London Transport

On the 14th July 1956 at about 15.42 an historic accord was signed between the London Boroughs and London Transport.  The Transport Integration Technical Scheme (TITS for short) was conceived to cater to the needs of the London commuter by bringing the latest in planning and advancements in technology to the transport solution for London.  Over the years supplementary appendices have been added to include the General Post Office, British Gas, British Telecom and their respective successors among others.  Occasionally local retailers and business are also brought into the TITS plan as the transport experience evolves.  For this blog I will be focussing on the Driver Training for the infamous busses and giving a perspective from the point of view of the humble commuter, remembering that this experience has been carefully crafted and originates from the 1956 TITS accord.

Leaving, as I usually do, at around 06.00, I make my way some 200 metres to the appointed bus stop and await the arrival of my bus, first having seen one drive by as I walk along my street.  At the bus stop the first thing to note is that there is a helpful timetable which gives misleading information as to when to expect the busses to arrive.  There is usually a window of time between which you can normally not expect the bus to arrive.  Some bus shelters have electronic signs which are updated real time with misleading timings and bus numbers, mainly to give hope to the commuter as they wait.

At my bus stop I note the fruitless nature of the no smoking sign appended to the bus shelter as the man adjacent to the edge of the open shelter and upwind is shortening his life.  When the bus arrives you need to try and outwit the driver, who has been thoroughly trained, into stopping at the bus stop, or at least within a metre of the pole with the sign on it.  The best way I have found of getting the bus to stop is to team up with the other commuters and get them to stand at least 2 metres from the post, that way the bus driver feels safe to pull up next to it.  Then it is open season as all converge to the front door.  The driver is obliged to pause and open the middle doors first, regardless of whether or not anyone wishes to dismount, this is to allow the cold and damp air to refresh those customers sat on the lower deck of the bus.  After pausing to allow the commuters to retrieve their travel cards, he then opens the door (maybe after 3 seconds or so).  This pause to allow commuters to find their cards is, of course, completely pointless.  Commuters realise that the TITS agreement places certain obligations on them, including only retrieving the said travel card once they have fumbled through bags and pockets.  In the meantime the bus driver waves his hand in a horizontal motion to encourage the commuters to board speedily.  Despite the normal signage that customers must not engage the driver in conversation whilst the bus is in motion, few realise that this in fact applies at all times.  Drivers are not allowed to return or initiate the normal salutations that one would expect between client and provider.

Once the last passenger is aboard, but before they are seated, the bus driver is required to sharply pull out, swerve and brake hard in order to test the steering and braking systems of the bus.  This happens after every stop.  Regular passengers are by now aware of this requirement but some unsuspecting tourists often get caught out and utter the odd expletive in their respective mother tongues.  Drivers are highly trained staff and are diligent at observing the required obligations detailed in the TITS agreement and subsequent amendments.

When approaching traffic lights drivers are required to accelerate hard and then brake, alternating at least 3 times when there is no traffic in front or up to 5 times if their is a vehicle within 30 metres in front or behind.  The reason for this is twofold, firstly it is to test the systems of the bus and also due to the unpredictable nature of the traffic lights.  The issue with the traffic lights is not, as one might expect the timing of light changes but is in fact the uncertainty of their location and whether or not they will move in time and space by upwards of 5 metres.  Drivers are so highly trained that they often operate in another dimension, which goes a long way to explaining why they do not speak.  Any speech would materialise around 10 minutes after the words were spoken, so pointless really.

Arriving at the bus stop is a carefully timed event and has taken many years and hours of co-ordination to perfect.  In my case the bus stops conveniently near to a Tube station, but as you can expect this is where the TITS accord shines.  The agreements with the local authorities and utility companies ensure that stops that are co-located with tube stations are festooned with bins, electrical cabinets, advertising boards and other impediments which has the desired effect of channelling the desperate commuters over an assault course of obstacles in their bid to get the Tube station.  The experience is further enhanced by the ability of the driver to align the obstacles (in my case a double sized recycling dustbin) with the middle doors of the bus.  If they are particularly accurate they leave an ankle breaking gap between the kerb and the bus to add further challenge to the process.

The rush to the Tube is a forlorn affair and, despite the static and inevitable nature of ticket barriers, a remarkable number of commuters feel the need to play hide and seek with their tickets.  The odd one or 20 are carrying child tickets and a few others tailgate fare paying customers to get through the barriers.  It is all in vain, the tube is tantalisingly at the platform only long enough for you to get the faintest hope of catching it before it departs.  Some enterprising commuters launch themselves, as if Olympic diving champions, at the waiting train as they seem to enjoy the experience of what it feels like to be in a machine press.  After several repeat stampings by the closing doors the train pulls out.

An so begins the Tube ride to work, a story for another time.

The Annual Cat Capturing Festival

Our cats are, as most others are, quite intelligent and constantly alert to the threats of their environment.  My plan to catch them, for their annual trip to the vets needed to be sneaky and well thought through.  Both I and the cats have had some amazingly traumatic moments and so I have always been keen to minimise this as much as possible.  In this case the cats had become accustomed to spending most of their time outside, not being assisted by their banishment from the living room for reasons of hygiene.  Their territory was the garden with drop in visits to the garage just to eat food.

My plan utilised the experiences of the previous occasions and made assumptions, flawed as it turned out.  I negotiated with An to allow the cats to access the living room in the weeks leading up to V-Day.  I often waited up for them and sat in silence until they ventured nervously into the living room.  They were especially cautious as they were now unfamiliar with the room.  The day before I blocked the exit on the cat flap following their food, they were immediately alerted to their escape being blocked and went into hiding in the garage, leaving their food uneaten.  Poppy whimpered for a bit, which tugged on my heart strings as I reassured her it was all okay.  I left them for the night and had a good nights sleep.

The next morning I was down early to feed them and both came out reasonably happily and had a bit to eat.  They quickly returned to hiding.  The appointment was 11.00 and thus I began to make my preparations.

I put the two cat boxes together and placed them out of sight in the living room.  I noted Poppy in the corner under the boiler.  I placed cardboard between the two fridges to cut off the depth of the recess into which the cats could retreat.  This was Poppy's favourite bastion where she always made her last stand.  Having made those preparations I then left to do some errands.  I was confident that their capture would not be too difficult.  I had assumed that Obie was in one of the two cardboard boxes with the cat beds in, my first failed assumption.

At about 10.30 I moved in with the boxes, carefully closing the living room door behind me.  I sought Obie first, thinking he would be the easiest.  I carefully peered into the cardboard boxes expecting to see a pair of nervous eyes looking at me and, if I am honest, I was hoping they would both be in the boxes.  It turns out that two pairs of eyes were watching me from another vantage point.  My stress level picked up as I realised that the task had become harder.

Our garage is full of ideal bolt holes suited to terrified and highly agitated cats.  Obie was found hiding under the gas and electric meters but soon darted off along the pipes behind the storage boxes and towards the boiler.  I had to remove from the side all boxes and other bits and pieces to get rid of hiding places.  Quickly he darted into the second kitchen, a much smaller room.  I closed the door to the garage and hoped that he had not gone behind the washing machine, which would have been game over at that point.

Brexit - Compelled To Write

Waitrose

It was like walking into a western saloon wearing pink bottomless leather half-chaps, matching shirt with sequins and fluffy pink 10 gallon hat.  Gingerly stepping over the corpses of unwise cowboys who had squinted in the wrong direction, and been met with a hail of bullets from some unshaven Mexicans with a penchant for whiskey and a reputation for over-reacting. 

On reaching the bar and asking for an Earl Grey tea, no milk and a slice of ginger cake, the barman giving me that look that says, "Earl Grey, EARL GREY, EARL GOD DAMN GREY!!!!!" and then proceeding to shove the said t-bag through the hole in the bottomless half-chaps and depositing it where there would be some challenge adding the boiling water, not that that would deter him from trying to do so.

Maybe I go too far, well the bit about the Earl Grey and ginger cake was true, the Barman was a young disinterested girl and I also had a ham and cheese toastie all for £8.50.

This was my first time ever in Waitrose and for those who have never heard of this chain it is a step up from M&S but well short of Fortnum & Masons.  A premium supermarket chain that caters for the somewhat better off clientele in the UK.  A chain where you have to wear a shirt and tie (if you are male) to shop there and they almost carry out a number of background checks before allowing you to enter the premises.

In my defence I did intend to go to Asda following my rather late night out last night.  I was in need of food, both immediate for brunch and also for the following week.  As Asda hove into view I observed the lack of parking and had noted the Waitrose car park and so made the fateful decision to turn left and, although my car is in need of a clean, being a Jaguar enabled me to overcome the first line of Waitrose's defence and I pulled in.  The first thing I noticed was that the 'normal' car parking bay was to put it mildly, massive.  I could get my full length in the space with room to spare (take that how you will).  There was even room on either side to allow for doors to open.  I was impressed.

My first contact with an employee was actually as I proceeded to requisition a trolley.  I asked whether they were available upstairs in the shop or should I take it into the lift?  He sort of grunted that they were available and, thinking that the lift would be a regular size, I opted to delay my requisition.  I was surprised to find that you could play five a side in the lift and have room for a burger van too.

The shop is very smart as are the staff, in terms of dress at least.  I decided to have something to eat in the plush café but was worried that I may have to don a bow tie and jacket.  When I managed to catch the attention of the entirely underemployed member of staff, who was un-enthusiastically trying to ignore her only customer, I placed my order.  It would not become clear until much later on why she was reluctant to engage with me.  I did manage to get served and the quality of presentation and food was impressive, if not the service.  In fact I managed to spot a member of the team with some libellous message on her work clothing, it said "Customer Service".

The shop is overstaffed to the point where they have more than catered for the perceived loss of employment to be felt from the de-industrialisation of the UK after the decline of the coal, steel and shipbuilding industries. 

I was very impressed with the range and quality of the goods on offer and even noted how neat and articulate the signage was.  I had never seen so many independent types of cider on sale before.  Not even the Camra festival at Earls Court has such a wide range of ciders.

The moment of realisation for me came when I unfurled my shopping bag and it was then that I saw that I had in fact brought in an Asda bag.  I felt like I had smuggled cocaine into the country and was now surrounded by enthusiastic and slightly aggressive police officers.

The class of customer is somewhat more pretentious, but then also that comes with rather better manners than the average pyjama wearing family that shops en mass at Tescos.  The children looked genuinely bored as if to indicate that shopping in a supermarket is not intellectually challenging enough for them but that it should offer more stimulating experiences.

Although I may have embellished a little, I think their niche market is making the shopping more of a quality experience than a mad crush for the weekly provisions whilst trying to dodge the poorly planned and positioned trollies of the shelf stackers.  I now have to go back if only to listen to the customers and their outrageous comments, they are ever so civilised so much so that I cannot imagine having trolley rage.  I will also have to take An there so she can enhance her cultural experience of the British way of doing things.

Disneyland Paris

Disneyland sounds like a magical place where heros overcome villains, princesses are rescued by their prince charmings and everyone lives happily ever after.  Then you remember that you are in France and that this is a multi-million dollar business processing the meat that are customers through the sausage machine of hotels, attractions and merchandising shops to extract the last penny from you whilst smiling at you.  

A Press-Up Too Far

'It all started with a fitness session, which turned from a regular beasting to life threatening and I never saw it coming.  My reason for writing this is twofold: firstly to make people aware of the risks and secondly to come to terms myself with what happened.

I have 26 years of experience of hard physical training within the military, there is a mentality that you keep going and persevere.  It has never been a case of being macho or competition, well not for me, it shows character and endurance.

I have always hated circuits (multiple exercises in short bursts), because they are uncomfortable and painful.  It pains me to say this but I now have a grudging respect for the Physical Training branch, why?  Well because they know what they are doing, to me it always seemed mad, but there is a degree of balance and sense to the exercises that pushes but does not break the body.

The session last Monday took me over the safe limit for two reasons: firstly I pushed myself too far, to the point of exhaustion in fact and secondly the instructor did not balance out the session across different muscle groups.  It is important to point out that the damage in this case was to my upper body, this has always been a weak area of mine and so was particularly vulnerable to this session.  So what happened?

As far as I remember the exercise went something like this:

No warm up - the first part was regarded as a warm up but was already high intensity.

Sprinting on the spot interspersed with press-ups which counted down from 10 to 1 (I worked this out as 55 press-ups in around 3 or so minutes). We did this twice with maybe 90 seconds between rounds .  I may have got the details wrong but the key point is that by the end of this I could no longer support my body weight whilst in the press-up position and I was struggling well before the second round ended.  I should have stopped at that point.

The next part involved partnering up and doing more press-up related exercises whilst your partner ran to a point and returned.  I had already decided that I would do variations on sit ups as I simply could not do the required exercise.  I don't recall how many sprints we did but it was enough.

Unbeknown to me I had damaged the muscles in my upper body to the same degree that crush victims in earthquakes experience.  Whenever I have done these exercises in the past I have always experienced a degree of discomfort, most do if they truly push themselves.  This was different, by day three I still could not lift my arms above my head, that was not normal.  In addition my urine had turned a very dark brown and had been so for a few days.  At first I thought this was dehydration but it usually clears on day one.  I remember remarking that I had never experienced a circuit like that in terms of intensity, there is a good reason for that.  The military vary the muscle groups being worked upon and it avoids the risk of severe damage.  To exercise the same group repeatedly at high intensity increases the risk.  So what was it?  What was going on?

There is always a danger when resorting to 'Doctor Internet' that you find you are about to die and need to rush to accident and emergency.  I checked out my symptoms on Thursday and found a condition called Rhabdomyolysis.  Now stop reading this blog now and go to the link below, read all of the information and be aware, it may save your life or someone else's. http://www.healthline.com/health/rhabdomyolysis#Overview1

So I was now getting concerned and considered going to Accident and Emergency in the UK.  As it was I had been drinking between the exercise and my discovery of what it might be and I had to drive back to Belgium.  I should have gone straight to A&E, but I didn't.  Once home my wife and I had a tense discussion and decided against going to A&E, she did call the doctor who said I should make an appointment at the local clinic to get tested.  I was fortunate in that there was an appointment at 08.30.

First thing Friday morning and the doctor did a urine test and took some blood.  Apparently there was blood in my urine and this is more common than I thought.  She reassured me and said that I could call for the results on Monday and if there was a problem she would call me immediately.  I was reassured as the condition indicated that myoglobin would be present and not blood, however, both give the same result on the test.  I took the call late Friday afternoon.  Go immediately to A&E.

I was not scared or worried, although An was shocked.  For me it was a case of let's get going and get this sorted out.  I was concerned about damage to my kidneys or possible failure, so I was pretty focussed. The true impact of my experience would not hit me until I was discharged from the hospital four days later.

I was processed fairly quickly having explained several times what had happened.  I was told that I would be staying, blood was taken, urine was taken and I was out on a drip.  I was examined and asked about other symptoms.  For me there were no other danger signs, no vomiting, nausea or pains other than my sore muscles, which were recovering by that stage.  The doctors said I should look up crush victims to get an idea of what it was that I had, I didn't need to.  A not so tactful nurse made it abundantly clear what my condition was, almost blaming me for it.  It was self inflicted but I am no macho fitness freak.  I liken it to being blind and crossing a motorway, it is bloody dangerous but you just can't see the danger.  I had no idea that such exercise could pose a risk in this way and, having spread the word, no one else had come across it, apart from my medically trained friends.

Word quickly got out to the family that I was in hospital and so I was doing my best to reassure and inform them as I lay with the drip, in casualty.  My Apple Watch came into its own as I made calls through  my watch, it felt a bit like Star Trek.  My mother, An's mother and An to start with.  Then I put a message and photo on Facebook when I knew the danger had passed.  On Saturday morning I had the blood test back that said there was no damage to my kidneys but that a certain enzyme was at dangerously high levels and necessitated me being on 4 litres of IV fluid per day, this is exceptional and poses other risks.

Messages started to come through thick and fast from my friends asking me if I was okay and wishing me a speedy recovery.  It was warming to get such support, which was not lacking in any sense.  I felt a bit of a burden on An, both in time and causing stress.  I was happy with my book, in this case on the Battle of Culludon and the immediate history before and after, which I finished.

I was very lucky that there was no damage to my kidneys, it was now a case of flushing me out to unblock what had accumulated there.  My stay in hospital was an experience, I had four blood tests taken and the drip was changed from my right to my left arm at one point.  Now anyone who really knows me will be aware of my phobic reaction to having my blood taken.  Experiences vary from going into shock to coping well enough.  It is ironic that bravery is really defined as facing up to your greatest fears and overcoming them.  In this case this was the equivalent of vertigo, going over the top in the trenches, facing off spiders, wild dogs, bears, snakes etc.  I cannot understate how much of a trauma it can be even though I know that it is not life threatening and that there is no rational reason to shut down.  I wish I could get over it but there it is.  When changing the drip one of the nurses had problems spearing my vein and I could feel the needle squelching in and out as she tried to find it, I felt like a kebab but tried to keep my mind off it by examining the details of the room to the enth degree.  Often resorting to humour to deal with my nerves.

One funny moment was when An said she would do anything I wanted whilst I was in hospital, at last this was the opportunity that I had been waiting for!  The look on her face as I laughed about this was one of 'well sacrifices must be made'.  I reassured her that I would not ask her to do anything she did not want to do but we did laugh about the possibilities.

Also whilst in hospital I got a better appreciation of the nursing and medical staff and made good use of my Dutch language skills, which they kept making me use.  One of my fellow patients was told to use Dutch with me when he was heard speaking English.  I am grateful and I learned a lot and was complimented on my knowledge and skills.

One of the risks with IV fluids is pulmonary edema, in essence water on the lungs.  The doctors did not tell me that they were monitoring for this but it became apparent eventually.  My hands became swollen and I had put on around 5 kilos, mostly fluids.  I was not moving about a lot and was effectively confined to my bed, it was not helping.  Eventually I was reduced to 2 litres of IV per day which eased the burden.

Eventually I met the senior consultant who said that he was happy for me to go home, this was four days later.  I asked for the consultation in English so that I did not miss anything important, I asked in Dutch!  He confirmed that there was no permanent damage and no long term effects.  I could do exercise again in two weeks time but clearly not overdo it.  There was no need to follow up or be administered medicine.  At that point he confirmed that it was myoglobin in the urine and not blood.  No one had actually confirmed the condition to me at any point, but it became obvious.

Whilst waiting to be discharged the heavens opened and it poured with rain, with the odd rumble of thunder thrown in.  I reflected that I had no jacket and only shorts and t-shirts.  I would be catching the bus as An was unable to collect me.  I am certain had I called friends then I would have had a lift back but I wanted time to reflect.  As I cleared my things I felt slightly down, I was dressed in my black Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt, hiking shorts, desert boots and socks.  I had a small blue rucksack, laptop bag and cloth bag for my laundry.  I looked like a clean homeless person and with the various puncture marks on my arm, I could have been mistaken for a drug addict too.

The bus took over an hour to get from the hospital to the home town,  I almost welled up on the bus as I reflected on what I had been through and the risks.  I then watched the people getting on and off, oblivious to the experience I had had.  When I arrived it was raining but it did not matter, it was not important.  I slowly trudged home in the pleasantly warm rain.

Upon my return the first thing I did was let An know I was back and then I was welcomed by the cats.  I could not feel much when in hospital but now my body was telling me that it was a bit worn out.  Maybe it was just having the relief of being home and out of danger and now I was more sensitive to the normal aches and noises of my body.

I was acutely aware of being overly dramatic about the risk but no matter how I think about it the risk of kidney failure was very real and it has now changed my outlook and made me appreciate things a bit more.

It's Only A Key Ring

For some time now I have been putting up with my bunch of keys and the laws of gravity being applied to them.  In particular my car key which has, with some frustration on my part, crashed to the floor too many times now and has been broken.

The cause of my annoyance is that the main ring or clip has been used all too often and is now in a semi open state.  It is my fault of course, whenever I want to go for a run I do not want my bunch of keys rattling away in my very small key pocket nor do I wish to carry the said keys for 13 or so kilometres.  I do waffle, but I am coming to my point.  I needed a solution in the form of a particular key ring to defy the gravitational forces and meet my demanding requirements.

Cue the search for a solution, I thought maybe something like the image below or even better the one below that.

Normally I would go to the internet and find one on Amazon and just order it, but no!  I thought I would go to the local economy and do my bit.  It is then that my quest to defeat gravity turned into an altogether more formidable challenge.

What, I hear you ask, can be more challenging than defeating one the laws of physics?  Simply this, finding and coordinating my somewhat empty schedule with the opening hours of the local cobbler, really.

I first took a combined visit to the supermarket more than a week ago (on a Friday).  As I dropped by the supermarket I took the astronomically slight chance that the cobbler might be open and paid a visit.  My next challenge was to communicate my requirement in Dutch, which was not really necessary but I do like to practice where I can and the cobbler paid me the compliment of playing along, up to a point.  It became rapidly apparent that, although the planets had aligned in terms of opening hours, they were not quite in alignment in terms of having the said key holder in stock.  "Not to worry" he said, in English by now, "I will order one if they are still available and you can come in next Friday to collect it.  Don't worry if you don't as I will just sell it to some other customer."  I should have noted the cautionary 'if they are still available' but I am an optimist at heart.

I duly departed and went on to buy the weekly groceries.  I had been to the bank where, on my second visit, I had collected a new bank card that took two weeks to produce as it had to travel across the Sahara desert on a lame camel.

I waited, excitedly for the week and, the following Friday I joyfully drove into town to go and pick up my treasure.  First slight hiccup, he was closed for lunch.  I decided that the 1/2 hour or so was too long to wait and I resolved to pick it up the next time I was passing.  I noted the opening hours, but to my eternal shame I paid no attention, particularly to the mythical opening hours that require tarot cards and a crystal ball to see.

The next occasion I was in town was the following Monday.  As I approached I saw that the lights were not on and, if I am honest with you, I did swear just a little bit.  I acknowledged that this was the usual weekly closing day in place of having to endure a hectic trading on the Saturday, he must have been overwhelmed.  I sulked off and did my grocery shopping again.

As it happens I had failed to successfully complete the grocery shopping on Monday, despite taking a photograph of the items I needed to get.  I blame my petulant mood for my missing to procure the mayonnaise and cocktail sauce.  I am on first name terms with the Delhaize staff, although they don't know it.  I think they may be offended when I refer to them as: Dopey, Grumpy, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, Doc and Happy (when I am in a good mood) or Irritable, Ignorant, Tetchy, Violent, Careless, Useless and Vacant (when my mood is off).  Anyway, I felt obliged to go back into town if only to ensure that the staff of Delhaize did not somehow forget who I was.

I made my way from the car park, having displayed my blue card (with the time on it), across the bridge (minding out for trolls and angry ducks) and then up to the main square and round the corner.  To my devastation I observed the lack of electric lighting in the window of the cobblers, was he unable to pay his bills, was he somehow now lying in darkness unable to call for help?  No.  A curt message in the neat form of a white Dymo label declared that the shop was closed, exceptionally I presume so that he could attend the lodge meeting of the Absent Cobblers Guild of Belgium.  Either that or some other customer had ambushed him with loose keys, and even now the police were investigating how much force is required to embed a Yale key into the forehead of someone and noting the slightly less force required to embed a broken car key into his rectal passage.  Defeated I walked off swearing at anyone within 30 feet, much to their surprise.

Today I had a Dutch lesson and, near the end I briefly explained my frustration with the opening hours of the cobbler.  Directly, I proceeded from my lesson to the said shop.  As fanfares blared and fireworks blasted off all around me (in my head) I burst forth into the shop.  I was slightly perturbed that the Grand Master of the Absent Cobblers Guild failed to recognise me without my usual clowns costume and donkey ears.  I needed to remind him of my mission and I did so in Dutch.  It was then that he confirmed my worst fears, "they don't do them any more".  Now for most people I would imagine that you think the shop became a scene of horrifying murder and obscene key assault, it didn't.  By now I simply said thank you and left, thinking that this is why the shops are closing down around Aarschot.  My protest, frustration or other entreaty would be fruitless when compared to the power that is the combined force of opening hours and availability of stock.

Needless to say I shall be ordering the item from Amazon today as I should have done from the outset.