Feed me, Seymour!

All things considered, it is not inconceivable that I may have marginally overindulged in the pub last night. Not to the point of steaming delirium or staggering intoxication or anything, but perhaps one over the eight.

I am not hungover in that klaxons-blaring-every-time-a-moth-farts sort of way and bright lights are not drilling through my retinas into my cortex. What I have got is that slightly queasy feeling that makes me think of slow-turning cement mixers deep down in my giblets. I am also fearsome hungry: I have just scoffed my sandwiches an hour ahead of schedule and I am looking at my bag of salt and vinegar French Fries with the sort of hungry expression that would make small animals quail.

In an hour or so, I may have to go out and buy another sandwich. Not a big one, but something just substantial enough to keep me ticking over this afternoon, especially since I have just cracked and opened the French Fries.

I am still hungry, but that cement mixer feeling has dissipated. I must now find something else to grumble about.

Feed me, Seymour!

All things considered, it is not inconceivable that I may have marginally overindulged in the pub last night. Not to the point of steaming delirium or staggering intoxication or anything, but perhaps one over the eight.

I am not hungover in that klaxons-blaring-every-time-a-moth-farts sort of way and bright lights are not drilling through my retinas into my cortex. What I have got is that slightly queasy feeling that makes me think of slow-turning cement mixers deep down in my giblets. I am also fearsome hungry: I have just scoffed my sandwiches an hour ahead of schedule and I am looking at my bag of salt and vinegar French Fries with the sort of hungry expression that would make small animals quail.

In an hour or so, I may have to go out and buy another sandwich. Not a big one, but something just substantial enough to keep me ticking over this afternoon, especially since I have just cracked and opened the French Fries.

I am still hungry, but that cement mixer feeling has dissipated. I must now find something else to grumble about.

Morning on the Underground

I have developed a philosophical disagreement with the flangehaddocks that run the Northern Line. Their definition of a ‘good service’ and my definition of a ‘good service’ diverge quite markedly.

For instance, this morning I was waiting on the platform at Totteridge and Whetstone as is my wont, surrounded by a crowd of bemused commuters that was rather larger than the time of morning might suggest to the unwary who know not the ways of London Underground Ltd. The indicator suggested that a Morden train may happen along in about nine minutes and a further nine after that a second train, possibly to Kennington, might chance by. The Morden train became a Kennington train and then switched between the two possible destinations a couple of times before settling on splitting the difference and not going further than East Finchley.

While this miracle of scheduling was taking place, the time indicator went blank for five minutes before hesitantly suggesting that the train might condescend to arrive in seven minutes. That didn’t fool me; I noticed that in switching to a useless destination, the controller had surreptitiously added a further three minutes to my wait as the second train was maintaining the same respectful time delay period behind that one.

While undertaking this little piece of not-so-subtle legerdemain, the cheerful but barely comprehensible little Indian announcer had the audacity, not once, but three times, to state baldly (and I assume with a straight face) that a good service was running on all London Underground lines.

The thirteen mile commute took an hour and a half from door to door.

Morning on the Underground

I have developed a philosophical disagreement with the flangehaddocks that run the Northern Line. Their definition of a ‘good service’ and my definition of a ‘good service’ diverge quite markedly.

For instance, this morning I was waiting on the platform at Totteridge and Whetstone as is my wont, surrounded by a crowd of bemused commuters that was rather larger than the time of morning might suggest to the unwary who know not the ways of London Underground Ltd. The indicator suggested that a Morden train may happen along in about nine minutes and a further nine after that a second train, possibly to Kennington, might chance by. The Morden train became a Kennington train and then switched between the two possible destinations a couple of times before settling on splitting the difference and not going further than East Finchley.

While this miracle of scheduling was taking place, the time indicator went blank for five minutes before hesitantly suggesting that the train might condescend to arrive in seven minutes. That didn’t fool me; I noticed that in switching to a useless destination, the controller had surreptitiously added a further three minutes to my wait as the second train was maintaining the same respectful time delay period behind that one.

While undertaking this little piece of not-so-subtle legerdemain, the cheerful but barely comprehensible little Indian announcer had the audacity, not once, but three times, to state baldly (and I assume with a straight face) that a good service was running on all London Underground lines.

The thirteen mile commute took an hour and a half from door to door.

Entertain Me!

I think I need to add to my friends list.

There are currently 147 people there, but about 120 of you never write a word and of the remainder about half are sporadic at best! What's happened? I refuse to believe you've all got lives all of a sudden.

I must root around and add people to entertain me!

Entertain Me!

I think I need to add to my friends list.

There are currently 147 people there, but about 120 of you never write a word and of the remainder about half are sporadic at best! What's happened? I refuse to believe you've all got lives all of a sudden.

I must root around and add people to entertain me!

Cut to the chase:

For the benefit of those on my f-list who do not read fen_wolfchile's journal, here is the potted BBC Question Time with Nick Griffin:

Now you don't have to sit through it all; the salient points are there!

Cut to the chase:

For the benefit of those on my f-list who do not read fen_wolfchile's journal, here is the potted BBC Question Time with Nick Griffin:

Now you don't have to sit through it all; the salient points are there!