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)
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