Christmastide .. .. .. season of goodwill and joy to all mankind .. .. .. especially true if your definition of goodwill is a psychotic desire to mow down fellow shoppers in a bid to clear the department stores of boxed sets of socks and smellies, and if you believe that the true meaning of joy is the sudden compulsion to participate in ridiculous and dangerous pastimes in an attempt to be ‘festive’. My first Christmas in London proved to be the most bewildering and laughable experiences in my 24 years!!

As soon as the calendar page flips to December 1st madness descends upon the capital. Overnight, sane and rational beings are transformed into psychotic madmen hell-bent on snapping up all the seasonal patterned jumpers in BHS to inflict on a variety of reviled relatives. Supermarkets, normally filled with the basic foodstuffs necessary for survival, are suddenly overflowing with mince pies, hormone filled frozen poultry, super sized string bags of sprouts and steel drums full of Quality Street. Radios blare out Slade and Wizzard in an attempt to induce mass suicide among the populous. Churches suddenly fill with ‘devout’ worshippers, who are prodded out of their year long religious amnesia by the emergence of advent calendars and Christmas cards in their local newsagents. Ice rinks appear throughout the city and people flock to them in droves, full of hopes of traditional winter gaiety and the chance to prove, once and for all, that they could be the next Torvill or Dean.

It is the latter phenomenon that bewildered me the most. I was an ice virgin, having always held the deep-rooted belief that had some divine being wanted us to walk on ice we’d have been born with crampons and snow shoes. However, I’m always game for a laugh and so when my colleagues suggested some winter fun down at Somerset House I happily agreed. We walked into the courtyard and I was breathtaken by the scene before me. Flaming torches flickered in the chilly winter breeze, lighting the way for the beautiful couples who glided in perfect elegant unison across the glistening ice. Works by Haydn and Mozart were piped out from hidden speakers, giving the illusion of a film soundtrack being played out. Spectators huddled together, clutching steaming cups of mulled wine and spiced cider. Laughter perforated the air. I stood watching, spellbound, picturing myself dancing gracefully across the ice as my colleagues looked on in wonder and admiration. I knew it was my destiny to become mistress of the ice.

This deep-set belief stayed with me until a millisecond after I stepped onto the ice. Suddenly, all I knew about physics, kinetics and motion was turned completely upside down, and sane and rational thought was replaced by abject terror and a knowledge that death was just slightly too close at hand.

Imagine, if you will, an elephant. I’m sure you’ll agree that, in the right context, the elephant is a supremely graceful and serene creature, a thing of elegance and beauty. Now I must trouble you to turn that image widdershins, and give your imaginary elephant a pair of ice skates and set it loose on the slipperiest surface on the planet. All sense of elegance and grace is abandoned, and lumbering chaos ensues - the weight and form of the elephant is entirely at odds with the physical attributes necessary for ice skating. This should give you some idea of how well my body adapted to being on the ice.

As soon as my skates made contact with the ice my entire being was thrown into utter fear and confusion. Suddenly the world was no longer stable beneath my feet, and some force of pure evil was ensuring that I was still moving forwards even when I was standing still. In wild panic I grabbed hold of the side with both hands and pulled myself along, one hand over the other, snarling at the smug seven year olds who were gliding past me like mini-Olympians. I made it about 2 feet before I stood, frozen in fear, as behind me a large traffic jam of skaters piled up, waiting to overtake me. I shrieked as I felt a tap on my back, and I gingerly turned to see a very small child tugging gently on my coat. ‘I need to get past’ the child whimpered. I was transformed, beset with red eyes and wild hair, and like mad Mrs Rochester I growled “I ain’t budging kid”, my voice akin to Linda Blair in the Exorcist. The child could clearly see that I was psychologically very wonky, and this spurred her into action. She sped off across the ice, wailing like a banshee, into the waiting open arms of her father who looked at me with a mix of anger and pity. Sobs welled up in my throat, and, like a miserable creature condemned, I made to get myself to my friends who were waiting patiently having done at least three rounds of the ice each.

Twenty minutes later they were still waiting, watching in dismay and disbelief as I pulled myself along, both feet together, swearing like a navvie and shrieking at my friend not to leave me alone to die. ‘Just let go for a second’ coaxed my friend ‘and put your feet in a V position. You’ll stay still’. ‘Are you CRAZY’ I howled at her ‘Let go? LET GO?????!!!! LET GOOOOOOOOO???!!! Clearly you have lost your mind’. She balked and skated a little further away. ‘I promise’ she said, fixing me with a firm glare. I was just beginning to pull my fingers from the railing that they were clawed stiffly round, when a nerve-shattering ‘THWOCK!!’ reverberated around the rink and the ice shuddered alarmingly. I looked round and was faced with a scene of complete carnage. Men, women and children lay piled up on the ice, groaning gently and trying to extract themselves from the heap of bodies. I whimpered and I redoubled my grip on the railing, legs locked in terror. It was becoming abundantly clear that I was unlikely to be chosen for the next Winter Olympics.

A colleague skated over - ‘You’re doing fine’ she said. ‘It’s perfectly bloody obvious I’m not!’ I barked. ‘Errrr .. .. well .. .. you’re .. ummm .. you’re doing fine!’ she improvised. I glared at her, doing my best to look furious at her impudence. The effect was completely ruined, however, by my feet sliding in opposite directions while I stumbled like Bambi and tried to regain my footing. My colleagues placed a hand firmly under each elbow and hauled me to my feet, whence I lurched forward suddenly, arse in the air and feet flailing uselessly as they tried to get a purchase on the ice. As I was once again hauled upright I was aware of a small crowd gathering, no doubt taking advantage of the free slapstick comedy show! My eyes filled with tears and I looked pleadingly at my colleagues .. .. ‘Please get me off this bloody stuff’ I begged.
So began a painstakingly slow journey across the rink, both women supporting either side of my rigid body. One held my hand firmly while the other whispered ‘You’re doing fine, you’re doing fine’ like a beautifully soothing broken record. As the exit hove into view relief rushed over me like a warm shower. In my desperation to get off the ice I tried to break into a run. My colleagues looked at each other in exasperation as they held onto my coat tails, while my feet swung back and forth in a bizarre cartoon style run. In a final desperate bid for freedom I threw myself forwards and landed face first in the changing area, my legs akimbo and my colleagues howling with laughter. I peeled the skates from my feet and staggered up to the desk to retrieve my shoes. The attendant flashed me a wry smile as he handed my shoes over - ‘You did really well’ he chortled. I grimaced at him, and still muttering obscenities I wobbled off to find my sense of humour, vowing that the next time I ventured near an ice rink I’d be one of the laughing spectators, holding tightly to a glass of mulled wine and even more tightly to my dignity. Elephants just aren’t built for skating.

Planes, Trains and Weirdos Part II ......

Commuting in London is a veritable minefield of potential dangers. Not only is the choice of transport fraught with problems, but once you've decided how you're getting to work, you're left to the mercy of the most dangerous and weird group of people in society. Other commuters.

Now, where I come from it is likely that the lady who sits next to you on the bus is probably your cousin, older sister and grandmother (we don't like muddying the gene pool down my way!). She may not be. But you can guarantee that by the time the bus has reached Bovey Tracy you'll know the history of her dismal first marriage to her brother, how her son Seth is serving time for shooting the local gamekeeper whilst poaching, and how her thirteen year old daughter is expecting her third child. If you're lucky you get to see photos of the aforementioned rabble. She'll probably have started planning your marriage to Seth once he's released. So imagine my surprise on discovering that no one travelling on London transport even looks at each other, let alone spark up a conversation. Despite the fact that you're regularly surrounded by hundreds of other travellers, commuting is a lonely and soul-less experience. However, from a sociological point of view, it's one of the most interesting experiences out there ....

Commuters, I have discovered after months of close observation, can be grouped into a number of categories based on the behavioural characteristics they display -

Sleepers - The Sleepers are a group of commuters who find the whole early morning travelling experience so traumatic that they are compelled to sleep for the entire journey. The preferred sleeping method is commonly known as 'the slump', whereby the Sleeper concerned will flop their head onto the shoulder of the person next to them and dribble profusely down their coat. Points can be awarded for the volume of dribble produced. Extreme Sleepers find 'the slump' even more effective in the winter, when not only can they secrete saliva but also snot onto their neighbours. Where no other passengers are available, 'the slump' can be modified to 'the window slump' whereby the Sleeper slumbers with their cheek pressed firmly against the window. This method is extremely satisfactory, as the resulting dribble and snot trail can be left as a lasting testament to a job well done.
Another, more daring, sleeping method is 'the Catherine Wheel'. In this manoeuvre, the Sleeper remains perfectly still, usually with the mouth slightly ajar and the head upright, before suddenly allowing their head to fall in a downwards sweeping motion towards the chest, whence the head will swing violently upright again. The Sleeper may remin motionless for some minutes between 'Catherine wheels'. Some adventurous Sleepers will alternate between 'the slump' and 'the Catherine wheel', thereby showering their neighbouring passengers with flying globules of dribble. I advise all travellers to wear some kind of waterproof outer garment at all times when travelling in London - dribble is surprisingly difficult to sponge off!

Spreaders - Spreaders are a highly suspicious breed of commuter who cannot stand to be in close proximity with other passengers. They are easily identifiable, as they tend to carry multiple bags which they use to viciously defend their personal space. Upon boarding a train or bus, Spreaders will seat themselves and spread all their personal belongings onto the adjacent seats, rendering it impossible for other passengers to sit next to, or opposite them. Spreaders also have the capability to double the length of their arms and legs, making it necessary for them to not only take up the space of one seat, but of the seats adjoining them. Professional spreaders have been known to spread to such an extent that they take over an entire carriage. Most spreaders have an extreme hearing deficiency, and so appear oblivious to the protestations of their fellow passengers. Many spreaders often seem to be accompanied by invisible friends for whom it is necessary to 'save seats'. Oftentimes will a spreader be heard to exclaim 'You can't sit there, I'm saving it for my friend'. But, dear reader, we know this to be a lie, as spreaders have no friends.

Ya Yas - The Ya Yas are the most irritating breed of commuter. Ya Yas are born with mobile phones surgically attached to their ears and a complete disregard for accepted social norms. Ya Yas tend to be male and studies have shown that they usually have 'a lot to make up for'. As such, Ya Yas like the whole world to know how fantastically louche their lifestyles are, and how highpowered and important their work is. Typical Ya Ya behaviour involves bellowing into their surgically attached phone 'Ya, Ya, so I totally told him, I said "Tim, for God's sake, I have a house in Chigwell with a double garage and my own Beemer. I go golfing with Richard Patterson-Syphilis every week. Why the bloody hell would I want to leave my fantastically high-earning job and go and work for you?". Well ... no ... ya ya ... well, I know he owns the whole bank, but I mean, come off it ... no .... ya ya ... no .... fair point old sport .... well, ya ya, got to dash ... no, ya, taking the office totty off for lunch and shag ... ok, ya ...ciao!'. Ya Yas are compulsive liars and usually die young - the most common cause of death among Ya Yas is internal bleeding caused by the vicious insertion of their mobile phones into a place where the sun doesn't shine. The perpetrators of these attacks are on the next Queen's Honours list for outstanding services to the community.

Gropers - Gropers are the most sly and covert of the commuters, a dangerous species of predatory males. A Groper's natural habitat is crowded trains and buses where they can be found standing close to female passengers. Typical Groper behaviour involves standing looking innocent until the bus or train wobbles slightly. At this point the Groper will 'stumble' and will steady himself using the buttocks or breasts of the nearest female. Gropers have an inbuilt incapability to right themselves following a 'stumble' and so have to knead the supporting buttocks or breasts until such time as they are beaten over the head by the irate female Gropee.

Planes, Trains and Weirdos ...
One of the first thing that strikes you about London is the baffling transport system. In my part of Devon there are limited transport options - you can take the bus (on Tuesdays), or the train (on the second Thursday of every month, excepting months with vowels in them. On those occasions the trains come every third Monday, and only if you don't mind a detour to Okehampton via Bideford). In London it is possible to take three different modes of transport in the same journey. Madness, sheer madness. I mean, how on earth do you choose?!
Actually, it's quite easy to choose your method of transport in London. I've completely eradicated buses from the list of choices because I still don't quite understand how people know exactly where to catch your desired bus. Where is bus stop Z?! I've found two so far - one on New Oxford Street and another at Waterloo. So how do you know which one to go for?! Londoners appear to have been born with some kind of genetic intelligence whereby they are able to go to the correct bus stop in an instant, they know that Edgware and Edgware Road are in fact two entirely different places, and they understand the innate differences between an Oystercard and a Travelcard (although I've cracked that one now - an Oyster card is blue and plasticky. A Travelcard isn't).
So, having decided against buses, that leaves me with trains, tubes and the DLR. I think we can rule out the DLR because I work in Central London, so catching the DLR to work would mean I was taking a bit of an extrapolated route. And I've been on the DLR. Once. It was like riding Oblivion at Alton Towers, only about a million-times more pants-wetlingly scary (a train where you can sit right at the front and see what's coming?!?! What lunacy is this? The tracks look like the current state of Southend Pier - not altogether structurally sound!).
Ok, so trains or tubes it is. Here's where the choice is really easy. You can either go by tube, where you'll be squashed into the armpit of a sweaty foreigner whilst having your buttocks groped by a sinister looking man in a suit, or you can go by train, where you'll be squashed into the armpit of a sweaty foreigner whilst having your buttocks groped by a sinister looking man in a suit. The choice is yours. Either way you'll be late for work, and will be left feeling slightly greasy and extremely violated for the rest of the day. Still, at least you don't have to take a detour to Bideford on the way .....

London ... ahhh ... city of opportunities, where the streets are paved with gold. A place where no amount of cliches and mixed metaphors is ever enough. Where people toe the line and think outside the box. Where Big Brother is definitely watching you, yet you can blend into the crowd. A place where you pay through the nose for a cup of tea that vaguely resembles lukewarm puddle water. A place as far removed from the sleepy little Devon town in which I grew up. A place I couldn't wait to get to .....

There's a saying where I come from .. 'You don't wan' go up Lunnun - tis full of nutters. Tis a maaad place. You'm won' be comin' baack from Lunnun I tell 'ee girl'. Well, it's not so much of a saying as something the landlady of my local pub mumbled at me as I bade her a fond farewell. 'Tush!' said I. 'London is surely a marvellous place, where the buses run on time and everybody wears a bowler hat and carries an ironed newspaper under their arm. Tis also said that chimney sweeps dance upon the rooftops. There's nothing lunatic about that! Get thee hence vile crone!'. And, duly ignoring her prophetic words, I hopped onto the next train to the glittering metropolis. Which I had to wait a week for. Public transport down south really isn't what it should be!

And so it was, nearly a year ago, I arrived fresh faced in London. Since then everything that has happened to me has served to proved my landlady right - London really is a mad place .....