(no subject)

Margaret Thatcher once said: 'A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure'. We will all recall what a success her son Mark made of the driving thing, particularly in the North African desert. Personally I think a man at any age who is at the wheel must ask himself why the blinking flip he is in such underdeveloped part of the world that he could not have hailed a cab at the street corner, or at the very least accessed the local intra-urban rail service. Why is he (I can feel my lip lifting in an unbecome sneer as I type) doing his own driving?

But the provinces are a harsh environment in which all sorts of activities must be undertaken by the individual. And few such provinces are as lacking in facilities considered in the civilised world to be essential as Grantham, Lincolnshire.

All this to circuitously say that from where I write the business of being propelled about can be safely left to trained professionals. I need only gain the pavement in front of my residence, do a fair impression of those statues of Lenin that dotted the cities of Russia but have now been sold off to raise funds to buy Chelsea players with, and the gentleman's conveyance appears at the signal of my arm.

But for appreciation of that rare example of the urban form that is the Westway, only the upper layer of a double-decked bus will suffice. The local variety pootle along beneath on the Harrow Road, and in any case the 18 has recently been given over to those low-slung articulated efforts. So it's only when the Metropolitan Line is being ploughed up by navvies that the replacement buses give the keen student of the built environment the opportunity to view the graceful sweep of the inner NW district. Did I make a spurious journey to Harrow-on-the-Hill purely on this basis yesterday? You bet.

Of course it would have been better for all concerned if the thing had never been built, as it has cut a swathe through a chunk of town just to get people from beyond the pale in and out quickly, and looms malignantly over what's left, but as a vantage point it has something. Just ask The Clash.

The recent savage price increases have left the cost of a travelcard to the edge at six quid a pop, so I had to travel on a bit further to get my money's worth. I'd intended to photograph an Art Deco cinema at Rayner's Lane, but not only has it been taken over by the Zoroastrians (who or whatever they are) but the zoojamacallits have got the builders in, and the great concrete facade is wreathed in scaffolding.

But at least I can say I almost got out of town.

(no subject)