A unisex hairdresser’s salon; a young chap there getting his hair gelled and spiked (or whatever.) On the pavement by the door, waiting for collection, an empty five gallon drum of rape oil. Weird place, London. At the British Museum I watched an elegantly attired lady sitting, posing for the camera; right next to the signs which said ‘Emergency exit,’ and ‘Do not sit on the steps.’ But it’s the phones that get me. What is it with Londoners and mobile phones? Thirty or forty years ago I remember seeing a guy walk down the street in Reading. Speaking loudly, gesticulating wildly, people were giving him a wide berth until two policemen gently took him off to one side and waited for an ambulance to collect him. Now there’s scores of them, all babbling on their phones, but why do they gesticulate as they’re talking? But at least the gesticulating ones are looking about them. Next time I go down to London I’m getting a chest harness. On it, facing forward, I’m mounting a long spring and a boxing glove. Perhaps that will stop people walking into me because they didn’t see me. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m hardly the smallest person you’re likely to meet. Mind you the prize for ignoring me goes to the woman towing her suitcase on wheels with one hand, texting with the other. She walked straight through the crowd and across the front of me. It was like being cut up at a roundabout by an artic! A mate of mine once went sprawling in a similar situation, I was just lucky. Then there was the lass on the bus. I was crossing the road at some traffic lights and made it to the island in the middle. Fine so far! Then a bus, turning right, stopped immediately in front of me. There in front of me were an assortment of passengers, reading, playing with their phones, staring into space, or even chatting. Fair enough, all human life is here. But the lass directly in front of me was wearing the earphones from her phone, which is fair enough, not everybody wants to share your music. But she had the lead from her earphones in her mouth and she was sucking and chewing it. Does that indicate her mother didn’t breast feed her long enough, or did she allow her to breast feed too long? But the thing that really does get me about London isn’t entirely a London problem. They really shouldn’t allow women of a certain height to have umbrellas. If they do, when they walk, head bowed against the rain, the spikes on the umbrella are just the same height as my eyes. Normally, with eyes fixed on the floor, they do at least notice my feet and legs before they hit me in the face with the spikes. But as I made my way along the rain soaked pavement I was forced to take rapid evasive action to avoid two women who, oblivious to the world around them, were holding their umbrellas in one hand and were texting with the other. I did the only thing a reasonable man could do. I made my way to Euston and got the next train back to civilisation.
Weird place, London