Ants

The Head Honcho looked at me sheepishly after the following sentence escaped his lips:

"The tube ..." (at which point Head Honcho shook his head in sad disapproval) " ... the Underground is not for human beings."

As soon as he had said it, he must have realised it might not have been appropriate considering the tube-taking audience in front of which the comment was hastily made. Hence his subsequent sheepishness and hole-digging.

I could hear his thoughts. Those very same thoughts I would have if I perceived I had made such a "gross" faux pas.

"Oh, Shit. She takes the Tube. Does she think I mean to imply she's not human? Has she taken offence?"

"I mean it's just not any way to live .... to have to take the tube every day .... I mean I know most people can't live in central London; it's just that commuting by tube is something you can't do long term -- especially if you've known better ..."

"Oh, Crap. Does she think I mean to imply she hasn't ever known better?"

"What I mean to say is ...."

Oh, put a cork in it.

His bumbling about was testing my patience more than his snobbish approach to public transportation.

I agree that the Tube sucks. Especially at rush hour when you can smell the breath of the pin-striped head hovering above you. And you can hear the smacking of chewing gum from the school girl uniform. And you feel the elbows and backpacks and umbrellas poking into your ribs or back or butt. Yes: the Tube sucks. It's no place for humans; and, at rush hour we are all a little less human as we vulture for an empty seat, as we charge through the doors, as we are corralled through the tunnels and out the turnstiles where we gallop home for dinner and a little bit of freedom.

The Head Honcho moved into a description of his ideal scenario.

"The way to do it is like many executives do: have a driver."

He said it with his tongue halfway in his cheek and a twinkle in his eye. Obviously, he knows a chauffeured sedan is not a viable commute option for the majority of working monkeys.

If you know me, you know why his comment would have galled me: in the American Heartland, Land of Wide Roads and Sidewalks For Show Only, I did not own a car. On purpose. My vehicular philosophy: cars should be eschewed; chewed up and spit out. I know my views are extreme; so I reigned in my urge to scream, "Walk! Ride! Take the bus! And yes, if need be, go down into the bowels of the city!" I was pleasant; I smiled; I changed the subject. (He is the Head Honcho, after all).

As I lumbered down the escalator steps on my way home from work, I contemplated the exchange and was struck by our (public transport taking Londoners') ant-like nature. Trails of ants pushing and shoving and slowly making progress from one point to another, and mostly underground. Hardly an original thought, but something to keep me occupied during the daily slog.

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And a postscript .... The inspiring Overnight Editor wrote this post, which goes into much more detail about the animals that we are on the Tube. Made me laugh ... then made me pull my hair out when I went looking for it in his archives. He was kind enough to guide me to it. Enjoy.

There You Have It

Sloth. Greed. Wrath. Gluttony. Lust. Envy. Pride.

Those are the reasons why I'm contemplating the construction of a wall, or some similar structure intended to divide. Me from them.

Keep me from their graffiti, their beer cans, and shit.

Keep me from their botanical thievery and drunken rages against the little bit of nature inhabiting the space in front of my flat.

To that end, barricade-like options have been considered. Railings. Hedges. Gates. Barbed wire. Shards of glass embedded in an upright position on the top of my currently innocuous concrete wall. You get the idea.

Decisions will soon be made, and orders placed.

And, while I eagerly await the coming barricade, a twinge of remorse jangles my self-esteem.

Am I a snob?

Pride

I hear the intentional scratching of loose pebbles outside my window.

What's that? . . . . Could it be?

"Hey, My Man, do you hear that? It must be the dog ... the dog of The Sloth. My Man? My Man?"

I turn and reach out to nudge My Man awake. My hand falls into empty space before resting on My Man's recently left indentation.

What the?
My Man is, generally, a better weekend-morning-sleeper than I am. But this morning he is out of bed before I have a chance to start the coffee. Where is he?

Maybe he's just in the loo.

"HEY! My Man!"

Nothing.

What the?

I throw the duvet off me, scamper from the bed to the window where I peek through the blinds.

What the?

My Man is tending our garden. Rake in hands. Hands in muddied, garden gloves. My Man after picking up shit and beer cans is raking the ornamental pebbles into an even layer.

A twinge of guilt flutters somewhere just below and to the left of my bellybutton. I shrug it off and head to the kitchen where coffee awaits.

Envy

The panhandler has been with me for some three years now. He comes and goes, but he's always the same. He sits on my wall with his oversized can of beer. He lights up the remaining tobacco from a cigarette butt he's picked up off the pavement. His beady, rodent eyes dart back and forth looking for charitable hearts. His beard, which has never fully grown in, hasn't been shaven in recent years; it's a patchy mat that hints at red. This man, if he had hair, would be ginger. But, he doesn't have hair. Most times, his head is covered by a beanie. He seems to be permanantly dusted by construction site powder; so, no colour on him is any pure colour, but a faded, powdered, dirty colour. He is so distinctively rat-like in a blue-eyed, ginger-headed type of way that he could certainly play the rogue to a number of national stereotypes: Polish or Russian or Irish or Dickensian English.

I hate this man. He makes my skin crawl.

He has asked me once, twice maybe three times if I had any change to spare. Typically, I try to look people in the eye*. I was raised to appreciate eye contact. Like a good handshake, eye contact says something about a person. I look till workers in the eye when I say thank you; people on the tube I might accidently jostle or bump might get a little 'Sorry about that' look; my boss, especially during my APR** gets strong eye contact; why, I even have a certain rapport going with the Italian man who sells The Big Issue on Kingsway and Great Queen Street.

My panhandler, though, has a certain strength of presence that pushes my gaze downward. I think he's in tune with his power, because I sense his snide smirk, a gleeful delight in my discomfort, a heady joy of dominance. This is what it's like when the rat is the alpha dog.

He sits on my wall. I play non-chalant.

I unlock the bottom bolt. I unlock the top bolt. As I let myself in, I look over my shoulder and catch him looking over his shoulder with a snarl.

He hates me.

*Provided they don't seem crazy. If there is even the slightest hint of crazy about someone, the first rule of thumb is: AVOID EYE CONTACT
**Annual Performance Review