Mick Davidson: Words & Pictures
  • Home
  • Captain's Blog
  • It's All About Inspiration
    • It's All About You Guidelines
  • Writing
    • Poetry
    • Reviews
    • Stories
    • Travel
    • Twitter Verse
  • Photography
    • Travel>
      • Australia>
        • Melbourne, 2012/13
        • Melbourne, 2013/14
      • France
      • Latin America
      • Luxembourg
      • Netherland>
        • Groningen
        • Limburg
        • Zeeland
      • Spain>
        • Alhambra
    • In Concert>
      • Celebr80s Party
      • Sultans of Slide
      • Tio Gringo
      • Blues Festival 2010
    • All Sorts of Treasures>
      • RuneFest 2103
  • Bio
  • Contact

36 Hour Slingback - Part II

3/18/2012

3 Comments

 
As you may recall if you read my last blog, a few weeks ago I was involved in a mad dash to London by coach. When we left our hero/me he/I was in the underground heading for a secret location, aka Soho.

I was going to to recce the area and find the front door of an office building I'd never seen before. Fortunately I was armed with my trusty A-Z, complete with 
instructions I'd written on tiny pink post it notes the previous day. I emerged 
from Oxford Circus tube, turned left and walked confidentally until I accepted 
that I was absolutely not where I ought to have been. Fortunately for me a 
gnarled old gentleman armed with a rolled up copy of the Telegraph recognised a buffoon when he saw one. With a voice carved out of years of giving orders to idiots such as myself, he quickly sussed out what was wrong and had me back on track in about 30 sylables. I thanked him and scuttled away whilst pretending to anyone who might have been watching (which was everyone) that it was all part of a cunning plan, and while you think you've just watched some first class buffoonery, in fact what you'd just seen was the meeting between two highly trained and very sharp secret agents.

(I know you'd never fall for that, but I was once quite clearly followed by a man 
armed with a bowler hat and umbrella (a lethal combination) through various parts of the underground. If you want to know the whole of that story, you'll have to buy the coffee.)

I hadn't realised it but the area around Soho, with it's delightfully tiny streets, cafes, badly parked lorries and roadworks, is actually the backside of theatre-land, which explains some of the rather colourfully dressed people I noticed wandering about. Not that we should knock these people, oh no. While I do my best to blend in with the tarmac and grey, featureless sky, these mobile rainbows brighten up the place no end. I'm wondering if in fact they're not actually some sort of public service.

Having scoped the office I slipped down to Covent Garden to just make sure that it hadn't changed much since my last visit a few months earlier. I love this area so much that I made sure that a few of the murders in my first novel (soon to be released as an ebook) took place there. I don't know quite what happened, but I managed to find myself wandering around the Apple shop where my eyes drooled over wafer-thin computers and the avalanche of staff who stood stroking iPads provocatively. Reality suddenly got very 60s psychedelic sci-fi film stylee and I felt myself breaking into a sweat as several blonde-bots homed in on me, their gaze locking onto my wallet. I froze, but broke free of their terrible hold when the rasping tones of a security guard demanded to know how another day-tripper expected to leave when he hadn't made a purchase. For a moment all the assistant-bots were focussed on a young man who just knew he was going to be assimilated where he stood. I walked quickly towards the entrance but the guards saw me. "Look!" I shouted, pointing up towards the second floor, "A PC!" All heads flicked up towards the second floor and I dived out through the door, dragging the hapless youth with me. As the door hissed closed we could hear screaming.

I pulled up my collar and sprinted for the tube, escaping back to the safety of 
Soho where I promptly lost myself in the bustling streets. After another five 
minutes I checked the A-Z again and headed back towards where I should have been.

A couple of hours, one coffee, half a baguette and a chocolate croissant later, 
and I was free of my obligations and was able tear arse across town to the Tate Modern. Whatever you think about London, the TM is an absolute must-visit place when you're there. Only an idiot would disagree. Unfortunatley my bid to get there asap was hampered by going to Waterloo and then walking from there to the London Eye, and then all the way along the river until I arrived cold and very hungry at the TM 30 minutes later. And although I was slowly going out of my head, I was still alert enough to take a few photos of the sand sculptures a couple of chaps had made on the banks of the Thames - a place I'd never associated with sand before. 

Though very pleased to see salvation in the shape of the TM's tower (and the 
restaurant I was rather keen to enjoy), I was distracted by a large crowd who 
were hanging over the rails both under and on the Wobbly bridge. I hearded myself over to see the object of their fascination and quickly realised that they were right to be engrossed, amazed, entertained and bewildered. (Actually I don't think anyone hit all four of those things, but the crowd ebbed and flowed so there's a good chance that we need to consider all four as possible experiences in the situation I'm about to describe.)

The Thames was at low tide and on the shingle bank that had been revealed by its absence we could all see a sign announcing a musical event of a rock 'n' roll 
nature in a pub/theatre/tree nearby but much later in the day. All very 
informative, but very boring - certainly not something with strong enough pull to make crowds appear from nowhere. No. But, about ten feet out into the Thames and up to his lower thighs in water, stood a young man who was banging out rockabilly style hits as if he were one of the Stray Cats himself. On an electric guitar. 

"Fantastic!" I thought, what a photo opportunity for me. And I was right. Just 
after I finished adding him to my collection of Things of Note that have Caught 
My Attention whilst Visiting London, a rather naughty cruise boat went past. The crew stood on the deck and looked on with wry smiles as their bow wave raced and surged towards to the top of Mr Rock 'n' Roll's green waders.

Inside the TM, I was further distracted from the restaurant by some rather large videos that were being played in the old turbine hall. As I'd lugged my Canon D40 all the way to London, I felt it had to earn its keep, so out it came. The hall was dived into two main areas. One that was bright and colourful, the other a darkness that reminded me of the depths of Hell itself. Photographing anything in these circumstances is tricky as you have to balance a long exposure (slow enough to let enough light in) with camera shake and blurring. Also, if you do use a long exposure, all the detail in the really bright areas evaporate. Another problem photographers face is getting 'click happy'. This can happen at any time your camera is not safely in its bag, and is especially likely to happen when you've not taken any photos all day and are going slowly mad because you've not slept for over 24 hours and you've not eaten nearly enough food. 

This, coincidently, was exactly the position I found myself in.

Although I knew that the restaurant was one floor below me and within sight, for some reason that not even a SOCO team could figure out, I decided the most appropriate course of action was to go upwards several floors and to a point that was as far from the hot food as you could get without leaving the building. This wasn't my best idea but it did allow me to see some art and buy a few postcards. 

By now I was practically hallucinating, so I bought a cake and plonked myself 
down in the little cafe that hides between the upper galleries seeking rest and 
resucitation. Once this was complete, I managed to drag myself down the 
esculators, up the ramp in the turbine hall, and with what I firmly believed was a hop, skip and a jump found myself being addressed by the restaurant's Maître de'. Within no time I was sat by a window eyeing up other people's food and wondering if it would be wrong to ask if I could eat their leftovers. I decided not to ask and instead sat quietly trying not to notice the smell of food, or the chinking of cutlery against china, or the sound of someone slicing through a thick chocolate sponge cake with a fork...

Within no time whatsoever (but by my sliding timescale two or more hours) a plate of bangers, mash and gravy was placed in front of me. I never saw whoever delivered it as I was too busy tearing the fork out of the serviette. And by God was that the best bangers and mash I've ever eaten!? The whole plate load disappeared in a matter of seconds and about ten minutes later enough had been sucked into my system to allow my brain to return to something approaching normal. I've no idea how much later it was before I was fully compus mentis, but I dragged myself around the shop in search of who-knows-what before marching off towards Southwark station and the fast train back to Victoria bus station.

The bus station looked exactly as I'd left it, only now it was FULL of people. 
You know, Victoria is an INTERNATIONAL transport centre and as such it really 
ought to be as attractive as the Eurostar terminal at St Pancras or any one of 
the airports such as Heathrow. Instead it looks like it's been constructed out of 
old shoe boxes by a team of enthusiastic if cack-handed primary school children 
with far too much blue and white paint and not enough glue. Personally I think 
the staff there do an excellent job of herding and coralling passengers onto the 
100s of waiting buses. We might not be able to do much about the crowds (price it cheap and stack them high), but there is no need for it to be so damned ugly. 

Really, none at all.

One of the upsides of travelling cheap is that you are more likely to find people 
who, if outside the bus station, are often referred to as 'characters'. A 
character is someone who exhibits one or more (actually always several at least) signs that they are non-conformists. These signs could be a lack of personal hygiene; questionable clothing arrangements; hair that's never seen a brush; beards that look more like tree roots; and most telling of all, a willingness to engage in conversation with whoever happens to be withing listening distance. For me this was Peter, who happened to find himself stood alongside me in the passport queue, and thus well within chatting range. I knew I'd found a kindred spirit when he told me he'd just spent two weeks in a monastry in Wales, and that he was considering becoming a hermit.

Despite this obvious and deep connection, and although we shared the same seat, we'd travailed the depths of our souls sufficiently whilst waiting to get on the bus for us to not be offended that the other was asleep for almost the entire journey back to Breda.

We arrived there at 0312, about two hours before I'd expected to: the first bus 
to Oosterhout left at about 0720. Oosterhout is about two hours by foot and 
despite only wearing comfortable shoes and having to carry a rather weighty 
shoulder bag, I decided to be sensible and start walking. It was a lovely night 
for it: warm enough to not get cold, cool enough to not get too warm. Hunger was a problem but I had a Snickers bar (the world's most stupidly named chocolate bar: wtf was wrong with Marathon? The name change was such a dumb idea, like changing your son's name from Richard to Retard), a large chocolate biscuit and plenty of water, so there was no chance of starving before getting home. However, before I set out, I checked with a taxi driver how much a ten minute drive might be. After a lot of discussion about where EXACTLY I wanted to be in Oosterhout (behind the market square, in front of the market square - actually I don't give a damn - Oosterhout is bloody tiny and being at the back or front of the square is like deciding if you want to be on the inside or outside of your skin).

At €35 it was a lot cheaper to walk, and it meant avoiding having to talk to 
someone whose pedantry in the conversational field didn't inspire me to believe 
he was capable of making the split-second decisions one has to make when driving. 

Despite the obvious dangers of wandering around alone in the dead of night, it 
was far safer to walk.

And the birds sing so beautifully after the 4 AM watershed - have you ever 
noticed that? It's like they know they can't be heard above the din humans make during the day, so wait until they know they can. After an hour it had become pretty irritating but running into the trees shouting 'Bang!' wasn't an effective tactic, so I concentrated on keeping my pace up and ignoring my stomach, which was demanding energy. At the half-way point I relented and ate the Retard: which was delicious, but not nearly as delicious as the Co-Co Pops I savoured when I finally made it back to my house two hours later. 

As I sat in the armchair reflecting on the last 36 hours or so, I couldn't make any philosophical points about my trip. But it was an adventure and a lot of fun despite the madness, and I have to say that I'm pretty pleased that my way of thinking allows me to do such things still. It would have been a lot easier to fly or take the train, but less interesting in the long run. And would have meant spending far more money, something I'm not really geared up to do.
3 Comments
 


Another One
03/23/2012 00:08

Wow! Two things from this:
Your stomach! You've just proven every mother correct by demonstrating why the way to a man's heart is via his stomach.
And... what on earth is an A-Z (for those non-Brits out there!)

Reply
Mick
03/23/2012 12:38

You may be right there, shows that food helps keep you sane. My mother told me that the quickest way to a man's heart was straight through the ribcage with a stiletto knife. Never met my father, he died before I was born. Mother never spoke about him...

The A-Z is a great little guide book for London, though I'm sure you can get them for many places nowadays. They're really helpful in showing you how far you are from where you thought you were going.

BTW, if anyone's interested, I'm going to be leading some guided tours of London in the summer.

Reply
Another one
03/24/2012 14:39

Yes I'm interested! Would love to get to know London better. Do tell more...




Leave a Reply.

    Picture

    Author

    Mick Davidson is a full time technical writer and semi-full time fiction author. He also finds time for both guitar playing and photography. When not being creative, he is heavily involved in Staring Out The Window research.

    He is definitely in the market for publication and agent representation.

    The links in my blog are doors to adventures and other countries, they don't all land in the most obvious puddle.


    Fav Blogs + Websites
    Specter Magazine

    Zencherry
    Dave Palmer
    Libboo
    Peirene Press
    Rebecca Venn
    Bigo + Twigetti
    Wryd Climate

    Archives

    October 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    February 2012
    January 2012
    December 2011
    November 2011

    Categories

    All
    2012
    3d
    A. A. Milne
    Abstract
    Adelaide
    Amazon
    Art
    Artist
    Australia
    Author
    Authors
    Aylesbury
    Bach
    Barnes And Noble
    Bbc
    Blog
    Blue Door
    Blurb
    Book Covers
    Border Trilogy
    Borges
    Botton
    Boundaries
    Calligraphy
    Carlos Ruiz Zafon
    Cbd
    Censorship
    Character
    Charles A. Wustum
    Charles Dickens
    Charlotte Wood
    Choose
    Christina Cummings
    Comfort Zone
    Competitions
    Composer
    Cormac Mccarthy
    Creative
    Creativity
    Critique
    Cycling
    Cyclist
    Damocles
    Dbc Pierre
    Delusions
    Depression
    Design
    Dickens
    Distraction
    Dreams
    Ebook
    Editing
    Ego
    Escape
    Eurovision
    Experiments
    Facebook
    Fiction
    Flow
    Francis Bacon
    Free Book
    Friends
    Gayla Drummond
    Gormenghast
    Graffiti
    Great Ocean Road
    Guitar
    Harpercollins
    Hiccups
    Holiday
    Holland Park Press
    Hot
    Iaay
    Indie Author
    Indifference
    Inspiration
    Inspire
    Istc
    Jane Austin
    Jan Freidlin
    Jealousy
    Jeffrey Eugenides
    Js Bach
    Julian Barnes
    Julien Barnes
    Kenosha
    Kent Haruf
    Kentucky
    Latin America
    Laura Numeroff
    Lazy
    Lee
    Le Guin
    Lesson
    Lettering
    Libboo
    Life Problems
    Lincoln Brady
    Lionel Shriver
    London
    Lonely
    Loss De Plott
    Madness
    Magical Realism
    Marian Newell
    Marilyn French
    Marketing
    Masterpiece
    Maureen Hovermale
    Mccarthy
    Melbourne
    Mervyn Peake
    Middlesex
    Motorbike
    Myers
    Mystery
    Negative
    New Authors
    Novel
    Novels
    Opinion
    Optimism
    O'Reilly
    Owensboro
    Paddy O'Reilly
    P.A. O'Reilly
    Peirene Press
    Perspire
    Plan
    Pod
    Poetry
    Positive
    Pr
    Print On Demand
    Prometheus
    Publication
    Publishers
    Publishing
    Racine
    Reading
    Rebecca Venn
    Resistance
    Restrictions
    Review
    Reviewing
    Re-write
    Re-writing
    Roald Dahl
    Rules
    Russ King
    Self Help
    Self-help
    Sign Writer
    Simon Imagin
    Sleepless
    Songwriting
    Specter Collective
    Specter Magazine
    Stephan J Myers
    Success
    Suicide
    Suitcases
    Sun
    Sutcliff
    Tale Of Two Cities
    Tate
    Tate Modern
    Taxes
    The Hoopla
    The Mind
    The Sense Of An Ending
    Tonya Cannariato
    Train
    Travel
    Twitter
    Type
    Umberto Echo
    Usa
    Uw Parkside
    Vampire
    Vintage Press
    Water Color
    Water Colour
    Winnie-the-Pooh
    Wise Grey Owl
    Writers
    Writer's Block
    Writing
    Writing Problems

    RSS Feed


Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.