Grey's Journal:
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``Attention, passengers: we are testing the announcement system. Please disregard the following messages.'' I was on my way out of the underground when I heard that announcement from the overhead speakers. Usually, I pay no attention to the announcements. I don't hear that the train isn't coming until the message is addressed directly to me. Will the man wearing glasses and reading a book please leave the Piccadilly line? We closed the station thirty minutes ago and everyone else left when me made the announcement. But now that I was told not to listen, I gave the faux-announcements my full attention. I remained in the station to hear all the messages hoping there would be an interesting one like: ``Terrorists killed the royal family and are filling the underground with poison gas! Run for your lives!'' But alas, the fake announcements were just as dull as the real ones: lists of closed stations and alternative bus routes. I wondered how the announcer would signal it was time to start listening again. After all, if I obeyed the instructions and disregarded the messages how would I know when to regard the message to resume paying attention? Wouldn't I, as per the instructions, have to ignore the message that said `please resume listening to the announcements?' How would the underground test the message `Please resume listening to the announcements'? I imagined conversations in the future with annoyed underground personnel. ``Hey, you with the glasses and the book! We closed this station an hour ago! Didn't you hear the announcements?'' ``I was told to ignore them.'' ``When?'' ``Six months ago.'' In the end, I decided the only way to resolve the when-to-pay-attention problem was to use the safety-word method. If I was in charge of the underground public announcements, my testing messages would sound like this: ``Attention, passengers: until you hear me say the word `rhinoceros' please disregard the following messages.'' They should put me in charge. But, as no one offered me the position of Chief of the Pretend Messages, I left the station and continued on to my day job at the National Gallery. * * *
I went into the National Gallery to take my place in one of the big comfy chairs. This is where I perform my day job: pretending to be a writer. Sure, the pay is £0 per unit time, but the flexible hours are great. I've been going to the National Gallery regularly since I returned to London because the chairs in the main hall are big enough and padded enough that I can spread out, but small enough that no one would try to sit next to me. Also, unlike the cafe beneath St-Martin-in-the-Field, religious women don't try and guilt trip me into buying food. I walked into the main hall and found nothing. The usual information tables were gone, the paintings were gone, but most importantly, the big, comfy chairs were gone. The hall was empty. I stood silently in shock as tourists passed wondering why I lingered in an empty room. ``But you don't understand,'' I wanted to say. ``There used to be big, comfy chairs here.'' I went into the next room and wanted to ask one of the attendants what happened, but stopped myself. As I mentioned last week, I spend too much time in too few places. The attendants must recognize me as the guy who hogs one of the chairs all day, doesn't look at the paintings, and only dropped a few worthless American coins in the donation box. I didn't want to ask what happened to the chairs because I was afraid it would be like a homeless man asking the city council why they made all the bus stop benches too small for sleeping. The attendant would look at me uncomfortably and say, `We did it because of you.' Fortunately, someone else asked why the front hall was empty so I pretended to examine a series of Welsh oil sketches while very obviously listening in. This is how I remember the attendant's words: ``Blah blah blah new collection blah blah blah renovations blah blah blah main hall won't be open until November.'' November?! I almost fainted. Where would I go all day? I had just incorporated the only free place in London with big, comfy chairs into my routine and now they were taken from me. I half ran through the museum hoping the chairs had been relocated and not discarded in favor of additional flat benches. I zipped through five-hundred years of the finest paintings western civilization produced and hardly gave them a glance. Finally, I entered the last gallery and made a `phewph!' sound so loud that many patrons looked my way. Patrons who were sitting in my chairs. Before, in the main gallery, my chairs were pressed against the walls beneath rather dull paintings of battle fields and men in riding gear. It was also at the very start of the Gallery so none of the visitors needed a break yet. They were always empty. But now, the chairs were in the middle of the gallery, in the center of the room, facing interesting paintings. The chairs were packed. I pretended to look at a painting of a horse on the ugliest yellow background while I waited for a chair to open up. When one did, I dashed to grab it. I spread out all my stuff and worked on an article I pretended I might be able to publish somewhere. Hoped to publish anywhere really. A few moments later... Polite cough. Another moment. ``Excuse me?'' I looked up. ``Mind if I sit here?'' She indicated my seat, but I didn't grasp her intentions. These chairs aren't really big enough for two people, but two people could sit in them. Let's say you were a member of a young couple still in that wondrous first month of a relationship. Both of you would easily sit in the chair. It's big enough for both of you to be comfortable, but small enough that you would be forced to keep touching each other. This woman was not a young, attractively dorky girl, the kind I would pleasantly imagine myself in a relationship with, but a woman three times my age and three times my weight. I wanted to tell her that indeed I did mind her sitting here, but instead I gathered up my belongings and she squeezed in next to me. The woman's skin overflowed onto my side. I wanted to push her skin back onto her side, but it would have been as futile as fighting an avalanche of Jell-O. Eventually, thankfully, she left after a few moments time. Had she not, I would have asphyxiated to death beneath her bulk. Finally, I could get back to pretending to work. A few moments later... ``Excuse me?'' It was a little old man this time. Well, surely, this would be better. At least he was small and frail looking. Once again I cleared away my stuff and he sat down. He fell asleep instantly. Head back. Mouth open. Loud snores. After ten minutes or so his wife collected him and I was left alone again. A few moments later... ``Excuse me?'' On and on it went. I never got more than a few moments reprieve from someone sitting uncomfortably close to me. How could I possibly pretend to get work done under these conditions? |
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Copyright © 2004 Wellington Grey  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License. |
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