But then....

First a bang, then a jolting and a loss of power as the train glided to a halt between stations. Silence, as we looked out to the golf course on one side and, on the other, a dull piece of heath-land with the wind shaking the trees and grasses, or went on reading, dozing or tapping away at something electronic.

Soon, the guard came through with a "Sorry, we'll let you know as soon as we know anything", which was all he could say, and came back to do so rather too often. Eventually, it became clear that what most of us had probably guessed was all too true: someone had managed to cross the trackside fencing and had been hit by the train.

Almost at once, an instant case study in human behaviour: two quiet and conventional ladies perking up to discuss the grisly implications with a certain shamefaced relish, the impatient chuntering that the police and emergency services weren't instantly on hand - and not from the red-faced man and his wife all done up for a black-tie do, ensconced in the residual first-class compartment, but from an apparently laid-back young man who was, shall we say, not exactly dressed for self-importance. And me? I had a book to finish reading.

Eventually, police and emergency service people appeared, walking along the track, and attending to whatever they had to do, and finally the train company's emergency team got on board. Quite apart from the initial tragedy, and whatever the effect it must have had on the driver, it appeared that the collision had damaged the train itself.

It was about two hours before all the necessary inspections and re-arrangements had been done, and the train was able to move us all to a station where we could join another to take us back to London. All in all, it was three hours later than expected that I got home.

But somebody didn't - and what's three hours against a life?

Guinea pig on wheels

It looked like an interesting day out of London, or at least something different: being one of a bunch of test cyclists for the Transport Research Laboratory's mock-up of a separated cycle path running round the outside of a traffic roundabout. However, no photos or videos are allowed, and they'd rather anyone else didn't know too much about what they're looking at, for fear of biasing the way people behave in or react to the tests.

Enough to say it involved using one of their bikes (acquired from the London cycle hire scheme) for a couple of sessions performing various possible ways of using the roundabout, with different forms of entrance to and exit from the cycle lane, and cars making their own way round, with stops to check reactions after each test, and a questionnaire at the end.

As ever in experiments and surveys, it doesn't seem possible that any individual reaction could tell them much, not least because in my usual blithe over-confidence, I wasn't particularly noticing the various subtle differences in layout and markings (perhaps that was the point). I did suggest it might need some more realistic circumstances (the odd pedestrian stepping out without looking, motorists jumping the give way lines, van drivers cutting in unexpectedly - that sort of thing); but they just smiled politely.

Still, there was a cup of tea, a chocolate biscuit, and time to chat about things like the quirks of recumbent bikes, Horrific Accidents I Have Known, and when it will be economically feasible for the cycle hire stands to be equipped with one of these newfangled 3D "printers" to produce cycle helmets on demand.

Oh, and £50 for expenses. Did I not mention that?

It was all over at a civilised hour, but then the limitations of public transport outside London became clear: buses only every half hour, and a slight delay en route meaning a half-hour wait for the next London train. That would have been the sum total of that observation, but then.................. (to be continued)

Not my idea of fun

Dangling forty-odd floors up the Shard....

Where to buy that Paris hat. Or maybe not.

All museum-ed out

Domes

That's theme that caught my eye this time in Paris. Not just the way Sacré Coeur looms over the northern part of the city, and in this case the narrow and crowded Rue de la Goutte d'Or, running parallel to the Marché de la Chapelle.

Ironically, perhaps, bearing in mind not only the basilica's religious function but also its more nationalistic and political associations, since these days the ambiance of the whole area is distinctly North African - as in this display of finery.

But domes seem to have had a fascination for entirely secular builders and designers in the nineteenth century. The Galeries Lafayette have their dome-lit atrium (and on the upper floors you can see its outside):



The Petit Palais (built for an international exhibition) bears the badge of Paris, flanked by angels and all sorts of decorative detail:


And though the Pantheon, dominating the southern view from the roof of the Galeries Lafayette as the Sacré Coeur does the north, was built earlier and as a church, it's echoed - even challenged - by the dome of the Opera House, with embellishments that no-one could have been expected to see from the ground:

What to say about one's umpteenth visit to Paris, especially if, as these people appear to be, you're all museum-ed out?

Mostly it's the odds and ends that catch the eye, like a street corner scene, or the quirkiness of an otherwise unremarkable corner café apparently undistinguishable from thousands of others across the city:

A forthcoming home exchange with my Parisian contact means launching a spring-cleaning programme, and taking a chance on the slightest hint of a let-up in the cold weather, to see if Columbia Road market had anything to liven up my sad-looking window-boxes.

The usual ready-flowering annuals were, not surprisingly, in short supply (though one stall had fuchsias and petunias, which was all I needed). Most of the stock on display seemed to be cut flowers, hardy (they'd have to be) perennials and greenhouse exotics. But the sunshine brought out a good mood, and even a couple of pearlies with their collecting tins.

And whatever the weather, market traders are irrepressible. These dramatic orchids were being sold as "Cheap enough to give to your mother-in-law!":

Meanwhile, for comment on the main news of the week so far, rather than yet another example of de mortuis nil nisi bunkum, Diamond Geezer has a useful all-purpose post.

Jargogled, at all?

A slight touch of apricity at last, after so much lumming and the not so distant memory of snowbroth, not to mention the enlivening prospect of a longer twitter-light, tempted me out on my bike again.

Not that the exercise is likely to turn me into a monsterfully callipygian snoutfair, but it might hold at bay for a little longer the chances of becoming a complete jollux. Alas, the wind deals such a curglaff that any bike discovers its inherent resistentialism, gorgonizing the rider into an elflocked quockerwodger, reduced to groaking outside the chippy like a lunting slubberdegullion, or tempted into the warmth of the pub, even at the risk of a fuzzled, crapulous curmuring.

In case you're thinking these must be the beef-witted twattlings, hugger-mugger cant or grumpish brabbling of a lethophobic cockalorum, relax: it's just a test of whether it pays, as the Reader's Digest used to say, to increase your word power - with the help of this little list.

Having grown up in a Victorian house with the kind of plumbing that, if it ever needed attention, seemed to require copious amounts of teeth-sucking, solder and swearing, I'd always vaguely assumed that getting a water meter installed would be a major operation requiring lots of forms, several appointments and various sorts of precautionary clearing out.

Not so, in these modern times. An enquiry online to book a survey, a quick inspection of the pipework available (admittedly, some head-shaking over the peculiarities of the way the developers of this estate installed the exterior stopcocks and pipework, but that's no surprise), and the fitter had all the kit already with him to install a meter beside my water tank.

All done within the hour; and I now have an additional stopcock that doesn't require arm-dislocating contortions.

As to whether it will save money - we'll just have to see.

I've never taken much notice of "living statues" around London, but yesterday I was struck by the way a whole neat line of them had formed outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square: a silver cowboy, someone in a pig's head mask (who didn't see to have quite got the idea), a vague attempt at the princess from Shrek and a couple of gilded I-don't-know-whats.

As if that weren't surreal enough, after I'd taken my shot, a passer-by handed me his phone and asked me to take a photo of him with the cowboy; said passer-by was a young man wearing, no doubt for his own good reasons, a pink "Hello Kitty" onesie (or, as we persons of an older persuasion call it, a romper suit).

I think it may be spring. Or perhaps Red Nose Day had something to do with it.

Ho-hum

Quietly miraculous

That's how Transport for London describes the bicycle, in Our Beloved Mayor™'s latest plan for cycling in London.

At last it looks as though someone on high has got the message that it will take consistent - and persistent - planning and commitment (and money) to achieve any sort of shift towards Dutch levels of usage. All the right noises are being made about what and who it's all for (ordinary people pootling to the shops, the station, the school) and what they might need to encourage them (segregation in time and space, thought-through planning of routes, junctions and integration with other public transport, consistent and easily understood signage and mapping). The headline spending figure looks eye-wateringly substantial too.

But that "quietly miraculous" is attached, in the document, the potential effect on health because of the reduction in air pollution if enough people ditch the car for the cycle; and no doubt neither it nor the date of publication has anything at all to do with the current  embarrassing court case about our laggardly progress in dealing with air pollution - dear me, no.

This ramshackle arrangement is my set-up for contributing recordings to Librivox, the audiobook equivalent of the Gutenberg Project - putting out of copyright texts online.

All it needs is a reasonable (and not expensive) microphone, some free software and some technical guidance from the administrators, and anyone can contribute as much or as little as they like, to whatever project is listed on their messageboard as open for contributions.

Using the soft furnishings can muffle out ordinary background domestic noises, but not all external noises from delivery vans, planes and helicopters and the like. This can be frustrating in the middle of a stirring Victorian account of the Spanish Armada:


And though it's advisable to keep the throat well lubricated, it's best not to gulp in too much air at the same time:

First signs

Adults only

Flicking through the electronic programme guide list of movies to see if there's anything worth recording (you'd be surprised how many "Everyone's seen that" films I never got to - or maybe not), I found this warning in one movie's information note: "Scenes of violence/torture/sex/live octopus ingestion."

Ah well, it certainly helped me decide whether or not to bother. Unlike the occasional warning that a film "contains mild language". Are they imagining people saying "That's no good, I want non-stop swearing tonight"?

A little sunshine makes all the difference

Over the years, street organs seemed to have become less and less in evidence in Amsterdam. Bearing in mind what I'm guessing must be quite a cost in getting and maintaining one, it can't be easy to make much of a living from them. But this weekend, I not only saw one in one of the main shopping streets in Amsterdam, but also in the middle of some fairly heavy snow in Utrecht: maybe the Saturday shopping crowds brought them out.

In Utrecht, too, you can surfeit yourself at Museum Speelklok with all kinds of draaiorgels, circus organs, hurdy-gurdies, pianolas, orchestrions, polyphons, musical boxes, some monsters built for dance halls, and some strange mechanical musical instruments (I once saw a machine here that played four violins).

Visitors have the chance to wander around some of the many different examples, but the main interest is the tour of selected machines (though this does include plenty of chances for little ones, and one lucky grown-up, to turn a handle). There's even a bit of singsong, as was once traditional, though at least one of the old songsheets on display suggests something rather racier than you might expect.

Cold enough

Walking up to a tram stop, I noticed a group of people giving an unremarkable stretch of canal more attention than you'd expect at that time on a Saturday morning - and this was why:

Not exactly Nigella

Mumblety-odd years ago, on my first evening in Amsterdam, I ate at a restaurant offering traditional Dutch cooking. The special of the day rather appealed as much for the sound of the name as much as anything else: hutspot met sudderklapstuk, which turned out to be a mash-up (hotchpotch) of potato and vegetables with a huge piece of braised beef.

The restaurant is still there, though much more spruced up these days, and still includes such substantial fare on the menu (and in these temperatures, you can see the benefit).

However, the specials this time didn't particularly appeal (and what sort of beer were they offering?), so I chose a variation with curly kale, and a sausage and speck (bacon pieces).

The presentation was a bit...well, striking.

And then the demon of literal word-for-word translation struck on the dessert menu. Even with a cinnamon and caramel sauce, "bag cheese on a biscuit" doesn't entice.


P.S. I've just noticed Disqus's bizarre idea of "related" content elsewhere among their users - nothing to do with me. I'm working on finding an alternative commenting widget if anyone has any bright ideas