Living for Disco

Despite a certain over-fondness for commas, I’m not a fan of bad punctuation. Grocer’s who add apostrophe’s to their potato’s deserve to be hauled into the street and pelted with copies of Eats, Shoots and Leaves (hardback, naturally). In my opinion. However, I am a coward and will generally not pick people up on their punctuation, because I don’t want people to make faces at me behind my smug, gramatically correct back.

So when walking along a London street last weekend, and spotting a sign on a door that said “No! Junk mail please!”, I simply had to stop.

“What earthly sense does that sign make?” I said to Gordon in disgust, gesticulating wildly at the offending door. “I’m surprised they’re not inundated with pizza leaflets and free ads papers. They’re just asking for junk mail. Why can’t people get it right?”

At that very minute a man with a bag of shopping walks through the gate of the house. I had seen him, but what are the chances that the only other man on a long London street should live in the house at which I am staring as if it is a piece of dog poo on my shoe?

He turned out to be Chinese. And to speak English as most definitely his second language. I discovered this when he explained to me that “We put this sign, no junk, we don’t like - too much paper.”

I think I’ll go back to being a pedant in private.

Its skin is grey and leathery. Here and there, thick, sharp hairs poke through; they resemble the broken quills of feathers. Its eyelids are so heavy it can barely open them; when it does, it looks hacked off with the world. Its mouth is drawn down around a collection of haphazard, yellowing snaggle-teeth. It swings its legs, desultorily, its bony knees creaking with the movement. Occasionally it sniffs noisily, its tongue sticking out between its teeth, its cold rattling audibly in its head.

Mood gremlins sit on your shoulder. Everyone has one, but you can’t see them, unless you really try. This is what the majority of them would have looked like this morning, when I got on the tube.

From now on, I’m getting the bus.

Today on the train I shared my carriage with:

*1 middle-aged lady with reactolite glasses, nursing a croissant the size of a small hedgehog, who spoke very loudly in a posh voice about the fact that hopefully soon, she and her husband were going to sell the house in Cambridge, and shuttle between the flat in London, and the house in Burnham Market. Which is lovely, because you don’t have to drive for miles to get groceries – Tesco delivers! Failing that, the local butcher does organic meat. Hurrah.
*1 middle aged gentleman whose startling ginger nose-hair seemed anxious to venture out and taste the fresh morning air
*1 girl with a nice velvet skirt on, who entirely failed to notice that she was exposing a large expanse of upper thigh on her left leg, and occasionally her knickers
*1 fold up bicycle (new)
*13 cups of Costa coffee
*4 copies of the Guardian
*3 copies of the Telegraph
*and 3 laptops of varying sophistication

I’m attempting to do some kind of social demographic survey of the 8.15 into Kings Cross. If I fit it, I’m obviously an upper middle class multiple home-owner, with an aversion to Victor Kayam, and a penchant for horrible coffee. Perhaps this was not a comprehensive sample.

I was tempted to take a photo of the next carriage though – it was filled with men in suits, a large proportion of whom were displaying a taste for silly socks, reading a combination of broadsheets, and saying things like “Sarah, get Roger on the line for me. It’s about this morning’s 9.30 – I don’t think the graph on page 312 of the presentation has the right colour coding…” into their blackberry email-phones.

I wonder if the 7.45 is any different…

The man with the noisy Hawaiian shirt is sitting on the floor by the door. I only notice him when he begins to laugh like a cartoon villain. Everyone looks up, startled, from their laptops, and begin to smile. Then they look down and continue to drink their scalding coffee.

My iPod is playing Good Vibrations, and I want to sing along. This is against the rules, so I sing in my head. It’s unsatisfying.

The man next to me is reading the Sun. He’s not all that large, but he seems to take up half of my seat in addition to his. His paper keeps dipping gently over my computer screen. As he jabs me in the ribs to turn his page, I notice that Wayne Rooney’s other half, Colleen McLoughlin, is confused about why she’s been labelled a chav. Oh, and Brad and Angelina are having it off in Kenya, apparently. I love the Sun’s approach to ‘news’.

I don’t get much work done. The countryside is too beautiful, and I’d rather watch the bright fields of yellow rape pass outside the window. They always look as if the sun is shining on them, even when the sky is low and dark.

The journey is punctuated by coughs and sneezes, and by Hawaiian Shirt’s occasional belly laughter. No-one speaks, but the couple in the seats opposite me are conducting a silent conversation through winks and nods, frowns and smiles, that both of them find amusing. I’m mesmerised.

The woman opposite begins to try quietly to remove the free ‘Top 50 Gardens to Visit in 2005’ supplement that is taped to the front of her magazine. The noise is making people stare; she’s very self-conscious and withdraws, snail-like, into her seat. She eventually goes for the sticking-plaster method, ripping it off with abandon, and narrowly misses flinging coffee all over Mr Sun. He jabs me in the ribs again, and coughs. I wipe saliva off my screen, and decide to read my book instead.

When we arrive at King’s Cross, people pour from the train in a silent stream. I notice that Hawaiian Shirt is wearing sandals at least three sizes too big for him. He’s a large man, but he has very tiny feet.

I had a great night out last night. I went to the Tea rooms in Hoxton - a fearfully trendy club, run by the ex-boyfriend of the guy we went there with last night.

Now, if there is one thing I am not, and have never been, it’s trendy. I’ve struggled long and hard to get to the point with my personal style where I people don’t snicker behind their hands when I take my coat off in the pub. I think I look ok, but I’m most definitely not a style guru.

Yesterday was a bit of a nightmare. There is something alarming going on with the back of my hair that shrieks of old lady perm. If it gets longer I’ll be entering mullet territory. Not a good look. So, my friend and I descended into the cavernous toilets. They were packed with people having sex and doing lines of coke (I expect). A very well dressed blond woman was having face cream combed into her hair by some guy who just happened to be in there. I said into an unexpected lull in conversation, “Jesus, look at these people. They’ve all got fabulous shoes. I look like someone’s mum”. The blonde woman turned round. Hmm, I thought. She’s familiar.

Then I spent the rest of the evening getting make-up tips from the guy who does the slap for Faithless.

Gosh, I’m getting trendier by the minute.