Archive for the ‘tube’ Category

Watches To Go

Sunday, February 3rd, 2008

Need a new watch battery? A trip to Watches To Go will cheer up your timeless self no end. I only recently found out it was called Watches To Go. Hitherto it’s been known as “the watch man in Piccadilly Circus underground station”. The owner (whose name I don’t know) operates out of a tiny booth built into the commercial crescent underneath Eros. I’ve always gotten my watch battery from him for two reasons: (a) he’s cheaper than anyone else (half the price of Timpsons); and (b) he’s a real character. As you approach, you see him behind the glass, magnifying lens in eye, utterly engrossed in repairing the most expensive-looking timepiece. And he doesn’t acknowledge you. Die-hard Brits will find it hard-going. But hey, if you live in London, you’ve had worse! Wait it out, then he’s all yours. Banter-tastic! I said:

“I always get my battery from you. I came along at 12:20 this lunchtime, and your booth was shut, with a note saying ‘Back at 12.30 – really!’. There was already a queue of three people. They say ‘time waits for no man’, but three men were biding their time. I thought I’d call back later.”

He replied: “I was ‘avin a cappuccino. People come along and offer to go outside and buy me one, but I say ‘no ta’. I look forward to my little walk.”

I said: “I say I always get my battery from you, but I was touring Germany last time it ran out, so I had to get a new one over there”.

He retorted: “Charming! There’s loyalty for yer! So you’re an actor then?”

I said: “I do voiceovers.”

He replied: “I used to get Patrick Allen in here. Lovely man.”

I concurred: “He’s the king of voiceovers. Well…was.”

He shifted: “My daughter wants to go to performing arts college. I’m not so sure.”

I added: “It’s a slippery slope.”

He said: “But what do I know? I work in a cupboard for a living!”

By this time, a queue had built up behind me. Yet, despite it being London, despite it being in the dismal echo that is the underground, the simmering resentment carried in so many of this capital’s residents’ souls seems quelled by this man with the magnified eye. People actually enjoy listening to the human interaction. Perhaps it reminds them of bygone days when proprietor and patron had time for each other. And I don’t blame him taking his time. After all, unless I need a repair, I only see him once every two years for a new battery. These exchanges are to be savoured. Time stands still when you talk to the watch guy; like a chronological gift, and we all know there’s no time like the present.

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Brave New World

Sunday, October 28th, 2007

I recorded the Penguin audio-book of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World this week. Written in the 1930s, its grotesque, fantastic prophesies ring unsettlingly true. It’s left me wondering about “the old days”. I was once loitering in the foyer of the Palladium Theatre, and saw a black and white photo of a huge crowd awaiting, outside the theatre, the arrival of Frank Sinatra. Somehow, the crowd looked “civilised”. Perhaps it was because the fashion, at that time, was for men and women to wear hats, not hoodies. There was nothing mob-like about the crowd. No sense that a fight might break out at any minute. So were human-beings more polite way-back-when?

“I’m always surprised by the kindness of strangers” are words I’ve never used in relation to living in London. But where does the aggression come from? Are there laylines of negativity streaming our capital, ripe for our tapping? On the way to the recording, I spent all of 60 seconds observing incoming commuters on the platform at Cannon Street station. Statistically, how many smiling faces would you expect me to have seen in that minute? Indeed, scrub the smile, how many non-scowling faces? There was none. Every single person looked miserable. But isn’t it more energy-consuming to adopt the state of pissed-off-ness? I write as no saint. If someone bangs into me on the underground, my default is to deliver the most withering look of contempt. My default is to find fault. I’ve tried doing the opposite, and the rewards are worth it. The exchange of a smile with a stranger has some unquantifiable effect on a person. The smile hangs around in your mind for a while. A silent, shared moment.

So what? What’s the point of this particular musing? Am I out to change the world? Make it a better place? No; that’s not my job spec. But I think it’s worth pointing out that my (our?) default behaviour when dealing with strangers should, from time to time, be revisited, revised, poked, and prodded. It’s hard work keeping open that tap of negativity. Take a break, take a chance. I think, deep down, no-one wants conflict. The Capital doles out its Punishment, and we lap it up. If you’ve ever taken a bus or train in a village or town out of London, it’s actually quite nice. People chat and laugh about tiny things. Things that tickle. Instead of elbowing irksome strangers aside, our funny bones could be used to better, braver effect.

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Get money out of Transport for London

Thursday, October 25th, 2007

Transport for London has made it much easier for us to claim compensation from them for rubbish service.

A rare trip on the Piccadilly line left me climbing the (rounded) walls somewhere between South Ealing and Acton Town. Not a word of explanation from the driver as to why we’d sat on the track for 20 minutes, stationary. Of course, were it the DLR, I wouldn’t mind, because there is no driver. But the Piccy line’s customers are, well, pickier than that. Hold our hands, Driver; tell us it’s going to be alright in the end!

Ever keen to mine for silver (lining), I used the time to observe the behaviour of fellow passengers. The British stereotype of making do, not wanting to cause a fuss, obviously never travels by tube itself. There was outrage. Maybe it’s a Zone 3 West thing, but until-then-silent solitary passengers felt moved to air their grievances to the rest of us. Just not in any constructive fashion. “Come ON!” belted into the germ-ridden air of the carriage, followed, upon noticing that everyone else’s heads were overly sunk into their newspapers (even the Metro received attention), by ambiguously enunciated expletives. This is British Rage (never mind British Rail).

In pre-broadband days, if you could be bothered, you could go and queue for an hour or two at the counter of any underground station for a compensation form, to be rigorously filled in, signed, receipts attached, and posted. But these days, broadband-enabled, I just went to the TFL website, clicked on “Refunds”, filled in a form online, and await my voucher to the tune of one single tube journey, all because the train delayed me by more than 15 minutes. It’s no hassle, and, in an odd way, the cashing of the voucher feels mildly rewarding. Complaint achieved, satisfaction guaranteed. And not an expletive in sight.

By the way, that was my very first blog!

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