Some assembly required

On the day: 

27/04/2012

On the way: 

And there came a day like no other... 

There's this guy in my carriage today wearing a Captain America T-shirt.

It's me.

Avengers Assemble!

On the pod: 

Know Your Quarry - Biffy Clyro

On the front page: 

Murdoch urged to reveal details of first inquiry into hacking (The Times)

I got sunshine... in a bag

On the day:
26/04/2012


On the way:
First the bike, then the bloke, bags hanging off them, four maybe five.  
He's not really got a handle on them. They've got handles of course, and straps, and he's in touch with each - a dark blue one slung over a shoulder, a khaki one with press-stud pockets swinging from the crook of an elbow, a multi-coloured woven affair secured to the handlebar of the bike by his left hand and others scattered over his person. But they're not occupying his whole attention, or even much of it. 
He's more intent on whoever's on the other end of the phone in his right hand. Someone by the name of Brudda, evidently. He's talking animatedly, babbling, really. It is English, and seems to take the form of an explanation for being late, but the speed and the cantering Caribbean accent make his conversation close to unintelligible. To me, anyway - which is fine because it really is none of my business.
His head bobs excitedly, on top of it several scarves of bright colours - grass green, sunshine yellow, deep pink - cushion his candyfloss white head (spotted later as he gathers himself towards himself on a station platform) from a bulky cycling helmet, which accentuates every nod and wobble. 
But what comes across, what shines through, in the chaos of bag, bike and babble are the good cheer the rays of warmth, the Smithian patch of blue he brings into the carriage from the dreary and damp station platform. Even if you can't see him, his sunny smile, his eyes darting hither and thither sparkling like a kingfisher, he"s infectious, he's irresistable. Unless you happen to be the dark haired lady half way down the carriage with the sharply pointed nose and the even more sharply pointed glare. But statistically speaking, the chances are awfully slim. 
Then the inevitable. One of the bags, probably the khaki one on the animated right elbow, swings wildly in the enclosed space and bumps an arm. It could be anyone's. It's mine. These things happen on a train - they are routinely brushed off, ignored with English embarrassment. But not this time 
The head, the scarves and the helmet whip round in a rainbow of colour. He's still smiling but there's nothing offhand or insincere about his apology. "Hey, I'm sorry, brudda."
Of course it's not necessary, but it's appreciated, if only on a level at which shared humanity it recognaised. 
And anyway, if someone's going to bump me with a bag, this is the guy I want it to be. 


On the pod: 
Cherry Lips - Garbage 


On the front page: 
Police probe London voting fraud (London Evening Standard)

A good start

On the day:
25/04/2012


On the way:
It's raining, its pouring, the old man is snoring... 
The little boy's brown strap trainers swing far above the the sloshy floor of the bus. He's well bundled up against the cold and damp, blue scarf neatly arranged to flop out at the collar of his hooded jacket. Broad smile and wide, lively eyes. 
He went to bed and bumped his head... 
And his beanie is navy with red Spider-Man symbols on it. And big white Spidey eyes on the front. What a cool mum he must have. 
And couldn't get up in the morning... 
Does have, sitting next to him. A  smile full of bashful charm and white teeth, like her son's, and gentle, doting eyes accentuated by her pulled-back hair. She's neatly dressed like the boy - black coat, black boots, blue jeans. And they're chatting constantly, pleasantly, his flutelike trill contrasts with her smooth, low tones. And singing. What a positive start to a commute. What a positive start to a youngster's life. 
Rain, rain, go away... 
Oh well, that's one little disappointment he's going to have to get used to. 


On the pod: 
When The Music's Over - The Doors 


On the front page: 
Spy DNA mystery (Metro)

Perilous undertaking

On the day: 
24/04/2012 


On the way:
His brow is a rocky outcrop - there should be birds circling above it, gliding on the updraft from his presumably warm exhalation - the kind a climbers relishes, controlling his breath to calm any faltering nerves as he hangs, parallel with the ground far below, hammering in spike after spike, threading through loops of rope and creeping inch by inch , stomach to stone, towards the relative security of the ledge ahead. 
Below the brow and its blades of unruly grey flora, juts a severe nose, hooked, and below that a protruding chin. 
He walks with purpose, with long but firm strides. His sheer, black,  knee-length coat, his dark trousers and shiny black shoes only add to the impression that he is an undertaker. You've got to wonder whether he has a collapsible top hat in the bag slung over his right shoulder, maybe a well-thumbed tape measure in his closed left hand, a pair of grey gloves tucked into an inside pocket. 
Convenient, perhaps, but it can't bode well for the climber as a patch of compromised rock crumbles and a minute spike and a tiny carabiner spin through the air followed by a tenuous strand of rope down towards the station platform far, far below. 


On the pod: 
Being Followed - Duran Duran 


On the front page: 
Boris v Ken: Now it's neck and neck (The Evening Standard)

Presence of mind

On the day: 
23/04/2012 


On the way: 
He's huge. 
His presence is felt throughout the carriage the moment he steps on board. It must be. His head bows as he steps through the door and inside he occupies his space substantially, cascading from ceiling to floor, towering from floor to ceiling. 
No one looks up. No one needs to. No one dares. He's Samuel L Jackson, Michael Clark Duncan, Darth Vader. But there's nothing malevolent about him. At that scale you would know. 
His black coat falls long and elegant. His right hand hangs relaxed, his fist must be the size of a child's head, it could crush a rottweiler's skull, but there's no menace in it. The other carries a briefcase fingers lightly curled round the handle. Whatever  the load - gold ingots, printers' plates, depleted uranium - whatever the weight - bloodguilt, lemon pavlova - that hand can carry, must  have carried, far greater. 
He turns, he passes, that massive bulk in the narrow aisle without brushing, without sound, towards the dead end of the carriage. That never happens. There's always a nudge, a glance, a bump, an apology,  a stumble as the carriage jolts, a wan smile, some form of unwelcome contact. But nothing. No one turns. No one looks up. Why would they? There's no call for question, no challenge to make. 
But there's curiosity. Surely there's curiosity? It grows as stations slip by. Just another glimpse at this man panther, this other Atlas. I glance over my shoulder, then turn and linger a moment more. 
A small woman with curly grey hair wearing a buttoned up coat and carrying a floral knapsack. A girl, jet black, a hint of purple in her dead-straight fringe. A big guy with a black hair bristling from every opening in his short sleeved, blue and white striped cotton shirt, bright threads twisted into a shaggy bracelet on his left wrist. A pair of chatty Asian chaps in suits, city shirts and shoes and ostentatious watches. A sallow lass with loosely tied-up mousy hair wearing tassled moccasin-style booties and a rumpled rain coat. A lofty fellow with a scimitar nose, cropped  hair and beard, and combat trousers, sweatshirt and satchel that, for all their variation in shade, could all be described as olive green. 
But a giant of a man, an imposing presence, a benevolent titan, a tower of strength?
 You saw him, didn't you. Didn't you?


On the pod: 
Fire Woman - The Cult 


On the front page: 
Sarkozy faces defeat (The Times)

Night shades

On the day:
20/04/2012


On the way:
It's late. The platform is empty. The last passenger train is long gone, the last travellers safely delivered to their destinations. 
Hours ago the benificent station manager, let's call him John, put away his broom, switched off his intercom, logged out of his computer, turned off the lights, locked up his office and closed the grille on the tiny ticketing hall, snapping shut the hefty padlock with a wry version of that shy smile he bestows on visitors to his counter. No one's coming in here tonight, no one ever would. 
Over the course of 12 years he has come to know and love this two-track stop. It's nowhere near the hurly-burly of the urban terminus, it's far from the picture perfect rural siding. But it's his, his station, his community, his service, his responsibility. And in 12 years trouble has rarely if ever, come there. And he can sleep the sleep of the just, safe in the knowledge that he has performed his service to the best of his ability, with good will. Yes, he has been in bed these past three hours and the sleepy station is securely shored up against the creatures of the night. 
But still, they come. 
For from far beyond the wooden frame of the station bridge, deep within the inky blackness that swallows up the tracks like a heedless leviathan trawling the ocean floor, from there comes sound. It's a mutter before it's a murmur, a murmur before it's a rumble, a rumble before it's a roar and then only, then might the security cameras catch their first glimpse of the approaching storm, if only they could see at all. 
Those who live nearby know it's coming, those who have not received the benediction of sleep, and they burrow their heads beneath their pillows. And young mothers hold their babies to their breasts and pray this night will not be their night. But they do not see. 
They do not see the swart column explode from the darkness, black from blacker still, yard after yard of endless night, every inch hammering, grinding the tracks, a cacophony of iron against iron, pounding down with crushing force - who knew darkness had such terrible mass -  channeled between man-made banks of brick and concrete and under the bridge, blunt head powering, crashing, irresistable through near solid slabs of empty space. 
And stops. The sound and the fury. Leaving stillness, silence, almost, as the rustle of the unkempt grass and tow-headed weeds on the bank shuffles down from the star-nuzzling line of trees towards the platform showing itself in the newborn silence, and the shadows shift between the stalks, as stroked by a breeze. But not a breath follows the halting of the juggernaut it doesn't dare. And still the shadows ripple up to the great spiked metal fence, flow through, and trickle across a tarmac expanse towards the concrete flags at the platform's edge. Tiny silhouettes take form, bent backs, stocky bodies topped by round heads extended sideways by bat-like ears, like the mischievous shades of a fairytale, of a dream. 
But what mischief is here? Some have swarmed across the rails and pried open the nearest of the massive blocks borne by the juggernaut, some have already slid aside, no, flipped up a slab from the platform wall. There's light in there, firelight far below. Already the rattle of - of what? - cascading down a metal shute. A metal shute? Produced  from where? A faint glow against its sides like embers, golden, orange, brighter, faint again. It's there and it's gone in an unhurried instant, vanished like the shades. 
And so is the swart column carrying its clamour and terror to the south, thunder fadiing into the night. 
Hours will pass, the sun will chase away the shadows, and John will return with his keys to unlock the gates, turn on the lights, and sweep the night's detritus and dreaming from the platform. 


On the pod: 
Oceania - Thomas Dolby 


On the front page: 
Mayday in Whitehall (The Times)

Doctor my eyes

On the day: 
18/04/2012 


On the way: 
Her coat is double-breasted. No sniggers, please, it's too easy. 
Her coat is double-breasted, knee length, vertical ridges, a conker brown bag with black straps, soft leather, like her boots, black, forgiving but stylish. Powder compact in hand, with some sort of pink design on its lid, Art Nouveau perhaps, but less Mucha, more Lautrec, y'know, Moulin Rouge, or Revue Rose, maybe I'll recognise it if I only turn my head a little this way, or that, oh yes, that's more familiar, its... its... oh, it's a Moomintroll, carefully combing her lttle fringe peering over hippopotamoid mouth into a tiny mirror. Finnish fairytales, French follies. Near enough.
But here's where the powers of perception step up a gear. It's her more functional bag that gives the clue to the stop where she'll be disembarking, the words National Clinical Research in white. The hospital. Which may explain the long minutes carefully spent applying minimal but immaculate make-up. She'll have to look healthy but not tarty, like she takes care but is not obsessed with the way she looks, like the details are important but so is the big picture, like she has a steady hand, a keen eye and the ability to perform under pressure, like she gets her timing right and she knows where she's going, to be in the right place at the right place. Oh no, there's nothing you can hide from the master detective, it's elementary my dear Watson. Ask me anything. Anything. Or should I say, "Dr Watson"? Hah! How do you like that? Huh? Um, well.  Actually maybe nurse Watson.  Nurse at least... Definitely.
The train stops, opens waits, closes leaves. She sits back in her seat, thumbs a stick of gum in her mouth, and gazes though the window at the rain on the passing red brick chimneys, cracked conservatories and unkempt back gardens. 


On the pod: Into The Fire - Thirteen Senses


On the front page: Radical cleric back in jail but legal battle goes on

Bright but dim

On the day:
17/04/2012


On the way:
April showers, May flowers, yadda yadda yadda. This is the station, here. 
It has already had its flourish of daffodils, those irrationally optimistic yellow heads bursting through the ice and snow at the faintest glimmer of sunlight. 
But there's something irresistible about those cheerful faces, the village idiots dutiful, daff's army, in their haphazard formation, standing to attention out  on the green in all weathers, beaming through the sleet. Stupid boys. 
But by mid-April they're gone, mostly. Pulled up their roots, packed up their suitcases, crossed the rails in the dark of night and hopped on a southbound, the 23.39, the last train for the coast, the day the daffys died, and we were singing... 
A bedraggled rearguard remains, someone has to watch over the bulbs unil the next season, perky petals wilting, golden grins, sunny sides up, all bowing their heads, rotting to brown, the ultimate sacrifice. So rest in peace brave soldiers until you rise again, bursting brightly through next season's snows.
Meanwhile we'll just have to make do with summer sunshine.
After those showers. 


On the pod:
Talking Loud and Clear - Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. 


On the front page:
Breivik impassive as court hears desperate phone call from Utoya

Tidy score

On the day:
16/04/2012


On the way:
His hair is neat, his beard neater, smooth hands with clean, short but not nibbled nails. 
White shirt, black jersey (it's not a tank top, the cuffs can be seen at his wrists, neatly revealing just a centimetre of white shirt cuff, but he looks like he could carry one off, in fact he has got to have a few in shades from beige to restrained burgundy), his  trousers neat, grey but with lines narrow black and occasional wider tan running vertically, narrow black with occasional wine red, and black shoes, the kind that have just three eyes for laces up near the mouth, then acres of leather down to a point, but not excessive, y'know. Neat. 
On his lap is a pile of papers. Not neat, disappointingly. The top page bears the word 'Briefing' in bold letters, beside him a bag with a Mayor of London logo on it. A Boris boy, then. But he's not studying his papers, they were cast aside when he got the news. Which explains why they are no longer neat. So that's all right then. 
The news from his insider in the Livingstone camp, the tip-off that Red Ken has a new election strategy based on his discovery that Boris has been... That Boris has been what? Come on. Think this one through. If I knew the answer to that, would I be writing this blog or would I be using the information to fund a week off perusing the varied artistic treasures of Catalonian and Castillian Spain? 
No. No I don't know what surprises such a leak would spring. And no, he's no longer studying a now defunct briefing, he is focused on his phone, his neat fingertips stabbing with intent and precision, a warning to the Tory campaign manager. Of course he's not calling, loose lips sink mayoral bids. 
Now his stop is approaching. He stuffs his papers into his bag, glances once more at his phone, frowns, the decision is made, the Rubicon is crossed, alea iacta est, one more stab at touchscreen. The phone responds.
Pa-pada-pa pa-pada-pa pa-padapadapadapadapada-pa. Do you want to continue playing Angry Birds? No. 
Still, he was 1,200 points over Nick M's hi-score. Tidy.


On the pod: 
The Saltwater Room - Owl City


On the front page: 
Military tells Cameron to retreat over new jets (The Times)

On his majesty's secret service

On the day:
15/04/2012

On the way:
The bus is at a stop. It has spat out its passengers, the doors are lurching closed, front and back. And suddenly he's there.
A figure has appeared. Out of nowhere. Through the closing doors. Not even the front door. The back doors.
A man in a creased leather coat, Argyle diamond-pattern jersey in shades of burgundy black and grey, battered bald head, left eye narrowed, the right narrowed more, suspicious, no, defiant, his mouth set in a downturned smirk of satisfaction, the one Robbie Williams has patented, with a barely visible nod of affirmation, you know you want it, well, you got it.
He maintains the pose and assesses his audience, I dare you, gets the lie of the land, then strides, or is it a strut, to the front of the bus, then back. And this time he's armed. Two fingers raised, two to the palm, a Beretta 418. He's Bond, Connery, Moore, Brosnan, Craig, dude on the bus. He swivels, surveys, and sees the coast is clear. The Beretta returns to its holster, two fingers trace a line from from his waist down between his zip and his pocket. He's got the stance, he's got the gaze, he's got the license to mumble.
But now words are discernable, bubbling up from the burble,first one, two, then whole phrases, sentences even..."Gi'm a break... E's alright"... "E may be conservative but e's the prime minister"... "When you're wrong, do as the wrong uns do"... "David Cameron. E's the guvnor, right"... "E rocks the country"... "David Cameron run this country. Not the queen"... "E runs England. Amen"... "E's got the last word"...
Then he's off, into the night, job done, mission accomplished,

On the pod:
The Fallen - Franz Ferdinand

On the front page:
Tories rebel on charity tax cap (The Sunday Times)

Witch washroom?

On the day:
14/04/2012


On the way:
At the entrance to the public lavatory, euphimistically derived from the Latin word for the washroom, lavare, to wash - yep, the Yanks have got their terminology spot-on, although I still feel 'the bog' better captures its spirit, not to mention the material manifestation, particularly when it comes to the men's facilities. 
And anyway so there's turnstiles and a counter where you can change your cash for coins, specifically 20p coins which is the going rate for a voidance nowadays, which is twice what it was ten years ago, and what kind of world is it where even bowel movements are subject to inflation. 
And anyway so the counter is an opening in a white wall and on the white wall are big square white tiles arranged running in rows parallel to the ground or in columns perpendicular to the ground depending on your perspective not that it matters because, the tiles being square, it's pretty much the same thing, much like Dokka Umarov captain of the Islamic Emirate of the North Caucasus Emirate and Steven Gerrard emir of Liverpool Football Club, and precisely like the Cheeky Girls, except... there are also a couple of geometric shapes, rhombuses I guess or rhombi, but let's just call them diamonds, in black to break up the monotony of the white walls because, let's face it, if you're standing outside a public lavvie and gazing at the walls, you're going to want something more interesting to look upon, are you not? Something like, for argument's sake, a diamond in black to the left of the counter and another diamond in black to the right of the counter. And if that's what you want, that's exactly what the obliging folks at the Station and Environs Public Lavatory Aesthetic Committee are going to provide. 
And anyway so approaching the facility in question from the east what meets my eyes is a lady with bouffy black hair in a long, dark coat, standing in front of the counter, reaching into her black patent leather purse with gold criss-cross stitching, presumably to extract money to change for 20p coins so that she can avail herself of the amenities. And from this angle the ellipse of her coiffure colludes with the upper point of the tiled diamond shape on the western side of the change counter to give the impression of a witch's hat. Which is just silly because why would a witch ask for change if she could use a simple hex to get through the turnstile?


On the pod:
The Swing Of Things - A-Ha


On the front page: 
Exposed: the reality behind London's 'ethical' Olympics

Goggle-eyed

On the day:
13/04/2012


On the way:
His head is shiny bald like lovingly polished mahogany, a pleasing shape, not quite the blunt end of an egg, rising like the dome of some exotic temple above... 
A pair of spectacles from the Seventies, the kind Michael Caine might have worn, though on this guy they look more like goggles, maybe the corners are more rounded off, dark irises indistinguishable from their pupils like a cartoon character, and do the whites occupy the whole of the outsized lenses, if not they should, the panes of a window on a soul where resides Captain Fantastic... 
Perched on ears decorated with flourescent vermillion buttons, glowing against cosy darkness nestled into a cradle of faux fur... 
It has to be a disguise. Hasn't it? Hasn't it? The man next to him thinks so. The man sneaking surreptitious  sidelong glances of deep suspicion from beneath beetling brows (that's a great word, beetling, and common usage has ensured we understand it, but what the...? Whoever came up with the term must have failed primary school biology spectacularly if they were unable to tell the difference between a caterpillar and a beetle). 
And he should know, having purchased Groucho Marx forehead foliage from the high street fancy dress shop and passed himself off as Eugene Levy.


On the pod:
This Year's Love - David Gray


On the front  page:
Universities in revolt at plan to curb tax breaks

Customers are reminded

on the day:
12/04/2012


on the way:
It"s a small Thursday morning gathering on the platform - the florid white-haired gentleman neatly dressed in a chocolate brown felt coat, his shoes shone, the Times in his hand; the glamorous black woman with a head of bouncy curls sitting cross-legged in a pose of unexpected comfort on a resolutely uncomfortable iron platform bench; the slim bloke in turned up blue jeans straight out of a Bros video, a grey zipped jacket and a slightly incongruous flat cap; a few others filling out the numbers as the familiar time approaches. 
"The next train at platform 2 is not for customer use..." says the helpful woman trapped in the tannoy. She is roundly ignored. She says the same thing every day. They've heard it all before. 
"Customers are reminded not to leave bags unattended..." A lesson  long, since received and understood. Long since not noticed, a voice in the wilderness.  
"The next train on platform 1..." Down the railway in the distance the 09:17 emerges from under a rusting railway bridge in panels of gunmetal grey and reddish brown. 
"Parents and guardians are reminded that the station can be a dangerous environment..." The waiting passengers move, almost unthinkingly, a step towards the platform edge, ready to board as the train closed in. A heavily laden mother cajoles a little girl, a bundle of conflicting and contrasting pinks - coat close to purple, dusty rose tights, highlighter pink teacosy hat, Mary Janes almost red - down the last four steps onto the platform. 
Eyes glance to their right. It's a nice one: sleek, white, a yellow stripe, grey underbelly, a faint glimmer in its headlights, and is that the tiniest twitch of anticipation as its nose reaches the regulatory circle of pinprick red lights... with an effortless flick of its tail, like an orca rising for an unsuspecting seal on an ice floe, it leaps from the rail, twisting to its left, its mouth gaping below the yellow stripe and above the grey, teeth showing small and rounded against its maw but plenty big enough and sharp enough to tear through yielding mammalian flesh, onto the platform, clearing it with ruthless efficiency, before flopping back onto the track and disappearing on its route under the wooden facade of the bridge to the north. 
Leaving behind nothing, no witness but a formation of pinprick red lights, six uncomfortable metal benches, a long-blind CCTV camera and a wide-eyed bundle in conflicting and contrasting shades of pink on the third from bottom step down to the platform. 
And she won't be chatting about it any time soon.


on the pod:
This Is How I Disappear - My Chemical Romance


on the front page:
Scandal of NHS patients thrown out in the dark

Paper round

on the day:
11/04/2012


on the way:
A man just spoke on the train. 
Not to his mate sitting next to him, can you believe it, just a few weeks ago we were wondering whether we'd get into Europe and now I reckon we're nailed on for third. 
Not to his child who is on holiday this week so must accompany him to the office because his wife's colleagues can't be expected to watch over the boy again, however well-behaved he is, especially compared with Ansa"s brat, this isn't a creche you know. 
Not to the incomprehensibly invisible entity who turns out to be on the receiving end of a hands-free kit who may or may not care what "he's turned around and he's like..." but the rest of the passengers in the coach certainly don't, especially not at that pitch and volume and over the course of 25 seemingly interminable minutes. 
Not to the incomprehensibly invisible entity who turns out to remain invisible but more comprehensible as the provenance of the faint but distinct and unavoidable smell of dried-on human urine becomes clearer in the shape of that bloke with the. unrestrained beard in the irredeemably stained parka. 
No, to the skinny chap in red trousers, khaki green jacket and dark grey beanie. Whom he has never met. Probably. And he has said, "Sorry, that newspaper next to you..." The rest of the request goes unspoken but fully understood. Without need for any more words the pre-used Metro crosses the carriage, left to right, from the train's perspective, right to left from mine, over four people, and its recipient hunkers down happily with the puzzles page. He likes to have the morning paper crossword solved.


on the pod:
Lose It (In The End) - Mark Ronson and the Business Intl


on the front page:
Briton's murder exposes power struggle in China (The Times)

Inspiration report

on the day:
10/04/2012


on the way:
I have not crashed into inspiration this morning. I think inspiration may have caught the early train today. 
Maybe inspiration had a report to finish before her line manager rolled in this morning. She'll have been working on it as she was sitting on the train when a jowly man with a stubbly face and greasy, greying light brown hair (although its always difficult to be sure what colour hair is when its greying and greasy when the sun is shining on it) and a large brown mole on his neck sat down next to her, his leather coat creaking. It's not like he hasn't showered or he's obese or something, thank goodness, but he is one of those people who seem to expand when he is no longer employing his muscles to remain vertical and, without realising it extend into the neighbouring spaces. Ah, there's no point in carrying on with this; she should just have stayed a bit late on Thursday. 
Then again, she probably needn't bother because Willcox is unlikely to be in before midday. He's never in on time but he can do as he bloody pleases because he's the boss although what does he do anyway other than have pointless meetings and then go down the pub or club or whatever with the partners or the  shareholders and Sharon knows all about those nights because sometimes she has to go along which is fine to a point but in the end she doesn't want to spend her spare time with old blokes talking spreadsheets or cricket and even the one who made up a poem about her that time was a bit creepy. Anyway so she'll have put her printouts back in her file, and her file back in her bag - the John Lewis carry bag, not the Visconti handbag - and thought she wouldn't want to be Willcox's PA for anything. 
But maybe it would be nice if someone wrote something about her some day.


on the pod: 
The Dolphin's Cry - Live


on the front page:
War in Syria spreads as Assad's forces lash out (The Times)

Going public

on the day:
09/04/2012


on the way:
There is something counter-intuitive about what I'm doing this morning, maybe even more so than starting a blog. I am on a bus (it could just as well be any form of public transport - aeroplane, taxi, train, foot -  but as it happens I am on perhaps the most public form available in this country) on the way to work on Easter Monday, while many in this borough, county and country are making the most of the so-called Bank Holiday.
I walked out of a warm home, inhabited by a loving wife and two loving cats (say what you will about the self-serving nature of the 'domestic' mog, and leave me to what you may consider my delusion while you continue to imagine that a human child is far different), with cupboards straining at the hinges to retain a trove of Easter booty, and stepped out into the rain to track down this slightly grubby vehicle and claim a seat that nameless thousands of unknowable hygiene have occupied before.
But there is a bright side. A little Smithian patch of blue. At least I'm not the driver.


on the pod: 
Paper Cut - Linkin Park


on the front page:
National revolt hits plans to burn waste (The Times)