Hell, handcart, expressway. Wednesday started so well – at least as far as Finchley Road… The semi-fast train which has become my norm on WVM days was waiting and all the way I had time and space to play with travel toys but trotting across platforms I was just in time to hear the driver of the next train explain that a dead train further down the line meant a 20 minute wait where we were followed by a slow journey. Along with many others I turned on my heels but was unable to get back on the original train – or the next. Eventually, after much shilly-shallying I got to Liverpool Street from where there is a direct bus all the way to the depot. For one who was once au fait with The Big Smoke and its public transport I have become a yokel let loose, so much has changed. It is now twice this year that I have been outpaced by a horse-drawn hearse whilst trying to traverse the thriving, thrusting metropolis.
I first noticed people sitting in aisle seats and leaving the window seat empty during one Palestine trip; it now seems ubiquitous. It is a bit like putting bags on seats and only moving them when requested – an attempt to browbeat less confident people into not asking for the seat. It was only after I had moved past the young woman by the aisle that I realised that she was upset and crying. Bystander apathy was a phrase coined by psychologists after Kitty Genovese was raped and murdered in New York despite having cried out for help for an interminable period and was once a popular field of enquiry – and came to mind when BoZo’s partner cried for help and the man who called police was vilified by certain members of the Tory party. Accordingly I asked the young woman if she needed any assistance but said I would keep quiet when she declined. As she alighted I was rewarded with a watery smile and a small wave – of gratitude, I presume.
At WVM Joel, a new gauleiter, had taken ‘my’ van and delivery re my very late arrival but I was graced with an extremely pleasant van boy and had a good, short, quick route, hence was back, sorted and off and running at a more than respectable time. Last week I had popped in to the shop where Uta works and been given more details than I needed about her current circumstances. During the drive I had received a WassUp message from her which seemed to to be testy in the extreme so I visited her at work – and came across the second tearful woman of the day.
There is much negativity and pain in her life at the moment, all of which she wants to keep within a very small circle, so after a box emptied of tissues (by her) and half an hour or so I left with a promise to try to catch up with her before we dander in different directions . At least it was a day of finding women in distress rather than leaving them that way.
With regard to Saturday’s forthcoming fun and frolics Rattus Rattess had invited me for the weekend but advised me to not arrive too early. Friday was a lovely evening for a Clean Knickers ride out and there is a real route for old times sake – the old A41, beloved of customers of the Busy Bee. The Ace survives, having been resurrected, but the Busy Bee lies between housing estate and two hypermarkets – and the road itself is now a three-lane dual carriageway while the old road has been redesignated as the B something not very memorable.
Rattus Rattess had told me of a beer festival local to where she is moored which is a charity fundraiser – and I can think of no better way of supporting local people in need. Accordingly Saturday was spent in the arms of Bacchus (apart from when we walked back to feed and water her dogs, which may have been a blessing in disguise). The programme suggested folksy-type music (wrongly) and many fairly local, worthwhile beers (correctly); it was a score draw. The security guards were diligent in searching bags for illicit alcohol at the entrance (reasonably) but also prevented festival-goers taking charged open receptacles out; we had a slight debate as he was giving wrong information about the law but he had a job to do so we quaffed merrily at the gate. The bands sounded better from a distance as well. It was that last, rushed pint that did it…
To complete the weekend there was a theatre group performing in the open air on Sunday so we really did culture high and low. I was not au fait with the story in Much Ado About Nothing but two of the cast gave a very good description and synopsis – and when they called for volunteers for a play with their swords, epees and rapiers… Well, an old luvvie can hardly be blamed for elbowing little children out of the way… The parents of the crying babes forgave me when they understood the whole reason.
Sawn-off Levis and no cod piece was not exactly how Elizabethan men dressed but as all ex-Am Dram stars (and weren’t we all? Cameo roles? In Am Dram? You’re having a laugh) all know, the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd means that just one line in a walk-on part is that critical line on which the whole performance stands or falls. So it was only fair that I gave the young popinjay a quick lesson in the finer arts.
When one of the heroines was hoisted to her feet by her hair it quite took me back to a workshop run by a professional fight supervisor in preparation for a performance of The Three Musketeers. Much though Mr. Grumpy, our very own would be Alfred Hitchcock, could throw tantra like a frustrated two years old he did insist on people having liquid in whatever container when they were drinking; in some ways it has spoilt theatre for me because I always look and he was right – you can tell.
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