Look Who's Talking: Tights and Tolstoy

When it comes to picking up a conversation with a stranger on the train, Londoners are a pretty quiet bunch.

So it's with a mixture of surprise and amusement that over the last few months, I seem to have found two sure-fire ways to get a comment from a fellow commuter.

Number one: bright tights. I work in the media. I need to be smartly dressed for people to take me kinda seriously; but make sure there's a creative edginess to what I wear, or noone will remember me, or believe I've ever had a good idea. My bright tight collection consists of yellow, bright blue, and bright red. I've got some purple ones too, but they're less significant. But I have to say, I've lost count of the number of comments I've had from total strangers about my tights.

I remember the first: "Wow, you look great! What a fantastic colour!" I'd paired the blue with a matching blue bag and a black LBD. Mr Old-Enough-To-Be-My-Father blushed after his outburst as if he'd realised all the London-train-no-talk rules he'd just broken. "Great, err... legs!" was another, directed at my yellow tights as I was coming out of Peckham Rye train station, avoiding a boy on a bike. And last week, "I like your bright red tights," said a young suited London wideboy (can I still use that phrase, does anyone know what it means?!) waiting to get on the Jubilee Line.

It really makes me laugh. I hope I've perfected my amused-but-pleased thank yous. Today's hot weather suggests these conversation starters will have to be confined to winter storage for a while later this week...

Number two: As previously mentioned, I've been wading though Anna Karenin for some time now. And never has a book I've been reading sparked so many conversations with strangers.

People really stare at the cover. Twice, lads I've been sitting opposite have tried starting conversations about it. "Err, good book?" was one. Another, realising I was about to get off, and he was about to miss his chance managed to stutter "How's Tolstoy?"

"Not good," I replied, feigning sadness. "I think it's going to end badly..." with a wink. He chuckled. "I think it's going to end badly... yeah... good one..." And he was gone.

And Anna sparked a proper, full-blown chat into swapping first names another night. "John" (they're always called John at the mo) and I talked about Tolstoy, Russian literature, long novels, short novels, murder mysteries, The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, guitar teaching and more. Which is pretty impressive on a 12-ish-minute commute.

Come to think of it, I was wearing my red tights *and* reading Anna Karenin that night. Should've known...

Image from www.painfullyhip.com

Everything's Fine on the Thirty Nine

Now, I don't want to turn this into pages and pages of mentions and moans about public transport. It's covered enough in London already; and I feel Annie Mole has the monopoly on good writing on the subject...

But sometimes life in London just surprises you; and it's worth stopping for a moment to reflect on the good bits.

The buses between CJ and J-Zee Towers are a varied bunch. They can spoil a trip home, make you late in the morning, ruin your appetite, make you hungry for more.

Generally, though, I pretty much hate the last bit of my daily commute: the filthy bus stop, the bad tempered drivers, the terrible driving, the heavy breaking, the reckless cornering, the tramps, the weirdos, the drunks, the mouthy teenagers, the knowledge that you could walk the distance in 12 minutes if you weren't exhausted, wearing the wrong shoes, carrying this much shopping...

So the other night came as a surprise. Not only did the driver of this particular 39 stop in the road when he saw me, (not at the bus stop!), perform a clever shifty door open and close manoeuvre quickly enough for me to get on but not cause him to lose his place at the lights, WHILE SMILING, but there were seats galore on this little bus... I had my pick.

The ride was as smooth as any you could wish for. No one was shouting, listening to tinny mobile music, threatening someone on the end of their phone, ringing the bell over and over because they were too pissed to know what funny was anymore... It was all quiet. Bliss!

And when the driver stopped to let me off, I spotted a woman merrily but discreetly breastfeeding in the middle of the bus. No one else was batting an eyelid. Brilliant.

London Moment: London Bridge Station

At about 9.35 this morning, in the middle of rush hour, a photographer chats to a policeman at London Bridge station, towards the Tooley Street exit.

People dart everywhere, weaving their interesting mixture of good-naturedness, haste, anger, frustration, tiredness, nonchalance and confusion. It's busy, busy, busy.

The skinny photographer walks into a momentary space and plants a small inflatable globe, about the size of a honeydew melon, on the ground. He retreats and surveys the scene, bringing his viewfinder up to his eye. Commuters dodge around the mini world, confused. One guy accidentally kicks it off its spot on the floor.

The photographer jogs back to the toy, replacing it carefully in the centre of the melee. Turning, he jogs back to get a sense of perspective on the planned shot. The policeman looks on in amused silence.

Suddenly, a TfL man appears from nowhere, and whips the ball up from the floor, thrusting it in the photographer's chest. "I'm sorry, you can't just go putting that there," he says in classic jobsworth tones.

Moment, fun, photo, ruined.

I'd love to have stayed to see what happened. But I was running characteristically late for work.