Settling down in Whoopy Park

We have finally moved. Worcester Park is our home and the 213 and 151 whizz right past every six minutes. Trauma is a strong word given what’s been happening in various parts of the world while we’ve been moving our obscene amount if junk into a cosy three-bed semi, but relatively speaking, it was a chugging nightmare.

However, that is all in the past so I shall be back in the buses next week, desperate to inject a touch of normality and routine back into life. Thanks to Virgin’s stunning ineptitude and subsequent apathy towards my threats to leave, I am still without Internet, so all praise to the iPhone. That said, I’ve found being without the net strangely liberating. It’s amazing how much you can get done when you’re not spending all day on cookdandbombd. Like watching ‘Up’ 17 times.

Thanks for reading. As mentioned countless times before, I have much ground to make up after a desolate last few weeks. Laters…

Escape from Planet Foxtons

* – just to assure you. We have not used Foxtons. I wouldn’t touch them with your money. But Gascoigne-Pees doesn’t scan quite so well for a headline.

• Routes 65, 112, 189 (2 hours 22 minutes)

Retrospective Planning Permission. Three words that dominated life for us throughout January. Staggeringly dull, but the upshot is the buses have been out of the question for the last few weeks. However, there looks to be an end in sight and in an unexpected twist, after a barren January, I manage to eek three routes out in the first week of February.

The day, my return, begins on the 65, which as recompense for standing me up in December, is right there waiting for me when I arrive. A shiver of anticipation chills me as I climb the stairs to my usual spot at the front of the top deck. It feels good to be back, to forget the turgid conversations with solicitors and infuriating pleas with estate agents of the last month, to think about nothing but what’s out in front of me.

The 65 is a double decker that links Kingston with Ealing Broadway and progress today is serene. Running north from Kingston, the first part of the route tracks the Thames through Ham, past the fine 18th Century houses of Ham Common, through the gated residences of exclusive Petersham and into Richmond.

The gated houses of Petersham

Richmond remains austere, a cut above the rest. It reeks of rugby. Twickenham is just down the road. Unfortunately, it suffers from the accompanying superiority complex and comes complete with its own curfews and ominous-sounding ‘dispersal areas’, all designed to keep rowdy kids off the street. It does nothing to stop 18-stone pissed-up rugby fans marauding the place throughout the night though.

However, it is a lovely place to visit, with the green and bars along the river. Kellie and I got married here, had our wedding photos taken along the river and then ate at a lovely little Italian across the river, so it will always remain a place close to us. Today, it is remarkable for only one thing – a man standing at a bus stop wearing a Blue Peter badge. Unfortunately he does not need the 65 so I do not get the chance to ask him how he got it.

The 65 eases down Richmond High Street and crosses the A316 towards Kew, passing a fire station that has been converted into a boys’ prep school before running alongside the world-famous Gardens. Only from the top-deck can you get a glimpse inside over the high wall that surrounds the place and guess what… there’s lots of trees, grass and glass buildings filled with what one can only assume are plants. All very impressive if you are into that sort of thing, although I should probably start taking more notice. We shall be in possession of a garden – avec shed – by the end of the month and I shall need to buy a lawn mower, thereby completing my graduation to full fatherhood status.

Kew Green looks the sort of place Sunday afternoons were made for, with cricket sightscreens waiting patiently for the new season and several inviting pubs lining the area; then its over Kew Bridge and into Brentford, which looks to be undergoing extensive redevelopment, judging by the number of cranes.

The Great West Road - great isn't it?

Only when we push on up to the Great West Road and slip under the M4, two of the main arteries for travelling into London from the west country, do things take a turn for the scruffy, with the housing immediately deteriorating. Nothing desperate, but the contrast to leafy south-west London just a mile or two away is marked.

However, Ealing soon arrives and against all expectations is very pleasant. I spent an unhappy couple of weeks at Ealing Hospital in 2002. Having broken my leg playing football, my right leg was stuffed with plates and pins to hold it all together only for it to get infected. I suspected something was amiss, but every time I complained about the odd sensation under the cast, they told me it was the ‘healing process’. When the cast came off, my leg looked like the Ebola virus and I was immediately sent upstairs for a week on a drip. Only later did I discover that I was a couple of weeks away from having the thing lopped off. Deeply unpleasant, but I shall spare you the photos.

And so, as the 65 rounds the common to deposit me in Ealing, my preconceptions of the town itself are somewhat negative. On first inspection however, it has a lively, friendly vibe with a bustling high street, or Broadway. I quite literally don’t have all day today though, so limit my wanderings so as to hop on the 112, which is to take me east to the shopping mecca that is Brent Cross.

I am by far the first on the 112 so must satisfy myself with a seat midway back. The legroom on the single-deckers is almost non-existant, they are incredibly uncomfortable. Only those facing inwards at the front and one seat on the back row has anything like te appropriate space for someone with normal legs, but I am denied either place and so cram myself into a seat above the rear wheel arch.

Just part of the life-affirming North Circular

Then it’s on to the Hanger Lane Gyratory, which is not nearly as sexy as it sounds. The HLG, as I shall now call it, is essentially a very large roundabout, linking a series of undesirable areas together and the traffic is usually hellish. Hanger Lane was my first experience of London as a child. Living in Norfolk, we used to visit family in Perivale twice a year and Hanger Lane was the sign that we were close. As a child I assumed all of London was like Hanger Lane and the surrounding area. Thankfully for us all, I was wrong. For the most part.

The HLG navigated, the 112 trundles parallel to the North Circular, past Neasden, the landscape of rundown housing and industrial warehouses slate grey against the foreboding sky. Mum texts me to say she is in St Kitts. She does that. I reply that I am watching the North Circular whizz by and it almost isn’t raining. She is surely jealous.

Fortunately, it is only a short hop along the A406 to Brent Cross, the previous champion of shopping megasites that has since been superseded by horrors such as Bluewater in Kent and Westfield in White City. Unfortunately I cannot ignore the place and am under instruction to look for a set of ‘Cars’ from the Disney store for Thomas. I wander inside, but cannot find a store map, so check my phone to find the nearest Disney store. It says Oxford Street, which is where my final bus of the day is to take me, so I accept this as a sign to extract myself immediately from Brent Cross and find the 189.

Hendon's deceased football ground

The 189 marks a return to double-decker status and is pleasingly direct, taking a route south towards the centre of town. The derelict ste of Hendon FC’s old ground blights the early part of the journey, but after Cricklewood’s busy high street, we are soon on Kilburn High Road, heading through Hampstead to Maida Vale and onto Baker Street. I am reminded of the last time I was in this area and the unbearable heat of the day. It feels almost inconceivable to feel so hot in just shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops that you don’t even want to move.

Luckily, this time around, the traffic is immeasurably better thanks to the completion of the swanky Tokyo-inspired pedestrian crossing at Oxford Circus, in which people get to cross the road from a multitude of directions without being entirely sure that they won’t be sideswiped. But it keeps the traffic moving and they have removed a lot of the horrible street furniture from the area, so it all looks a lot better.

So good in fact that I am so keen to try it out for myself, I rush off the 189 and leave my pad on the bus. It is a couple of minutes before I realise and the bus has obviously long gone. I decide to do quick sweep of the area and run around the block. It can’t have gone that far. I need to find out where the route starts to head in the opposite direction. There is nothing of any consequence in the notebook, just the unintelligible scribblings of a man who appears to be travelling on lots of buses, but I nonetheless very relieved to see the 189 just round the back of Oxford Street, parked up and waiting for the return journey.

Pad retrieved, I thank the driver and hotfoot it to the Disney store. Rubbish, they haven’t got what Thomas wanted. His ‘Cars’ must wait. On the plus side, it’s one less bit of tat to move when we do finally get the green light.

Eat it Bauer

Yesterday’s excursions, of which I am in the process of putting into words, took me past 48 hours on the buses, the equivalent of the opening shots of season three of 24, probably the pinnacle of Jack’s adventures before it descended into absolute nonsense. I mean, it was always nonsense, but it’s been slipping into parody ever since hasn’t it? Is anyone even watching day eight? Anyway, my promise to you, the unpaying yet valued reader, is that there shall be no slipping of standards, no jumping of the shark and more importantly, no Chloe.

Also, if I extrapolate how long it has taken so far, I’m going to be spending around 350 hours on buses in the next two-and-a-bit years, which is a little over two weeks. None of which will feel anything like the trauma of moving house. I reckon we’ll be in in a month. More words tomorrow…

On the road again, finally

Like flying at 34,000 feet, an unexpected window has opened. Unlike flying at 34,000 feet, this is a good thing. Whisper it quietly, but I think I can get out on the buses today. I’m going to try the 65 again after it failed me last time and then head on to Brent Cross and Oxford Street. It will be good to finally get moving again. I’ve been stalled for far too long and am miles behind schedule.

See you on the other side.

In the mire

Quick update. Haven’t moved yet. Our purchase has hit the obligatory ‘hitch’ and appears to be the sort of thing solicitors thrive on. We had hoped to move this Friday, but unless I get a very nice phone call today, that is extremely unlikely.

All of which is very dull and  means my life remains one of boxes, not buses. Sorry about that, but keep the faith.

Excuses are the nails used to build a house of failure

I don’t know which tiresome idiot said that, but he’s got me banged to rights.

I’m as bored of the excuses as you are, but frankly there’s not a lot to be done about the Biblical weather we’ve had over the last four weeks. Also, apparently sorting through your worldly possessions takes more than a couple of hours and I was left under no illusions as to my obligations on Tuesday and Wednesday.

I’m back at work now, so that’s that for the week. Next week, we are a week closer to moving, but I shall endeavour as best I can to get out, although I don’t fancy my chances. It’s not a great start though is it? I need to complete around 160 routes this year.

Out of Hibernation

So, here we are. 2010. The Gulf Stream has deserted us and we are freezing our nuts off. However, without wishing to repeat myself, I am behind schedule and have a lot of catching up to do. This week, hopefully will be my return, probably on Tuesday. The only potential problem is the wife. Isn’t it always? We have one more day off together before we move on the 29th, and I have five days off before then in which to organise and throw out most of what we have collected in the last six years.

To that end, today will be a non-stop run to charity shops and the tip, in the hope that I have done enough by the end of the day to justify getting on with the important business of travelling on the capital’s buses tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Short and sweet

Merry Christmas all. Have a good one and thanks for reading. See you in the New Year. I have a lot of catching up to do in 2010.

The Terminal 2: The End of the Beginning

Buses queue at Terminal 5

Routes 111, 490 (2 hours 8 minutes)

Silent film script proposal:

In which our hero is striding purposefully through Kingston town centre. The sky is blue, the early morning air crisp. Animal Collective beats through his headphones. Spirits are high ahead of a marathon day on London’s buses.

Our hero, the buskateer, arrives at Brook Street. It is here he is to pick up the 65, his first bus of the day to take him to Ealing Broadway. He is alone at the bus stop. A mother arrives with her young son. He is wearing a deerstalker against the chill wind. She holds his hand to prevent him from straying too close to the road as buses come and go. None of them are the 65. The 71, 281, K3 all hiss to a standstill, load and unload before wheezing off. There is no 65.

It is 8.44am. Our hero has been standing at the bus stop for 30 minutes.

Fourteen minutes later and finally, in the distance, a 65 looms into view. Our hero holds his position, determined not to be beaten upstairs by the phalanx of impatient schoolchildren, commuters and pensioners who now surround him. But wait, the front of the bus says Brentford, not Ealing Broadway. Surely not. The Buskateer boards and checks with the driver.

He shakes his head.

The other passengers smirk as our hero alights the bus. They do not care.

Our hero trudges away from the bus stop, his plans in tatters. His bid to complete nine or ten routes in a day is reliant on at least the first one turning up within an hour. The doleful lamentations of Noah and the Whale seep into his tired brain, reflecting his morose mood as he trudges back through Kingston. The Gods, whoever they are, are conspiring against him, it would seem.

He must improvise. This will not be the Titanic Tuesday he had hoped, but in the absense of the 65, he decides to lance the Heathrow boil. Eight routes begin and end there after all. The 111 shall rescue his day and he is soon upon it. He rubs his coat against the steamy windows and is treated to a glorious view as the bus crosses Kingston Bridge towards Hampton, the low sun reflecting off the water and causing the town to glisten. The bus tracks the river south, past the grounds of Hampton Court Palace, through the picturesque village of Hampton itself and on through Hanworth and Whitton towards Hounslow.

Endless, identical suburban streets drift past but after Hounslow, the houses become smaller, the shops more grubby. Heston and Harlington pass as the 111 zig-zags across the A4 and industrial estates with low, flat buildings start to dominate the view. The incoming planes are now incredibly low, almost within touching distance. Heathrow is close. Then it is through a tunnel and out into the airport. The radar rotates obediently, keeping thousands of people thousands of feet in the air and out of the way of each other.

The Heathrow Central Bus Station is the centre of a giant roundabout. Once deposited, our hero descends in a lift to catch the express train to Terminal 5, the much-maligned new terminal.

Waiting for the Heathrow Express

The station is futuristically sparse and clean and for a while he is the only one on the platform. He imagines any number of science-fiction possibilities down here and waits for the hordes of zombies to emerge from the tunnel. But they do not arrive. Instead, the Heathrow Express swooshes into view and whisks him on his four-minute journey to Terminal 5. The journey, like the station, is futuristic and somewhat disconcerting. There is an in-journey video on the plasma screens in each carriage, much like those found on planes. A man stands in an art gallery and talks about some classical artist. But this journey is only four minutes and it seems something of an extravagance.

However, once inside Terminal 5, our buskateeer meanders, taking photos and looking as suspicious as possible. He feels out-of-place, a fraud, wandering around this voyaging cathedral without purpose, with nowhere to go. (The alternative ending, to be found on the DVD and at selected cinemas, sees our hero book a flight to New York on his credit card, spend a life-changing week in the Big Apple in the company of some brilliant individuals and returns with such a new sense of purpose and enlightenment that his wife and child forgive his truancy.) In reality, he is thwarted only by a lack of passport and the burden of responsibility and compromise that 30-something life brings. He is grateful for the burden. Imagine not having an excuse to not hop on the next flight.

Finally, with any number of security cameras surely trained on him, our hero’s nerve fails him and he treks back outside to search for the start of the 490, a single decker to Richmond. The journey takes him through Hatton Cross, Feltham and Twickenham and is remarkable only in its mundanity. Pity the poor first-time visitor to these shores, who, searching for our green and pleasant land, is immediately presented with the grim reality of desolate west London dual-carriageways, flanked by endless uninspired terraced housing.

Our hero then spots an H in the sky.

Hampton, Hounslow, Heston, Hanworth, Harlington, Heathrow, Hatton Cross. There is only one thing for it. Home.

And it was still better than that Hanks shite.

Delay in service

This update is brought to you courtesy of the iphone as I lie in bed. Full update to follow on Friday. I was out on Tuesday although it did not go exactly to plan. We have sold the flat and bought a house so its been somewhat busy this week and the next few weeks could be interesting. Roger and out.