portlypete's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Taking the Strain I'd almost forgotten what a joy London's mass transit system can be. But I've recently picked up some work - just in time to fend off the taxman too. I'm working up in town, so it's good old public transport for me. First there's the fifteen minute walk to the station at six o'clock, in the dark and bitter cold – that wakes you up. But, this morning I was suddenly aware of the dawn chorus. On a fine spring day, as the sun peeps over the horizon, touching the fresh green buds on the trees with its warming glow, it's easy to imagine the birdies bursting into song to celebrate the unalloyed joy of just being alive on such a glorious morning. Today though, two song thrushes were calling to each other from opposite sides of the road:“Bugger me it's frigging nippy this morning”, chortled the first. “Too right Bro,” came the answering call. “It's cold enough to freeze the balls off an arctic tern!” At the station, I attempt to run up the steps without taking a breath. The heady aroma of stale urine is too much to bear that early. But then, wonder of wonders, the train arrives on time, and being the hour of 'sparrow fart', I'm able to not only get a seat, but choose one where the chewing-gum stuck to the upholstery has lost most of it's initial tackiness. Also, I can steer clear of all people with MP3-players which can be a bit like sitting next to a box of cicadas. And we're off … … … … ... and we've stopped. Two stations down the line, we grind to a halt. Apparently, some tosser has decided to go for a drunken ramble down the railway track, and all the power has been shut off while the Old Bill try to rugby tackle him and cart him off to sober up. The guard gives regular updates, none of which add to the sum total of my knowledge as to whether I should sit it out on the train, or find another way. I wouldn't normally say I was the lynch-pin of any job, but in this case I knew that there would be a load of people kicking their heels until I got to work. Fortunately, the train soon started crawling forward and (two tube trains later) I got to work. Then after eleven hours, I was able to repeat the whole process in reverse - and standing up. Deep joy. The only up side to these long days is that I get extended lunch times, so I've been able to get some good walks in. Today's highlights were admiring the houses of the well-heeled, which line the river bank; watching a V formation of swans coming in, skimming the water well under the radar, and seeing a man measuring trees – someone has to do it. I'm trying to walk off some of the weight I've put on this year. One of the reasons for this urge to slim down is that I've recently had several young ladies asking me to take my clothes off so they can touch my body. They generally like to claim it's professional curiosity, but I know the truth. So, it would be good to be a bit more 'toned'. Yes, they do all happen to be medics as it happens. Sadly, none of them has been able to tell me what's wrong with me though. The latest one, who talked over the results of a chest x-ray with me, looked seriously underage - about sixteen. She would surely have been asked for ID in any reputable bar. Was she just on work-experience and strayed into the wrong room? Apparently, she tells me, I have a broken rib. How the hell did that happen!? But at least the mystery pain has been explained. Oh no! Not so fast! This teenage doctor says that the rib in question is well away from where my pain is, and she reckons it's a “red herring” (and I quote). I hope she knows what she's talking about. What if it were to puncture my lung? I'd hate my epitaph to be “Here lies Portly, carried off before his time by a red herring”. Is that anything like “a surfeit of Lampreys”? (Overseas readers, please Google it.) Now she starts asking embarrassing questions such as “How much alcohol do you drink”. I make a mental calculation. Well usually a couple of beers … a vodka and tonic … about a bottle of wine … maybe an Armagnac … In the end, I just make a rough estimate and say, “Probably a bottle of wine and a couple of pints”. Of course, she knows I'm lying (doesn't everyone round things down a tad?) That's good to know. I am now on first name terms with most of the staff at the local medical centre (center) I've spent so long there. Investigations continue. See you soon ... if the herrings don't carry me off. 9:08 p.m. - 26 January, 2010 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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