Just wasted three hours writing something really inflammatory and then lost my nerve as my finger hovered over "Publish Post". Even after excising all the jokes and rude words it was still too dangerous. This is probably all for the best, immolation being a non-repeatable party trick. Instead, here's one I made earlier about a frustrating journey and a brush with faded political celebrity.
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No essay mark yesterday but am told to expect it next week. Don't give a toss, being so put out by the ordeal of actually getting to the tutorial. I leave in plenty of time and wait for the bus and then (The Great London Bus Cliche) two come at once. The first only goes part of the way so I ignore it and put my arm out for the second. The driver sees me, winks and goes straight on although the bus is half empty. Furious. Wait for a different service to Waterloo with the plan of changing. Climb aboard but progress is so slow past Guy's and Borough Market that I jump off and dash into London Bridge Tube thinking to take the Northern Line with changes at Bank and Holborn. Standing room only in the carriage and I avoid eye contact with other travellers and put my nose into Untold Stories - and forget to get off at Bank. Now flustered and furious. The carriage is slightly emptier and I glance up and notice a gent seated by one of the middle doors who seems familiar - shaved patrician jowl, but because of age rather than overfededness, a sweep of grey hair, shark eyes behind specs - intelligent, darting. He is wearing slip-on suede leisure shoes, slacks and a maroon sweater over a shirt and there is a trolley-dolly case at his feet and a rolled-up coat and smaller bag in the adjacent seat to keep away inferior persons. Is it Lord "Dr David" Owen? Can't be. I return to Bennett but peep up every so often still wondering. He is reading The Times intently, keeping his eyes low now, holding the paper open in his old hands. It is Owen. I can see a label on his case, an oval of brown leather with the surname in capitals. I look again at the hands, wondering what has passed through them; look for the scars of upheaval political and personal. I notice the fleshiness and the blackness of the deep folds of skin on the...well, at this point I was hoping to write a word that anatomists would understand to mean "undersides of the fingers" but there doesn't seem to be one. Disappointing. I get off the train at King's Cross and double back to Russell Sq wondering about Denis Healey's sneer in a Guardian interview marking his 90th birthday that Owen had charisma, good looks and political intelligence but was also a shit. Get to college two minutes late.
