On the day:
05/07/2012
On the way:
A little, elderly lady in grey slacks, orange cardie with gold buttons and spectacles boards the good ship Routemaster, followed by a hulk of a boy in jeans, baseball cap and jacket (different teams, but let's not quibble). His hands are on her shoulders, clearly guiding her, helping her negotiate the narrow gangways of the bus. Perhaps her sight is impaired, perhaps she's just frail, but it warms the heart to see such dedication to a grandmother. They sit together - her eyes are mercifully clear and lively, his dark and still, largely staring forward - and talk quietly and companionably. The bus stops, a gum-chewing ruminant gets up and waddles off, vacating a window seat and he indicates a desire to switch or shuffle up. He rises, shakily, wobbles to his feet, and and tries to step over to the open seat on legs like a landlubber's newly embarked on an ocean voyage. The elderly lady lifts up her slim arms, strong hands taking his hands to steady him. The penny drops, bounces, rolls along the deck and overboard, and falls further still before troubling the swells. It's she who is at the helm, steering her vulnerable charge through the stormy waters, not him.
On the pod:
(Waiting For The) Ghost Train - Madness
On the front page:
Diamond refuses to take blame for rate fix (The Times)
Friday, 6 July 2012
Thursday, 5 July 2012
Beware my power
On the day:
04/07/2012
On the way:
There is a child on his mother's lap as she chats to grandma. His head is shaggy, reaching to the collar of his navy big-name-brand windcheater. He's quite old enough to be sitting on his own, but there it is.
He's not in great spirits. Not that he's kicking up a fuss; he's bored really, fidgeting, pushing out his lower lip, lying back on his mum's lap and hanging his head upside down.
But he has something that sets him apart from other children - a power ring forged in the giant battery on Oa circles the middle finger of his left hand. He has clearly been chosen by the Guardians of the Universe (or by the ring itself) as the fearless one in whose hands the security of sector 2814 rests.
Either that or his parents are oblivious to the ignominious failure of the Green Lantern movie. But what are the chances of that? It was such an intergalactic box-office bomb.
So come on kid, say it: "In brightest day..."
On the pod:
Digging For Some Words (Human) - Johnny Clegg
On the front page:
Diamond: Now we find out if his bite's worse than his Barc
On the subject: http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/in-brightest-day.html
04/07/2012
On the way:
There is a child on his mother's lap as she chats to grandma. His head is shaggy, reaching to the collar of his navy big-name-brand windcheater. He's quite old enough to be sitting on his own, but there it is.
He's not in great spirits. Not that he's kicking up a fuss; he's bored really, fidgeting, pushing out his lower lip, lying back on his mum's lap and hanging his head upside down.
But he has something that sets him apart from other children - a power ring forged in the giant battery on Oa circles the middle finger of his left hand. He has clearly been chosen by the Guardians of the Universe (or by the ring itself) as the fearless one in whose hands the security of sector 2814 rests.
Either that or his parents are oblivious to the ignominious failure of the Green Lantern movie. But what are the chances of that? It was such an intergalactic box-office bomb.
So come on kid, say it: "In brightest day..."
On the pod:
Digging For Some Words (Human) - Johnny Clegg
On the front page:
Diamond: Now we find out if his bite's worse than his Barc
On the subject: http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/in-brightest-day.html
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Best ferrends
On the day:
03/07/2012
On the way:
Today he's in grey cammo combat trousers and a black hoodie with a snarling tiger's face but he's still wearing his black and white baseball cap, still chewing on his few remaining teeth and thoughts still cross his features like clouds crossing the blue skies.
When the the skies are blue. Remember that?
And the narrow leather strap over his right shoulder? That still leads to the harness on his constant companion, the white ferret, today curled up in his hood.
On the pod:
Work For All - Juluka
On the front page:
Diamond: I'm proud of you all at Barclays (Metro)
03/07/2012
On the way:
Today he's in grey cammo combat trousers and a black hoodie with a snarling tiger's face but he's still wearing his black and white baseball cap, still chewing on his few remaining teeth and thoughts still cross his features like clouds crossing the blue skies.
When the the skies are blue. Remember that?
And the narrow leather strap over his right shoulder? That still leads to the harness on his constant companion, the white ferret, today curled up in his hood.
On the pod:
Work For All - Juluka
On the front page:
Diamond: I'm proud of you all at Barclays (Metro)
The long arm of
On the day:
02/07/2012
On the way:
The little black and orange pod up at road level lurches from side to side. The rotating yellow safety light on the back of the pod, warning that heavy machinery is in operation, would appear surplus to requirement, as the giveaway is the huge, triple jointed orange arm with its massive claw, tearing giant fistfuls of earth out of the ground, jerking to its right and slamming its contents into a skip. And in charge of this constructive destruction a tiny figure is alert at the controls in his pod.
Thirty feet below, the woman in the box crackles her familiar come-on and commuters shuffle towards the edge of platform 1. A white train with green trim slows into its approach.
Then, as it reaches the platform, dips its head, and speeds through the station, its tail whipping to its left at the last instant, a vicious swipe scything through the crowd. Bodies fly, bodies fall and the wyrm, its work down slithers on up the track.
Survivors scatter and 30 feet above, a lone figure lolls forward in his booth, his head hitting the dashboard as the yellow light spins furiously.
The orange arm flexes, extends, reaches down to the platform and greedily scoops up broken bodies, clearing away the living and the dead in one pass. It lifts them high into the air and with an insolent flick of its wrist empties them into its skip. And returns to its work as the day reverts to normal.
If there were witnesses (and there were) what would they say anyway?
On the pod:
Here Comes The Rain Again - Eurythmics
On the front page:
Barclays boss quits as scandal deepens
http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/commuting-dead.html
http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/on-day-12042012-on-way-small-thursday.html
02/07/2012
On the way:
The little black and orange pod up at road level lurches from side to side. The rotating yellow safety light on the back of the pod, warning that heavy machinery is in operation, would appear surplus to requirement, as the giveaway is the huge, triple jointed orange arm with its massive claw, tearing giant fistfuls of earth out of the ground, jerking to its right and slamming its contents into a skip. And in charge of this constructive destruction a tiny figure is alert at the controls in his pod.
Thirty feet below, the woman in the box crackles her familiar come-on and commuters shuffle towards the edge of platform 1. A white train with green trim slows into its approach.
Then, as it reaches the platform, dips its head, and speeds through the station, its tail whipping to its left at the last instant, a vicious swipe scything through the crowd. Bodies fly, bodies fall and the wyrm, its work down slithers on up the track.
Survivors scatter and 30 feet above, a lone figure lolls forward in his booth, his head hitting the dashboard as the yellow light spins furiously.
The orange arm flexes, extends, reaches down to the platform and greedily scoops up broken bodies, clearing away the living and the dead in one pass. It lifts them high into the air and with an insolent flick of its wrist empties them into its skip. And returns to its work as the day reverts to normal.
If there were witnesses (and there were) what would they say anyway?
On the pod:
Here Comes The Rain Again - Eurythmics
On the front page:
Barclays boss quits as scandal deepens
http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/commuting-dead.html
http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/on-day-12042012-on-way-small-thursday.html
Giving the bird
On the day:
30/06/2012
On the way:
"Please turn that down."
She's looking tired, the mum, and trying to chat to the nan. But the little boy, in spectacles and over-the-knee football socks says no. "No." Truculently.
He's playing a game on her mobile, noisily. Not just the volume on the phone but also the vocal accompaniment. "Stop," he shouts. "Stop."
It doesn't help that the game doesn't respond to his spoken commands. It certainly doesn't help that his mum is telling him that it's not responding to his spoken commands.
"No. No. Stop."
"Is it them birds?' she asks.
No answer.
She sighs. "He's so spoilt," she notes wearily to nan.
"No I'm not," he yells without lifting his head from his game.
If he hasn't worked out that no amount of yelling will alter the trajectory of a virtual bird hurled from a catapult at a flimsy structure of builders' detritus and mutant pigs, what are the chances he has looked back on his behaviour and smiled inwardly, thinking, "Oh the irony"?
On the pod:
Vertigo - U2
On the front page:
Demand for inquiry into the City's 'corrupt elite (The Times)
30/06/2012
On the way:
"Please turn that down."
She's looking tired, the mum, and trying to chat to the nan. But the little boy, in spectacles and over-the-knee football socks says no. "No." Truculently.
He's playing a game on her mobile, noisily. Not just the volume on the phone but also the vocal accompaniment. "Stop," he shouts. "Stop."
It doesn't help that the game doesn't respond to his spoken commands. It certainly doesn't help that his mum is telling him that it's not responding to his spoken commands.
"No. No. Stop."
"Is it them birds?' she asks.
No answer.
She sighs. "He's so spoilt," she notes wearily to nan.
"No I'm not," he yells without lifting his head from his game.
If he hasn't worked out that no amount of yelling will alter the trajectory of a virtual bird hurled from a catapult at a flimsy structure of builders' detritus and mutant pigs, what are the chances he has looked back on his behaviour and smiled inwardly, thinking, "Oh the irony"?
On the pod:
Vertigo - U2
On the front page:
Demand for inquiry into the City's 'corrupt elite (The Times)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)