The other side of the coin

I cycled for nine years in London in the 80s.  There were some hairy moments when drivers would overtake way too close, or cut in too soon — just to give two examples.  I often thought that drivers should be made to go and be cyclists for a while, just to experience it from the other side.

    A wheelchair-bound student asked me in 1992 if I could go with her to Madrid — she didn’t have the courage at the time to go on her own (she now goes all over the place totally unafraid).  She was post-beginner level in Spanish and felt that she needed to practise her Spanish more, which she thought she’d get by being there for a week.  We were both volunteers for Amnesty and they have an office in Madrid, so she decided we’d go and work there for a few days.

    It was when we were there that I was made to realise how high kerbs are.  What we take for granted, especially when we’re young and fit, suddenly is an incredible height when you’re trying to heave a wheelchair (complete with a fully-grown occupant in it) up a kerb.  Those kerbs in Madrid felt like they were at least six inches high.  And, aged 70 now, my legs and knees are also making that discovery.

    By the same token, I’m now looking, with different eyes, at women with prams getting on and off buses.

    I think everyone should go through the experience of pushing a laden wheelchair or pram on/off kerbs or other raised surfaces for a few times, so that they’d be more aware and perhaps offer more readily to help, rather than leave those people to struggle on their own. 

    (Perhaps some people will say, "Those people with prams chose to have children — it is their own choice, so they have to live with the consequences."  Fair enough, but people do not choose to be wheelchair-bound.)

    (Buses in this country do have ramps for wheelchairs.  Wheelchairs are also electric these days — in this country anyway and from what I’ve seen thus far.)

Is this your wheel? (London)

 

Got on the bus on Saturday to deliver some glass jars to someone further north in London.

    As I sat down behind the pram area (the middle part of the bus, facing the exit door), an old man had just collected his shopping trolley parked there and was getting off the bus.  I saw a white wheel sitting on the floor (one of those for shopping trolleys, usually used by old people, about 5” in diameter — the wheels, not the old people), so I tried to call out to him that his wheel had come off.  A young mother with a pram, who’d got on after me and sat down next to me, said, “No, I’d already asked.  It’s not his wheel.”  I took a closer look at the old man walking away from the bus — yes, his trolley wasn’t limping; it had all its four wheels on.  Then, whose wheel was it?  How did the owner manage to walk off the bus without noticing it?

    After a few more stops, another old person with a shopping trolley got off the bus, and a passenger in the pram-parking area called out, “Is this your wheel?”  No.  

    Then, the young mother got off the bus with her pram.  I looked down at the floor where her pram had been. There was now another wheel sitting next to the shopping trolley wheel: a pram wheel, black, about 3” in diameter. Someone rushed to the door and called out to the young mother, “Is this your wheel?” No.  

    Where did that come from?!?  It wasn’t there before!  How did wheels come to get left behind, yet no wheels were missing from the departing trolleys and prams??

    The bus continued its long journey to Finchley, with the two unclaimed wheels sitting companionably side by side.  A surreal ride.

(London, 2023)

PS:  It’s just occurred to me that those two wheels must have sneaked on board for a free ride… 

The absent-minded professor (London)

The first story (which took place a few decades ago) was told by another professor at the memorial service of Professor Angus Charles Graham, SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies).

It was Professor Graham’s turn to look after baby Dawn and he went to a local library, being the bookish person he was.

He then remembered that his sister-in-law lived nearby, so he dropped in on her to say hello.

After they’d got the salutations out of the way and were nicely settling down to their cuppa and cake, she asked what he was doing in the area.  He cried out, “Dawn!!  Oh, Dawn!!  I’ve forgotten about Dawn!” and rushed off back to the library, where Dawn was still in her pram, fast asleep and quite unaware of her temporary abandonment.

I wouldn’t be surprised if, had he not popped in to see his sister-in-law, he’d gone all the way home without Dawn and not even noticed until Mrs. Graham asked about the baby’s whereabouts.  

In 1979/80, Ben, a student a couple of years below me, reported turning up for an appointment with him, knocking on his office door repeatedly without any response.

Then, as he was about to turn away, Ben heard some rustling behind the door, so he knocked again, loudly this time, and heard a startled grunt from the other side.

When Ben opened the door, he was greeted with the sight of a room completely fogged up and Professor Graham a dim apparition in the midst of it.

The great man himself looked rather surprised by Ben’s presence and asked him what he wanted.

He’d completely forgotten about the appointment, and had been sitting there, working on some article on classical Chinese grammar or philosophy, or some translation of ancient Chinese poetry, happily puffing away at his pipe in total oblivion of time and the outside world.

(London, early 1980s)

Update 021211:  My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson (d. 2007), told me this anecdote about Professor Angus Charles Graham.  The elbows of his jumper had worn through, so his wife sewed two patches on.  When he next put on his jumper, he did remember that there were two holes in the elbows — but didn't notice the new elbow patches — and turned the jumper round, so that the patches were now on top.  And he wore two new holes in the elbows, leaving the patches quite intact.

(London, late 1970s)

Paul Thompson's obituary: 

https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries