Last Monday saw me heading off to London.
Oct. 1st, 2007 01:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessNow, I have a kind of love/hate relationship with the capital. In some ways I love every second of it - the city is just FULL. I think it would be polite if all Londoners left London when I wanted to visit, maybe we could have them bussed to Cornwall or Dorset? Lots of open space, they’ll all fit.
I love the place, but Londoners stress me. I always get the impression that they’re all desperately desperately late because they’re all in such a freaking hurry. Then again, maybe that’s just the hurry to get INSIDE and AWAY from the 90 billion squillion other people all trying to insert their elbows into sensitive body areas.
Cut for rather long and boring account
But I digress. Now, a heavily pregnant colleague has run (well, waddled, with many complaints about her back and many visits to the lavvie) away on maternity leave. As she left she presented me with a file. She was grinning when she did it. A kind of mix between utter relief and malicious glee. This can bode no good.
It’s a divorce file, quite an old one, and the lunacy is long and powerful with this one. However, the most pressing concern appears to be that despite both spouses living in Yorkshire their entire lives, working in Yorkshire and all their family being in Yorkshire, the case has been batted around a London court.
No, it doesn’t make sense. If it made sense my clients wouldn’t do it. It turns out my colleague has been trying to sort this out by telephone - which has resulted in the file been split into several smaller files all of which have been scattered around London, so it seems. SP, after witnessing weeks of pointless (the result has been these itty-bits of files exchanging places with each other) phone calls that we all know we won’t be able to bill has finally snapped and decided he wants someone down there PERSONALLY to take possession of the pieces of paper (and to deliver some much needed haddock smacking).
I am content and start planning a week’s activity. He growls and announces how he expects me to be back and on call on Monday night. Sparky is less than happy and I announce that I expect him to seek medication since he’s clearly delusional, SP grumbles and concedes that I needn’t be on call for the rest of the week so I can sleep Monday night in peace and come in Tuesday morning. (Hmmm, and how did he get me to agree to that? Damn, he’s good.)
So I drag myself out of bet at the crack of dawn to make my way to the train station (because driving to London and driving in London are both not fun but are positively joyful compared to parking in London) and buy my ticket.
For £115. For a normal ticket. (I’ve travelled first class and found it to be identical to normal class except annoying women keep thrusting tea urns at you every 3 minutes. Oh I suppose there was extra leg room, but the perk of being short is that‘s not a problem)
£115? I expect to be piggy backed down to London by the Queen for that! Or, as beloved pointed out, the train should have been kitted out with lap dancers (now wouldn’t that make first class more interesting?). Ah well it was on the expense account so I paid up and off to London.
Arriving in Kings Cross, I warily scout my way through, aware that at any moment a seat may become available and a rabid stampede could trample me into a smear on the ground desperately trying to reach it. With all due caution I approach... the tube.
Animal rights groups around the world protest about the horrific conditions calves endure on their way to become veal. Crowded together, unable to move, hardly able to breath... well those calves are whiners compared to the people packed in on that tube. There wasn’t an inch separating them, the smaller people could have just fallen asleep and relied on the pressure from everyone rammed against them to keep upright.
There are some places sensible northern people should fear to tread. Special evolution is needed to navigate the London underground - bony shields on ribs and kidneys and razor sharp elbows that can strike at a 10 foot distance.
Returning to the surface world I considered other options. A brief look at the bus time table was quickly rejected since I left my Enigma Machine at home. That left taxis (I have an expense account, remember? Though DAMN that was expensive).
Freaked out the cabby by sitting in the front with him (which amused me muchly) then had a fierce argument with one because I decided I actually wanted to arrive at my destination in one piece and ALIVE thank you (the man was reading a NEWSPAPER while driving. Seriously, what‘s that about. And to add insult to injury it was the Daily Mail - my life in the hands of a reckless Daily Mail reader!). I already got the picture that everyone in London drives like a) there’s no-one else on the road so you CAN ignore everyone else and b) they’re all 20 minutes late for a vitally important appointment and will risk life and limb to shave 2 seconds off their travel time - but this man took a special prize. So we had a nice snarly fight where he pointed out that him driving slower would cost me more mooooney to which I pointed out a) It was a business expense so I didn’t care, b) judging by the meter this little trip was already extortionately expensive and c) I’d rather be poor and alive than rich and dead. There was much extra grumbling followed by an undignified sulky silence split with monosyllables when I forced the issue until we arrived.
The next course of aggravation offered to me was that no-one at the nice London firm could understand a word I said. I don’t get this, people from Cornwall to the Outer Hebredies can understand me fine, but let me go to London or Oxford and suddenly I start mystically speaking Swahili.
Having slapped people around at 3 firms (the second firm getting extra slappings for being condescending about my age, the third one being thoroughly haddocked for demeaning implications about my firm) and the harrowing transport between each I was feeling less than charitably inclined towards the capital and wondering if Godzilla could be persuaded to take a little holiday.
Still it ended well when I finally got a GOOD taxi driver who noticed my freak out before I had to say anything about the near death driving, laughed and joked AND gave me good restaurant advice (a nice middle eastern place, apparently. At least I assume it was, since most of it was in arabic, but I like restaurants where you order stuff and then get to play guessing games over what it is you actually ordered) AND charged me less than the other cabbies for the same length of journey.
Of course after a day like that I had no energy left to enjoy myself (anonymous meal that appeared on the menu as squiggles regardless) and had to go back to down to the nether-depths-of-hell (Kings Cross) to catch my train back to old Yorkshire wheresanity my preferred form of insanity reigns.
I love to visit London for fun - but I don’t see how anyone can actually work there without going insane and beating random passers by with the ripped off limbs of a cabbie. Ah well, at least I get the added amusement of watching the SP’s face when he reads my expenses.
I love the place, but Londoners stress me. I always get the impression that they’re all desperately desperately late because they’re all in such a freaking hurry. Then again, maybe that’s just the hurry to get INSIDE and AWAY from the 90 billion squillion other people all trying to insert their elbows into sensitive body areas.
Cut for rather long and boring account
But I digress. Now, a heavily pregnant colleague has run (well, waddled, with many complaints about her back and many visits to the lavvie) away on maternity leave. As she left she presented me with a file. She was grinning when she did it. A kind of mix between utter relief and malicious glee. This can bode no good.
It’s a divorce file, quite an old one, and the lunacy is long and powerful with this one. However, the most pressing concern appears to be that despite both spouses living in Yorkshire their entire lives, working in Yorkshire and all their family being in Yorkshire, the case has been batted around a London court.
No, it doesn’t make sense. If it made sense my clients wouldn’t do it. It turns out my colleague has been trying to sort this out by telephone - which has resulted in the file been split into several smaller files all of which have been scattered around London, so it seems. SP, after witnessing weeks of pointless (the result has been these itty-bits of files exchanging places with each other) phone calls that we all know we won’t be able to bill has finally snapped and decided he wants someone down there PERSONALLY to take possession of the pieces of paper (and to deliver some much needed haddock smacking).
I am content and start planning a week’s activity. He growls and announces how he expects me to be back and on call on Monday night. Sparky is less than happy and I announce that I expect him to seek medication since he’s clearly delusional, SP grumbles and concedes that I needn’t be on call for the rest of the week so I can sleep Monday night in peace and come in Tuesday morning. (Hmmm, and how did he get me to agree to that? Damn, he’s good.)
So I drag myself out of bet at the crack of dawn to make my way to the train station (because driving to London and driving in London are both not fun but are positively joyful compared to parking in London) and buy my ticket.
For £115. For a normal ticket. (I’ve travelled first class and found it to be identical to normal class except annoying women keep thrusting tea urns at you every 3 minutes. Oh I suppose there was extra leg room, but the perk of being short is that‘s not a problem)
£115? I expect to be piggy backed down to London by the Queen for that! Or, as beloved pointed out, the train should have been kitted out with lap dancers (now wouldn’t that make first class more interesting?). Ah well it was on the expense account so I paid up and off to London.
Arriving in Kings Cross, I warily scout my way through, aware that at any moment a seat may become available and a rabid stampede could trample me into a smear on the ground desperately trying to reach it. With all due caution I approach... the tube.
Animal rights groups around the world protest about the horrific conditions calves endure on their way to become veal. Crowded together, unable to move, hardly able to breath... well those calves are whiners compared to the people packed in on that tube. There wasn’t an inch separating them, the smaller people could have just fallen asleep and relied on the pressure from everyone rammed against them to keep upright.
There are some places sensible northern people should fear to tread. Special evolution is needed to navigate the London underground - bony shields on ribs and kidneys and razor sharp elbows that can strike at a 10 foot distance.
Returning to the surface world I considered other options. A brief look at the bus time table was quickly rejected since I left my Enigma Machine at home. That left taxis (I have an expense account, remember? Though DAMN that was expensive).
Freaked out the cabby by sitting in the front with him (which amused me muchly) then had a fierce argument with one because I decided I actually wanted to arrive at my destination in one piece and ALIVE thank you (the man was reading a NEWSPAPER while driving. Seriously, what‘s that about. And to add insult to injury it was the Daily Mail - my life in the hands of a reckless Daily Mail reader!). I already got the picture that everyone in London drives like a) there’s no-one else on the road so you CAN ignore everyone else and b) they’re all 20 minutes late for a vitally important appointment and will risk life and limb to shave 2 seconds off their travel time - but this man took a special prize. So we had a nice snarly fight where he pointed out that him driving slower would cost me more mooooney to which I pointed out a) It was a business expense so I didn’t care, b) judging by the meter this little trip was already extortionately expensive and c) I’d rather be poor and alive than rich and dead. There was much extra grumbling followed by an undignified sulky silence split with monosyllables when I forced the issue until we arrived.
The next course of aggravation offered to me was that no-one at the nice London firm could understand a word I said. I don’t get this, people from Cornwall to the Outer Hebredies can understand me fine, but let me go to London or Oxford and suddenly I start mystically speaking Swahili.
Having slapped people around at 3 firms (the second firm getting extra slappings for being condescending about my age, the third one being thoroughly haddocked for demeaning implications about my firm) and the harrowing transport between each I was feeling less than charitably inclined towards the capital and wondering if Godzilla could be persuaded to take a little holiday.
Still it ended well when I finally got a GOOD taxi driver who noticed my freak out before I had to say anything about the near death driving, laughed and joked AND gave me good restaurant advice (a nice middle eastern place, apparently. At least I assume it was, since most of it was in arabic, but I like restaurants where you order stuff and then get to play guessing games over what it is you actually ordered) AND charged me less than the other cabbies for the same length of journey.
Of course after a day like that I had no energy left to enjoy myself (anonymous meal that appeared on the menu as squiggles regardless) and had to go back to down to the nether-depths-of-hell (Kings Cross) to catch my train back to old Yorkshire where
I love to visit London for fun - but I don’t see how anyone can actually work there without going insane and beating random passers by with the ripped off limbs of a cabbie. Ah well, at least I get the added amusement of watching the SP’s face when he reads my expenses.
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Date: 2007-10-02 02:46 pm (UTC)