... Right, where was I?
I think it was to do with trees and woods. Ah, yes, you cant see the woods for the trees. This is what I meant about people, and what they get up to in the name of human nature. Looking at individuals, and then as a collective bunch of people, they sometimes get labeled with names or associations.
Take the English for instance. Lovely bunch of souls, living on the other side of the pond we call Atlantic. As a matter of interest, have you ever wondered why South Africans ref to the English as "souties"?
Most, at the time of plenty here in SA, came over to teach us technology. Television as an example. Because they never settle down either here or there, they were seeing to have one foot in the UK and the other here in South Africa. Although the pond separating the continents was becoming smaller and smaller, it was still wide enough for them to have to do vertical splits, with dangling bits hanging in the salty sea water of the Atlantic, hence the name, soutie.
A few years ago I was privileged to be given a paid holiday to the UK. Weather was perfect, people were friendly, especially the Irish when I went over Ireland. Love the Irish. Banned anyone telling me kak jokes about Paddy.
Done the whole touristy bit. Visited Big Ben, London eye, Madam whatsitsname? (Place where I had my picture taken with John Wayne and the Beatles. Not forgetting Manual from Faulty Towers) Was great doing the happy snaps of all and sundry. T'was obvious that Gawie had came to town, not used to any foreign place besides Gauteng.
Just thought that London could do with a touch of paint. They must of had a special on gray paint at some stage. Buy one million litre container, get one free.
Now it was in this place where I learnt that labels which people love to paste on others, acually have no bearing. Just a silly trait which goes by the name of human nature.
Now, one thing I loved to do was ride the tubes. Could spend all day exploring the different areas, climbing off at the well known names of stations. Paddington, Wimbledon and all the rest, too long ago to remember.
During rush hour in the afternoon, I watched the "men from the ministry" type of Englishman standing between the seats (they give up the seats to the ladies) like a tin of sardines, not unlike our taxis...
Let me digress a little bit here... isn't it lekker not to hear hooting, shouting and swearing of taxi drivers? These are real gents compared to our riff-raff.
Anyway, I watch them with interest, as they fall asleep, standing dead straight, swaying to the rhythem of the train. I watch the eyes. All closed. Chests rhythmic to steady breathing. I'm amazed no one falls over. It's like an invisible rod is keeping them up.
And almost like automated robots, when a station is reached, those who need to disembark, suddenly awakens, eyes wide open, and without blinking, turn to the open doors. Then, with the same posture, head held high, back straight, out the door
This is now where I become aware of a couple of labels given to the English. The reason most walk like they have something stuck up their arse. And secondly, why the toffee nose. You know the type, head back and nose perked up.
It was on Marleybone Station (Think that's the way to spell it) I discovered the reasons for these fallacies and myths.
This station happens to be the final stop for the underground tube trains. You feel like a mole when you come out there. From here everyone rides in style gazing at the country rushing by, till the end of the line in Amersham (spelling) This is the place where witches were burned at the stake in days gone by. I can think of a few South Africans who can count themselves lucky not to be born to that era. But thats another story.
Anyway, I digress too much. The Englishman who walks like he has something stuck up his arse...
For those who have not been to Blighty (just some english speak) and especially Marleybone, standing on top of the escalator, looking down to the darkness of the underground platform, it takes some guts to step out onto the first rung of the fast moving escalator. It's just about a vertical drop. Not your imagination, it IS damn steep, and as I said, fast.
Anyway, you get on and keep to the left, holding onto something. For the more brave, you keep right, and walk down as the stairs descend. From the safety of the the top of terra firma, I watch as the more experienced person negotiates this form of transport. Cant think of a better word.
Bearing in mind, before these people made their way to the stations after work, a bit of shopping was done at the local supermarket, Tex something or the other. Like our Pick n Pay. Now they make their way to these underground tunnels. They spend so much time down these tunnels, they could be forgiven being so pale, but anyway, back to my myth buster...
Making their way down, carrying briefcase with a couple of heavy shopping bags, and maybe a newspaper or two, to stop themselves becoming top heavy, and falling themselves stupid, knocking everyone over like skittles in front of them, they HAVE to take these stairs leaning slightly backwards, bums clenched, back ramrod stiff. Imagine the English Gentry falling in a heap at the bottom of the steps, bums, bene, broeke and, frilly undergarments all over the platform... What would Charles say?
And because of this forced posture of negotiating down escalators, it sort of becomes habit even walking down the street, giving the impression of something stuck up their arses. Just my opinion.
And the toffee nose saga? Let me tell you that I too, nearly fell into this trap. And that, being in London for only 2 days. What happened was this...
On the same station (I was on this station everyday, up and down these stairs, as I had to change over from an underground to a normal train to Amersham)
Heading up to the top platform, I was one step below a lady of sizable proportions of the posterior. As I said, because of the sharp incline of the escalator, one step behind puts the average size man's head in line with the lower part of the person in front. So all I was able to see, was this large mound about 8 inches in front of me. No other view was possible. Behind me, people were pushing up, with their faces up close with my not so bad posterior.
Like I said, coming down the stairs, you are leaning back, bums clenched, and stomach pushed forward. Standard procedure.
Going up the stairs, it;s the opposite. You are leaning forward, stomach clenched, and bum relaxed, using it for buoyancy.
The lady ahead of me was doing all the above. And more... I suppose because of her stomach clenched in such a way, stooped forward, an accident was in the making. It happened. She farted!
Yep. I am 8 inches away, with nowhere to turn. Cannot go back. Right hand side full up with people walking up. Just picture this... she is heading up and AWAY form the smell. And let me tell you, its vile. I, on the other hand, am moving INTO the smell.
There is no escape. I have parcels. All my nik naks and souvenirs. I cannot hold my hand to my nose. So I do the next best thing... I screw up my nose, perking it, like what happens when a chicken lays an egg. Exactly like a toffee nose, for want of a different expression.
Now if this is what happened to me after a short stay in the England, I can only imagine what happens to frequent users of the underground.
Its human nature to question labels. I was able to experience first hand some myths of the UK.
There are reasons for walking as if you had something stuck up your posterior, and even a greater reason for developing a toffee nose.
As for the soutie story, I havent been back yet, so I cannot comment...
Coming back home, I had the misfortune of being without a car for awhile, and had to make do with public transport, especially taxi's... but thats a different story, which I will get back to shortly
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