I an off to an 'art fest' organised by Irish people resident in London. And I an Irish a'dub' from Dublin although plucked from the Emerald Isle in my infancy for a 'better' life in England.
So I an heading this Irish event, of soi disant 'art'. The tube is so packed it is wonder that people survive but they do glued to their cell phones like life rafts in a choppy sea. There are some unsavoury (unsavoury an apt word for London these days) looking character in this carriage so I stuff my credit car deep into my new track suit and pull the shining silver zip tight. Thank God that is over I run up the escalators get to the barrier and pull the zip on the track suit...it won't open...what...what the...the tracksuit zip is...well
locked...I am...I go to an underground assistant...look excuse me I am sorry but can you help...a wry smile from the assistant to his workmates who give him a well you meet one every day in this job looks of sympathy...I pull ..the assistant pulls...but the zip is immovable, 'I tell you what, Sir, if you just put your leg up on the barrier exit gate and then press your leg where the credit card is then.... I raise my leg ...
'no, a bit higher Sir...ok put your leg down, Sir and try again....I am not sure I can get my leg up that high
cone on, Sir, I am sure you have had our leg over many times, I see his colleagues are trying to stifle their
sniggers...up la...and I have done it and sesame....I am through...thank you, thank you very much
We are here to help, Sir....but like his colleagues he can't contain his giggles.
Now I walk through the London streets astonished that it has turned out like this, degraded, downbeat
unbelievably crowded. Politicians have turned the city into a mad, deranged city, one could say the same about Paris.
Now I walk though a garage forecourt and a lorry shortcuts and speeds past me missing me by inches
I hear the howls of laughter emanating from the driver and the brown faces of the driver and his companion looks back at me smirking with pleasure at their playful jihadism.
An 'Irish' evening on top of all this would do me in. I hop on a bus which
will take me back to the station.
You should have got the lorries number and called the police, says the good woman I live with.
I know, I know...but I didn't...
So I an heading this Irish event, of soi disant 'art'. The tube is so packed it is wonder that people survive but they do glued to their cell phones like life rafts in a choppy sea. There are some unsavoury (unsavoury an apt word for London these days) looking character in this carriage so I stuff my credit car deep into my new track suit and pull the shining silver zip tight. Thank God that is over I run up the escalators get to the barrier and pull the zip on the track suit...it won't open...what...what the...the tracksuit zip is...well
locked...I am...I go to an underground assistant...look excuse me I am sorry but can you help...a wry smile from the assistant to his workmates who give him a well you meet one every day in this job looks of sympathy...I pull ..the assistant pulls...but the zip is immovable, 'I tell you what, Sir, if you just put your leg up on the barrier exit gate and then press your leg where the credit card is then.... I raise my leg ...
'no, a bit higher Sir...ok put your leg down, Sir and try again....I am not sure I can get my leg up that high
cone on, Sir, I am sure you have had our leg over many times, I see his colleagues are trying to stifle their
sniggers...up la...and I have done it and sesame....I am through...thank you, thank you very much
We are here to help, Sir....but like his colleagues he can't contain his giggles.
Now I walk through the London streets astonished that it has turned out like this, degraded, downbeat
unbelievably crowded. Politicians have turned the city into a mad, deranged city, one could say the same about Paris.
Now I walk though a garage forecourt and a lorry shortcuts and speeds past me missing me by inches
I hear the howls of laughter emanating from the driver and the brown faces of the driver and his companion looks back at me smirking with pleasure at their playful jihadism.
An 'Irish' evening on top of all this would do me in. I hop on a bus which
will take me back to the station.
You should have got the lorries number and called the police, says the good woman I live with.
I know, I know...but I didn't...
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