Tube Troubles: Unsolicited Drunken Contact

The man sitting to my left reached clumsily into his trouser pocket, moving with his entire body. He somehow managed to simultaneously elbow, shoulder, knee and kick me all in one go. That was the fourth time during my short journey on the London underground.

When I boarded the train, weary from my after-work evening class, I hadn't noticed why there was an empty seat: I just saw an empty seat. I didn't register the young pinstriped businessmen sitting in the seat beside it. I should have: whereas everyone else was sitting in a prim, British fashion, he was slouched halfway down the seat, almost parallel to the floor, chin resting on chest. Somehow, this all escaped my notice.

I sat down, and was instantly hit by a solid wall of beer fumes. The drunken young businessman sighed loudly and laboriously, shifted himself into a slightly more upright position, and crossed his long, wobbly legs. This took a couple of goes before his legs obeyed him.

Me being me, I stood (or rather sat) my ground. I was sure he wasn't dangerous- just more than a little sozzled. Besides, there were no more seats, and I was exhausted. Why should I have to move?

Throughout the journey, punctuated by loud sighs, this man would slide down into his seat and then pull himself up again, only to sink back down- all in quick succession. Down, up, down, up, fail to cross legs, fail to cross legs in the other direction, down, up. His movements were jerky whenever he'd correct himself, like when your head snaps up as you catch yourself on the brink of sleep. At one point he very nearly did hit the floor- the entire carriage watched him in rapture, enjoying the 'Will he? Won't he?' pantomime. We were almost disappointed when he snapped himself back to attention. On several occasions his attempts at lucidity would result in me taking an angular limb to the ribs.

When the drunken businessman finally meandered off the train, the remaining original spectators in the carriage grinned at each other, in a rare moment of public transport unity. I think this alone was worth the experience.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This is my third consecutive post about things happening to me on trains. It's definitely not one of the only three on this blog, either. Which begs the question: what the bloody hell is it with me and trains?

Sarcasm Done Right: Today on the Tube

I laughed openly, and was surprised that I was one of only two that did, out of the ten people in my carriage. A third cracked a smile,  but that was all. I could only guess that either the others hadn't gotten the joke, or were just being awkwardly British about it.

Just before the doors of the train had closed, the driver's voice- female and sweetly acidic- had announced over the speakers:

'To the gentleman holding the doors open: this is not the last train. I repeat, to the gentleman holding the doors: this is not the last train.'

In Which I Act Uncharacteristically Starry-Eyed

As my train pulled into Euston underground station, I stood up and made my way to the doors. The doors opened, and I found myself standing in the direct eye line of a rather good-looking guy. We stared each other for the longest two seconds ever, and quickly diverted our gazes, embarrassed. I dodged out of the way of the oncoming crowd of people who were waiting to board the train with this guy, whilst I hopped off. As I sidled past him, I stole one last glance, as if to make sure he really existed.

I caught him red-handed in his own second-glance at me, just before we were both buffeted apart by the tide of the crowd.

Utterly disorientated, I turned around, walked straight into a wall and then proceeded to walk in the wrong direction.

The train, of course, left (and a few minutes later I found myself on the wrong platform having come to from my daze).

The unusual thing about this story is that I never act like this. This has never happened to me before- even in my last long-term relationship (RIP) it took me almost a full year to fully realise that I had come to be in love my friend rather than just love him in the platonic sense. Sure I can admire good looks when I see them, but I never go ga-ga over it. I don't even this this guy was what you'd call classically handsome or beautiful, or even particularly striking. But something about this guy caught my attention a couple of nights ago, and apparently him too. I didn't even have anything on my face- I checked afterwards just to make sure.

Well, all else I can say this: even though I still don't really believe in true love at first sight, I think I'll be more lenient about the idea of attraction at first sight- and I'll carry on hoping that no-one saw me walk into that wall. Especially not that guy,

Actually, I Rather Like People After All

Yesterday evening I met up with some of my fellow ex-contestants from the karaoke contest I took part in, just for a fun Japanese (and English, in my case) karaoke session together. I had great fun, and in the process got to know some new people a little better. I think my favourite moment was when I was chatting to the eldest member of the group on the way to the bar afterwards- a small, not-old-yet Japanese lady with a mischievous smile- and laughing about the sex shops we were walking past in Soho. She even quite knowingly asked me if I knew one particular shop in London aimed at ladies (to which I was just a tiny bit embarrassed and rather a lot more impressed!) She had up and left Japan at a young age, taking no friends or family with her, to start fresh in London: in fact a few others in the group had done similar, one even having lived in four different countries so far.

Recently I've been making an effort to go out and meet new people, and in the recent months I have met some awesome people and made some new friends along the way. It's occasions like this where I re-think the thing I have been telling myself pretty much all my life, which is:

'I hate people.'

Well? what does that actually mean? When I dissect it, it isn't a very nice way to go about life. I like lots of people- love them to bits, in fact. So when I used to say 'I hate people', I was directing this at the general public. In general.

But just who are the general public?

Potential friends. Potential enemies. Potential awkward but friendly chats in the queue or dirty looks after bumping into one another. A huge mix of human beings that are capable of doing the most wonderful and the most terrible things you can imagine, and every one as complex as the other.

There is a lot of cruelty in the world that I can't understand and that makes me sick, sad and angry. These things deserve hate, yes- but I believe that I've realised that it's not right to go about life hating the general public as a default. I'll try to be more open.

(Having said that, I hope I never have to work as a waitress or in customer services ever again.)

In Which Woosy Pays Me a Visit

Woosy was my first cat, and my first proper pet- not counting the three goldfish Goldie, Alan and Popeye (RIP) that one by one managed to jump out of the fishbowl. I managed to dig out a few old-school film photos of her- here she's sitting on my first piano.

We adopted her as an almost fully-grown kitten when we found her in the garden- I was five years old at the time. Or rather, she adopted us- we fed the scrawny little thing and she kept coming back, seemingly deciding that we were 'the chosen ones', until eventually she because part of the family. She was with us for sixteen happy years, until she very suddenly fell very ill. I was at university when my mum and dad phoned me to tell me that Woosy had to be put to sleep because of a large inoperable growth in her stomach. They had buried her in the garden. I cried all day.

Dad took it the hardest, I think- Woosy adored him, and he adored her. Thankfully our other cat Fudge (adopted as a kitten soon after we got used to Woosy) was still around for cuddles, although she moped quite a lot for a while after- according to Mum and Dad, she would walk around the house sniffing behind sofas, in corners and cubbyholes, as if searching for her lost friend.

A few years later we adopted Sheba, a cat who lived at the warehouse Dad worked at and was either destined for life as a working cat on a farm, or to be put down, after Health and Safety officials found out about her- and so the household returned to having two cats roaming around and keeping each other company. I still say hi to Woosy when I'm watering the plants in the garden, sometimes.

Some time last week, when Dad went to work and Mum had gone to bed, I was up late doing some work. I got up, taking care not to disturb Sheba (who was asleep in the chair next to me), and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I felt Fudge brush up playfully against my leg.

"Hello, Fudgey," I said automatically.

I heard Fudge chirp back in greeting, but the sound didn't come from by my feet. I looked down to see nothing but bare floor, and looked up to the source of the friendly sound: Fudge was sitting on the warm radiator, on the other side of the kitchen. Very suddenly, my first and very much-loved cat popped into my head.

"...Woosy?" I asked tentatively. I looked around and looked back at Fudge, who had started to purr quietly. Fudge was gazing at the space next to my leg.

"Hi, Wooss-Puss," I whispered, using her old nickname,  and got on with making my tea.

I'm not sure that I believe in ghosts- I don't rule the possibility out completely, but I maintain a healthy amount of skepticism about the whole subject. I don't even know if that *was* the ghost of my former pet letting me know she's still around- the nerves in my leg might have just played a trick on me, and Fudge's reaction may have just be cooincidence- and the strong feeling of Woosy's presence rather than fear merely a very human grasp at hope. Whatever it was, it's nice to think that old Wooss-Puss is still kicking around in her own personal dimension, making sure no other ghost kitties invade the territory that she once called home.

RIP little friend, we all still miss you.

Bow Down, Minions!

Well I had quite the eventful birthday- and I've certainly began my 26th year with style. The day before my birthday (the Saturday) I visited Birmingham to see Lucia, since her birthday is always the day after mine and I couldn't make it to her party this year; I went out with Siu Yen and some other friends from my Geek Girls meetup group to see Siro-A on stage on my actual birthday, and on Monday (yesterday), my colleagues proudly presented me with their birthday gift to me.

A small plot of land in the Highlands, and the legal title of Lady.

Kickass.

I think I'm going to like being 26...

I Did It! The Nodojiman Karaoke Contest at Japan Matsuri London

On Saturday I got up there in front of thousands of people and danced and sung Tsukema Tsukeru ('putting on false eyelashes').

It was EPIC.

Even though nerves made my voice go horribly strained and wobbly from trying to escape my throat, I danced by butt off and felt pretty epic. I had an amazing bunch of friends cheering me on, my mum and dad looking on in pride and amusement, and the other amazing contestants lined up behind me cheering and clapping along too. Sadly my voice let me down too much to be in the running for a prize, but I didn't mind at all. The winners were incredible (the winner of the first prize had a truly jaw-dropping voice), and I felt like I had leveled up in life. I got a lot of attention outside the competitions regarding how I'd done my makeup too, which was funny (falsies- of course, rhinestones around my eyes and lots of pink and glitter).

When I posted the video on my Facebook, my friend Ruthie- who I've known since I was at school- commented:

'Wow. had strange moments of remembering how shy you were when we met...and watching this... amazing xxx'

I replied:

'This caterpillar sure turned into one crazy-ass butterfly, huh? xxx'

Honestly, if you'd have known me those thirteen years ago- hell, even as little as three years ago- I'd have never dreamed of getting up on stage in the middle of London and potentially making an utter arse of myself in front of thousands of strangers. Sure I performed all the time on the piano at school concerts all the time and one or two other things, but I always felt secure behind a piano- but even after years of singing, I never liked singing in front of people. But you know what? Saturday felt fantastic. I'm definitely going to practise so I can do a better job next year, if I'm lucky enough to be accepted a second time.

In the meantime, I feel like I'm ready to venture back into music again- I do have a dipABRSM in performance and two additional Grade 8's after all and it would be a shame to let them go to waste... if only I could find a way to squeeze it in between baking, writing and the Mandarin course and Google Analytics course I've recently taken up.

In any case, I turn 26 next weekend. Bring it on, bitches. I'm ready.