Train Rage

When I started working in London a few months ago, many people told me that they wouldn’t like to commute because of the train journey. But I have to say, out of all the commuters I am probably one of the luckiest ones. Living 2 Minutes from Westcliff station and working 10 Minutes from Fenchurch Street Station my journey can hardly be described as hard work.

Of course it would be nice if could sleep an hour longer in the morning and be home just after 5 in the evening, but because my train goes trough Chalkwell and Leigh I have the lovely view of the boats and the seafront. And at this time of year I can see the sunrise on my way to work and the sunset on my way back home, which is really quite spectacular, even when it’s cloudy.

Of course I am aware that for some people commuting must be hell, especially those who are not as fortunate as me to be in the capable hands of C2C. Sometimes I hear opinions on how bad the public transport is in the UK and I have to say, compared to what I hear I think the Shoebury – Fenchurch Street line is really well maintained.

But there is something that does annoy me. A Lot. It’s the people on the trains. Honestly! It was all right in the beginning, I didn’t know which wagon would be the best one to get in and where to stand on the platform to get a good seat. After I while I settled for one of the wagon at the end of the train and I fond the perfect spot to wait, exactly where the doors of the train would be when it stopped.

Every morning I would wait at that spot and just a minute or two before the train arrived I would be joined by pink tie. Pink tie is about my age and wears dark suits whit pastel coloured shirts and matching ties – quite often pink. He would usually arrive at the platform at the same time as I cold spot the train approaching in the distance. We would wait for the train to stop; he would press the button that opens the door and make a gesture with his hand for me to get in first. I’d get in and take a seat to the right of the door and he’d get in behind me, sitting to the left of the door. We became friends. Not real friends, but as friendly as you can become when standing next to the same person every day. We went from ignoring each other to acknowledging each other with a slight nod and in the end we even half-smiled (move only one corner of your mouth up, only a little bit,. Don’t break into a proper smile – that would be intimidating for the English commuter community).

Or little friendship was going ever so well until one day, out of the blue, greasy hair appeared. Greasy hair has longish and, as you may suspect, very greasy hair. Despite his suits he always looks scruffy and he does smell rather intense. Not in a good way. He started to turn up just in time for the doors to open and instead of waiting next to me and pink tie he just pushed between us and started to wait in front of us, at one point fiscally pushing pink tie away when he wanted to press the door-open-button. The three of us kept repeating our little morning ritual for a few weeks but after some time pink tie must have gotten tired – he now has moved on the front wagons.

Not meeting pink tie in the morning is sad enough, but having to put up with old smelly guy who wears leather trousers and jackets on Fridays really is not the best start of a new day. I started to adapt to him a little bit, no longer waiting exactly where the doors of the train are but just slightly to the right, so that at least he doesn’t have to push me aside when he arrives. And with time I got used to him, of course still silently sending him the evils every morning when he arrives.

But now a funny thing is happening – white coat joined our little “team”. She is even worse the greasy hair! Unbelievable! If she doesn’t push hard enough to be the first one the train she still manages to push you out of her way when you are already inside the train, thinking that you are safe! And, I kid you not, I started to feel a bit as if greasy hair was my ally – and I think he feels the same way because the other day he got on the train and stood in the door in such manner that I could climb in but white coat couldn’t get past him. And, even more surprisingly, he smiled at me – proper smile! I was so taken aback that I forgot to smile back. We are now basically us against her. (They probably have a name for me too, like old-fashioned-handbag or ginger-frizz-head).

Now while I’m sitting here with nothing better to do I was just wondering if there could possibly be a person rude enough to make greasy hair and ginger frizz feel more charitable towards white coat in order to have another ally to fight the newbie rudie.

The Truth

This is the truth

if you turn things upside down

You cannot hope for your life to change

I would be lying t you if I said

That you have a great future ahead

That you can recover from your past mistakes

That your life could be filled with Joy

That your children could be safe and healthy

More than anything you must know

Human beings cannot accomplish these thisng

And I am convinced of this because

I know you

(And) all that you are capable of is failure

You have made a complete mess of your life

And I refuse to believe that under any cicumstances

that you can turn things round in the coming years

You may think your life is bad now

But there is more to come

You have only one destiny

And whether you like it or not

This is what is real

I am the Lord your God

You should know I believe exactly the opposite!

Now read it starting from the bottom line, working your way to the top. This was given out at some sunbury court weekend a few month ago by Ira, from http://www.sermonspice.com/

That's all. Except that after the death of Rich's blog there was space for a new one on my V.I.P list, so now there's Andy. Good, innit?

A little Homage

This one is for people who will probably never read this – they probably wouldn’t know what a Blog is if it hit them over the head. Still, I think they are great and nobody ever tells them.

Every Sunday morning Andy picks me up with the Corps Minibus and we go on our little tour to pick up those who are not able to make their way to the meeting without help. Our little group is amazing.

There is for example Mary. After having broken her hipbone, a bone splitter got stuck in some nerves and she can’t walk. Will never be able to walk again. Now her head is very quick and agile and she’s such a loving person. As she is the first one we pick up on our round she has to wait while Andy gets out of the car to help other people to the car. While he is out I sit in the back with her and we chat a little. She tells me every week that unfortunately this week the staff in the care home didn’t have time to take her out, but maybe next week her son will come to visit, and he will take her out, or maybe next week the weather will be nice and she can sit in the garden or maybe, maybe next week… I never once heard her complain.

Then there’s Frank. Now Frank is such a charmer. He refers to Tracy as “Andy’s lovely wife” and tells me every Sunday morning that I look “lovely” – in my “lovely” uniform. But he doesn’t only charm the younger ones, far from it: Oh, my dear, what a lovely dress (hat, coat, or handbag) it comes from the back of the bus every time one of the ladies gets on. Frank will be moving soon, leaving behind the flat he has lived in for many years and his wife, whose Alzheimer’s disease is so bad she can’t remember that she has a husband. He visits her every week, not knowing whether she knows that he’s there or who he is.

Then we pick up Audrey. Audrey is a very smart woman, always dressed for church and I’m pretty sure that she invests at least the double amount of time in her short white curls than I do with my red frizzy mess. And I spend hours trying to make something out of all that hair. Unfortunately Audrey has a problem with her hands and she can’t put on her seatbelt herself. When I try to help her she always tries to be very helpful by holding the belt and trying it herself, which I used to find quite a pain as it makes the whole thing so much more complicated. But then I realised how much I hate it when people do things for me that I think I should be capable of doing myself (try and carry my instrument!) and how hard it must be on her to not being able to do such a basic thing like putting on a seatbelt. And whilst carrying my instrument only proves a problem because I don’t want anyone to think that I’m week and need their help, putting on a seatbelt means that Andy or I have to be really close to her, invading her space.

And then there are all the others, Betty who is trying to see the good side of leaving behind your house and with it your independence, your memories, your garden to move into a home, flirting with Andy about meeting him in her yellow swimsuit (which she can’t wear now because it has got a whole). How awful did we feel when she moved the date or her Birthday celebrations to be able to bring her tins of beans to the hall, thinking it was harvest when it fact harvest had been the week before. And Joan, at 86 not having much time for nonsense, calling her friends in the morning to make sure they get up in time. And Fred, almost jumping on the bus with his long legs, telling me off on the rare occasions where I didn’t go on the bus. None of them get out often, or have a great social life or expect anything extraordinary. Just expecting that on Sunday morning around 10am the blue bus stops in front of their house where they all are invariably ready to go, the brave ones waiting on their drives, the others looking out the open front doors, wearing shoes and coats to avoid delays.

Fact is, when I started to go on the bus it was for mere convenience. Because I could get a free ride and give Andy a little hand with opening doors etc. I always figured that the age group I want to work with are the teenagers – I still think that is what I’m good at – but I have never expected to receive so much by giving so little.

So when my bus people say thank you for offering my arm to help them get on or off the bus, hold their bag, fasten their seatbelt or walk them to their seats in the hall I really think that I’m the one who should be thanking the for trying to take part in my life… (How is the flat? Have you seen the Air show? And the new job?) and for letting me see a little bit of their life’s (my son came, I’ll be having lunch with my brother, when I move I’ll show you what I’ll be leaving behind and you can have what you need).

If you are wondering what the point is on this blog, there isn’t any. I just have been thinking about them a lot lately and didn’t know whom to talk about because it’s not a talk-aboutish topic. So I figred that it wont hurt anyone if I write it on here :-)