Speak English!

I get frustrated with some people who talk on mobiles while on public transport. Okay, it’s not what you think. Plenty of people moan about being bothered by people having mobile conversations on buses, trains, even on the Tube, when it runs above ground. I have no problem with it. In fact, in these tough economic times, I think it’s a golden opportunity for free entertainment. Instead of berating these travelling talkers, listen in on their conversations. You get endless hours of free amusement, then. Why waste money on an iPod, when you can hear one half of a juicy conversation, free? The songs on your iPod you’ve heard before anyway. This is fresh, real life, and it’s drama!

I’m sure there are some of you, out there, who’ll claim that earwigging is rude. “Nonsense,” I say. If people are going to talk loudly, in public spaces, they should expect people to listen. It’s fun trying to guess who the person on the other end is, when you only have half the conversation to go on. This can be especially useful, when you’ve completed the easy and intermediate sudokus, and are stuck on the hard one. As you listen in on the conversation, you can try to figure out if it’s to a spouse, boyfriend or girlfriend, parent, employer, employee, business associate, or just a friend.

However, as no good column would be complete without a moan about something, I do have one complaint. As London is a cosmopolitan city, with people from all sorts of nations and ethnic backgrounds, you do get some spoilsports who insist on talking, on their mobiles, in a foreign language. It is to these people that I say, “Speak English!” Otherwise, how are the rest of us supposed to listen in? I will defend to the death (yours, not mine) your right to talk loudly into your mobile, on the public transport network, as long as you do it in English. Otherwise, you can sod off, back to where you came from. I’m an immigrant too and if I can do it, so can you. Those of us born into families that speak English are notoriously bad at going on to learn other languages. Therefore, it’s up to you lot, who learned English as a second language, to speak it whenever you’re talking on your mobile, in public. Have a nice day.

A Bit of Chivalry

On Saturday, the 19th of April, I was traveling up to Withernsea, to do my radio show. I happened to be walking from Victoria Tube Station, in London, to Victoria Coach Station, to get a bus to Hull. As I started to cross the road, I noticed an attractive, blond, young woman, struggling with several pieces of luggage. She had so much stuff, I figured she must be travelling with someone else. Normally, I don't get involved. Hey! I'm a New Yorker. I keep my head down and mind my own business. This time, something caused me to break the habit of a lifetime.
My inertia carried me beyond the girl. I was one quarter of the way across the road, past her, but still looking back at her. I wondered if she could be alone. I don't know why I did, but I turned back. Maybe it was because I was still smarting from the twenty-something, oriental woman giving me her seat, previously. In any case, I approached this blond and asked, "are you going to the coach station?" Her response was a bit confused and she wasn't on the right side of the road for it, but I worked out that the answer was, "yes." Unfortunately for her, she was planning to head in the wrong direction. Fortunately for her, I wasn't a mugger, rapist, con man, or murderer.
Victoria Coach station is a little confusing, as it's spread over three buildings. She was heading toward the building where mostly local buses depart from. She needed to head to the departures building, for the long-distance services. I happened to be headed to the same place. I pointed out where she needed to go, then asked, "would you like me to help you carry your bags?" Enthusiastically, she said yes. I took one of her biggest bags, with built in wheels, and another, smaller bag. I hung the smaller bag from the extended handle of the bigger one. I still had my own shoulder bag, plus a shopping bag full of newspapers and food. We set off to the departures building.
Her bag on wheels was heavier than I thought and I was struggling with all I had to contend with. She spoke with an American accent, so I asked where she was from. Alaska was the answer. "You're only the second person I have ever met from Alaska," I said. No wonder this chick was so trusting. She was from the wilderness. I learned that she was a student, spending a semester in Europe. Having come to Britain from Germany, she'd spent a week in London and was now on her way north, to some university I'd never heard of. As I struggled with her heavy bags, I asked, "you haven't got books in here, have you?" After all, she was a self-confessed student. She denied that the contents contained literary matter, so I asked, "why have you got so much stuff?" Innocently, she informed me that she'd been buying all sorts of things as she travelled across Europe. "Do yourself a favor," I suggested, "and send some of this stuff home, by courier, or something." I couldn't imagine her managing on her own, with this load.
"I thought of doing that," she said, "but when I asked my parents, they said to just keep it with me."
Her parents probably didn't want to be bothered with all of her junk. "You haven't figured it out, yet, huh? Don't ask your parents, just send it." She seemed a bit clueless. Then I found out that she was only seventeen. No wonder she didn't know what to do. I told her she was pretty brave, traveling around Europe and doing a semester abroad, at seventeen, all on her own. She was earlier for her bus than I was for mine, so we chatted for a while, in the departures lounge. She explained that she'd finished high school early, which explained why she was doing a university semester abroad, at such a young age. Obviously, she was brainy, if not worldly. Something paternalistic in me had taken over. She was a year younger than my evil ex-stepdaughter, the Black Princess, was now, and even more blond. I gave her tips on Britain and advice, plus invited her to tune in to my radio show. Eventually, other girls near to her age, fellow students, started turning up. I noticed her looking at them and realised that she wanted to get to know some of them. I said farewell and shuffled off to my gate. I felt satisfied that I had helped a very deserving person. What's wrong with me? Am I getting soft as I get older, or what?

I Have An Oyster!

I apologize for not posting any blog articles for the past couple of days. I have been working on a film shoot, in London. I tried to post this article, last night, only to end up accidentally deleting it. It was too late and I was too tired to do it over again, then. Hopefully, things will go better tonight.
On Tuesday morning, I finally bought an Oyster Card. "What's an Oyster card?" some of you are wondering. Well, for those of you not in or around London, an Oyster card is an electronic debit card which is accepted on London's Underground and London Buses, in lieu of cash. Introduced by Red Ken, London's crackpot, socialist mayor, they enable one to take advantage of certain discounts on Underground and bus fares, only available to Oyster Card users. I had been resisting purchasing one, because I didn't like the fact that, if you register your card, it enables the government to track your movements within London's transport system. I was also concerned that when using an Oyster card, you might actually end up paying more, if you make a lot of journeys in the same day, than when using a Travelcard.
I have learned that Oyster automatically caps the charges on any given day, so you never pay more than the cost of a travel card. By not registering my Oyster card, I retain travel anonymity. Finally, the recent fare increases for cash customers make the financial incentives too great to resist. Tuesday, I was working as a background artist (extra) in a major motion picture shoot, in London. I was running quite early and was very pleased with myself, as I sat on the Jubilee Line train to Waterloo station, where we would be filming that day. As the train accelerated down the tunnel, I began reading my favorite free daily paper, "Metro." What do I find within it's pages? An offer for free Oyster cards! Unfortunately, I saw this minutes after buying one for the regular price, £3. I always seem to miss out.