well I'll be dogone

So I wait on the platform. By some miraculous chance, the train that pulls up is not too crowded and I even see – the holy grail of the rush hour traveller - AN EMPTY SEAT. I imagine the gods of the underground – a spiteful, immature bunch - have their attention elsewhere, the circle line perhaps.

When I get on the train I see why the seat is empty. A dog of giant proportions is lying in front of it and no one seems prepared to move him. I stare at the dog. It is stunning – thick fur, large round head at least as big as mine; body over a meter long. But the startling thing about him is his fur. He is stripped like a tiger with colours of biscuit, caramel and sesame.

His owner, a young black woman has hold of the lead – a large metal chain. She has long black dreds and looks like she hasn't slept in a week. They could have stepped out of the pages of a Philip Pullman book. Everyone else on the tube is staring at the dog. Most of the carriage is smiling – it has bewitched us.

We are a nation of animal lovers; the RSPCA formed 60 years before the NSPCC after all. And I am ashamed to realise that if she was blocking the seat with anything else - shopping, crutches, even a child - I would be seething with inner commuter hatred. The creature shifts and gets to his feet freeing access to the seat. I sidle around his enormous head and sit down.

'You have a very beautiful dog,' I say. Normal rules of the tube don't seem to apply when you are sitting next to a tigerdog.

'Thanks,' she smiles at me, 'he's not happy with all these people though.' The dog tries to chew the edge of my coat and she pulls him away.

'What sort of dog is he?' I ask.

'A mix - huskie and Japanese Kishu Inu.'

He turns around and sits down. On my feet. It is the best tube journey I have ever had.

This is the funny thing about London - one minute you'll be poked in the eye with an umbrella goboon and then next a tiger dog will be sitting on your feet. Whatever else it is, it certainly ain't boring.

you can stand under my umbrella

Yesterday someone hit me in the head with their umbrella. I was walking fast, in an eastwardly direction along Oxford St, and she was walking, again fast, westward bound. Somehow she managed to get me in the temple with one of the plastic goboons at the end of a spoke.

‘What the…. Jesus,’ I said rubbing my forehead.

She said nothing and continued striding along the road. The tilt of her head evoked Boadicea on her blade-bedecked chariot. I imagined her chuckling and then one day removing the plastic covering and sharpening the spoke.

I find the average commuter in London town is a barely contained mass of seething resentment. I must admit there are days when I feel not dissimilar to this.

It doesn’t take much to turn up the heat of this inner rage – and almost getting stabbed in the eye is a bit more than not much.

It was not a good moment then to join the rush of commuters pouring down the steps into the hell that is the northbound platform of the Victoria line at 5.45pm on a Tuesday.

More later…

advanced littering

Firework night is over – thank god. Like Christmas, the bangs and sparkles seem to start earlier and earlier every year. I like fireworks - in theory. Ohh Ahh Lovely. In the same way that I think veal tastes nice, but when you start thinking about it, our bizarre celebration of a failed terrorist attack leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.

The Norwegian calls fireworks displays 'advanced littering' and you can see his point. Today we need to think about the resources we use and the impact that this use has on our environment. From that point of view fireworks have little to redeem themselves.

And there aren't many other activities that lead to widespread, burning and maiming of children on a yearly basis. If fireworks were invented now, they'd be banned in a flash of a rockets tail.
To ban fireworks night, then, seems the only option.

We are also considering banning Christmas. Wrapping paper - what a waste.

Bah humbug.