No one can hear you, but they can see you...

Good morning all!

It's been some time since I've blogged. It's been mega busy, everyone (higher echelons than moi) trying to get things done before the summer recess. 

A chap on the Tube this morning has prompted me to write on today's subject.  A chap three seats away from me is sitting with earphones plugged into both Lords and Peers. He is moving around, fidgety-like behaviour, making odd noises every few seconds. He must be listening to Asian rap or something. Can't quite make it out as barely can hear the music.

[Thought: I assume that Asian rap exists].  

If a child had seen this chap and commented it would be something alone the lines of 'that man has ants in his pants' [whilst sitting down]. 

Everyone is indeed doing the normal Tube thing of "look around at other travellers, acknowledge (through a stare, glare or grin with other commuters) passenger of note behaving erratically, and carry on". 

Everything we do in life is often unseen or unheard by the billions of others on this planet. Sometimes, just sometimes we think that we are doing something 'in our heads' yet sometimes (yes, that sometimes word again) we do things  silently resulting in strange-looking behaviour which may be seen by others and it turns into a spectator sport. And maybe a giggle or two. 

But we are all different and that's what makes (wo)mankind wonderful. So many variations and combinations. And I'm glad we make one another laugh, even if it is unintentional or unprovoked.

I love laughing. 

Maybe I'm that odd ball on the Tube. 

My shed...

Just watching Shed of the Year. 

How I would relish the opportunity (and the space in the compacted suburban jungle of Ealing) to build my own shed. Yes, a shed. Not the regular off-the-shelf shed from B&Q but the delicious fruits of one's craftsmanship. 

Some of my family and friends know that in another life I would have wanted to be an architect-cum-surveyor-cum-carpenter. 

Not being a particularly artistic creature I wouldn't necessarily get merit for the beauty but, technically, I would like to design (and build) a practical and innovative residence. Or in this case, an annexe to one's  abode.

At this stage, not sure of the theme I would embark on like the ones we see on the Channel4 Amazing Spaces series. Some designs are totally strange and definitely some eccentric. A handful totally bizarre. 

Seems that the 'alternative' Grand Designs or rather 'Grand Designs Lite' has a cult following. 

Admit it, you watch it too!

I will leave you to ponder on your designs and purpose of one's back garden 'hut'.  

Feel free to share your ideas and designs. 

Tennis Love....

Afternoon peeps!

Who's watching the Ladies' Final at Wimbledon? 

Many people go to Spain on a fortnight's holiday to get a tan. Well, this Spaniard has come to South London for anything up to 14 nights with a free fan thrown in.

The only main difference between is that one pays for the former and gets paid for the latter. 

Ready to start...

A poor triple double fault for Mme Williams is not a good start against a #20 seed opponent, with a broken serve in the first game. 

Bet Serena is a bit miffed about her inaccurate initial serving up. 

Mind you, whilst I have a great backhand serving has been my weakness. Even my coach at the Ealing Lawn Tennis Club couldn't get me to fulfil a straight serve.

Spaniard 3 - Yank 1 (first set)

Not the usual Serena-style. 

Have the microphones at the All England Club had their sensitivity increased? The ball bouncing at serve time is so prominent. 

Has anyone noticed a lack of Robinson's Orange Barley at Southfields this year? Or am I a tad slow or oblivious to such detail? 

Spaniard 4 - Yank 2

The underdog is fighting, but whose stamina (in the sunshine) will get them closer to holding up that shiny plate?

Spaniard 4 - Yank 4

Even Stevens

Is this a game of strength or the fewer errors? Can't decide. 

Can the Catalana beat the American in the first set?

Miss Williams has just clinched it. 

First set to SW (6-4). 

No rest for the wicked. Second set. 

Have just been reading up about the younger lass. Venezuelan by birth. Mixed by parentage. 

Spain 1 - USA 1 (second set)

Williams the Younger is nervous. 

(Venus is in the crowd)

Spain 1 - USA 4 (el servicio español)

The 33yo is four points away from another grand slam. 

So close yet so far. 

Garbiñe has managed to break her opponent's serve. 

Spain 2 - USA 5

Anything is possible. 

Spain 3 - USA 5

Seems the crowds are cheering on the new underdog in town. 

The multi GS title holder is fighting against a backdrop of double faults and breakpoints. 

Matchpoint. 

Back to deuce.

Breakpoint. 

Deuce. 

Gosh, that Spanish Inquisition has shown the ball is a sliver away from the chalk. 

These two lasses are throwing it about the court. 

Breakpoint. Advantage G. 

Spain 4 - USA 5 with a standing ovation from the crowd for the break coming back from a 1-5 low. 

G's serve. 

Double Fault Stats: Serena 8 Garbiñe 2

Serena is trying to break her opponent's serve. 

2nd championship point. 

6-4 6-4

Serena has done it! Another Serena Slam. Although the tennis umpire was not too sure. Poor show on that front!

Well done to both players. Garbiñe challenged Serena well. 

21 Grand Slams to her name. 

Needs one more to equal Steffi and three more to equal the record held since 1973 by fellow American Margaret Court. 

Maybe the Venezuelan Spaniard will be a Grand Slam winner of the future. 

Now time for the serving of the silver platters. No hors d'oeuvres?

Bet they are feeling a tad peckish after running around on grass with a metal weapon pre-emptying the destination of a yellow, furry ball. 

Friday lunchtime...

Popped out to grab a scrumptious sandwich at an Italian-style deli run by a handful of Polish and other Slavic tattooed ladies. 

Managed to get bitten in the arm by some flying (and gnawing) thing. 

Eating my lunch I came to the realisation that I don't have a yoghurt with me. Maybe dairy manufacturers wish to consider selling multipacks in fives and not fours equating to the number of regular school and working days in the week. 

This means that I will be hungry sooner than normal. And possibly a tad grumpy. 

Don't blame me! Blame the yoghurt marketeers!

Decisions, decisions...

This morning as I was on the E2 I became aware of how many decisions one makes before even leaving the house!

First of all, my body makes a decision for me whether to rise from the nocturnal horizontal position. Or not. The head sometimes kicks in and overrules my body's reluctance. Sometimes it doesn't. From the first alarm at 0610 through to the nth chimes at 0740 allowing a window of waking opportunities (or quite the reverse!). 

When the carcass finally becomes upright it hovers toward the cubicle of drizzle. 

As a regular female I have a multitude of plastic vessels holding, supposedly, magic hair potions. Decision number two.  Which one? 

All cleansed and ready for coffee!

Coffee is a morning staple. There is never a decision point for the ante meridian caffeine shot. One must have. End of. No arguing. No negotiation. 

Once the bean-to-cup actually carries out the 'does exactly what it says on the tin' technique I am engulfed in the awakening fumes of freshly ground roast. Espresso this time. 

Next, I gaze into a wide opened refrigerator. Decisions. What shall I have?  Continental? Fry-up? Cereal? Or Polish-styleee? Whilst that conundrum takes time one has to parallel-think of cat food flavour for the moggies. This is multi-tasking!

This morning's result was Gouda, tomato and (Polski) mayo on toasted multiseed.

Alas, I treated myself to a toast lathered with Welsh honey acquired last month (the honey, not the bread!) on a trip with the Bowens to De Cymru. That will get my sugar levels skitzy. 

Catching up with approximately 120 seconds of BBC news to kickstart the grey matter allows me to absorb the latest capital's travel status. 

Now the breadbasket has been filled and caffeine levels resumed to functioning levels one can make rational (sometimes) decisions. 

Returning to the north wing (aka my loft bedroom 'complex') of the house my brain cells rapidly try to decide the day's attire before the 20-odd steps are trespassed. 

Peeping into my walk-in closet it seems that my boy cat has pretty much  decided for me by pulling my vetements onto the cream woollen carpet whilst snoozing on top of the fallen pile with the left eyelid slightly ajar acknowledging my presence. 

Decisions are based on being practical, suitable for work, relatively coordinated (I'm no fashion victim), clean, uncreased and more importantly, fur-free. 

Before the mad dash out of the terrace one applies the war paint ready to face the public. One teeny-weeny choice is of lipstick shade. Decision made. 

Grabbing my handbag, water bottle, iPhone, keys and one's Oyster pass, I zoom out of the door.  

On the 50m walk to the bus stop the brain goes into a mini overdrive. "Did I lock the door? Which bus shall I catch?" Several times over. Checking the bus app with one hand, together with the morning's travel update, I make an informed decision, Central/Jubilee line it is*.

The bus dutifully stopped and picked up its passengers. Halfway in I realised the driver is a trainee PCV driver. With an instructor beside the driver cabin I noticed that the journey has been one of the smoother rides I've had on a double decker. As humans we are quick to criticise, however, we should find time to praise when it is due. So I let my compliments be known. 

Swiftly moving onto Ealing Broadway I headed towards the 'red line'. Jumped on, sat down, checking if the neighbourly 'green line' had arrived. Volumes of pax on other platforms confirmed that I made the right decision on my route to work this morning. 

Journey uneventful unless you count getting my own arms tangled up in my bag handles as a mishap. I call it JKD normal. 

Changed at Bond Street. Trainlines not clothes. 

Transferring to the 'silver grey' line a middle aged woman in front of me suddenly slowed her pace. As any commuter knows a change or hindrance on your intended route brings about expletives in one's mind (some folk even become vocal). Back to this woman. 

I suddenly noticed her skirt had dropped to the middle of her thighs. She managed to pull it up, zip it up and carry on her with her day. That moment was randomly surreal, funny yet scary. Poor lass. 

Managed to reach work with only a single whack of a rucksack this morning. 38% power used since last charge. 

*this decision may change at a drop of a hat. 

The Public Transport Saga: The Return

Well, folks, my next mission is to return west. Left the office with the boss and luckily caught the bus as it was about to leave (boss wasn't too chuffed about running, he said it's unnatural). Anyway, minimal traffic, silly cyclists and the odd cutter-upper (usually, those Prius cabs) but go to Waterloo quite swiftly. This time a tad wiser, I made an informed decision and caught the faster train (16min) compared to this morning's scenic adventure. But in comparison no seat and sandwiched like a sardine toastie quickly placed in an icebox. 

I'll update when I get there!

Arrived at Richmond (there was no Brentford train without waiting for it and those know me know I'm impatient). This slightly chilled toastie is now loosely vertical in a sauna known as the number 65 bus. Random obscenities are being thrown about the bus for no reason whatsoever.

Having reached the junction of Popes Lane and South Ealing Road, I was only one more instalment away from home. And so I thought. This junction was a driver/cyclist/pedestrian-inflicted spaghetti jam. The traffic lights are out. Swiftly, I texted LBE and tweeted TfL with my newly acquired observation. 

Fearing for my life in between this mechanical mayhem (closely avoiding an intimate moment with a cyclist) I reached my bus stop. Within minutes 4 buses arrived. Had to encounter the same as this morning SSE roadworks. Finally, got off at destination and was promptly welcomed by the opening of a new Lebanese restaurant. Would've popped in but was craving to be seated at home. Journey time 1h45-ish and 91% battery power used.

The Public Transport Saga: The Strike

Well, folks. It started well. Got up early. Only had to wait a minute for my bus on my alternative non-Tube route to work. Then half a mile down the road we encounter roadworks (ah yes, those by SSE who have been promising me [councillor hat on] they would be done by Christmas, last Christmas. 

Anyway, we eventually get past them. 

Next hurdle, crossing the A4. Hurdle, more like brick wall surrounded by a sea of red double-deckers and school run survivors. Well, whilst stuck in the aforementioned congestion many school kids wanted to get off. Bus driver didn't allow it (H&S). These teens started causing a ruckus and being abusive to the driver, and finally pressing the emergency button on the doors. Anyway, after sitting on the bus for 15 mins, the bus driver then voluntarily opened the doors and this was my only chance of escape. Escape, I did. Now, onto the next five furlong trek by foot, past the idling buses, rowdy kids and the heavily-polluted A4. Feel a small success as I managed to get to the other side without a whisker of injury! Found Brentford station down a smelly and urinated alleyway (LBH - please clean up your public thoroughfares). 

Bumped into a neighbouring borough former cllr colleague, Matt H. Awaiting the Waterloo train we had a natter about today's by-election where the wonderful Patrick Barr is standing (good luck, babes!). Platform sunbathing is a new thing to me, but as I have no choice but endure this luxurious chore, I contemplated my next moves into the capital. Surprise, surprise I managed to get a seat. This is virtually impossible on a non-strike Tube....

Update - I have realised I am sat on a train which stops everywhere possible. 

Current ETA at work 0925. That's a 100min voyage.

Just had a strange moment. Whilst checking my bus app on the progress of the next 507 bus the waiting time jumped from 4mins to 8mins in front of my eyes. My blood was bubbling away at this stage. Suddenly, my bus turned up. No notice, no nothing. Is this is a runaway bus not wanting to be tracked? A mystery, albeit an irrelevant one, I will never unravel.

Arrived! 107mins door to door with plenty of doors in-between and 69% of battery power later. Speak later peeps for my return journey this evening x