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A London List

A little London List, to pass the time.

  • Men in children’s playgrounds who have taken over the monkey bars and associated kits. They pull themselves up with their fingertips, swing for a while, do push-ups with their feet balanced on swings, pull-ups from the top most bars of the climbing frames. When they are done, they nod manfully at each other, and take it in polite turns to work out. They wear vests, the better to reveal their very toned arms, and perhaps, in working hours, investigate insurance claims or answer telephones in the local council housing repair unit.
  • A new thing on the street, replacing the segway. A kind of skateboard, only it’s wide, not long, two paddles for the feet to stand in. You lean forward a tiny touch, and the paddles light up blue, and you trundle forward, at sometimes impressive speed. You lean back a little to stop it. Little is the key word – lean too far, and in an instant, you’ll fall over. It’s only a matter of time before people are using these things to commute. Only a matter of time before, like the tiny fold-up scooter, it goes out of fashion again, I think….
  • The bus driver on the 394 bus, as she pelts down the final stretch towards Angel, never stops at the Central St stop. If she can, she won’t stop at the stop beforehand either. The end is in sight, victory approaches, and so she puts her foot down on the gas and accellerates on that final run, while her dismayed passengers sway and buckle limply by the closed bus doors.
  • A group of mothers in a cafe. “My daughter’s not doing at well at school as she should! The teaching is terrible – the syllabus is appalling! She can’t even remember her times tables.” I eavesdrop, wondering. Is the teaching terrible? There are terrible teachers out there. Is the syllabus appalling? Not every seven year old can be a rocket scientist and yet there are only so many poster projects a child can do. Are times tables vital tools in society? Perhaps not as vital as critical thought and the ability to approach a mathematical problem from scratch, but what do I know? Should the child be doing better? Is every child destined to be the top of her class? (“Mine is,” whispers the mothers’ glares.) “I’m thinking of getting a private tutor!” and I think, there is something wrong with this picture, though damned if I can say I’d be any different, if the time came.
  • A woman, sat outside a Costcutter in central Hackney, crying. Her face is like a ball of grey putty was thrown at the wall. It fell, after a while, under its own weight, and the distortions of tension that were created within it as it fall may perhaps resemble lips, mouth, eyes, face. “Are you okay, luv?” I ask, surprised to discover that I’m putting a Hackney ‘luv’ into my mouth, instinct on familiar turf. “No, no I’m not. I ran away from my partner, from domestic violence, and I need £22 for the shelter.” Is this true? Who knows. She’s a woman on the street sobbing – the distress is real, the rest is just fluffy context. I realise, in a moment of surprise, that I’m not carrying any cash. I was travelling light, just my oyster card and my emergency debit card, never more than £100 in the account, in case I got into trouble. I try and say something kind, probably don’t manage any decent words, and as I walk away wonder: has the advent of contactless payment changed the outlook for the homeless in the streets? Discuss.
  • A woman is taken ill on the train. Five people come forward to help. The first, a man with a messenger bag and a brown leather coat, says ‘I am a first aider! Stand aside!’ Another rushes in, a woman in blue lycra and a plastic jacket. ‘I’m a physiotherapist,’ she explains, a little timid. ‘Can I help?’ A third smiles patiently. ‘I’m an intensive care unit nurse,’ she says, easing them away. ‘I’m sure we can handle this!’ Two more participate. One, a man in his late fifties, stands aside and lets the others do their thing. ‘I am a doctor,’ he whispers out of the corner of his mouth, ‘but everything seems to be in hand.’ His wife, all action and motion, exclaims, ‘this woman needs oxygen!’ The nurse replies, ‘well, if you can find any on the London Underground, you can have it.’ The woman doesn’t respond. She is an Accident and Emergency Consultant, and used to getting her own way. All five of them come to help, because they can, and because it is the right thing to do. I stand aside – I know when my expertise is trumped.
  • A community meeting – ‘What the cuts to housing benefit mean to you.’
  • A new shop, open near the college – sewing classes, do it yourself, classes in repairing and making.
  • A master tailor near my flat. He’s in his sixties, with a silver beard against red tea skin. He has an apprentice, who scuttles to the counter as I come in with my repair (a torn sleeve on my coat). The apprentice isn’t sure, he’s not used to working with leather, especially leather that’s now 15 years old. He shows it to his master, who mutters inaudible words in his ears, and relieved, the apprentice scurries back and repeats everything that’s been said in a voice of supreme confidence. The price they charge is absolutely reasonable for the work involved. I wonder who it is who uses the clearly very busy bespoke tailoring service that they also offer.
  • A street vendor, shouting across the road at the man who sells CDs, who’s stall always plays music. “No beats!” he laughs. “More violins!”
  • An angry seller of sugared peanuts and almonds. (Tastes foul: avoid.) There are four of them within a hundred yards of each other on the approach to the Millennium Bridge. A boat passes underneath, the commentary audible – “… used to wobble, but these days…” The caramelized nut vendor bangs his spoon angrily against the side of his hot plate in rage as another man, nearer the mouth of the bridge, makes a sale. Then puts his spoon down, picks up his truck by the handle, and wheels it further away, muttering and cursing under his breath as he goes.
  • A mother and daughter, out shopping together. The daughter holds the mother’s arm, and is infinitely patient.
  • A steel drum rendition of the greatest hits of Michael Jackson. You wouldn’t have thought it’d could work, and yet….