Going against the grain

It is very apt to have the Raconteurs, Top Yourself in glorious stereo being pumped directly into my ears.  Between being on the 19th floor of Westminster Halls in London and then walking to Euston railway station at 7.30 in the morning I could come up with quite a few sure ways to do it, However.

Between jumping 19 stories to the unfortunate roofs below the bijou room, walking under the cliche bus, black cab, car or rickshaw that would be fairly secure.  Going against the grain; stomping the pavements to the station would probably do it too.  However armed with a coffee out in front of me people just move to the side and give me a wide aisle to have a little bit of simple time.


Watching as the automated hustle of these assembly line commuters moving left and right, stopping and starting.  They press the button and wait for the red man to turn green, some jump the starting whistle and make it safely to the other side.  Others just jump and stop when the warning horn from the big white van powering, but not willing to stop, towards them.  They take that step back to safety to await their next encounter with the bustling metropolis.


The distant sirens from the emergency services get closer and closer, all rubber neck each way to see where it is coming from.  The shear magnitude of the buildings and dull grey concrete everywhere makes it difficult to see where the noise is coming from and when you find it you notice the traffic all around are relatively oblivious to it.  You shout to your Gibberish Yellow Fish about the idiotic drivers to get the F**k out of the way and all is calm and serene in the world.


Hustle bustle tick tock, old father time dictates when he wants you to attack the morning with your Monday to Friday disregard for everyone you pass en-croute.  Never knowing what cards are being dealt to that person you unknowingly walk with everyday.  That person who could quite easily live relatively close to you and maybe works within minutes of where you work.  The impersonal nature by which your life is run by the bureaucratic hierarchic bean counters  that require your targets to be met or you lose your house.  That person who on a Monday could be walking ten feet behind you or on a Wednesday is ten feet in front.  This is a person who could go out drinking  wine spritzers with the lady who walks your dogs whilst you run the rat race.  That person who more than lives your exact grey hair producing life.


Go against the grain talk to them not your yellow fish.  Mismatch your socks and wear them with comfortable shoes, put your clothes on in the dark and pinch yourself in the morning, don't look in the mirror shouting at yourself, “You are the king of your own story. Argggghhhhh”  It is in fact complete mind washing bollocks, your destiny is in the hands of Mr Taxman, Miss Bank Manager, your line supervisor, his or her line supervisor the board of directors of the company you do the mind numbing trudge for.


Stand up and look around, the world is a big place, it is not black and white but if you look close enough you will see shades of grey.