Christmas Who

Steven Moffat has written what is probably the Doctor's most barmy entrance:

"Ah. Blimey. Sorry! Christmas Eve on a rooftop. Saw the chimney and my whole brain went, 'What the Hell?'"

Nine days to go.

Christmas Who

Steven Moffat has written what is probably the Doctor's most barmy entrance:

"Ah. Blimey. Sorry! Christmas Eve on a rooftop. Saw the chimney and my whole brain went, 'What the Hell?'"

Nine days to go.

Odd Fellows

It occurred to me not so long ago – I can’t remember whether I wrote about it here, or whether it cropped up in conversation elsewhere, but the commute from Essex to the office doesn’t furnish me with the same quantity or quality of interesting individuals that the Totteridge & Whetstone to Victoria run did. In those days I was regularly treated to the strange peculiarities of the Creepy Swedish Guy, the Ferret and on occasion, the strange little Gnome Lady with the beatific smile and enormous hair. There were other, less frequent characters and nearer to town, the Reality Engineers with their nuclear accelerators hidden away in their trolley cases.

For all the benefits of moving into our own house in another part of the world, I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss these people.

But this morning I realised that I was wrong.

After an absence of several weeks, we have noticed on our walk to the station that a character I encountered many times over the summer has clearly changed to his winter timetable. This is a tall guy, about 6’ 4” who power-waddles from somewhere further east to our station every morning. He always seems, rain or shine, to be dressed in the same set of clothes and walks very fast in that strange manner that is part lope, part speed walk. His hands flap at his side as if he is half-heartedly herding geese. This would all be entertaining enough, but he habitually wears trousers that are clearly designed to be worn by someone probably 4” shorter than he is. And being Essex, he wears white socks. I have named this chap Longshanks Shorttrolleys, but as we are not on speaking terms and have not been introduced, I shall refer to him more formally as Mr Shorttrolleys.

There is another guy that I see quite often, who seems to do my commute in reverse. In the summer he was remarkable for wearing cargo shorts that would have looked better on someone maybe 25 years younger. He reminds me of the animated Action Man (or GI Joe) style figures in the movie Small Soldiers. He is about 5’ 6” and oblong with a square head. He wears dark glasses all the time and has a vaguely exaggerated air of undefined purpose to him. Anyone who has watched a dwarf walk around in World of Warcraft will know what I mean. He keeps his hair very short but like a toilet brush on top. It may be a toupée; it is a completely different colour to the rest of his hair.

To summarise, in this modern age of humanity, I think I have found has happened to the elves and dwarves of old as they decline and dwindle. They try to fit in and blend, but cannot quite get a handle on it.

Odd Fellows

It occurred to me not so long ago – I can’t remember whether I wrote about it here, or whether it cropped up in conversation elsewhere, but the commute from Essex to the office doesn’t furnish me with the same quantity or quality of interesting individuals that the Totteridge & Whetstone to Victoria run did. In those days I was regularly treated to the strange peculiarities of the Creepy Swedish Guy, the Ferret and on occasion, the strange little Gnome Lady with the beatific smile and enormous hair. There were other, less frequent characters and nearer to town, the Reality Engineers with their nuclear accelerators hidden away in their trolley cases.

For all the benefits of moving into our own house in another part of the world, I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss these people.

But this morning I realised that I was wrong.

After an absence of several weeks, we have noticed on our walk to the station that a character I encountered many times over the summer has clearly changed to his winter timetable. This is a tall guy, about 6’ 4” who power-waddles from somewhere further east to our station every morning. He always seems, rain or shine, to be dressed in the same set of clothes and walks very fast in that strange manner that is part lope, part speed walk. His hands flap at his side as if he is half-heartedly herding geese. This would all be entertaining enough, but he habitually wears trousers that are clearly designed to be worn by someone probably 4” shorter than he is. And being Essex, he wears white socks. I have named this chap Longshanks Shorttrolleys, but as we are not on speaking terms and have not been introduced, I shall refer to him more formally as Mr Shorttrolleys.

There is another guy that I see quite often, who seems to do my commute in reverse. In the summer he was remarkable for wearing cargo shorts that would have looked better on someone maybe 25 years younger. He reminds me of the animated Action Man (or GI Joe) style figures in the movie Small Soldiers. He is about 5’ 6” and oblong with a square head. He wears dark glasses all the time and has a vaguely exaggerated air of undefined purpose to him. Anyone who has watched a dwarf walk around in World of Warcraft will know what I mean. He keeps his hair very short but like a toilet brush on top. It may be a toupée; it is a completely different colour to the rest of his hair.

To summarise, in this modern age of humanity, I think I have found has happened to the elves and dwarves of old as they decline and dwindle. They try to fit in and blend, but cannot quite get a handle on it.