Round up and inconsequential stuff

Friday night and I find myself master and sole proprietor of the Athenaeum Club for the next few days (probably). I was aware that colonel_maxim was most probably off for filial duty, but hadn't appreciated until seeing his LJ that he was going straight from work today.

My response to this intelligence? Did I phone round my friends and set up an impromptu party with drink, drugs and strippers? No. An all-weekend poker school, perhaps? No. I went downstairs, made a cup of coffee and switched all the lights off. I am now up in The Tower idling my Friday evening away. No change there, then.

I have always liked Friday evenings. The weekend is still to come, and the working week is over. It is all potential - the fact that my main talent lies in squandering that potential is irrelevant; as of yet it hasn't been squandered. (Don't worry, though, I have scheduled in some industrial strength squandering, so not to fret).

I was impressed yet again by the Northern Line on my way home: the way it gives the impression of random chaos, and yet runs with a gleeful perfection that is truly inspired. The secret to understanding the operation of this particular Tube Line is to accept that wherever you wish to travel to on it, outside of Zone 1, the first train is always full regardless of destination. This doesn't matter, because there will be a train to the same destination, completely empty, one minute behind. This observation is only modified if the destination of you and the train coincide. At that point, the next useful train will be 10-15 minutes behind, even during the rush hour when the nearby Victoria Line is disgorging commuters at the rate of 200 a minute onto the platform so they can keep you company while you change lines.

Now, to take your mind off the inevitable discomfort you will suffer as a consequence of standing on an overcrowded and hot underground platform, London Transport have inaugurated the random train indicator. This is a marvellous device by which the word 'correction' flashes up at regular intervals, and the next train time and destination changes randomly to something else. When the train arrives, there is perhaps a chance in three that the train is actually going where the indicator says it is. A recent innovation is to have the indicator flash the message 'check destination on front of train' - but this requires careful timing. The train must already be on the platform and the front and rear therefore inaccessible to the public viewer on account of safety regulations prohibiting punters from climbing down onto the track to get a good look at the front of the carriage.

Marvellous sport.

There is one final modification that illustrates the zen-like genius of the controller of the Northern Line. When all other forms of entertainment pall, take out your watch, and time the minutes on the indicator. The Northern Line minute lasts between seventy and ninety seconds.

You are not being impatient: time really does drag on the Underground. This is why the second volume of my eventual autobiography will be entitled "The Eternal Minute of the Northern Line". It's pseudy and it's true.

Volume One, by the way, will be called "Gary Dobbs is Broken" but I'll explain that another time.

Round up and inconsequential stuff

Friday night and I find myself master and sole proprietor of the Athenaeum Club for the next few days (probably). I was aware that colonel_maxim was most probably off for filial duty, but hadn't appreciated until seeing his LJ that he was going straight from work today.

My response to this intelligence? Did I phone round my friends and set up an impromptu party with drink, drugs and strippers? No. An all-weekend poker school, perhaps? No. I went downstairs, made a cup of coffee and switched all the lights off. I am now up in The Tower idling my Friday evening away. No change there, then.

I have always liked Friday evenings. The weekend is still to come, and the working week is over. It is all potential - the fact that my main talent lies in squandering that potential is irrelevant; as of yet it hasn't been squandered. (Don't worry, though, I have scheduled in some industrial strength squandering, so not to fret).

I was impressed yet again by the Northern Line on my way home: the way it gives the impression of random chaos, and yet runs with a gleeful perfection that is truly inspired. The secret to understanding the operation of this particular Tube Line is to accept that wherever you wish to travel to on it, outside of Zone 1, the first train is always full regardless of destination. This doesn't matter, because there will be a train to the same destination, completely empty, one minute behind. This observation is only modified if the destination of you and the train coincide. At that point, the next useful train will be 10-15 minutes behind, even during the rush hour when the nearby Victoria Line is disgorging commuters at the rate of 200 a minute onto the platform so they can keep you company while you change lines.

Now, to take your mind off the inevitable discomfort you will suffer as a consequence of standing on an overcrowded and hot underground platform, London Transport have inaugurated the random train indicator. This is a marvellous device by which the word 'correction' flashes up at regular intervals, and the next train time and destination changes randomly to something else. When the train arrives, there is perhaps a chance in three that the train is actually going where the indicator says it is. A recent innovation is to have the indicator flash the message 'check destination on front of train' - but this requires careful timing. The train must already be on the platform and the front and rear therefore inaccessible to the public viewer on account of safety regulations prohibiting punters from climbing down onto the track to get a good look at the front of the carriage.

Marvellous sport.

There is one final modification that illustrates the zen-like genius of the controller of the Northern Line. When all other forms of entertainment pall, take out your watch, and time the minutes on the indicator. The Northern Line minute lasts between seventy and ninety seconds.

You are not being impatient: time really does drag on the Underground. This is why the second volume of my eventual autobiography will be entitled "The Eternal Minute of the Northern Line". It's pseudy and it's true.

Volume One, by the way, will be called "Gary Dobbs is Broken" but I'll explain that another time.