I helped an adorable French family on the Gatwick Express. Mum had one little girl in her arms, and another one on the way, and a harassed "I've been travelling on a plane with a four-year-old" expression. I beckoned her and dad over and mumbled an ugly "voulez vous assier ici?", because I'd monopolised the seats with the table - a perfect space for a planerestless four year old, or a Latin scholar mesmerised by the view - and most reasonable parents wouldn't, I think, have sat without an invitation. I listened to them chatter, the little girl dropping the odd bit of English into her babyFrench.
When I got off the train - metal cathedral, well known squeaks - I went straight to the bus shelter, my oyster card was out. I saw my bus driver wait as long as he could for me to get a ticket from the machine, but finally drove off. The machine was broken. I put in my £2.20 with a grimace - it's a difficult walk downstairs with a suitcase to the oyster-card readers - and the machine neither gave me a ticket nor refunded my money. I warned a lady standing nearby that it was not working.
Turns out there is now at least a ticket office above-ground. The door was blocked entirely by chattering smokers, their cigarettes pointed unfriendly and outward, brushing my legs as they ignored requests to move. The chap at the ticket office chattered kindly as he sold me a travelcard -
On the way back to the bus stop, I heard a mumbled "cannahavesomechange" from a street-con in a knitted hat. You get to know your genuine homeless pretty quick - too proud or embarrassed to walk up and ask. I said "no" crossly, and on passing heard a quiet "bloodyhellmanIjustwant" following me. He seemed to do rather well later on in a different crowd, finding someone chatty if not charitable.
I made an "out of order" sign and propped it up, badly, on the ticket machine - and took down the reference number because dammit, if I could put up a machine taking £2.20 from people for nothing all day, it'd be a pretty packet indeed. I was hunting through my pockets for my phone when the lady who I'd warned earlier came up and asked if I had enough money left to buy myself a ticket. I thanked her for the kindness. There was another old lady floating around it. "Is this where I get a ticket?" she asked me. I was beginning to explain, when a real homeless person came up to us. "Is it not working? They've been putting ringpulls in it - look." And he pulled a ring-pull, like from a coke can, out of the change slot. He gave the machine a hearty bash, and another few fell out. He tried fixing it for us, got nowhere, but we thanked him anyway. Tip for the future: check the change-slot for ringpulls before using a street ticket machine. I directed the old lady to the ticket office I'd just been to, and then my bus arrived.
People say the city is cold. It can be, and that's wonderful - you can sink into anonymity if you choose and be no-one, slip invisible through pavement cracks and sidestreets. It's an exhilirating feeling. But I'd been on the ground for all of 10 minutes, and already interacted with 7 groups or people, most of them kind and quick to help, and I helped in turn. The streets are what you make them.
When I got off the train - metal cathedral, well known squeaks - I went straight to the bus shelter, my oyster card was out. I saw my bus driver wait as long as he could for me to get a ticket from the machine, but finally drove off. The machine was broken. I put in my £2.20 with a grimace - it's a difficult walk downstairs with a suitcase to the oyster-card readers - and the machine neither gave me a ticket nor refunded my money. I warned a lady standing nearby that it was not working.
Turns out there is now at least a ticket office above-ground. The door was blocked entirely by chattering smokers, their cigarettes pointed unfriendly and outward, brushing my legs as they ignored requests to move. The chap at the ticket office chattered kindly as he sold me a travelcard -
"Smart idea, they go up in price tomorrow. Where do you study?"This from the man selling travel-cards at Victoria. He looked at my name on the oyster card, and I told him that once I was famous, if he got in contact, he'd have a ticket to the premiere. I have made a thousand such promises. But this one is blogged, so I'll remember.
"Kings"
"Ah, smart. What do you study?"
"Classics and film."
"Classic films? Very good! What are you going to be after university?"
"Unemployed."
"Unemployed?"
"I want to be a director"
"A director of photography?"
"No, like of films."
"Like Steven Spielburg?"
"Exactly!"
"What kind of films are you going to make?"
"I like westerns, but I don't think they get made any more"
"I like westerns. When you're a director, you can make whatever you like. I'll tell you this - if you want something enough and dream big enough, nothing can stand in your way."
On the way back to the bus stop, I heard a mumbled "cannahavesomechange" from a street-con in a knitted hat. You get to know your genuine homeless pretty quick - too proud or embarrassed to walk up and ask. I said "no" crossly, and on passing heard a quiet "bloodyhellmanIjustwant" following me. He seemed to do rather well later on in a different crowd, finding someone chatty if not charitable.
I made an "out of order" sign and propped it up, badly, on the ticket machine - and took down the reference number because dammit, if I could put up a machine taking £2.20 from people for nothing all day, it'd be a pretty packet indeed. I was hunting through my pockets for my phone when the lady who I'd warned earlier came up and asked if I had enough money left to buy myself a ticket. I thanked her for the kindness. There was another old lady floating around it. "Is this where I get a ticket?" she asked me. I was beginning to explain, when a real homeless person came up to us. "Is it not working? They've been putting ringpulls in it - look." And he pulled a ring-pull, like from a coke can, out of the change slot. He gave the machine a hearty bash, and another few fell out. He tried fixing it for us, got nowhere, but we thanked him anyway. Tip for the future: check the change-slot for ringpulls before using a street ticket machine. I directed the old lady to the ticket office I'd just been to, and then my bus arrived.
People say the city is cold. It can be, and that's wonderful - you can sink into anonymity if you choose and be no-one, slip invisible through pavement cracks and sidestreets. It's an exhilirating feeling. But I'd been on the ground for all of 10 minutes, and already interacted with 7 groups or people, most of them kind and quick to help, and I helped in turn. The streets are what you make them.
Comments (1)
There are ten thousand stories in the naked city. Your blog reads like the pre-action sequence of a rom-com. Of course you'll be a great director and one day that guy will turn up bearing a grubby script hammered out on a typewriter...