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Still tacky with two layers of topcoat, and waving my hands about in that uttely pointless way that everyone with wet nails does, I went to rescue L from trying on linen trousers in TKMaxx. The place stuffed with highly tempting goodies left over from the High Street's recent flirting with goth, and we are both in danger of giving in to the lure of sale prices on wisps of chiffon and beaded velvet. We talk each other down from wild eyes ravings that lead to doing critical damage to the plastic, and before we can crack further leap on the nearest bus to Clapham Common.
There the Costcutter is full of police officers as we buy sustaining bananas for our journey onwards. The Inner Londoner kicks in a one is torn between vicarious curiosity of wanting to look and not actually wanting to be involved with whatever Bad Stuff is happening. Too many shootings recently in South London to be too curious.
Clapham Common used to be my local station years ago when I lived at Lavender Hill so am nostalgically familar with its unusual structure of one central platform; one side to go up, one side to go down the line. This is of course the way many mainline BR stations are laid out, as well as most above-ground tube stations, but somehow the same plan inside a tunnel feels different; you are very aware of being enclosed inside a curving structure, of their being two tunnels inside a bigger tunnel, wormholes snaking through the South London loam. If there are two trains in the station at the same time, as they both pull away, gathering speed as they race in different directions, there is a delicious moment of visual dislocation as the curving walls are revealed again, as the space widens out again into the space the carriages had occupied.
We head up the line and hop off at Clapham North
Outside is grey...threatening rain.
In the ticket hall we spot interesting clock and ask surly chap with radio if we can take pictures. He tells us to ask supervisor in the ticket booth, who with barely a flicker of engagement gives us a bored 'if you must' for permission. Seems the grey February has seeped in.
Can't get a good shot as the clock is at the end of a narrow corridor with odd light levels and many, many doors all next to each other; more doors than I could get into frame - that's a lot of rooms going on, or maybe endless corridors. L speculates that each door leads to another dimension. Perhaps the staff are just dimension-jump-lagged? Is this a secret Men In Black hideout...
We plot to nip back and add an Easter Bunny, a turkey, a christmas tree and a pumpkin etc to the doors as obviously someting weirdly Einsteinian with time and space is going on here. We are watched with grumpy detachment as L takes pics as we go down the escalators...doesn't seem a happy place to work, dimensional gates notwithstanding. We don't let it harsh our mellow and head on towards Oval.
In the ticket hall we spot interesting clock and ask surly chap with radio if we can take pictures. He tells us to ask supervisor in the ticket booth, who with barely a flicker of engagement gives us a bored 'if you must' for permission. Seems the grey February has seeped in.
Can't get a good shot as the clock is at the end of a narrow corridor with odd light levels and many, many doors all next to each other; more doors than I could get into frame - that's a lot of rooms going on, or maybe endless corridors. L speculates that each door leads to another dimension. Perhaps the staff are just dimension-jump-lagged? Is this a secret Men In Black hideout...
We plot to nip back and add an Easter Bunny, a turkey, a christmas tree and a pumpkin etc to the doors as obviously someting weirdly Einsteinian with time and space is going on here. We are watched with grumpy detachment as L takes pics as we go down the escalators...doesn't seem a happy place to work, dimensional gates notwithstanding. We don't let it harsh our mellow and head on towards Oval.
