Underground
I emerged, fresh as a breadcrumb, from London Underground. Hoping to find a bin. Impossible. There are no bins anywhere, and as I walked towards Terminal 2 of Heathrow Airport, my paper coffee cup still attached to my hand, I asked a man if there was a bin nearby. He was standing behind the 'Information' counter, arms crossed, leaning on the wall. "You can drop your cup here", he said pointing at the bin next to him. I extended my arm, giving him the cup to drop into the bin that I couldn't reach myself. He said: "Walk around, drop it yourself, I don't want to handle your rubbish." I walked around: "It's just a paper cup. I'm not offering you the insides of my intestines" I said. "Yeah, but I don't want to touch other people's stuff." He said, arms still crossed. "It won't bite you, you know" I retorted, wishing I could go and lick his face, transmit my germs.
Upstairs, at the terminal, they made announcements about unattended luggage being destroyed, children not riding on trolleys, and liquids not being allowed on board. Laptops have to be taken out of your bag at security. Passports have to be digitised. Tickets have to be sterilised and suitcases monitored. Umbrellas can't be taken onto airplanes. Shoes have to be taken off.
I said goodbye to my mother (whose hand cream was packed into an airtight bag by airport attendants) and went down to the Underground again. Someone stood up for an elderly lady. I remembered how, months ago, making the same journey back into central London, I stood up to offer a blind woman a seat. She said: "Why?! I'm not THAT old yet!!" I sat back down in perhaps the biggest gobsmackification in my life. The rest of the carriage was flabbergasted too, I could tell, behind their newspapers.
I then read about Japanese toilets which play music while you poo and then wash your ass and perfume it. I wondered if the airport guy who wouldn't touch my paper cup might touch my ass after I had it washed by a Japanese toilet. As you may know, the Japanese are mightily embarrassed by any bodily functions and noises, such as nose-blowing and doing a numero uno or numero dos at the toilet. So they've invented this toilet where you have Ave Maria playing as you shit, so that no one can hear you (and they have these toilets at home, too, they're not just public loos), and once you're done, it washes and blowdries your asski, and some even give it a woof of aromatherapy.
The idea of listening to Beethoven or Mozart while doing a poo is odd. The music of the world's greatest composers has not only been turned into two-tone telephone rings, it now serves to cover up the 'plonk!' too. Talk about providing service to the people.
I emerged, again, light as armoured cement, and tried to cross the street at a sort of unofficial crossing in Covent Garden, with a large Mercedes lightly edging closer to my legs. A man inside was gesturing 'this is not a crossing for you' and I thought of how life is different when you're behind the wheel and when you're not. When you're in your car, moving on is the most important thing in the world. You can't wait for a second to let people pass, because it seems, you're inside a vehicle, it should be moving, not waiting for people to faff about and cross the street. I am the same when I'm inside a car. I couldn't care less about anyone crossing. Yet, when I'm the pedestrian, I think that stopping to let people cross is the utmost sign of civilisation.
Anyway, Yeltsin is dead. Democracy is alive and kicking in Russia. Blair is sad Yeltsin is dead and Baroness Thatcher thinks he should be honoured as a hero. Tony Blair's government is trying to silence the man who wants to run an enquiry into why the British government is trading arms with Saudi Arabia, buying dodgy airplanes and supressing corruption investigations. I think a good ass-wash would do us all some good. Try the Saki restaurant in 4 West Smithfield, apparently they have them there.
Upstairs, at the terminal, they made announcements about unattended luggage being destroyed, children not riding on trolleys, and liquids not being allowed on board. Laptops have to be taken out of your bag at security. Passports have to be digitised. Tickets have to be sterilised and suitcases monitored. Umbrellas can't be taken onto airplanes. Shoes have to be taken off.
I said goodbye to my mother (whose hand cream was packed into an airtight bag by airport attendants) and went down to the Underground again. Someone stood up for an elderly lady. I remembered how, months ago, making the same journey back into central London, I stood up to offer a blind woman a seat. She said: "Why?! I'm not THAT old yet!!" I sat back down in perhaps the biggest gobsmackification in my life. The rest of the carriage was flabbergasted too, I could tell, behind their newspapers.
I then read about Japanese toilets which play music while you poo and then wash your ass and perfume it. I wondered if the airport guy who wouldn't touch my paper cup might touch my ass after I had it washed by a Japanese toilet. As you may know, the Japanese are mightily embarrassed by any bodily functions and noises, such as nose-blowing and doing a numero uno or numero dos at the toilet. So they've invented this toilet where you have Ave Maria playing as you shit, so that no one can hear you (and they have these toilets at home, too, they're not just public loos), and once you're done, it washes and blowdries your asski, and some even give it a woof of aromatherapy.
The idea of listening to Beethoven or Mozart while doing a poo is odd. The music of the world's greatest composers has not only been turned into two-tone telephone rings, it now serves to cover up the 'plonk!' too. Talk about providing service to the people.
I emerged, again, light as armoured cement, and tried to cross the street at a sort of unofficial crossing in Covent Garden, with a large Mercedes lightly edging closer to my legs. A man inside was gesturing 'this is not a crossing for you' and I thought of how life is different when you're behind the wheel and when you're not. When you're in your car, moving on is the most important thing in the world. You can't wait for a second to let people pass, because it seems, you're inside a vehicle, it should be moving, not waiting for people to faff about and cross the street. I am the same when I'm inside a car. I couldn't care less about anyone crossing. Yet, when I'm the pedestrian, I think that stopping to let people cross is the utmost sign of civilisation.
Anyway, Yeltsin is dead. Democracy is alive and kicking in Russia. Blair is sad Yeltsin is dead and Baroness Thatcher thinks he should be honoured as a hero. Tony Blair's government is trying to silence the man who wants to run an enquiry into why the British government is trading arms with Saudi Arabia, buying dodgy airplanes and supressing corruption investigations. I think a good ass-wash would do us all some good. Try the Saki restaurant in 4 West Smithfield, apparently they have them there.
posted by Vesna at 4:55 AM
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