only a few minutes earlier suddenly seemed a lot more inappropriate. Oh well.

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.

Mind the gimp

Admittedly, I spent several years of my life 'living', on and off, at a boarding school in Wiltshire, and three as a university student in Bristol, but basically, I am a Londoner. I've been here since I was born and I doubt I'll ever leave for too long. I don't speak like a Cockney and I don't eat pie and mash, I've never been inside the Houses of Parliament and I hate the Evening Standard, but like I say, basically, I am a Londoner.

You'd be forgiven for thinking, therefore, that for me, minding the gap between the train and the platform would be pretty much as second nature as breathing or liking Malt Loaf. I certainly wouldn't expect a seasoned public transport user like myself to find the gap a tricky concept. I don't know. Maybe I'd had a bad night's sleep. Maybe the Russian and French artwork from the Royal Academy exhibition had disturbed me. Maybe I am just a bit thick. But this morning, on leaving the train at Bank station, I very nearly missed the platform edge and slipped down the gap into unending humiliation.

Thankfully I noticed the (admittedly larger than normal) trench in time and managed to push myself forward to safety without incident. But the mere thought of how close I had come to such an excruciating encounter was enough to make me break into a cold prickly sweat. With the possible exception of death by Toxic Shock Syndrome (most often caused by leaving in a tampon for too long), I think death by finding the gap has got to be up there in Most Embarrassing Ways To Die. Worse, though, would be not dying - the pain of limb against concrete, the withering looks of derision from other commuters, the ill-concealed giggles of overweight Italian teenage tourists, the panic about whether to risk electrocution and rescue the Clarins foundation that had slipped under the tracks, the nightmare crash diet that would have to be started after it took three burly men to drag me out from my nook... Thankfully this disaster did not occur this morning and it's enough to make me wonder if I haven't just witnessed a modern Easter miracle.

All change

Now that I'm a resident Sarf Londoner, I no longer have to commute for 65 mins each morning and night, via bus and Hammersmith and City Line, to reach my place of work. Now I simply walk a few paces from my front door, hop aboard a Northern Line tube and, theoretically in less than 20 mins after departure, I should be ensconsed at my desk, slouched down in my uncomfortable office chair, counting the minutes until I can leave to go home.

However, I have now commuted into the City several times from my new abode and the reality is a little bit more... fragranced. The Hammersmith and City line may have been slow but I always got a seat. This Tuesday I had to wait for six packed Northern Line trains to go past before I found one I could squeeze on. And when I say 'squeeze', I mean 'get my feet on the step, lever myself in using the handrail, duck my head to avoid the doors, categorically do not catch anyone's eye for fear of being stabbed or shot using a silencer, where no one would realise that I was dead until we reached London Bridge and the train emptied a fraction, leaving me unpropped and allowing my still-sweaty corpse to crumple to the ground'.

Then on Wednesday, at precisely the same time and for no discernable reason, the carriage was pleasantly empty and I even nabbed a seat after Kennington. Today was somewhere between the two extremes - still full as a fat man after a buffet but a little bit less aggressive. One thing's for sure, I am determined to get on the first tube home at 5pm today - it's all go at the flat and being at work is tantamount to torture. I will pour myself into any available space, disregarding the clucks of irritation from any nearby passengers who boarded the train at an earlier stop and are therefore allegedly justified to resent me for trying, like them, to get home. Yesterday, I admit, I did slightly take the piss, slotting myself on board a more-than-max-capacity train at 5.15pm while carrying my sizeable orange leather handbag, an overnight bag, a gym bag and a large carrier from Robert Dyas containing awkwardly shaped items including a largeish plank of wood affixed with several coat hooks. The guy opposite me shook his head in an exasperated manner, exhaled loudly and said 'What are you doing?' in the tone of a disappointed parent. I apologised and explained that I was hoping to get home and that the next train was not for a further five minutes. An older couple sympathised with me and even though I know that the rush hour tube is a free for all, I felt rude and selfish for crowding him.

Talking of Sarf London, as opposed to South, Laura told me a story about her boyfriend's 6-year-old daughter who has grown up in Dagenham, Essex, and who was writing about her weekend for a school project. Describing a trip to the park, she wrote that she'd been on the swings and the 'randabat', never having realised that this fun playground activity was named fairly straightforwardly because it goes round and about. Being able to spell what one hears is a massive part of writing so the young gal should be publicly congratulated - and then perhaps laughed about behind her back. Laura didn't manage this last part, chuckling openly in front of the confused child, and was reprimanded firmly.

George W. Bush is on TV. God he's thick.

Rufus - and a tight spot

In retrospect I think that yesterday's post may have sounded a bit capitalist for my liking. Allow me to clarify: I do not believe that happiness can be found in earning lots of money and then spending it on things like flats. However, I do believe that, at age 30, happiness can be found from living somewhere other than your parents' wonderful abode. Luxurious though it is to see them so often, have dinner cooked for me, not pay any household bills, never have to fix a boiler, repaint a cupboard or remember to buy washing powder, I think it'll be good for me to go it alone.

Now: Rufus. I don't know much about much but I've followed popular music since I was aged nine and equally obsessed by Horse & Pony magazine and Morton Harket. In the past two decades or so, I've been lucky enough to see a lot of fantastic bands and solo artists in concert, including Madonna, Elton, the Stones, Prince, Coldplay, James Brown, U2, Pink Floyd - and Michael Jackson when he flew off the stage at Wembley Stadium, wearing a jet pack. All those greats are greats for a reason - they are fantastic performers - and after last night, I've got another name to add to my list.

One of my favourite things about Rufus Wainwright - and, unsurprisingly, one of Rufus' least favourite things about himself - is that he's not that popular. He's fairly well known with a loyal fanbase - but even after his phenomenal last album, Release The Stars (produced by Neil Tennant), he's never managed to tip over into the Big Time. There's still an intimacy among his fans because he's not omniloved - we still feel part of an exclusive club who have been let in on a delicious secret: he is phenomenal. Sure, his distinctive voice is a bit too brash for some - but if you love it as I do, then a live performance by him is a gift from the gods.

It was magical: perfect vocals which at time sounded even more effortlessly precise and calmly crisp than they had on the albums; a superb three piece brass section; a beautiful Irish folk song performed without microphones to a breathless Apollo; glorious, classical-standard piano playing; comedy dancing during 'Get Happy'; and, of course, lederhosen. Musically, it surpassed my hopes. Manually, it was painful: my clapping was enthusiastic, heartfelt and continuous. I've been in love with some fairly unrealistic people in my life - Keanu Reeves, Michael Jackson and Mr Knightly from Jane Austen's Emma among them - but as heterosexuals, at least they'd perhaps have looked my way if I'd met them. Fancying Rufus Wainwright is about as futile as fancying gets, but fancy him I do.

This morning on the tube was interesting. I was seated opposite a very attractive female thirtysomething, neatly coiffured blonde hair, perfect and understated make-up, well-fitting pale grey suit, nice jewellery, black shoes. After a few moments, she crossed her legs, leaving one foot suspended a few inches off the ground, moving in time to the train's rocking. And something caught my eye. I looked up from my book and, in the eight inch gap between the top of her shoe and the hem of her grey trouser leg, was a wide band of flesh coloured lace, lined with clear gel rubber. It was awful. Her hold up stocking had not held.

I couldn't decide whether or not she should be told - there is no doubt I would have wanted to be alerted in her unenviable position, but I struggled to believe she wasn't aware of the situation. Her foot was clearly in her line of vision, and the bunched up stocking with its appalling top section was hanging over her ankle like a baggy legwarmer. At the end of this pristine woman was a spectacle equal to Nora Batty after a night on the tiles. It seemed impossible that she hadn't noticed: even if she hadn't seen it, she must have felt it. I concluded that she had realised but was resigned to the irrepairable nature of her situation: pulling a stocking to mid-thigh height under a pair of trousers while on a packed tube is no mean feat. I used to pity commuters but really, as far as snapshots on modern urban life go, you can't beat public transport. And talking of that - I've got a date with the Hammersmith and City Line. Mind the gap.

Cults, coughs, comedy and the countdown

Not that Laura’s drama wasn’t electrifying, but I’ve just remembered what I meant to write about yesterday: on Wednesday evening I bumped into a guy I used to be friends with at Bristol. That’s not the story – bear with me. It had been around a decade since I’d last seen him and we had rather an awkward, red-faced reunion while we were waiting for a Piccadilly Line train at King’s Cross and had to calculate whether we were just going to say hello quickly, reinsert our earphones and move on, or stay with each other for the duration of our onward journey. Just then, London Transport made our decision – the train arrived and we were committed.

Taking seats opposite each other in the commuter-filled carriage, we tried to catch up without sounding too stabbable to the surrounding audience. It was a little tense until Luke mentioned he was sworn off marriage to life, after his ‘nightmare’. I had heard talk of this but never knew the details. His wife of a couple of years had, apparently, been swept away by a cult, a group loosely affiliated to Scientology. Pah, I don’t know why they deserve a capital letter… loosely affiliated to scientology. Her family is rich and famous and her parents believe that she was targeted for her wealth. The first time she disappeared, she was found in Miami after a three week international manhunt. She returned home for six months and then evaporated again – and hasn’t been seen since. Apparently the marriage was on the rocks anyway so my friend didn’t seem too distraught but the story in itself is gripping and ripe for a full-length retelling. Bagsy.

What else is news? Everyone, but everyone seems to be revoltingly ill. So far I have only felt like I was on the threshold of developing a cold and haven’t yet succumbed to an actual illness. But it can only be a matter of hours before one of the billions of uncovered coughs and sneezes I must have inadvertently inhaled over the past few weeks does its job.

Last night I went with Katherine and others to the BBC to watch my old university ‘pal’ (and when I say ‘pal’, in truth I mean ‘person who might, with assistance, recall that he used to know me vaguely a long time ago, but I wouldn’t hold your breath’) Marcus Brigstocke presenting his weekly show, The Late Edition, which goes out live at 10:30pm on BBC4 to an audience of eight. I fully expected to seethe with the combination of disgust and envy that I exhibit so frequently but in fact he was skilled and impressive and I couldn’t have done it. He did, though, use a joke which he used in his stand-up set at Bristol which inexplicably made me feel a bit superior.

Not long now 'til the weekend and two consecutive days of relaxation and sleep debt consolidation. TGIF.

Monday update

Sigh… another week… A slightly heavier weekend than I’ve experienced for a wee while and the addition of my winter, 13.5 tog duvet and clean sheets to my bed meant that dragging myself from under the increased weighty warmth was even more of a repellent prospect this morning.

Still, miraculously I made it – and managed to reach my office without significant incident. Last Friday I spent the entire journey from Hammersmith to work on the tube sitting next to a large(ish) spider which was absolutely paralysing – I couldn’t pick it up and was too embarrassed to ask anyone else to move it, and it just sat there cleaning its legs and not walking very far for approximately forty minutes. Every now and then it made a start as if setting off on an expedition, at which point I would try to shuffle away from it a tad, while trying to maintain a commuter-friendly distance from the passenger to my right, but mostly it just sat there, while I sat looking at it, listening to my iPod and convinced that if I even looked away for a nano-second it would run up the sleeve of my coat and I would have a heart attack and die.

I had a delightful weekend – a few drinks post-work with Laura and a couple of others on Friday to carry on the birthday festivities, and then an evening of love on Saturday to celebrate Suzannah’s engagement to Jack. A few of us from our choir went along to croon a selection of cheesy numbers and get the party in the mood but pre-performance sight-reading is never too good for my singing ego and personally I think we might have benefited from a fraction more rehearsal. Ultimately, however, no one was really listening as they were all waiting for the rugby to start and panicking that we were going to start singing Mozart’s C Minor Mass and force them to stand up interminably.

After our songs had been sung, the choir contingent visibly relaxed, arranged ourselves by the canapé release area for the richest pickings, drank more than our fair share of Champagne and sang along noisily and (unbearably) in harmony to Uptown Girl – so strange how that always seems so funny when I’m with choir people and yet, just hours later, can send me into paroxysms of shame and regret.

After the party, I trotted back to Hammersmith to catch the last bus home but, despite my inebriation, was still stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of the station’s newest artery fattenerr. Words fail me when I look at their sign. Oven & Grilled Snack Bar? Is that like a roasted Tracker? Or have they put the entire eaterie under the grill? Or does the ‘Oven & Grilled’ not refer to the snack bar? In which case, to what is it referring? Not the coffee? Do they grill coffee now? I know I shouldn’t care. I know that I especially shouldn’t care after midnight and many glasses of Champagne. But I did, and I do, and that’s the way it is.

Yesterday I remembered what it was like to wake up the morning after drinking way, way too much alcohol. I had a very gentle day featuring a lovely lunch at Katherine’s flat and then fell asleep watching a Bob Dylan documentary on BBC4. Perfect.

Homeward bound

I seem to spend an awful lot of time thinking or talking about transport, something I didn't predict about my grown-up self when I was a nipper. I spend two hours of every day sitting on it, though, or around one eighth of my waking life, so I suppose it figures that it will crop up in my thoughts every now and then.

Last night, my bus home was almost full as we left Hammersmith, so when we reached the first stop, the driver didn't pause to pull over and instead came to a halt at some traffic lights twenty yards on. One man who had been waiting at the stop was absolutely convinced that he should have been allowed on our bus, regardless of its near-capacity status. With surprising agility for a man who appeared to be in his sixties, the snubbed would-be-traveller ran to our bus and hammered on the door, shouting to be let in. The driver rejected his request to open the doors. At this point, I would have given up and slunk back to the bus stop, defeated. But our valiant friend continued the fight and moved to stand directly in front of the vehicle, refusing to move.

By now, the traffic lights had turned green and there were several cars hooting their horns. While the light had been red, my fellow passengers were fairly relaxed and even amused by the vigilante behaviour taking place outside, but the moment the green light flashed up, there was a perciptible rustle of impending fury that crackled through the group like a forest fire. Within seconds, people had thrust their newspapers and chicklit to one side and were peering over the crowds to shout their encouragement at the driver who was now leaning on his horn and adding to the cacophony. To my surprise, there was no sympathy for the angry man outside, even though there was, undeniably, plenty of room onboard not just for him but for an estimated ten further commuters. It appeared that those around me had endured long days at work and this twenty second delay was a frustration too far. Fortunately, at that moment another (emptier) bus arrived at the stop behind us and our protester scuttled off, coat flapping behind him like a frustrated superhero. And by the time our 209 reached Hammersmith Bridge, the ruffled feathers had calmed and, smoother of plumage, we continued on our journey into suburbia.

There's no place like home

I'm back in London after a weekend among sheep and friends old and new in Devon. It was delicious to leave the Big Smoke and on Friday night I felt liberated and high on other people's second-hand tobacco. On Saturday I walked a long way, swam in the pool, relished a boat trip to the pub and ate a quantity of pork belly and crackling that exceeded even my own projections. Very early on Sunday morning I awoke feeling somewhat fatty. Later on Sunday I could sense the combination of hangover, tiredness, career uncertainty and singledom forming a potent melange that threatened to disrupt the jollity of those around me, so I hopped on a train to Paddington, where I revelled in the fact that I was no longer the only person in my immediate vicinity with cellulite. I reached home at a sensible hour and settled down for an early night, only to be drawn in to watching As Good As It Gets, which I have seen before and know to be mediocre at best - quite why my exhausted mind thought it would be a good idea to watch it a second time is beyond me.

Now Monday is drawing to a close and I'm still paying for last night's movie madness. My tiredness has reached the point of delirium, helped on its way by a rare busy day at work, a trip to the gym, a two-hour choir practice and a marathon journey home on the number 10 bus due to the pesky tube strike. The start of the week is enough of an ordeal without spending the latter section of the day being compressed into the damp back of a middle-aged Spanish tourist. That said, I thank my lucky stars that I live in the city, where variety is the spice of life and no-one knows your name. And now, bed. Caution: witty final line missing due to supreme fatigue.

Struggling liberal

Sometimes it’s hard to be open-minded. This morning was one such time.

At approximately 07:46 I boarded the 209 bus, ready for the ten minute journey to Hammersmith. Things were going well when my favourite seat, behind the partition on the left so you can see the road ahead and near the back door for a speedy exit, was vacant. I sat down and absent-mindedly placed my spare bag on the aisle seat to my right. Then, like a good person, I conceded that someone might want to sit there and reprimanded the anti-social and selfish part of me that wanted the double seat to myself. I lifted my bags off the seat and put them at my feet.

At the next stop, an obese, unshaven gentleman in shabby, stained clothes boarded the bus. ‘Guaranteed he comes and sits next to me,’ I whined internally. But then I reprimanded myself again, this time for being so judgmental and prejudiced against someone who perhaps doesn’t have the money or the means to buy new clothes, or even wash his existing garments.

He sat next to me.

And he stank as though neither his clothes nor anything surrounding him had seen water, a bar of soap or a wet wipe in decades. Alcohol, stale cigarettes and several other miscellaneous odours assaulted my sensitive early-morning nostrils. With what I hoped was subtlety, I turned my head away to the left and looked out the window, simultaneously reprimanding myself for being so precious.

Then the coughing began. Great lumps of phlegm were forced out of his lungs and then snorted south once more in a fairly continual loop. Convinced I was going to contract lung cancer, and close to vomit point, I bemoaned my lack of paranoid-phase-Michael-Jackson­-face-mask and switched on my iPod to block out the noises.

‘Calm yourself,’ I mantraed. Sure, this man reeked. He was overweight, dirty and doing things with his nasal passages that would make the Queen retch in public. But I had no context. Perhaps he was desperately ill and in despair. Perhaps his wife had recently left him and, miserable, he’d sunk into a pit, possibly one containing raw sewage. I pleaded with myself not to be rude to a stranger, not to let my prejudices affect the way I treated another human being.

And for the rest of the journey, I succeeded.

Upon our arrival at Hammersmith, relieved my ordeal was over, I stood up, ready to make use of our speedy exit position by the doors. But my companion did not stand up, his vast knees blocking my path. I stood there patiently for about five seconds, when suddenly he snapped.

‘Don’t rush me!’ he barked at me in a surprisingly squeaky voice. His breath confirmed my suspicions that he’d begun his morning with a fair amount of alcohol. ‘I don’t want to get off yet!’ he spat.
‘Well,’ I said, willing myself to remain calm. ‘That’s not really my fault, is it?’
‘No, it’s NOT your fault!’ he squawked back. ‘It’s the BUS DRIVER’s fault.’ The questionable logic behind this statement, coupled with the fact that at least fifteen people had already poured off the bus and were striding towards the tube, as I rightfully should have been, pushed me over the brink. The full extent of my middle-class disgust bubbled over. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’
Visibly bursting with rage at my outrageous request, the (mad)man stroppily jerked his knees to one side, but as I squeezed past him he shouted, ‘Oh go on then, you silly bitch!’

As I stepped down onto the pavement, the whole world seemed to be staring at me, unsure of the story so far and perhaps trying to calculate who was at fault – the overweight man sitting down or the haughty-looking girl in the trench coat walking away at a fair speed. I hoped they would give me the benefit of the doubt – but then reprimanded myself for wanting people to take my side. He may have been offensive, both verbally and nasally, but who’s to say that he hadn’t been suffering far more than I ever have? Perhaps he needs more people on his side.

Like I say, it’s hard to be nice: this holier than thou act does not come naturally to me. And being verbally abused before 8am by a drunk, fat man in need of decongestant, detoxification and disinfectant isn’t the best start to anyone’s day. But although I was sorely tempted to stamp on his flabby foot or unleash a stream of hygiene advice laced with expletives, I didn’t retaliate and, for now at least, today’s liberal halo remains untarnished.

The Wait Is Over

Despite efforts to remain fairly anonymous - and apologies to anyone who is bitterly disappointed that this isn't being typed by an intellectually advanced bottlenosed whale - I now have a sneaking suspicion that my future bosses may have found this blog and have been reading it.

Only a few minutes after I posted my Anti-Ode to Being Housebound yesterday afternoon, I received a phonecall from my new employers, during which I was informed that I'd passed my preliminary checks and would be welcome to start on Wednesday 7th March. Aware of my own irritation with my stationary status, I readily agreed and hung up the phone.

I had hoped that delirium would hit the moment I finally received an end date to this much-bemoaned boredom, but instead, as predicted, I was gripped by an instant and forceful panic, along with an immediate yearning for my weary indolence of just moments earlier. How could I have been so ungrateful for my structureless existence? The inaudible ticking of my computer's desktop clock became deafening - the final precious hours until my first commute were fast dissolving and I needed to appreciate every last second of freedom.

And what have I done in the 24 hours since then? Spent time reading in front of a log fire, gone for a long walk, seen an exhibition, revelled in my duvet or watched a film in the morning? No. I have been irritatingly sensible and have spent my time clearing a backlog of admin: buying advance train tickets for an Easter weekend jaunt, reading up on my new employers and trying and failing to purchase an advance Oyster travelcard update online. However, thankfully I have not been entirely practical and am pleased to announce that over the course of the last few minutes I have revelled in my last weekday mid-afternoon snooze for the foreseeable future. My next post will be as an employee. Brings tears to my eyes.