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Bag o' spuds
May. 17th, 2007 08:53 amAlthough my walk from Charing Cross to the office is not a Groundhog-Day-style everything-exactly-the-same-every-day kind of event, there are certain items which repeat themselves quite frequently.
One of these events takes place as I walk north from Oxford Circus. There's an oldish woman (I say "oldish", but she is usually wrapped up in so many clothes that it is hard to determine whether she is 50 or 80) who is occasionally walking in the opposite direction. It's always easy to spot her, because she is incapable of walking in a straight line.
Her entire bearing is something akin to a sack of potatoes, if sacks of potatoes had legs.
Now, I know that sacks of potatoes don't have legs (although, if they had, it's likely that the Irish potato famine would have started earlier than it did) but bear with me. Just picture a sack of potatoes, and then imagine it walking. With me? Good.
So, the first few times I encountered this weaving woman (weaving as in the walk, she wasn't making cloth at the time, although if she was, that would have explained her indirect gait) the inevitable happened. You change direction a bit to compensate, but then she weaves back into your (new) line, so you change direction again. Rinse and repeat until you, narrowly, miss a possible death-causing collision.
I've got the hang of it now. I just walk faster and in a determined straight line. The picking up of speed seems to focus her concentration for a few seconds and she manages to keep to her required path. But, after I've safely negotiated this obstacle, I sometimes turn my head round to see how she's getting on. And, sure enough, she's back to weaving.
Perhaps that's why she has to get up so early. She starts work at nine and only lives a mile from work, but it's a five-mile walk for her to get there.
++++++++++++
"I don't care if he's the Queen of Sheba. Rules are rules", said Sergeant Clodworthy of Paddington Nick, in the wake of the bungled attempt to kidnap the pedigree miniature terrier of Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho, on the grounds that the dog might be rabid. "It's no use them thinking that the rules is different for posh folks".
Except, of course, the rules IS different for "posh folks", in the sense that police, and judges, know that anything involving celebrities will generate newsprint, and some police and judges love to see their faces on TV. It would have been quite easy to phone Mourinho up, sort things out, and avoid this entire business. But, no. They go round there when he is out and try to nick the dog. What did the police think would happen? Were they looking for a fight?
"You have to understand", said Chief Inspector Anthony "I'm Going To The Top" Clarke, who is in charge of the doghunt. "We followed the prescribed procedure."
Rule 1: Anyone who says "rules are rules" is a dick. Anyone who says "we followed the prescribed procedure" has a smaller brain than the dimmest nano-bot.
++++++++++++
One of these events takes place as I walk north from Oxford Circus. There's an oldish woman (I say "oldish", but she is usually wrapped up in so many clothes that it is hard to determine whether she is 50 or 80) who is occasionally walking in the opposite direction. It's always easy to spot her, because she is incapable of walking in a straight line.
Her entire bearing is something akin to a sack of potatoes, if sacks of potatoes had legs.
Now, I know that sacks of potatoes don't have legs (although, if they had, it's likely that the Irish potato famine would have started earlier than it did) but bear with me. Just picture a sack of potatoes, and then imagine it walking. With me? Good.
So, the first few times I encountered this weaving woman (weaving as in the walk, she wasn't making cloth at the time, although if she was, that would have explained her indirect gait) the inevitable happened. You change direction a bit to compensate, but then she weaves back into your (new) line, so you change direction again. Rinse and repeat until you, narrowly, miss a possible death-causing collision.
I've got the hang of it now. I just walk faster and in a determined straight line. The picking up of speed seems to focus her concentration for a few seconds and she manages to keep to her required path. But, after I've safely negotiated this obstacle, I sometimes turn my head round to see how she's getting on. And, sure enough, she's back to weaving.
Perhaps that's why she has to get up so early. She starts work at nine and only lives a mile from work, but it's a five-mile walk for her to get there.
++++++++++++
"I don't care if he's the Queen of Sheba. Rules are rules", said Sergeant Clodworthy of Paddington Nick, in the wake of the bungled attempt to kidnap the pedigree miniature terrier of Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho, on the grounds that the dog might be rabid. "It's no use them thinking that the rules is different for posh folks".
Except, of course, the rules IS different for "posh folks", in the sense that police, and judges, know that anything involving celebrities will generate newsprint, and some police and judges love to see their faces on TV. It would have been quite easy to phone Mourinho up, sort things out, and avoid this entire business. But, no. They go round there when he is out and try to nick the dog. What did the police think would happen? Were they looking for a fight?
"You have to understand", said Chief Inspector Anthony "I'm Going To The Top" Clarke, who is in charge of the doghunt. "We followed the prescribed procedure."
Rule 1: Anyone who says "rules are rules" is a dick. Anyone who says "we followed the prescribed procedure" has a smaller brain than the dimmest nano-bot.
++++++++++++
