Terror Threat Level Reduced
290 words
I nervously board the tube train; I am on edge as it’s only been two days since the London tube bombings.
As the train leaves the station I take a moment to look at my fellow passengers; I see that they are also uneasy, their eyes dart around the carriage like birds alert for predators.
The train pulls into the next station, the doors slide open and a large man boards our carriage, he is carrying a bulky cardboard box.
The box is cream in colour, it lacks logo or decoration, it’s roughly 6 inches deep and two-foot square. He holds the box with both hands, his manner suggests that the box contains something of value or fragility.
He sits in the empty seat next to me, the box balanced on his lap, the train moves slowly out of the station.
Within seconds the man begins to fiddle with the edge of the box; he looks a little uneasy, apprehensive.
The collective level of anxiety appears to go up a notch, some passengers start to look physically uncomfortable, ‘the eye darting’ becomes more rapid, more obvious.
I find that my eyes are drawn to the large white box on the man’s lap, I watch his fingers start to work away at the small piece of tape that holds the lid in place.
He finally opens the lid of his box, it reveals a tray of fresh cream cakes.
He turns towards me, smiles and asks if I would like one, I accept. He then offers the other passengers a cake; a few join me in accepting his offer.
The tension immediately evaporates, the distrust fades away and perhaps, for a short while, belief in human kindness has been restored.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
704 words
The storm has been raging for two days; the autumn leaves that had been lying on the ground like damp confetti are now in flight. They blow around, violent swirling micro-tornadoes.
We have been sitting out the storm in a large trendy Amsterdam bar; we have comfortable window seats, so we sit, drink, smoke, and watch the unrelenting rain and debris blow about in the wind outside. We are not alone; the bar is full of other storm refugees, some are worried travellers like ourselves, others are well-dressed locals. We all have one thing in common… no one wants to go outside!
Our flight back to the UK is not until the evening; we trade concerns about travel disruption, discus the possibility of having to spend another night in the city. Time passes, more beers are consumed, and daylight disappears…
Eventually, and with trepidation, we leave the security and warmth of the bar and walk towards Central Station. The famous trams of Amsterdam stand still and dormant; the electrical leads that fuel them have been damage by the storm. As we walk, we see people blown from their sturdy Dutch bikes; ambulances rushing to various scenes, ancient branches falling from trees and heavy lead roofing flapping in the wind. I stop briefly and find myself looking into a warmly lit bar, inside a businessman sits at a table, a waitress wearing nothing but the smallest of swimsuits serves him drinks, I pull the collar of my jacket up around my neck and walk on.
The Train station is in chaos, we read the hastily assembled information boards, no trains are running, there has been flooding on the tracks. Hundreds of rain soaked travellers unhappily roam around the large dimly lit building, it feels as if we are on a film-set of a 1940’s movie.
The public address system barks into life and crackles out information, we listen but we do not understand. Eventually there is some information in English; the speaker informs us that pickpockets are taking advantage of the situation and that all flights out of Schiphol Airport have been, until further notice, cancelled.
We decide to travel to the airport via Taxi; we will sit out the storm in the warm dry comfort of the departure lounge. At the Taxi rank 150 other people have had the same idea, the queue is long, it stretches like a serpent. We decide not to queue. We walk back into the city… we have another plan!
Eventually we find what we are looking for. The hotel is large and expensive; we enter via automatic glass doors and speak with the person at the desk. We tell the overworked receptionist that we have just checked out and ask her to order us a cab. It works; she smiles, picks up the phone, and arranges a taxi to take us to the airport.
We travel along the Dutch motorway at high speed, gusts of wind batter our car, the road shines like black gloss paint. Nothing is said.
The airport resembles the train station, damp, chaotic, and busy. We check the display boards; most flights have been cancelled, unbelievably ours is displayed. I start to feel unwell.
‘Check in’ is quick and painless, it takes only a few minutes, we make our way to the departure lounge. The waiting area is clean and bright, I stand near a large window and peer through the polished glass at our aircraft. The plane is small… too small, it looks like it will hold no more than sixty passengers.
We board the aircraft on schedule; I locate my seat and buckle my seatbelt. I hear two stewards speaking, they discus the storm and how bad it has been. I wish they would stop talking.
The captain speaks to his silent audience, he tells us that “it might be a little bit bumpy, on the way up”, I hear a bout of nervous laughter from someone sitting behind. The plane taxies towards the runway, it moves into position and then the engines roar, we start to gather speed.
The aircraft shakes, my legs feel light, and then the wheels leave the ground.
I close my eyes.
Originally posted: Sunday 22nd Oct 2002, Amsterdam.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
A tiding of Magpies
180 words
Winter is upon us; it is now often dark when I leave the office to ride home.
In the mornings I travel to work via the Marshes, if I’m very early I often spot wide-eyed rabbits and occasionally disturb a tiding of Magpies.
In the evenings when it is dark, things change. There are no street lamps on the small road that runs through the Marshes, it is often foggy and when there is no moonlight it’s just me and my bike-lights.
Its also quieter, there is still the ongoing background rumble of the city, yet it is quiet enough to hear my breathing and the hum of the Cannondales tyres on the tarmac.
Sometimes things flash pass me, they are almost near enough to reach out and touch. These other cyclist, the ones without lights, dart quickly by, I barely see them.
I ride under the small railway bridge, a train clatters above me, it’s literally inches above my head, yellow light splashes from the carriages and for a few second there is nothing but noise and light.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
The urban traveller
202 words
I have come to the conclusion that urban rail travel produces a different set of behaviours to non-urban travel.
In the countryside, people often appear more conventional, they stand or sit neatly; there is often a pleasant, expectant atmosphere, as if something important or extraordinary is about to happen.
In the city I sense the mood is different, there is often a feeling of restlessness or uncertainty. Travelers are renamed ‘commuters’, they stand-alone with their heads fixed on newspapers or books, and conversation between strangers is rare.
Unlike the calm, disciplined country folk, city rail travelers appear uncompromising, their faces are often masks of stress; some impatiently stomp about kicking at discarded Coca-Cola™ cans or cigarette butts, others fiddle with travel cards or play with mobile phones.
Tonight I am an urban traveler; I am one of the stressed ones, if I wish to get to my destination I must travel on the London networks, it’s a necessary evil!
On the plus side, it feels like the start of spring, the air is warmer than of late and the early evening sky is pink instead of grey. I board my train; find an empty seat and gaze out of the window.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
A Helicopter in the sky
149 words
I woke up early on Monday morning, and after breakfast I stood in the garden to drink my first cup of coffee of the day. The sun was shining brightly, no clouds were in the sky; it was going to be a beautiful day…
To my left I start to notice the sound of a helicopter, I locate its whereabouts and for a while, I watch it circle around a huge cloud of black smoke. The smoke is growing, sirens can now also be heard, the smoke starts to stain the blue sky. I can tell from the direction of the smoke that it must be a factory or a warehouse ablaze. I finish my coffee and then head off to work.
Today I realised that as I stood there drinking my coffee, I was watching Tracey Emin’s tent and the Chapman brothers’ Hell… go up in flames.
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg
Two 'incidents'
231 words
7.30AM. I wake, rub my eyes, and get out of bed; I begin the daily ritual of preparing breakfast, bathing, and getting myself ready for work.
As I dutifully complete these morning tasks, I consciously and half consciously ingest a vast amount of news; the information almost spews itself from the TV, Radio, and the Internet.
This mornings various media outlets have decided to run the Soham murder trail as their top story, they examine, scrutinise, evaluate and gratuitously sensationalise the whole sorry affair. A few other ‘top’ stories emerge; the Chancellors pre-budget speech is under the spotlight and we are told that a rugby player will meet the Queen to receive an MBE.
Meanwhile in a far away land called Afghanistan 15 Children have lost their young lives. They have been murdered by the most powerful country on the planet. A spokesman for the American Military apologies about the two ‘incidents’ he states…
“The victims were partly to blame for being at a site used by militants to store munitions”. The spokesman goes on to say… “We are not completely responsible for the consequences”.
This story only appears to warrant a few paragraphs on the second pages of some of the newspapers and has the status of being the last news item on the TV and Radio.
…by the evening, the story is completely dropped by the UK’s TV news networks
Posted by: Leeroy Lugg