So today, apart from lovely food and knitting, we went for a walk to the lake and beyond. I am staying with a friend who lives a few minutes’ walk from everything so getting about is easy.
Like most European cities apart from the UK, Geneva has buses, trains and trams running on 25 Dec. There are even some tabacs and cafes open. The lake is beautiful, and from there you can see that Geneva is almost completely enclosed by mountains – well, mountains to me and to most, though some might designate the flatters ones ‘dodds’.
The cold was fierce – perhaps the base temperature alone wasn’t too bad, but the wind sliced at my cheeks rather uncomfortably.
Over the river, one comes to the Old Town, though all of Geneva seems old to me, stuck in the whites and greys of mid-twentieth-Century architecture. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it did make me expect to hear Claude François playing on the radio every time I entered a shop.
Up steep, narrow cobbled streets to the Old Town and the Cathédral St-Pierre which we entered. It’s a beautiful 12th-Century structure with a high, vaulted central corridor and some nice little carvings. Nothing ornate, but very lovely. Sat for a while warming up and watching an orchestra rehearse for a concert in the evening. My cheeks thawed first, then my hands, then I started to feel the cold in places I hadn’t noticed before. My whole body was implicated. Sitting in the warm cathedral, listening to music being played and halted and taken up again was quite soporific. It made sense to leave for a coffee and come back later for the concert.
There was a curious little crêperie round the corner, open, and decorated in a very bizarre Tropi-suisse style. I had an overly sweet mulled wine and eavesdropped on the very disorganised staff who had to have a panicked conversation about what each customer had consumed (they never wrote anything down) every time a bill was requested. It may have been a family business – the brother and mother of one of the girls came in at one point and took a table.
As we were leaving, an American couple came in and asked what time they served ‘til. 2am! Thought about returning there at midnight for crêpes just for the fun of it, but it was so cold after the concert I decided to make some instead. This led to a bit of a treasure hunt for brown sugar (to make caramelised bananas to go on the crêpes) and the discovery that some grocery items have different names in France and Switzerland (kind of like the way English and American differ). I never thought of that (though, like the Belgians, they do say ‘nonante’ here for ninety).
Concert, walk home, thawing period, dinner, Toy Story. A very pleasant day.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Geneva Diary Part 1
My flight was only (only!) one hour late and I fortunately had knitting and books with which to amuse myself during the wait.
As the plane descended I got talking to a very friendly gay couple, Nevin and Peter, also spending the holidays in Geneva – practically everyone else on the plane was heading elsewhere to ski. They were so nice I wished I’d started talking to them earlier, and after saying goodbye I wished I’d exchanged email and Facebook details with them. I am so rubbish at that.
Transport to and from airports is radically different in Geneva. Whereas in London it cost me £8.90 to get to Gatwick on a train that ran every thirty minutes or so, Geneva airport hands out complimentary train tickets to all air passengers travelling to the city centre. Geneva has one (rather dingy, I thought) Central station.
At this point I was collected from the station so that, my friends, is what saw of Geneva my first night.
As the plane descended I got talking to a very friendly gay couple, Nevin and Peter, also spending the holidays in Geneva – practically everyone else on the plane was heading elsewhere to ski. They were so nice I wished I’d started talking to them earlier, and after saying goodbye I wished I’d exchanged email and Facebook details with them. I am so rubbish at that.
Transport to and from airports is radically different in Geneva. Whereas in London it cost me £8.90 to get to Gatwick on a train that ran every thirty minutes or so, Geneva airport hands out complimentary train tickets to all air passengers travelling to the city centre. Geneva has one (rather dingy, I thought) Central station.
At this point I was collected from the station so that, my friends, is what saw of Geneva my first night.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Film Review: Another Year
4/5
I finally got round to seeing the latest Mike Leigh film – after more than a month of dillying and dallying and people letting me down and the weather being too cold for me to consider leaving the house.
I thought it an unusually gentle film for Leigh – in tone, it falls somewhere between the (almost) light-hearted Happy-Go-Lucky and his other, heavier films. The film centres on a year in the lives of Tom and Gerri, a sixty-something couple who seem vaguely if not ostentatiously, well-off. Something in the mood of the film made me think of Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’ simply because Tom and Gerri seem to be doing the opposite, advancing gently and happily towards old age. At one point, sitting in bed, Tom observes to Gerri that ‘We’ll be part of History, soon,’ and it is not said sadly or regretfully, but rather contentedly, a statement of something that should be.
All of the cringeworthy observation and tragedy of this film is centres on Mary, Gerri’s colleague and co-worker for twenty years. Mary is divorced, now single, lives in rented accommodation, likes to drink a bit more than she should and wears her emotional need on her sleeve. She is desperate for change, for a man, for love and excitement, but the men she likes never look her way and the changes she makes quickly turn to disasters. Played brilliantly by Lesley Manville, who slurs and jerks and weeps her way through the film rather brilliantly, Mary is not simply grotesque, but makes uncomfortable watching throughout.
David Cox (Guardian, 9 November 2010) seems to think the portrayal of Mary is rather sexist – a ‘witch-hunt’ in fact, for ‘the mature single woman…deviant, desperate and pathetic.’ I disagree because Mary has a male counterpart in the film in the shape of Tom and Gerri’s long-time friend, Ken. Single, overweight, alcoholic, surpassed in his job by younger men, left out of office social events and living far away from his remaining (and partnered) friends, Ken is truly isolated and is portrayed as being as much of a disaster area as Mary.
The key difference between the two lies not in how the other characters react to them but in how they see themselves. Ken, bewildered by the way the world has changed around him, has no illusions about himself and makes advances to Mary because he recognises her as being in a similar situation. Mary, on the other hand, fails to see herself as she is and this leads to many of her problems. Failing to realise her alcohol problem, she buys a car and drives drunk all over London. Failing to realise that his good humour with her is polite friendliness, she tries to get closer to Tom and Gerri’s son, Joe, by suggesting they go for a drink. However, it’s worth pointing out that the ‘crime’ which leads to the damaging of her friendship with Gerri is not, as Cox suggests, her daring to desire a younger man, but her inability to face up to the reality of the situation: that he is not interested.
Cox’s argument unravels further when he refers to ‘leftover women…expected to provide tireless but unrecompensed support for people who matter more than them, as babysitters, carers or shoulders to cry on,’ because Mary, more so than her male counterpart, Ken, receives support from Tom and Gerri on a regular basis. She is invited to their home for meals regularly, sometimes stays over, and meets Gerri for after work drinks. I think it is naïve of Cox to suggest that Mary represents all single mature women – after all she’s someone you can ‘smell the crazy’ on from across the room – but if that were the case I’d say the character demonstrates that lonely women can count on a lot more support and nurturing from their friends than men in a similar situation.
A special mention must also go to the scenes set in Derby, which somehow captured it perfectly – even the oddly-shaped mirror in Ronnie’s house was exactly the kind my dad’s parents had in their house in Ripley and the curtains (probably dating from the 1960s) brought back memories of visiting them in the 1980s and wondering why everything had to be so brown. Superb!
I finally got round to seeing the latest Mike Leigh film – after more than a month of dillying and dallying and people letting me down and the weather being too cold for me to consider leaving the house.
I thought it an unusually gentle film for Leigh – in tone, it falls somewhere between the (almost) light-hearted Happy-Go-Lucky and his other, heavier films. The film centres on a year in the lives of Tom and Gerri, a sixty-something couple who seem vaguely if not ostentatiously, well-off. Something in the mood of the film made me think of Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’ simply because Tom and Gerri seem to be doing the opposite, advancing gently and happily towards old age. At one point, sitting in bed, Tom observes to Gerri that ‘We’ll be part of History, soon,’ and it is not said sadly or regretfully, but rather contentedly, a statement of something that should be.
All of the cringeworthy observation and tragedy of this film is centres on Mary, Gerri’s colleague and co-worker for twenty years. Mary is divorced, now single, lives in rented accommodation, likes to drink a bit more than she should and wears her emotional need on her sleeve. She is desperate for change, for a man, for love and excitement, but the men she likes never look her way and the changes she makes quickly turn to disasters. Played brilliantly by Lesley Manville, who slurs and jerks and weeps her way through the film rather brilliantly, Mary is not simply grotesque, but makes uncomfortable watching throughout.
David Cox (Guardian, 9 November 2010) seems to think the portrayal of Mary is rather sexist – a ‘witch-hunt’ in fact, for ‘the mature single woman…deviant, desperate and pathetic.’ I disagree because Mary has a male counterpart in the film in the shape of Tom and Gerri’s long-time friend, Ken. Single, overweight, alcoholic, surpassed in his job by younger men, left out of office social events and living far away from his remaining (and partnered) friends, Ken is truly isolated and is portrayed as being as much of a disaster area as Mary.
The key difference between the two lies not in how the other characters react to them but in how they see themselves. Ken, bewildered by the way the world has changed around him, has no illusions about himself and makes advances to Mary because he recognises her as being in a similar situation. Mary, on the other hand, fails to see herself as she is and this leads to many of her problems. Failing to realise her alcohol problem, she buys a car and drives drunk all over London. Failing to realise that his good humour with her is polite friendliness, she tries to get closer to Tom and Gerri’s son, Joe, by suggesting they go for a drink. However, it’s worth pointing out that the ‘crime’ which leads to the damaging of her friendship with Gerri is not, as Cox suggests, her daring to desire a younger man, but her inability to face up to the reality of the situation: that he is not interested.
Cox’s argument unravels further when he refers to ‘leftover women…expected to provide tireless but unrecompensed support for people who matter more than them, as babysitters, carers or shoulders to cry on,’ because Mary, more so than her male counterpart, Ken, receives support from Tom and Gerri on a regular basis. She is invited to their home for meals regularly, sometimes stays over, and meets Gerri for after work drinks. I think it is naïve of Cox to suggest that Mary represents all single mature women – after all she’s someone you can ‘smell the crazy’ on from across the room – but if that were the case I’d say the character demonstrates that lonely women can count on a lot more support and nurturing from their friends than men in a similar situation.
A special mention must also go to the scenes set in Derby, which somehow captured it perfectly – even the oddly-shaped mirror in Ronnie’s house was exactly the kind my dad’s parents had in their house in Ripley and the curtains (probably dating from the 1960s) brought back memories of visiting them in the 1980s and wondering why everything had to be so brown. Superb!
Monday, 6 December 2010
Clubbing: Winter Wonderland at Torture Garden
Torture Garden is one of London's (and indeed, I'm told, the world's) most famous fetish clubs. As a fancy dress enthusiast I have been meaning to go for about two years, but my usual fashion never got round to it when I was living a short bus ride away but took the plunge once I'd moved across to the opposite side of London.
My friend and I found our way to the club (which is in an old church) by spying people with headdresses and body paint picking their way through the churchyard like decadent fairies.
That image pretty much encapsulated the 'mood' of Torture Garden which quite simply fairyland without innocence. A sexy Narnia. A goblin kingdom. The best thing about the atmosphere is the aura of freedom and acceptance and goodwill. Everyone seemed so NICE
and genuine.Fauns and fairies mingle with trannies and leather queens and burlesque ladies in basques and bustles, gents dressed as cigar-smoking WW1 ofFicers order drinks next
to exhibitionists wearing nothing but a cock ring. People dress as blow up dolls, wind up dolls, devils and dancers. Santa dances jive and about half the women are bare-breasted with bejewelled nipples.
Snow white is male, middle-aged and arrives in a latex rendering of her Disney costume. The over-60 crowd are into cross-dressing and wearing nothing but chains and body hair, the hardcore scenesters are in latex, tourists in novelty lingerie from La Senza. The first hour I
was mesmerised, people-watching, awe-inspired by all these magical characters.
Entry to the club is through a fairly utilitarian hallway and one is then plunged into The Dungeon, which is the ground floor lounge area with gentler music, seating, a bar, smoking area and 'playrooms'.
The 'Main Room' is like any other club, house music, a large space and seems to be where all the least imaginatively dressed patrons spend the night. The best-dressed pass through on their way to the 'couples playroom'.
I chose to remain in the far superior Cabaret Room which had the best music (showtunes and throwback versions of contemporary tunes, to give you an idea they played some songs from Cabaret) by far as well as the floor shows: people dancing with knives, strippers, pole dancers, a
dance troupe in fantasy costumes, burlesque performers. All excellent.
The Cabaret Room is also where the most interesting people congregate. People don't touch with fingers, they kiss cheeks instead. I loved every moment in there - the Cabaret Room is the kind of club I've always wanted to visit, where 'retro' means the 1920s and 1930s, Weimar nightclubs.
Dancing and socialising are the main activities at Torture Garden. A lot of the most noticeable people are clearly regulars on the fetish scene, they know each other and greet warmly.
The music is fabulous and everyond dances - the major difference between this and other clubs is that there is no accumulation of saddo geezers hovering by the bar, ogling. Everyone is a participant, which enhances the mood, the fun, the feeling of security. Presumably there are people who dance not, but they keep to the Dungeon.
The Dungeon is where the voyeuristic pleasure takes place. As well as dark couches where couples kiss and grope, there are areas partially obscured by wooden screens where people can be tied up and played with. A young woman was trussed up, her back bared and some species of
electrical, buzzing thing passed up and down her spine - she seemed to be enjoying it. further along a man with the seat cut out of his leather trousers was having his buttocks caressed and spanked by two women. Another woman was being whipped. Past these was another
playroom, which I didn't enter, but it's where people can go together to get intimate.
Drinking happens, but not nearly as much as in other clubs and I saw no-one who was either visibly drunk or visibly high, which is very unusual.
There is also a real feeling of safety. Skimpy dressing can be hazardous, but at TG no-one is vulnerable because everyone is. Which is v liberating. The pole dancers all seem to bring their partners with them to watch them perform, and direct their dance at them. It makes the whole thing less seedy and more tasteful than elsewhere and none of the dancers were emaciated either - refreshing.
Definitely one of the best club atmospheres I've experienced. I got home at 5am and woke with a stinking cold, so I spent Sunday sipping mulled cider to soothe me!
My friend and I found our way to the club (which is in an old church) by spying people with headdresses and body paint picking their way through the churchyard like decadent fairies.
That image pretty much encapsulated the 'mood' of Torture Garden which quite simply fairyland without innocence. A sexy Narnia. A goblin kingdom. The best thing about the atmosphere is the aura of freedom and acceptance and goodwill. Everyone seemed so NICE
and genuine.Fauns and fairies mingle with trannies and leather queens and burlesque ladies in basques and bustles, gents dressed as cigar-smoking WW1 ofFicers order drinks next
to exhibitionists wearing nothing but a cock ring. People dress as blow up dolls, wind up dolls, devils and dancers. Santa dances jive and about half the women are bare-breasted with bejewelled nipples.
Snow white is male, middle-aged and arrives in a latex rendering of her Disney costume. The over-60 crowd are into cross-dressing and wearing nothing but chains and body hair, the hardcore scenesters are in latex, tourists in novelty lingerie from La Senza. The first hour I
was mesmerised, people-watching, awe-inspired by all these magical characters.
Entry to the club is through a fairly utilitarian hallway and one is then plunged into The Dungeon, which is the ground floor lounge area with gentler music, seating, a bar, smoking area and 'playrooms'.
The 'Main Room' is like any other club, house music, a large space and seems to be where all the least imaginatively dressed patrons spend the night. The best-dressed pass through on their way to the 'couples playroom'.
I chose to remain in the far superior Cabaret Room which had the best music (showtunes and throwback versions of contemporary tunes, to give you an idea they played some songs from Cabaret) by far as well as the floor shows: people dancing with knives, strippers, pole dancers, a
dance troupe in fantasy costumes, burlesque performers. All excellent.
The Cabaret Room is also where the most interesting people congregate. People don't touch with fingers, they kiss cheeks instead. I loved every moment in there - the Cabaret Room is the kind of club I've always wanted to visit, where 'retro' means the 1920s and 1930s, Weimar nightclubs.
Dancing and socialising are the main activities at Torture Garden. A lot of the most noticeable people are clearly regulars on the fetish scene, they know each other and greet warmly.
The music is fabulous and everyond dances - the major difference between this and other clubs is that there is no accumulation of saddo geezers hovering by the bar, ogling. Everyone is a participant, which enhances the mood, the fun, the feeling of security. Presumably there are people who dance not, but they keep to the Dungeon.
The Dungeon is where the voyeuristic pleasure takes place. As well as dark couches where couples kiss and grope, there are areas partially obscured by wooden screens where people can be tied up and played with. A young woman was trussed up, her back bared and some species of
electrical, buzzing thing passed up and down her spine - she seemed to be enjoying it. further along a man with the seat cut out of his leather trousers was having his buttocks caressed and spanked by two women. Another woman was being whipped. Past these was another
playroom, which I didn't enter, but it's where people can go together to get intimate.
Drinking happens, but not nearly as much as in other clubs and I saw no-one who was either visibly drunk or visibly high, which is very unusual.
There is also a real feeling of safety. Skimpy dressing can be hazardous, but at TG no-one is vulnerable because everyone is. Which is v liberating. The pole dancers all seem to bring their partners with them to watch them perform, and direct their dance at them. It makes the whole thing less seedy and more tasteful than elsewhere and none of the dancers were emaciated either - refreshing.
Definitely one of the best club atmospheres I've experienced. I got home at 5am and woke with a stinking cold, so I spent Sunday sipping mulled cider to soothe me!
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Restaurant Review: Joe Allen, Covent Garden
Venue: Joe Allen
Food: 4/5
Wine: 5/5
Service: 5/5
Atmosphere: 5/5
Recommended for: Anyone who enjoys people watching, low lighting, underground dining and friendly buzz while enjoying excellent food.
Hidden away along a rather unprepossessing stretch of Exeter St, lies one of Covent Garden’s most enticing restaurants. The entrance looks like that of a small nightclub or even a Prohibition-era speakeasy, down a small flight of dark stairs into a vibrant bar and dining area. The walls are crammed with theatrical posters and the dark wood interior creates an old-fashioned glamour which I personally can’t resist.
The menu at Joe Allen looks fairly small compared to that of other restaurants, but it is so tantalising that choosing your meal from such a box of delights can be taxing. It took my friend about half an hour to choose what she wanted from the splendid array before us. Our friendly, smiling waitress, though visibly amused, handled the first-timer with aplomb, though she had to return a few times before taking my friend’s order and then again to inform me that said friend had tarried so long the dish I’d ordered was off the menu.
One of the best things about Joe Allen is its excellent and reasonably priced wine list where an entire bottle of wine is hardly more expensive than a main course. We opted for a bottle of Muscadet – a delicious, delicate wine which managed to be wonderfully warming without being in the least soporific.
To start, there was octopus and artichoke salad – tasty and zesty, the octopus springy yet not rubbery and the artichoke well-seasoned but not too oily. I soon forgot it had been my second choice and tucked in, happily.
After a suitable interval we tried chicken with sweet potato and chilli puree and lemon sole which came topped with crunchy grilled asparagus and warm, juicy cherry tomatoes. The fish was well-seasoned and pulled away from the bones nicely – and the accompaniment was a perfectly judged combination of sweet and fresh and sharp flavours. I can’t speak for the chicken, but my friend pronounced it ‘delicious’.
Dessert was a slice of Jack Daniels chocolate cake, so moist it was almost like cheesecake in consistency, and drizzled with both white and dark chocolate sauces. Utterly decadent! The coffee, too, was of an excellent standard – strong without a taste of bitterness.
Our eating done it was time to collect coats and venture back out into London’s snowy streets. Well, it was either that or order another bottle of wine and settle in for the night!
Food: 4/5
Wine: 5/5
Service: 5/5
Atmosphere: 5/5
Recommended for: Anyone who enjoys people watching, low lighting, underground dining and friendly buzz while enjoying excellent food.
Hidden away along a rather unprepossessing stretch of Exeter St, lies one of Covent Garden’s most enticing restaurants. The entrance looks like that of a small nightclub or even a Prohibition-era speakeasy, down a small flight of dark stairs into a vibrant bar and dining area. The walls are crammed with theatrical posters and the dark wood interior creates an old-fashioned glamour which I personally can’t resist.
The menu at Joe Allen looks fairly small compared to that of other restaurants, but it is so tantalising that choosing your meal from such a box of delights can be taxing. It took my friend about half an hour to choose what she wanted from the splendid array before us. Our friendly, smiling waitress, though visibly amused, handled the first-timer with aplomb, though she had to return a few times before taking my friend’s order and then again to inform me that said friend had tarried so long the dish I’d ordered was off the menu.
One of the best things about Joe Allen is its excellent and reasonably priced wine list where an entire bottle of wine is hardly more expensive than a main course. We opted for a bottle of Muscadet – a delicious, delicate wine which managed to be wonderfully warming without being in the least soporific.
To start, there was octopus and artichoke salad – tasty and zesty, the octopus springy yet not rubbery and the artichoke well-seasoned but not too oily. I soon forgot it had been my second choice and tucked in, happily.
After a suitable interval we tried chicken with sweet potato and chilli puree and lemon sole which came topped with crunchy grilled asparagus and warm, juicy cherry tomatoes. The fish was well-seasoned and pulled away from the bones nicely – and the accompaniment was a perfectly judged combination of sweet and fresh and sharp flavours. I can’t speak for the chicken, but my friend pronounced it ‘delicious’.
Dessert was a slice of Jack Daniels chocolate cake, so moist it was almost like cheesecake in consistency, and drizzled with both white and dark chocolate sauces. Utterly decadent! The coffee, too, was of an excellent standard – strong without a taste of bitterness.
Our eating done it was time to collect coats and venture back out into London’s snowy streets. Well, it was either that or order another bottle of wine and settle in for the night!
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Underground Assault
Unlike many people, I happen to love the London Underground.
As a student I used to stand on the decidedly grotty, run down Circle Line platform at Baker Street and daydream about the kind of people who might have stood there when the Underground first opened. And I quite like my underground commute to work.
Well, most of the time.
The thing which tarnishes the TfL experience for me, is the ill manners and actual violence some passengers feel it is appropriate to inflict on others when they are in a hurry.
This morning, for example, there weren’t many Bank trains running down my branch. I had to wait about 13 minutes and of course, when the train arrived, it was packed. I’m not the kind of person who tries to insinuate themselves into a wall of backs – for one I’m quite chubby and for another I don’t like to push people. I got into the carriage because there was space enough for me to do so, but from the moment I stepped inside, another passenger started assaulting me. By which I mean, he did not wriggle or push, but he deliberately battered me with his elbows in such a way as to cause me considerable pain.
Now, to begin with, I didn’t take it personally – one often gets shoved on the Tube when people are struggling to get on. I can put up with a bit of jostling as people get into the carriage. But once the train started, this fellow continued to batter me. I checked to see how close I was to him – we weren’t touching, so I turned away and carried on reading my book. The next assault, however, involved a violent thwack on my right rib so I yelled ‘Ow!’ at which the brute started shouting at me for ‘constantly pushing’ him. I told him politely that I wasn’t, that there was some space between us, and that I wasn’t moving. He continued to shout and I suddenly realised that I had heard this same man yelling at someone before when they complained about his violence. It occurred to me that he was probably claustrophobic which is the only reason I can think of for a six-foot man to start trying to inflict bodily harm on a woman standing nearby but not touching him.
Happily for me the train emptied a bit at Euston and I was able to get away with a sore rib (and one bruised boob) but I suspect a smaller woman might not have been so lucky. It did make me reflect on the prime opportunity rush hour travel offers for people who want to inflict violence on others without consequences.
Any thoughts? Ideas? Similar experiences?
As a student I used to stand on the decidedly grotty, run down Circle Line platform at Baker Street and daydream about the kind of people who might have stood there when the Underground first opened. And I quite like my underground commute to work.
Well, most of the time.
The thing which tarnishes the TfL experience for me, is the ill manners and actual violence some passengers feel it is appropriate to inflict on others when they are in a hurry.
This morning, for example, there weren’t many Bank trains running down my branch. I had to wait about 13 minutes and of course, when the train arrived, it was packed. I’m not the kind of person who tries to insinuate themselves into a wall of backs – for one I’m quite chubby and for another I don’t like to push people. I got into the carriage because there was space enough for me to do so, but from the moment I stepped inside, another passenger started assaulting me. By which I mean, he did not wriggle or push, but he deliberately battered me with his elbows in such a way as to cause me considerable pain.
Now, to begin with, I didn’t take it personally – one often gets shoved on the Tube when people are struggling to get on. I can put up with a bit of jostling as people get into the carriage. But once the train started, this fellow continued to batter me. I checked to see how close I was to him – we weren’t touching, so I turned away and carried on reading my book. The next assault, however, involved a violent thwack on my right rib so I yelled ‘Ow!’ at which the brute started shouting at me for ‘constantly pushing’ him. I told him politely that I wasn’t, that there was some space between us, and that I wasn’t moving. He continued to shout and I suddenly realised that I had heard this same man yelling at someone before when they complained about his violence. It occurred to me that he was probably claustrophobic which is the only reason I can think of for a six-foot man to start trying to inflict bodily harm on a woman standing nearby but not touching him.
Happily for me the train emptied a bit at Euston and I was able to get away with a sore rib (and one bruised boob) but I suspect a smaller woman might not have been so lucky. It did make me reflect on the prime opportunity rush hour travel offers for people who want to inflict violence on others without consequences.
Any thoughts? Ideas? Similar experiences?
Why am I doing this?
People are always surprised to learn I don’t have a blog.
I suppose this is because I write for a living and I love writing stories and poetry. It seems odd, then, that I don’t blog. I also like to keep in touch with people, I organise things, and I love doing weird and wonderful things around London. So, apparently this makes me an ideal candidate for blogging.
Years ago, I used to be a serious blogger. When I was a teenager, and until I was about 21, I had multiple blogs. I had readers. And then one day, I just stopped. I can’t remember why, but I did, and since then, I haven’t been able to keep one going.
I suppose this is because I write for a living and I love writing stories and poetry. It seems odd, then, that I don’t blog. I also like to keep in touch with people, I organise things, and I love doing weird and wonderful things around London. So, apparently this makes me an ideal candidate for blogging.
Years ago, I used to be a serious blogger. When I was a teenager, and until I was about 21, I had multiple blogs. I had readers. And then one day, I just stopped. I can’t remember why, but I did, and since then, I haven’t been able to keep one going.
Recently, over the past two or three years, I've had a lot of people tell me 'you really should start a blog.' I always fobbed them off by reply 'I used to do that and I grew out of it,' but I’ve decided to give it another go.
So, if you live in London and want ideas for places to go and things to do, if you like books, theatre, movies, travel, good restaurants…then read on. I’m glad you’re here.
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