While the title of this post may be “On The Road”, I can assure you that it’s content bears no relation to the Jack Kerouak book. If a stormtrooper were stood alongside this entry, it would probably say “nothing to see here… move along”.
This week finds me working in London on a client site. I am sat in an office near Bishopsgate, typing this blog entry into Google Docs because I just pressed the wrong key on this crappy keyboard and lost my first attempt at about this point.
The day started at 5:55am this morning when I woke up moments before the alarm clock - which is funny, because I was only talking to somebody recently about that very subject - how our body clock can be incredibly accurate when we want it to be. For the first time in living memory I had prepared my clothes and bag last night, lending me a few minutes this morning to have a cup of tea before setting off.
Leaving the house at 6:50, I was met at the end of the drive by our cat, who wandered past with a “what the hell are you doing here?” look on his face. It did answer my question about why he sleeps all day though. Walking away from the house towards the station, something made me check back over my shoulder, and sure enough, 50 yards behind me a little cat was skipping along the pavement in pursuit. I hope W won’t be too angry with my response - instead of picking him up and cuddling him back to the house, I chased him - which caused him to run back anyway. I did notice he stopped running after 20 yards, and gave me a furious glance before taking a left turn into somebody else’s garden.
While walking towards the station I was accosted by an Italian gentleman who wasn’t quite sure where the station might be. He had been told he could get to it on foot, but nobody had given him a map (finding Marlow station either requires a good map, or very good instructions unless you know where it is before looking for it). We walked together for the last quarter mile and exchanged pleasantries before finding seats a few feet apart from each other. Strange thing - personal space. When we got off to change trains he checked with me once more that he was boarding the correct next train. If he had sat next to me, he could have just asked without accosting me again.
The train journey itself was it’s usual mind-numbingly boring exercise. As we stopped at various stations - Bourne End, Maidenhead, Slough - more people got on, and the carriages slowly became more cramped. The final leg of the journey into Paddington was spent crunched in a corner while another gentleman sat squashed next to me with several bags on his lap. Quite why he couldn’t put the bags in the overhead compartment is a very good question.
Arriving at Paddington station, I walked towards the underground terminal almost on autopilot. I say “almost”, because something from the tannoy caught my ear - and then I noticed 1001 people waiting to get into the underground. It took one glance at the melaise to make my mind up that a cup of coffee at that instant was a really, really good idea. This thought cropped up as I was passing the escalator leading to a swish coffee bar. Funny how things like that happen.
After making the biggest cappucino I’ve ever seen in my life dissappear (god knows what a “large” cup looked like), I arrived on the eastbound platform of the “circle line”, and crammed on to a train. The commuters who use the London underground each morning could quite easily form an olympic standard “sardines” team. Half a sweaty hour later, I arrived at Liverpool Street, and started walking in the wrong direction towards Bishopsgate. Now I am older, I am allowed to forgive myself such stupidity - now I am older - and abruptly stopped in the path, cursing to myself. In years gone by I would probably have taken on the cat-like tactic of pretending I meant to be walking in that direction all along.
After a few minutes walk I entered the client building to be met with “Good morning Mr Beckett” from the receptionist. I immediately suspected they must have photos on file… nobody has that good a memory.
It’s funny… I just came back from Lunch. While walking the nearby streets to find a suitable sandwich shop, I suddenly became aware of how anonymous London is. Millions of people pour through the main streets each day. Nobody knows anybody. Nobody talks. Nobody takes notice of anything. Everybody seems completely wrapped up in their own life - their immediate destination - the task at hand. I could be anybody. I could have done anything, and nobody would know. Any of these people walking past me could be doing anything, or have done anything, and nobody would know.
A strange, and rather unsettling thought.