Back with a woof

Hello there. Welcome to 2012. The Olympic year. The year I was going to finish this. Ha!

Last month was my third December since starting this quest and I have now come to realise it is pointless even planning anything to do with buses in December. It’s impossible. I explained on Twitter the other day why, but in short, there’s too much going on at home and at work, so I’m sorry it’s been quiet round these parts.

However, in the spirit of at least thinking about buses again, this poster has cropped up on nearly every bus stop I’ve walked past in the last week.

BAttersea Dogs Home ad

It’s well-meaning ad that aims to recalibrate people’s ‘misconceptions’ of Staffordshire Bull Terriers away from the image of rabid child-mauling beasts dragging along equally-intimidating owners. However, I have a problem. Presumably they are running this ad because they have had an influx of Staffy’s (?) and are struggling to find homes for the buggers. How many do you suppose they have? I have no idea, but let’s say 10. That would seem a conservative estimate.

You’d think, if they have 10 Staffy’s (I’m going with that spelling) sitting around, being as cute as they claim they are, they could conjure up one photo which suggests as such. But instead of a photo of a dog having its tummy rubbed by a toddler and rolling about in the snow, they have one of a knitted version of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. A teddy. And even the teddy is a little deranged. It’s eyes are wild, it’s slathering tongue hanging out waiting for its next toddler feast. It’s straining at the metal lead while its owner pops in to buy another crate of Stella, while people in the street (notice there are no children in the street – they’re all hiding from the scary knitted dog) actually cross the road to avoid going near it.

It also appears to be doing that scrape-its-arse-along-the-floor-to-wipe-its-bum thing. None of which sends me scurrying up to Battersea to put my name down.

I like Battersea Dogs Home. Of course I do. But I can’t help feeling they’ve undermined their own cause with this photo.

Right, that’s that out of my system. There’ll be some actual buses soon.

The fog is lifting, just cross my palms with plastic

Writing this on my phone so this will be brief. It’s an apology. I’ve not been able to get out for ages. I had the flu – proper actual flu – and then picked up a chest infection and various other ailments on the back of that.

I returned to work this weekend for the first time in three weeks, having lost nearly a stone, and although I am off on Monday, I don’t think a cold, damp day on a couple of buses will do my recovery any good. I’ll be out as soon as I’m back up to full speed. Sorry again.

I won’t be sorry to see the end of 2011, to be honest. I know 2012 will be a very similar collection of days with the illusion of the sun going up and down 365 times (is it a leap year?), but 2011 has been a bit of a haul round these parts and so I’ll take whatever supposed fresh start I can.

I’m leaving this place but there is nothing I’m planning to take, Just you

• Route 31 (52 mins)

It’s been too long since I was last out so it’s time to improvise. Thomas must come with me. This is a risky strategy given his history of buses and vomiting, but with a shortish route, broken up, I reckon I’ll be safe. I make the pitch.

‘We’re going to get a train, then another train, then a bus,’ I explain to his three-year-old brain.

‘And then will we be there?’ he asks, not unreasonably.

Which is where things get a little existential. Depends what you mean by ‘there’, I don’t say and just nod and smile. One day son, all this will be yours. And I’ll sit your son on my knee and explain to him what I did during the great financial meltdown. Oh, I rode on some buses, I’ll say. It all seemed to make sense at the time, I’ll say, before looking wistfully out the window.

Today though, I have my cousin Mark with me to help with any mess, whether that be vomit or philosophical quandaries. We meet at Clapham and take the train to Shepherds Bush.

The bus station at White City

The gleaming Westfields, which has since been usurped by the newer version in Stratford, dominates the area and we must walk through its pristine, soulless shadows to reach the start of the No 31, which is to ferry us to Camden Town. Come the zombie apocalypse, these gleaming towers of capitalism will be the hideous relics of our time, but I won’t dwell on that theme here. There’s a child present.

The 31 is a salubrious route that quickly leaves Westfield behind, avoiding the scruffy area around Shepherds Bush Green in favour of the tree-lined Holland Park Avenue.

A Ferrari growls in front of us, but we are soon heading north towards the boutiques and private sports clubs of Notting Hill. With Thomas in mind, we hop off for a break and head towards the Museum of Brands - a delicious little collection of trinkets and household goods from the last 120 years tucked away in Colville Mews, just off Lonsdale Road.

It is a lovingly-preserved time-line of capitalist growth over the last 100 years. Thomas loved it because he got to wear a head-torch, but I’m not sure he looked at a single display until he spotted a Sonic the Hedgehog toy near the end. Real value fom this place would come from taking an elderly relative though, someone to regale you tales that can add some human experience to the hundreds of products on display behind glass.

This is not a place for a three-year-old. Still, Thomas is good, happy with his torch and we’re fairly quickly back outside to pick up the No 31 again. On the way, we notice a church that has been converted, at least partially, into a fancy clothes shop. The new religion. With new cathedrals.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m reading Lights Out In Wonderland and I’m looking for such examples of rampant capitalism, but there is a theme developing to the day. The 31 is soon around the corner to pick us up and continue our journey, but traffic is heavy and as we labour north-east, I sense unease from Thomas and a little boredom from Mark, although they do well to hide it.

There’s no way to dress this up though. This is life on the buses. In Maida Vale, we pass the Animal War Memorial Dispensary, which opened in 1932 and features a large bronze sculpture and two stone plaques dedicated to all the animals whose lives were sacrificed during the First World War.

Thomas asks to have a go with the camera. Here then, is a selection of views from route 31 from the point of view of a three-year-old.

Bored of photography, Thomas wants a story so the final leg of the journey from St John’s Wood to Camden is spent reading Mr Mean. He loves these Mr Men books, but they are from a different age. Characters laugh ‘sarcastically’. Once off the bus, I realise it’s my first time in Camden since starting this odyssey, which seems odd given it’s my 109th route, but poor old Thomas is in no mood to hang around. He just wants to go home after hours of pointless travel. I oblige. In truth, it’s been a weird one. It’s been a long day for Thomas and him coming meant I wasn’t able to give the route my full attention.

I’ll have a map for you later.

Happiness, how’d you get to be Happiness?

At the end of route 404 – which runs from Caterham-on-the-Hill to Coulsdon – there is a small side road called Downs Road. This road climbs for about a mile, taking you up and away from Coulsdon and the busy A23 below and high to Farthing Downs, a huge area of rolling grassland and woodland.

The site is the ‘most extensive area of semi-natural downland habitats remaining in Greater London’ and with Happy Valley alongside, feels straight out of a Beatrix Potter tale.

After dabbling with the idea of a trip to the Horniman Museum in Forest Hill, we decide to take advantage of the autumn sunshine and head to the Downs, which is somewhere Kel and I used to walk in the early days of our relationship.

Driving up the hill, we work out that we were last here about eight years ago, but this time of year is perfect. The sun still offers a little warmth, the trees are turning but not fallen and the air crisp. We head to Happy Valley.

Once through the woods, the trees give way to reveal Happy Valley and we climb a steep slope with the promise that Thomas can have his packed lunch when we reach the bench at the top. As he tucks into his reward, we lament our decision not to bring anything, but having spotted a pub on the map, we resolve to push on for a little longer.

There is larking, there is frolicking, there is gambolling, there is tomfoolery – all straight out of a fifties kids book and finally, after two hours, from a clearing, The Fox reveals itself as our saviour.

Shepherds pie, chocolate cake and a pint follow and suitably refuelled we head out again for the return trip as the sun begins to dip below the tree-line at the top of the valley.

The walk back to the car takes just an hour as we cut a swathe right through the bottom of the valley, but is highlighted by a spectacular fall and combat roll by Kellie as we run down a path, which is the funniest thing I’ve seen in weeks. Passing walkers chastise me for my lack of sympathy.

Back through the woods, Thomas is nearly swallowed whole by an enormous, bounding, slathering dog and suddenly the day feels like ‘We’re Going on a Bearhunt.’

Too long; didn’t read? We went for a walk and it was ace. If you’re ever at the end of route 404 and stuck for something to do, climb the hill to Farthing Downs. Of course, as soon as we are home, our perfect day reverts to normal service as Thomas takes two hours to eat his tea and we have two meltdowns before bed, but like any parents, you take what you can get. And this was bliss.

Lights out in Wonderland

A frustrating couple of weeks in terms of buses. Had a fantastic week off with Kel and Thomas – look, we went to Legoland London!

- but with Thomas still suffering from travel sickness on the bus, there’s no chance of him sneaking a route or two in with me. Hopefully that’ll change before too long.

Then again, perhaps he’s faking it.

It also meant I wasn’t able to capitalise on the incredible weather earlier in the month. London had some great skies during that 10 days of glorious sun so it was annoying not to get out. Still, I hope to get out on Wednesday, which will no doubt signal the full onset of autumn.

Getting out on Wednesday is slightly dependent on getting a decent night’s sleep the night before because it’s my one weekday off this week. Thomas is very keen on climbing into our bed at 4am. He sleeps fine, but within 30 minutes he’s usually turned 90 degrees and is headbutting me in the small of my back and I am rubbish, utterly useless, at getting back to sleep.

Someone was asking me about motivation and I have found the most difficult time is when I only have one day off in the week, because even doing only one route invariably takes four or five hours out of my day and if I have to be back to pick Thomas up from nursery, motivating myself to traipse around London’s transport system on my one day off can be a challenge.

It’s not the buses that are the problem; it’s the trains and tubes in between. The last time I was out, I spent 80 minutes completing two routes and more than three hours on trains and tubes travelling to the first route and then home again after the second.

Occasionally, the temptation to relax and do nothing on a day off is just too strong. I thought I should admit that.

I did achieve something this week. I finished American Tabloid, by James Ellroy. I’d read the first 150 pages four times in the past and never finished it, despite really enjoying it. Each time I just ran out of steam or got distracted by a different book with a shinier cover (one reason I could never get a Kindle I think – I love the tactile feel of books. Each one is different in the hand) but this week I ploughed through it and utterly loved it. The sequel is on order. In the meantime, it’s Lights Out in Wonderland, by DBC Pierre, which is proving to be terrific tale of our time. It’s the sort of book that I’m boring people about and I’m only 80 pages in. I hope it doesn’t let me down.

H three over four equals…

After a lengthy run at work, followed by a couple of days of illness, I’m now on a week off with the family. This is good, obviously, but will require some careful negotiations if I am to get out on the buses this week.

These talks are ongoing and we’re all hopeful of a positive conclusion.

In the meantime, we went to see ‘Mr Men Live’ at Epsom Playhouse yesterday and as I tweeted, it was like watching four X-Factor rejects take a big, fat shit all over my childhood. It was an abortion of a production, with only two Mr Men involved, no storytelling, and four enthusiastic, but horrible young singers screeching their way through songs that 3 year-olds will never have heard.

One of them even referenced ‘Glee’, as if that is what three-year-olds are watching. Anyway, we cleansed our souls with a reading of Mr Greedy when we got home. On the walk back to the car, we were pondering over these things, and what they were for.

When I was young, I would cycle around the north Norfolk town where I grew up and make a note of the numbers on all these things around town. Early signs of geekhood there. I also used to write all the numberplates down in any parked cars, making a note of the model and colour of the car. Anyway, I’ve forgotten what these yellow jobbies are for. Something to do with water, right?

Must dash, we’ve got a date with the cinema in Sutton at 11am for some horrendous live action/cartoon hybrid. I’ll let you know how those negotiations go…