I am an asshole.

• If you stand to the left on the escalator underground, I will tut and sigh at you until you move.
• If you stand to the right on the escalator underground but have your person ever so slightly to the left, I will purposefully knock into you as I pass.
• If you have your bag on one of the remaining empty seats in a crowded train, I will stand in front of that seat and stare at you until you move it.
• If you monopolise the handrail in a busy carriage by leaning against it, I will shove my hand onto this handrail in the exact location of your lower back. And then jab you with my knuckles.
• If you insist on carrying your handbag on your arm instead of lowering it nearer to the floor on a crowded train and I’m the unlucky person who has to stand next to you, I will take every opportunity to bump into your bag with unnecessary force whenever the train moves.
• And if you say something inappropriately rude to me, I will give you the finger.

But I will always give my seat up to a woman who is quite obviously in her third trimester and standing up in a crowded Tube carriage, even though I chose specifically not to sit in one of the ‘priority seats’ when I got on the Tube for this reason.

And I will always stand with my heavy load of bags and death-glare the two able-bodied men sitting contentedly in their seats of great priorty.

* * * * *

And on a completely unrelated but completely delicious note – Cinco de Mayo.  Arriba.

Birthday

It was a dreary, dismal day in London on the 31st, but I had a suitably enjoyable day.  It started off with me waking up at 7am after getting six hours of sleep, slightly hungover from the day before (despite only having, like, four drinks over the course of five hours. I blame drinking wine, champagne and rum all in one night).  Then I transported 100 cupcakes on a bus that inched along at a snail’s pace through Wandsworth (where I live) and that, unbeknownst to me and the other passengers, was on a replacement route due to road construction and ended up dropping me off a mile and a half away from my intended destination, a destination that was only one mile away from my place of origin. 

So I walked, carrying 100 cupcakes, for about 30 minutes to the Tube station in the drizzling rain.  By the time I got to the Tube station, wet and angry, the next train was due to arrive in two minutes.  Excellent luck!  But then the train came trundling into the station, its driver hanging out the front window, saying that the train wasn’t in service.  He may have given me the one-finger salute; although I admit that I may be remembering this inaccurately.  The next train was in 15 minutes.  Wonderful.  Oh, how I love the District line in Putney.

I eventually got a train and made it to Earl’s Court station with my cupcakes, although I soon found that, despite my destination being Earl’s Court Exhibition Hall, I was really going to Earl’s Court Exhibition Hall II, which is just outside West Brompton Tube Station.  Instead of getting back on the Tube, I walked with my 100 cupcakes nearly an entire stop to the other station. 

Once inside the Exhibition Hall, cupcakes dispatched to the appropriate bodies, I had a wander around (there was a ‘Glam Show’ going on) and ended up buying a handbag.  I like handbags.

I decided to forgo underground transportation completely and soon realised that a bus travelled directly between Earl’s Court and Wandsworth (where I live) and only had a journey time of 12 minutes.  Time it took me to get to Earl’s Court from Wandsworth: 1 hour and 45 minutes.  Time it took me to get from Earl’s Court to Wandsworth: 12 minutes.  Did TFL (Transport for London) tell me on its online Journey Planner that there was a bus from Wandsworth to Earl’s Court in the first place?  No.  For that matter, did it warn me about road construction and buses and replacement routes?  No.

In any event, I made it home in one piece, peered into the kitchen which was covered in a heavy dusting of icing sugar at this point, and decided I would take a bath.  I took a long bath and decided to start over.  After this, I had a leisurely afternoon and got ready to go to a Zombie Halloween party.  Below is a picture from the party.  Can you find me?

An Epic Fail of London Living

Is deciding it would be a good idea to traipse a mile and a half across London in 4-inch wedge high-heels.  Then not bringing an emergency back-up pair of shoes.  Then also leaving your Oyster card in your everyday bag when you switched your belongings to your classy bag.  Then having to pay £4 for a single fare on the Tube to get home.  Then being reprimanded by an evening doorman whom you’ve never seen before in your building (he must be new).  I mean, seriously? Really? I’m standing at reception with my shoes in my hands, and I get a lecture about how important it is to take my building card with me everywhere? That’s like adding insult to injury.  I KNOW how important it is to bring my Oyster card holder with me everywhere, dude. I just paid £4 to travel three stops on the Tube because I forgot it, security monkey.

me: ‘Um, I left my entry card in my flat.’

him: ‘It’s really important that you bring your card with you everywhere you go.’

me: ‘…Yeah, I know.’

him: ‘No, it is really important.’

me: ‘Um, yeah. I know.’

him: ‘You see, I can’t let you in without your card. It’s really important that you bring it everywhere with you.’

me: ‘[are you shitting me?] Um, yeah… I know.’

him: ‘I’m not supposed to let people in without their cards. You need to have your card.’

me: ‘I’ve been a resident here for almost a year now. I’m not just a summer guest. I know I’m supposed to have my card, but I accidentally left it in my flat. Here is my door key. Would you like to see my door key?’

him: ‘It’s really important. Make sure you bring your card with you everywhere.’

 

It was only at this point that he opened the gate to let me in.  Douche.  I’ve probably left my card key in my flat three times previously in the amount of time I’ve been here, and I’ve never had that big a problem. Mostly, the people are like, ‘All right, yeah. Come on in.’ But this guy, as if he knew it would be hammering that nail in the coffin of my Urban-Living Fail to heckle me about leaving my Oyster card holder at home and make me stand there, with my shoes in my hands, for at least a minute-and-a-half while he weighed up the options of letting me in or leaving me outside.  I mean, it wouldn’t have been a big deal to call Red up and make him come downstairs to get me, but come on. Give me a fucking break. I’ve lived here for nearly 11 months!

Gah.

And now for something completely different.

Canned macaroni and cheese?  The canned food industry has reached a new level of creepy.

The Tube is on Strike

Again.

http://www.backingblair.co.uk/london_underground/

(Funny.  Although it does ruffle my feminist feathers a little bit.  NSFW.)