Commuterland

Its back to the daily commute in its worst incarnation.  A six hours round trip that if my new role gets made permanent I shall be making daily.  So much for sanity.   

Train times are inconveniently spaced so that a frenetic dash from the office generally means arriving at Euston just in time to miss the my train and wait the 78 minutes until the next since someone decreed this to be the best solution to peak commuter demand.  So, penned up on the concourse the crowd thickens in that not quite eyeballing each other way as the announcements scroll their way gradually along the departures board as trains depart until the notice for my train is once again squashed stubbornly at the left hand side and still with no platform displayed.  As usual most of the later trains are neatly queued up with their passengers already ensconced in relative comfort.  Not mine.  Never this train.  I switch my attention between my paper and scanning the board alert to the little hiss of attention that precedes the mob surge towards the platform gate.  By the time the tannoy announcement comes the chance of a good seat will have gone. 

There is a neat little trick I have learned in these 78 minutes the last three weeks. As the announcements travel to the left of the board, so too the mob tends to drift along with it.  Invariably the train comes in on one of the right hand platforms.  Positioned neatly under the board at the front I am ready to be at the front of the surge as the mob lurches forwards.   First towards the train are the ‘I think I’m an alpha male’.  Almost exclusively men these guys literally sprint forwards swinging their laptop bags in a space clearing manner.  Generally I find I am in front of at least a couple of them and the temptation to slow my stride fractionally is irresistible.   

The sight of these guys clawing their way to the front of the queue to get the best seats, the ones with tables and laptop points to entertain themselves, bugs the hell out of me.   There is a subtle territory of space and negotiation that city inhabitants know well.  The not quite almost personal on the tube move your bloody elbow out of the half a centimeter from in front of my nose before I smack you with my bag and an insincere apology as I think that that woman will be getting off at the next stop and I will not move back as I want to be nearer that seat and I could not possibly be so indecorous to shove past you for it.   Brute strength is not permitted within the terms of that negotiation.  So at Euston my bag just happens to stick out just oh so slightly impeding these asses as they barge their way past.    And I still somehow beat them to an unreserved seat.  How?  Now that would be telling.

 

Oh what a wonderful morning!

Its sunny and birds are probably singing somewhere and its truly glorious.  The kind of day really where I would rather be oh, in Williamstown, MA drinking ice coffee on the terrace with the river rushing below, or Rome sitting in the shade in my favorite bar with a cappuccino.  Or any other of the heart achingly beautiful places where once I used to live along with a good coffee.  Still this being Stafford I make do with the soon to be smoke-free Bank House bar which is ok.  And settle down with laptop and half finished novel in my attempt to write my way out of here.

 

Compulsory citizens

 There seem to be a lot of “issues” around at the moment that roughly fall under the idea of citizenship.   The hands that are shooting up at the front probably want to point out that we are subjects, not citizens.  I think thats a bit of a disingenous point these days.  We have a constitutional monarch who fulfils her constitutional role of Head of State rather well.  And mostly stays out of view the rest of the time.  Unlike, say, a certain US President.  So lets go back to this thing called citizenship.

It sounds like a quaint idea from before we crowned the consumer and is definitely at odds with the “its my rights innit” brigade.   Whether its so-called anti social behaviour or the preference of the 10,000 mostly ethnically Pakistani men who annually reject all British women, preferring to import illiterate and vulnerable young brides, plenty of people clearly don’t want to play by the rules of citizenship.   That is to say accepting their own responsibilities towards and impact on the wider communities of which they are a part.

I’ve heared views expressed by people who living in places changing from homogenous whiteness to more mixed communities that they now feel out of place in their own neighbourhoods.   In particular hearing around them languages that they do not understand in the place of English can feel threatening.  To an extent I can understand. Language is intrinsically connected to culture and the sense of belonging that gives people their stake as a citizen.   Even simply losing a regional accent can be seen as betraying your roots.  The refusal by immigrants to learn English is a refusal to socialise with the rest of us.

I’m not sure though how far other complaints are about rejecting change per se.  My grandparents saw in their 84 year lifetimes the introduction of the pill, the introduction of cheap telecommunications and computers and the development of the NHS.  They also saw the aftermath of two world wars and dragged themselves out of real poverty.   The world moved on and they tried to keep up.   As citizens ourselves I think we too have a responsibility to stay a part of a world that is changing and different lives to which through globalisation we are more and more intricately connected.   Or as my grandparents might have said, there needs to be a bit of give and take on both sides.

Tackling the idea of social responsibility – the essence of citizenship – amongst born and bred miscreants might be harder. I’d rather see policies look at rewarding the people that comply though – whether it be paying your council house rent on time or ensuring your children hand in their homework – than that ignore this quiet majority.

 

Vanishing Act

Yesterdays papers were covered in a picture of two very different young men.  An overblown yap of a public schoolboy taunted by an overblown bulldog wielding ASBO.  But its the space in the middle that really interests me. 

Thats right, the space.  The absence in public debate of the majority of the people in the UK whose lives do not involve negotiating arrangements over their buy to let investment properties or with the local crystal dealers.  That is to say crystal meth, not the eponymous champagne.

You find these ordinary people in the letters to the editors pages of regional newspapers.  Or featuring in minor exhibitions of lesser known artists in secondary galleries.  Lives that seem of no interest whatsoever either to the national media or politicians other than at election time. Parochial, insignificant.  

And this is dangerous.  The public agenda is not so much about what is dealt with as what is not.  For any item to be listed others are crowded out.  Terrorists, ASBOs, millionaires.  Whoever makes the most noise gets heard.  And that is certainly not the majority of us.

 

Books Glorious Books!

Its finally happened.  After almost fourteen months of dragging through piled up cardboard boxes every time I wanted one of my treasured tomes my new bookshelves are now finished and the said books ensconced.  Or at least over half of them.  Once we’ve tackled the dining room which currently resembles a lumberyard come chinese takeaway the rest of my collection will find their homes there.

Still, alone as I was last Saturday (my OH being out at some boys do) I finished putting the books on the shelves, poured myself a glass of red wine and just looked at them. Seeing their orderly lines arranged to my liking along the alcove shelves for the first time since moving here I felt truly at home.   Having been somewhat of a nomad over the past 10 years and now moved into the first property I hold some legal claim to, this seemed a little ironic until I realised that, no matter whatever adventure I took since I learned to read, some of my books have always accompanied me.  

Travelling round the States at 20 I lugged with me a torn suitcase of the crumpled paperbacks I flew out with as well those I swiftly acquired en route.  Ten years later and staying with a family in Siena  whilst learning Italian  from my study room shelf spilled the books chosen to sustain me til I reached Rome and the rest could join us.   Indeed its rare that I leave the house without at least one in my bag – the mere thought of being stranded in a cafe or on a train with nothing to read makes me twitch and reach for the caffeine.

Books then. The most dangerous things in the world perhaps. Certainly warnings are scattered through myth of the perils of seeking knowledge.   For wresting the bright fire of the Gods was Prometheus’ bitterly punished. Lest Adam and Eve not be content with mere carnal knowledge, angels with fiery swords are set to guard against mankind’s attempts at the luscious fruit on the other tree. Whether Latin Bible or Arabic Qu’ran sacred books are set in languages designed for the understanding of the few.

More prosaically it is along with bras and flags that books are burnt, a part of societies’ symbolic battleground. Schoolbooks figure in international treaties and legal cases. Even in the parochial library where I currently work springs up the dilemma of books that are graphic and offensive and whether we should lock them away from the shelves that all and sundry may not leaf through them one handed. From cumbersome objects uncomfortably hard-edged to tissue soft pages which cushion dark evenings, I’m glad to be home.

 

A measure of success

Success is a curious thing. Primarily its something you are, not something you have or do, a verb that takes the ‘etre’ form. Locally it just means that you are supporting yourself financially in a job that’s not too ambitious. To mention for example, that you were working for a blue chip in a capital city would tend to be a gawping conversation stopper.  Hence the added spice when just a week ago some of my friends from London called on see me.

Both of them are what I consider ‘professional women’, meaning both that they have a career that requires a university or better education and ambition. One has taken the courageous step of moving out of London and retraining as a primary school teacher. It was of little surprise to me – though a source of much excitement – that she is expecting her first child. The other recently went to see a career coach to help her get some life into her work-life balance. They each exemplify one of the two choices that seem to be open to ‘successful women’ – top of the career tree or devoted familywoman with an allegedly not too onerous career to get in the way of her primary role.

By anyone’s lights though, they are successful. Scoffing liebkuchen and coffee together in my lounge I realised that that is the one thing I really miss here. The pressure to be successful. I’ve had enough of backwater living where every ten minutes is wasted because most people have too many to spare. I can say all I like about success not being measured in terms of how good your job is and how well you do it, but the truth is that at my core is a voraciously ambitious little monster. Briefly it may be contented by cramming my spare time with Spanish classes and learning to drive. Better yet getting my novel published and earning more from writing. But I definitely miss the City lights and the nine to nine.

 

An Accidental Librarian

Well Christmas has been and gone and taken the New Year in its wake.  I slugged down a toast as I watched the London celebrations from the comfort of my sofa, wondered how high heels and hard pavements could ever have seemed a natural combination and cosied up with my OH. 

Looking at the big wide year ahead I realise that there are an awful lot of things I want to do with it.   Not least to get a decent part time job.  A job of the kind where you are not painfully conscious that you are covering a shift because the last girl that walked down the stockroom steps carrying a heavy box ended up in hospital.  So, the local job market being what it is, I was truly deeply grateful that the local FE college offered me a job in their library.  And…the best bit of all…I get to work with books!  Yippee!  Hurrah!

Perhaps I am not what you might call a natural librarian.  Order and structure are concepts that I admire in other people but are somewhat alien to me.  I tend to start a task in the middle go left a bit and zig zag to the end.   My suspicion that it matters not a jot whether its done my way or via the methodical plod method as long as it ends up the same, is long cherished.  And I couldn’t decide at first whether namepegs for staffroom mugs were cute or creepy.  But.  I do love books.  And working with people.  So despite my natural preference to order using aesthetic rather than alphabetical criteria I think I am going to fit in.  After all, as my OH will far too willingly testify, I do like things put in order…

Its early days yet but so far the gap between the Corpspeak and reality seems small to non existent.  The induction process really is a detailed tick sheet which is being methodically worked through, hours are a matter of discussion and negotiation and although my rank is lowly, career progression and training are factored in.  No matter the IiP accreditation, low colleague morale is one of those things that all the recruitment varnish cannot cover and, from what I’ve seen, here its good.  After a fortnight I cannot think of one criticism or complaint.  Rather that people twist themselves in knots to help each other out.  No doubt the niggles will announce themselves in due course.  But from what I’ve seen so far, I’m sure I’m going to stay. 

 

Driving home for Christmas.

Somethings about this small town are really really great.  No, I mean despite how I file these posts sometimes I actually like living here.  Home Town Christmas is great.*  No long travel home for the mad dash round to fit in everyone before you scramble onto the an overcrowded and overbeered train or plane back to wherever.  This puts my husband in a better mood too which is always a bonus.  Even receiving three batches of jelly beans merely inspired the comment “well you can never have too many jelly beans”.  Hurrah.

So here’s to not having to drive home for Christmas.

*the writer will have sobered up and the turkey stupor worn off by tomorrow from which point normal rules of vitriol will again apply.

 

Not so clubbable Christmas

A couple of nights ago I found myself out of my milieu.  Or at least I hope I did.  Sharing the intimate space of strangers I would not invite into my living room was a salient reminder of why I do not go clubbing.  Especially not at what passes for a club locally.

Somehow the spirit of all things Christmassy and desire to fit in with colleagues at a temporary seasonal job persuaded me to pay for the privilidge of jigging up and down whilst simultaneously ducking to avoid the tentacles mysteriously extruding from random members of the opposite sex.  The median social skill set apparently does not cover introductions prior to grope attempts.   And quite why the scent of vomit laden breath veering towards your face is likely to entice anyone into the attempted snog is beyond me. I looked at the somewhat homogenous gene pool surrounding me and thanked god that I was married.

In short, watching overinebriated colleages attempt to hoik each others skirts up as they tried not to split out of overtight dresses in the name of Christmas jollity made me cringe, the music sucked and I decided to retrieve my coat whilst the majority were still checking theirs in.  Maybe I am getting old, but those slugging it out in there certainly were.  Turkey is turkey no matter how its dressed.