This year, if things go to plan, I will be moving to
the countryside (if somewhere that straddles the M25 can be described as
rural). All my columns will be about unusual leaves I have seen, or a bee that
has got into my kitchen (it’s going to be awful for you). But for now I am
still in cosmopolitan, up-and-coming Shepherd’s Bush, the kidney of London
(it’s quite close to the heart, but smells quite a lot like piss) so adventure
is never far away.
The other afternoon I took my daughter for a walk and
the air was full of craziness. I was
stopped and asked for directions by an elderly lady and her daughter. Unusually
they gave me the postcode of where they
wanted to be, rather than the street name. They weren’t reading the postcode.
Weird! They knew the postcode off by heart.
And yet still didn’t know where it, or indeed they, were. I could only surmise
that they were travellers from the future when all places, people and things
are named by letters and numbers and nothing has a name.
I was prepared to put the postcode into my phone, but
then they gave me the road name. Which I knew. Take that people of the future!
Our old-fashioned ways are best. They were a good mile or so away from where
they wanted to be and seemed to doubt me when I pointed northwards. The mother
shook her head and told me I was wrong and gave me the name of the building
they wanted. Obviously that meant as much as the postcode, so I turned to my
phone which revealed it was halfway up the road I’d already directed them to.
They were flabbergasted. They had totally lost their sense of direction in the
Bush’s winding, Dickensian streets.
There was no time to chat. A bedraggled old man was staggering towards us. He screamed in absolute
terror for one second, then became totally calm, then screamed again. His pain
was not physical. He had just lived in Shepherd’s Bush for too long. I
left before the Bush zombie could make me one of his own. The Bush black hole
doesn’t yet have me in its clutches. I can still escape.
Later, a man with his phone pushed so hard to his face
that his cheek could be used as an iPhone mould, barged past me. I heard him
say, “No, I lost my car. If I lose my money I lose everything I have…"
Then he was gone. How tantalising and exciting is
that? It was as if my slow-paced, largely unamusing, sitcom of a life had
intersected with an action movie. How had he lost his car? Who was he asking
for help? Was he another time traveller and he’d lost his Delorean?
I wanted to stop and offer him some help, but on the
other hand I really didn’t. His life sounded terrifying. It was annoying not to
find out what was going on. But more annoying, I guess, to be him.
I went home, played with my daughter, changed her
nappy, bathed her and put her to bed. It was fun, but I imagine that any
viewers who’d accidentally switched protagonist as I’d passed that
guy would be a bit disappointed with the story they got to follow. Forget
Herring singing “Row your fricking boat”, what happened to the lost car guy?
I suppose none of these people knew where they were
going, but were still all in a rush to get there.
But then again, aren’t we all?
I am back on a diet. In 2014
I lost over two stones by counting calories and exercising regularly. In
2015, I put on two stones by eating
everything that chanced across my path (as long as I didn’t have to move to get
it). The year is even, so I must lose
weight again. I yoyo my way
through life. And not in the fun way that involves an actual yoyo.
