No eye contact. Maximum penalty £100. So reads the convincingly official blue-and-white sign some genius has stuck on the roof of my tube carriage. Examples of such wit are few and far between, but the factor that makes this so amusing is the truth that lies behind it. It gets me thinking... why are Londoners so determined to conduct their affairs inside a big bubble?
I consider myself a friendly lass, and believe I reach further across the barriers of public transport interaction than many. My dress sense and stupid makeup provoke conversation every so often; perhaps they can see that I'm unlikely to conceal a knife under my bright red overcoat, or sense that I might be more welcoming than the usual black clad city-types. However, the larger proportion of my people experiences are the result of one of my frequent outbursts of giggling or muttering, and I often wonder if I'm imagining the subtle shifting of position away from me, the scandalised sideways glances. Surely I'm not the only one who finds it hard to conceal my intense appreciation of this week's comic strip, or remember my errands without repeating them out loud? Apparently this translates as a threat to my fellow commuters.
Talking to strangers must be a particular struggle for us reserved Britishers, who are so opposed to contact that on the escalator we will always leave a step between us and the person in front, no matter how busy the station. And with random violence and abuse on the up, is it not understandable that we all sit clammed up on our tiny pleather- or carpet-upholstered bus benches, careful not to touch the shoulder of our neighbour in case their psychotic minds flip and they burn us alive with a cunningly concealed petrol can? When the youth of today terrorise the mildly older public simply with their rap music on speaker, who's to say what may happen if we invite advances from the unknown?
But this doesn't explain the fact that people often seem genuinely alarmed at any show of affability. When I sit opposite someone who has their feet on the seat next to me and they hurriedly remove them, my combination of a smile and a "keep them there mate, you chill out" is enough to turn the blankly bored face into shocked pleasure sooner than I can say "restraining order." The granny whose bag I offer to put in the luggage rack merely looks away and clutches it tighter. My cry of "anyone want a paper?" is studiously ignored. Personal plight is observed avidly but secretly by those around, a blind eye turned on others' distress. Private laughter is hastily swallowed lest other passengers see an element of humanity within. When walking along the street we doggedly look at the buildings above or the pavement below, in fear of that dreaded eye contact. And, gods forbid, should it accidentally occur, it is accompanied by fiercely stony-faced expressions that often make me nervous.
Dudes, why are we all such zombies? Would it hurt to smile back occasionally? Surely, readers, you must have experienced that look that makes the day worthwhile, the one carefree hairy bloke who laughs out loud at the rap loving kids (even though you suspect he may well have a screw or two loose). Perhaps it comes from the big black lady that winks at you across the crowd, or maybe it's the amused rolling of the eyes exchanged over the arguing couple between you. It's these little connections that can really take the loneliness out of living in London. Surely I can't be the only one who wanders around anonymously, feeling invisible and wishing the hairy bloke would come back?
Credit at this point must go to the central London night bus travellers, for it is here and here alone that I may find some relief from the tedium of zombie city life. Unfortunately the reason behind this is clear: drinking alcohol and taking drugs makes us lose our inhibitions. Delightful though it is retaliating against the ASBOs at two in the morning with the aid of the group of enthusiastic Aussie strangers next to me, I can't help but wonder what it would be like if we could let go of those inhibitions without the aid of narcotics. I know we've got the potential, those hastily hidden grins at the crazy raver wearing orange spandex prove it. So how about we put a little bit of effort into being a smidgen more amiable to our fellow Londoners? After all, we are all in this together, and how wildly different can they be?
First published 14 December 2006
I consider myself a friendly lass, and believe I reach further across the barriers of public transport interaction than many. My dress sense and stupid makeup provoke conversation every so often; perhaps they can see that I'm unlikely to conceal a knife under my bright red overcoat, or sense that I might be more welcoming than the usual black clad city-types. However, the larger proportion of my people experiences are the result of one of my frequent outbursts of giggling or muttering, and I often wonder if I'm imagining the subtle shifting of position away from me, the scandalised sideways glances. Surely I'm not the only one who finds it hard to conceal my intense appreciation of this week's comic strip, or remember my errands without repeating them out loud? Apparently this translates as a threat to my fellow commuters.
Talking to strangers must be a particular struggle for us reserved Britishers, who are so opposed to contact that on the escalator we will always leave a step between us and the person in front, no matter how busy the station. And with random violence and abuse on the up, is it not understandable that we all sit clammed up on our tiny pleather- or carpet-upholstered bus benches, careful not to touch the shoulder of our neighbour in case their psychotic minds flip and they burn us alive with a cunningly concealed petrol can? When the youth of today terrorise the mildly older public simply with their rap music on speaker, who's to say what may happen if we invite advances from the unknown?
But this doesn't explain the fact that people often seem genuinely alarmed at any show of affability. When I sit opposite someone who has their feet on the seat next to me and they hurriedly remove them, my combination of a smile and a "keep them there mate, you chill out" is enough to turn the blankly bored face into shocked pleasure sooner than I can say "restraining order." The granny whose bag I offer to put in the luggage rack merely looks away and clutches it tighter. My cry of "anyone want a paper?" is studiously ignored. Personal plight is observed avidly but secretly by those around, a blind eye turned on others' distress. Private laughter is hastily swallowed lest other passengers see an element of humanity within. When walking along the street we doggedly look at the buildings above or the pavement below, in fear of that dreaded eye contact. And, gods forbid, should it accidentally occur, it is accompanied by fiercely stony-faced expressions that often make me nervous.
Dudes, why are we all such zombies? Would it hurt to smile back occasionally? Surely, readers, you must have experienced that look that makes the day worthwhile, the one carefree hairy bloke who laughs out loud at the rap loving kids (even though you suspect he may well have a screw or two loose). Perhaps it comes from the big black lady that winks at you across the crowd, or maybe it's the amused rolling of the eyes exchanged over the arguing couple between you. It's these little connections that can really take the loneliness out of living in London. Surely I can't be the only one who wanders around anonymously, feeling invisible and wishing the hairy bloke would come back?
Credit at this point must go to the central London night bus travellers, for it is here and here alone that I may find some relief from the tedium of zombie city life. Unfortunately the reason behind this is clear: drinking alcohol and taking drugs makes us lose our inhibitions. Delightful though it is retaliating against the ASBOs at two in the morning with the aid of the group of enthusiastic Aussie strangers next to me, I can't help but wonder what it would be like if we could let go of those inhibitions without the aid of narcotics. I know we've got the potential, those hastily hidden grins at the crazy raver wearing orange spandex prove it. So how about we put a little bit of effort into being a smidgen more amiable to our fellow Londoners? After all, we are all in this together, and how wildly different can they be?
First published 14 December 2006
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