Down South

Thanks to a deeply confusing set of circumstances, yesterday I went down to London for what I thought was a permanent C++ developer's position only to find that it was actually a three month contract for a build manager, no programming involved. Perversely, I'd be happy doing the job especially because it's a short-term role, but it would have helped rather a lot if I'd actually known these things in advance so I wouldn't have looked quite so gormless.

Nice to see the underground looking even more sci-fi dystopian with loads of the station advertising billboards replaced with flatscreen panels. That and the constant PA announcement ordering "INSPECTOR SANDS TO THE SECURITY ROOM" really adds to the atmosphere.

Whatever coded announcement "INSPECTOR SANDS" is about doesn't seem to involve scary exploding terrorists, worse luck. I was strangely looking forwards to being blown to mince and had to take great care to sit on the stainless-steel cripple seats at the back of the platform to reduce the risk of any impulsive one-under incidents on my part.

It's also entertainingly true what people say about no-one in London acknowledging the existence of anyone else when commuting, as my automatic response to say "sorry" when bumping into or being bumped by people got me some very surprised looks.

Had a big long chat with a random stranger at Euston station, though. On the other hand, it turned out that we both live a couple of miles apart and shop at the same branch of Tescos, so this cannot be used to prove/disprove the alleged unfriendliness of Londoners.

Question: Who at Virgin Trains thought "Virgin Invader" was a good name for a rather phallic high-speed pendolino train? Was it a case of inspired awesomeness or abject stupidity?

Word to all students, especially girls: When travelling on a train, everyone else on the carriage will hear every word you say and will want the train to crash just so the horrible voices stop.

Word to all evil lawyer/business-types: The above goes double for you, and your constant telephone conversations about selling white South African farmers land to White Zimbabweans and ideas for insuring at usurious rates the equipment of NGOs operating in war-zones for the sole idea of making a boat-load of profit out of the suffering of people half the world away will induce a murderous rage in the fat guy sat opposite you, your life only being spared because fatty had to do some walking today and is now very sleepy.