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Chancery Lane, ascending from the platforms.
Observing the conditions of carriage, a woman hefts up her fairly large dog into her arms and steps onto the moving staircase. The hound appears at first surprised - the roll of its eyes seems to indicate alarm - this is evidently not an everyday occurrence. But then it identifies a meaning in the action: it must be an expression of affection, so the beast reciprocates, enthusiastically licking its owner's face. This continues most of the way to the top; as I pass on the left, I hear the woman ask the beast in her arms: "Oh, you...Are we having this every time we get on escalators now?"

Conversing with someone I did not know very well in crowded, noisy premises.
How long it took, how many rounds in the exchange, for us to realise that while she had been talking of the actress, Eva Green, I was referring to the suburb, Hither Green.
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On a weekday midday intercity train to a northwestern city, a youngish couple are seated several rows ahead of us. The woman is next to the window, her legs across those of her adjacent companion. The high seat backs all but obscure the pair from my view, but the woman's feet and ankles are visible across the aisle. In dark tights, at this angle, they look like hooves.

In a rushhour cab through rain and tramworks of another northwestern city, as the vehicle arrives at the station music begins to play: the sentimental croon of 'The Road Is Long' by The Hollies. It's too loud to be the cabbie's mobile ringtone; it must be from speakers somewhere in the taxi itself, somehow triggered by arrival at the station. Feeling that there is a commercial intent concealed in that, and next time we're walking it, if I've any say in the matter.
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A woman standing near me on the platform at Chancery Lane tube the other morning gave off a scorched odour.

More precisely, as if she had been close to a burning car for a while.

Not just the burnt rubber smell, but also the hot metal, melted synthetic materials, the petrol flared off and the leather and the paint all incinerated.
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One of the eastern termini, one of the weekend mornings. Tinker Bell and a male companion in the costume of a generic superhero are sitting on a bench. They are here in time for an early train, though not for the first.

The worse for wear, they appear not to have slept in the night. Tinker Bell has taken a tumble at some point previous: her lime green tights holed at one knee, her treacherous shoes are on the bench beside her. Generic Superhero has a puddle of vomit at his feet, to which he is now adding.

He says to Tinker Bell: 'Don't look at me'.

But she does anyway, and not with an expression of disgust. Superhero leans back; the exertion of regurgitation has caused his eyes to water, and Tinker Bell reaches over to gather on her finger a spilling drop from each eye in turn. He does not see, he has turned away, but she takes the finger to her lips to taste his tears.

The 06:10 to Shoeburyness is now available for boarding.
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Typing, and plenty of it, requires gym-bunny music, for me. For that, the gay radio. The other night they played a track and I'd the presence of mind to grab the details off the display.

I recognised Kiesza immediately; not for herself, but as one of the Thompson Twins. I recognised the location instantly: a decade ago I went there, in winter, and every time I took my camera out the cold bit my fingers. There's a herd of cherry pickers giraffing over a fence, you can see them to the right - that's how I knew for sure. But this isn't about that video, but another one.

I was meant to be typing, wasn't I? Next thing, I found this:

Not that it's anyone's responsibility to keep me informed of these things, but why did no-one tell me? Better than the original.
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On a train towards Barnes, Mortlake, North Sheen, Richmond. Three across the aisle, thirties-young: a couple and one another woman.

"Has she told you about her first job in London? Did she ever tell you about that? Do you want to, shall I tell her?"

"..."

"She was paid, right, by this rich guy, this, was he Russian?"

"..."

"Anyway, he was rich. And what [name] was paid to do, was be his wife's best friend. Her best friend in London. And this went on for, what, a year at least? Eighteen months?"

"Really? Just to be her friend? I mean like, I don't wanna, but, how much?"

He starts talking again, but now his partner speaks up, sharply, with the careful emphasis of someone who wants a point understood.

"He paid me to keep tabs on her. I reported back on her. That's what he paid me for ."

There's a pause, and then her boyfriend says:
"You never told me that... No.... you never told me that."
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Two young men are discussing stress. One suffers from it, the other seeks to advise: he suggested colouring books. This was greeted with some enthusiasm.

The stressed fellow must have steadier hands than mine - I remember colouring as a test of the nerves; upbraided in infants' school for 'going over the lines', I never could approach the endeavour calmly.
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I will now turn to outstanding correspondence.
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The iBus announcer on the 22 exceeds her ordinary stridence in the matter of one bus stop. A little way up Sloane Street, she exclaims: 'Pont Street!'

As if to say:
Pont Street! There it is again.
Pont Street! Well, what can one expect.
Pont Street! Of all things.
Pont Street! It really is the limit.

S-West

Jun. 28th, 2015 09:25 pm
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Vogelsang
The warm sleep of a Saturday lunchtime inner suburb. A percussive bang; people look around, look that way, up Bebelstraße. A tram, with the incline and priority in its favour has hit a car gambling its way across the line. The car is now on the adjacent Stadtbahn track, spun around a quarter turn to face up the hill.

Police cars and fire vehicles appear as if they had been lying wait. The street awakes: the festive atmosphere that prevails after a road traffic accident in which no-one is hurt. One of the uniforms is capturing the crash site with his camera; the Polizei and Feuerwehr stand in a semi-circle around the errant vehicle, as if arranged for a group photograph.

Augustenstraße / Reuchlinstraße
Dusk, in a district of tall mansion blocks. A car filled with shouting young Turks tears around the corner, screeching at the tyres. Several seconds later, making the same turn in reverse and several storeys above, a gang of swifts, tumbling and screaming.

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