Since my hesitant plunge into the world of full-time work, I undergo a daily mini-commute consisting of a 15-minute train journey. I realise that to some of you 15 minutes sounds like an indulgent luxury, but to me it’s 15 minutes of being sneezed on, coughed at, barged past by little boys with cricket bats sticking out of their bags and generally irritated by the fact that people these days seem to treat trains as their own personal office spaces, or kitchens. Sometimes I am able to let it all glide over me and I sit there in wry amusement, as I am forced to eavesdrop on people’s extremely dull conversations about the most mundane things all to the background accompaniment of the tap, tap, tapping of laptop buttons and urgent-sounding text messaging.
Sometimes I sit back, watch the scenery go by, relax and enjoy a good old nosy listen. Other times, I am simply affronted by the sheer arrogance of the man that can sit down opposite someone who is quietly reading a book, and proceed to have a very protracted, boring and exceedingly loud conversation, while sitting two feet away from the quiet, minding-their-own-business-and-reading person. At least the unfortunate soul on the other end of the phone has a choice – they can hang up. But we, the poor prisoners of the 8.04 to Charing Cross, have to endure whatever our fellow commuter throws at us. And after all, we’re only trying to get to bloody work.
I've been commuting to work on the train for ten months now, and already I realise I have become a creature of habit. I've learned as I've gone along that if you travel at the same time as thousands of school children, it pays to be careful which part of the train you get on. And I've also learned that other commuters have their travelling habits too. The rowdy little school boys, some with alarmingly high-pitched voices, who spend their journey screwing the free newspapers into balls and throwing them at each other, and have absolutely no awareness of other people, tend to travel in the middle and last few carriages. The quieter teenagers (probably quiet as they are not fully awake yet) travel nearer the front of the train and sometimes have the sort of conversations that indicate that they, too, are unaware of the other people on the train.
And it's not just all the kids who are in their own private train-world. There's Gerry, or is it Terry, (he once wore some kind of conference pass with his name on) who likes to sit in exactly the same window seat every day and will hover on other seats until his seat looks like it might become free. As soon as the other person's buttocks begin to rise out of the seat Gerry/Terry will mow anyone down who tries to get there before him. If you happen to be the unfortunate person sitting opposite this special seat Terry/Gerry will think nothing of barging your knees out of the way with his, flapping his newspaper open noisily and spreading it out so it invades the tiny space you thought you could call your own, all the while avoiding eye contact at all costs. There is the smiling woman on the platform, who for ages I assumed was smiling at me but turns out to have some kind of permanent smiling disorder. And the ginger woman on my way home, who has to stand at the same door of the same carriage, in order to get out near the station stairs and exit without being mown down by hoards of excitable children going home...actually that's not a bad ploy and one I've taken up myself recently.
So, yes, I admit it. I have formed certain commuting habits and most of them spring from wishing to avoid other people's habits. I've been keeping my eye on the other commuters, studying the politics and etiquette, or lack of it, but until now it hadn't occured to me that I, too, might be under scrutiny.
Following a weekend where 6thFormGirl had been to her first actual music festival to see, among others, Bob Dylan play live - she’s 16 for god’s sake, and I’m 45 and I’ve never seen Bob Dylan- (though I have seen BB King, Amy Winehouse and Dr John, though obviously not all at the same time) she set off on Monday morning for the start of her work experience week at a top law firm. Well, we actually set off together as she needed to get the same train as me for the start of her journey.
6FG: Mum, why do you cross the road here, instead of at the zebra crossing near the station?
Me: Er... I don't know. Um..I just do.
6FG: It means you have to cross more roads. (Not actually true, but never mind)
Me: I just like crossing here.
6FG: Mmm...
Looking like an elegant and very young little lawyer, wearing the dress and shoes we shopped for, her unruly long, curly hair tied in a neat bun, carrying a jacket and a neat handbag that UniGirl had lent her, 6thFormGirl got off after one stop to change trains. As my train pulled away I saw her utterly dignified figure standing on the platform and my heart curled at the edges. How did we get here? My actual child was not really still a child. Oh my God, she was off to London in probably quite uncomfortable shoes, feet held together with plasters, with a Google map I’d printed off at work marking her route from station to office door. Would she find it? Would the trains run smoothly? Would she get there on time?
Yes, yes and yes. She was fine. And, eventually, later than anyone else in the family, she came home positively aglow with satisfaction.
She'd had a great day. She'd read important sounding documents, been treated to a two-hour lunch in Pizza Express and promised a day in court later in the week. The relief at having got through the day without mishap was shining through.
When we arrive at the station on the second day I carry on walking to the further end of the platform as I usually do, away from the noisy school boys. 6thFormGirl raises an eyebrow.
6FG: Nice spot you've got here, Mum.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Dysfunctional household?
Our house is held together with araldite.
I am keeping an eye on some chicken bits that are roasting while JP is out on a run. The reason I need to keep my eye on it is not to make sure it doesn’t burn but to make sure it actually continues to cook. Because we have one of those ovens that switch off at random intervals throughout the cooking process. You know, the ones, don’t you? The ones that silently turn themselves off half an hour before your chicken is due out of the oven, or five minutes after you’ve put it in. The beauty of it is its unpredictability. So you can never moan that cooking is boring. And, as luck would have it, we also have a matching hob – it has four rings of assorted sizes but only three work and we’ve been managing fine on three rings for about eight months...not that I’m counting or anything. But now the oven has joined its malfunctioning mate and that really does make providing meals for a family of six or seven, or more if you count the odd boyfriend, more of a challenge.
Yesterday JP came downstairs with the door, the entire door, of the tumble drier in his hand muttering about Araldite – I swear our house is held together with the stuff. Apparently the hinge is broken so we can’t use it as it’s bound to fall off on someone’s foot, and they’re quite heavy those tumble drier doors. The shelves in the door of the fridge are held together with a combination of screws and araldite or similar and the drawers of the freezer have to be seen to be believed. Honestly, I’m not kidding. The ones that we can actually open have bloody great chunks ripped out of the plastic where we’ve pulled too hard, given the amount of ice surrounding them, and pieces of the drawers have simply torn off in our hands. Talk about a dysfunctional household – the boiler switches itself on and off whenever it feels the urge, and anyway if you switch the hot water on, the radiators roar into life as if you had requested that the central heating is fired up; the kitchen sink has a crack in it which has been there since we moved in six years ago. UniGirl’s bed is broken and needs a strong bit of string – see, what am I saying? What the hell am I saying? Needs a strong piece of string? That can’t be normal can it, to react like that when one’s offspring’s bedsprings have sprung? There is a large crack in the hall ceiling, which happens to be directly under the bath, only two out of seven of our downlights in the kitchen work at any one time otherwise the fuses blow, the vacuum cleaner switches off just as randomly as the oven and the boiler, and for God’s sake don’t even get me started on the state of the shower – Is this what they mean by a dysfunctional household?
Two days later.....
On the other hand, I have some rather wonderful things to say about our household. The beauty of living with teenagers is that they can actually do things, really useful things - like walking dogs, emptying dishwashers, popping to the local shops for bread and milk, washing up and.... cooking. Oh, the cooking that occasionally occurs really is the business. To have a gorgeous meal prepared for you on a week night, after a hard day’s work, by willing, capable and competent people you’ve brought into the world (though not necessarily for that purpose)...well, it really is a treat.
Last night after I got home from work, for instance, 6thFormGirl and I had to go shopping for some proper smart clothes for her to wear for work experience next week at a top London law firm. (her usual fabulous style is as tad boho.) I was hot, hungry, tired, and a bit stressed about our dear dog Virginia Woof, who is suffering from itchy skin and for whom we’ve tried so many tactics and remedies, all of them less than satisfactory. It took two hours to find an ensemble, which may or may not be suitable, but is elegant and smart and she looks exquisite in it. When we got home we were knackered and hungry and we found a sight to gladden the eyes and heart. Lovely UniGirl was installed in the kitchen, cheerily grating ginger and squeezing limes for her salmon in filo pastry recipe.
After initial start-of-evening-greetings all round, JP and I had some time on our own to chat and watch the news while this culinary delight was being prepared. Bliss. 6thFormGirl had been out to buy the extra salmon needed to feed us all, and UniGirl’s boyfriend Welsh dashed out at the last minute to buy sweet chilli dip from the local takeaway. By the time we were called to the table, the kids had laid it and there were six perfect filo parcels and green beans arranged on a platter in the middle of the table. God, they are feeding us better than we feed them! (though obviously not nearly as often) The point is, this was a voluntary act of UniGirl’s and there was co-operation involved, from darling JP doing the week's shopping in the first place to all the other contributions, and there was good will, and appreciation all round. Afterwards, as has happily become the custom, the ones who didn’t cook and prepare supper did the clearing up. There was no one person who did everything. Although, a special thanks goes to UniGirl for the delicious dinner.
I did feel quite awful though about the fact that, inevitably, the oven was up to its tricks again.
UniGirl: Mum, the oven's just turned off.
Me: Oh, yes, it does that now.
UniGirl: Does it? Oh.
Me: JP! The oven's gone off again, can you do your trick?
UniGirl: It's ok! It's come back on! Oh, no it's gone off again...
JP: Have you tried twisting the knob all the way round and then back again?
UniGirl: It's fine now. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on it.
I am sitting in the kitchen now, having done something to the knobs with knives and WD40, wondering how long our chicken's going to take tonight...
I am keeping an eye on some chicken bits that are roasting while JP is out on a run. The reason I need to keep my eye on it is not to make sure it doesn’t burn but to make sure it actually continues to cook. Because we have one of those ovens that switch off at random intervals throughout the cooking process. You know, the ones, don’t you? The ones that silently turn themselves off half an hour before your chicken is due out of the oven, or five minutes after you’ve put it in. The beauty of it is its unpredictability. So you can never moan that cooking is boring. And, as luck would have it, we also have a matching hob – it has four rings of assorted sizes but only three work and we’ve been managing fine on three rings for about eight months...not that I’m counting or anything. But now the oven has joined its malfunctioning mate and that really does make providing meals for a family of six or seven, or more if you count the odd boyfriend, more of a challenge.
Yesterday JP came downstairs with the door, the entire door, of the tumble drier in his hand muttering about Araldite – I swear our house is held together with the stuff. Apparently the hinge is broken so we can’t use it as it’s bound to fall off on someone’s foot, and they’re quite heavy those tumble drier doors. The shelves in the door of the fridge are held together with a combination of screws and araldite or similar and the drawers of the freezer have to be seen to be believed. Honestly, I’m not kidding. The ones that we can actually open have bloody great chunks ripped out of the plastic where we’ve pulled too hard, given the amount of ice surrounding them, and pieces of the drawers have simply torn off in our hands. Talk about a dysfunctional household – the boiler switches itself on and off whenever it feels the urge, and anyway if you switch the hot water on, the radiators roar into life as if you had requested that the central heating is fired up; the kitchen sink has a crack in it which has been there since we moved in six years ago. UniGirl’s bed is broken and needs a strong bit of string – see, what am I saying? What the hell am I saying? Needs a strong piece of string? That can’t be normal can it, to react like that when one’s offspring’s bedsprings have sprung? There is a large crack in the hall ceiling, which happens to be directly under the bath, only two out of seven of our downlights in the kitchen work at any one time otherwise the fuses blow, the vacuum cleaner switches off just as randomly as the oven and the boiler, and for God’s sake don’t even get me started on the state of the shower – Is this what they mean by a dysfunctional household?
Two days later.....
On the other hand, I have some rather wonderful things to say about our household. The beauty of living with teenagers is that they can actually do things, really useful things - like walking dogs, emptying dishwashers, popping to the local shops for bread and milk, washing up and.... cooking. Oh, the cooking that occasionally occurs really is the business. To have a gorgeous meal prepared for you on a week night, after a hard day’s work, by willing, capable and competent people you’ve brought into the world (though not necessarily for that purpose)...well, it really is a treat.
Last night after I got home from work, for instance, 6thFormGirl and I had to go shopping for some proper smart clothes for her to wear for work experience next week at a top London law firm. (her usual fabulous style is as tad boho.) I was hot, hungry, tired, and a bit stressed about our dear dog Virginia Woof, who is suffering from itchy skin and for whom we’ve tried so many tactics and remedies, all of them less than satisfactory. It took two hours to find an ensemble, which may or may not be suitable, but is elegant and smart and she looks exquisite in it. When we got home we were knackered and hungry and we found a sight to gladden the eyes and heart. Lovely UniGirl was installed in the kitchen, cheerily grating ginger and squeezing limes for her salmon in filo pastry recipe.
After initial start-of-evening-greetings all round, JP and I had some time on our own to chat and watch the news while this culinary delight was being prepared. Bliss. 6thFormGirl had been out to buy the extra salmon needed to feed us all, and UniGirl’s boyfriend Welsh dashed out at the last minute to buy sweet chilli dip from the local takeaway. By the time we were called to the table, the kids had laid it and there were six perfect filo parcels and green beans arranged on a platter in the middle of the table. God, they are feeding us better than we feed them! (though obviously not nearly as often) The point is, this was a voluntary act of UniGirl’s and there was co-operation involved, from darling JP doing the week's shopping in the first place to all the other contributions, and there was good will, and appreciation all round. Afterwards, as has happily become the custom, the ones who didn’t cook and prepare supper did the clearing up. There was no one person who did everything. Although, a special thanks goes to UniGirl for the delicious dinner.
I did feel quite awful though about the fact that, inevitably, the oven was up to its tricks again.
UniGirl: Mum, the oven's just turned off.
Me: Oh, yes, it does that now.
UniGirl: Does it? Oh.
Me: JP! The oven's gone off again, can you do your trick?
UniGirl: It's ok! It's come back on! Oh, no it's gone off again...
JP: Have you tried twisting the knob all the way round and then back again?
UniGirl: It's fine now. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on it.
I am sitting in the kitchen now, having done something to the knobs with knives and WD40, wondering how long our chicken's going to take tonight...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)