Low Speed Thrills
I don’t know how many of my regular reader (stet) actually live in London, but those of you who do probably share my feelings on the public transport system. But what are the alternatives? Those of us unable to afford…
“Stop that for a second,” said the Editor.
I stopped. “What is it now?” I asked. “You practically ordered me to do this thing on the burning issue of how the average young urban professional drags their miserable carcass to work every morning.”
“I know,” he said. “I need you to do something connected with the article, in fact. Follow me.” I followed him downstairs, and then outside, my heart sinking. I was rather hoping against hope that he’d arranged for a photoshoot featuring me cavorting in an Austin-Healey full of champagne with three pouting nymphets, but somehow didn’t feel that this was very likely. And indeed, though there was an idiot with a digital camera hanging about on the pavement, he was standing next to a small, two-wheeled object.
“What is this?” I asked, doubtfully.
“It’s a scooter,” he said. “You’re going to ride it. Well, down the street, anyway.” He waved down the empty stretch of cobbles, or sets or whatever they were, outside the palatial D&F offices. “Couple of slightly blurry, edgy sort of photos, you claim you rode it for a week or so, it all goes into a nice big article on…”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Am I actually going to have to get on this, this Mosca, or Hornetto, or whatever the hell it’s called? I was hoping to just pontificate for a couple of pages on issues of which I know very little. It’s quite the done thing in glossy journalism nowadays, I hear.” I sat on the thing’s seat, experimentally. Where was the walnut and leather? This was all terribly disappointing. I can drive, incidentally, it’s just I prefer to drive something that doesn’t fall over when I stop it.
“Come on,” said the Editor. “You might as well actually ride it. You can pretend you took drugs or something as well if it makes it any easier for you.” I glared.
“How dare you taunt me with New Journalism.” I made as if to get off again. “Anyway, what’s behind this obsession with bijou little modes of transport? This might be all very well on the continent, but let’s face it, half of the roads in these hotbeds of scooter-riding aren’t exactly rammed with HGVs. Try it in London and you’ll be wrapped round something’s axle within five minutes. It’s like people exhorting us to take long, properly-cooked continental-style lunches. Have they ever tried this in a British office? Come to think of it, it’s usually Jamie Oliver telling me to take a two-hour lunch break and waving some kind of Italian wheeled hairdryer in my face. Sheesh, I might have guessed.” I tried to climb off and got my foot stuck. “Next week I’m going to buy an SUV, and then plough it into a farmer’s market. While reading the Daily Mail.”
The Editor tapped his foot and sighed. “This is rapidly becoming the commuting method of choice for the serious professional,” he said. “Particularly after public transport emerging as a possible target for terrorism. The figures state…”
“Motorised transport is as big a risk,” I said. “Look at the yearly carnage on our roads. Speaking of which, am I insured?”
“Just ride the fucking bike!” fumed the Editor. I dismounted.
“This is insane,” I said. “I’m going to the pub. Good-bye.”
“Damn you!” screamed the Editor. “I’ll bloody well do it myself!” He straddled the scooter and fumbled with the controls. The filthy thing coughed into life, nearly drowning out his shouts regarding ‘the individual’s right to take risks’, and ‘health-and-safety apparatchiks’.
As I slouched off, hands in the pockets of my skinny jeans and brain engaged with the appealing thought of a frosty-cold bottle of South American lager, I heard a tinny revving noise, closely followed by something sounding not unlike a lawn mower being operated at full throttle. Finally there was a slight bang, a series of shouts of “Oh fuck!”, and a single wheel rolled past me. I smiled broadly to myself.
The Next Day
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” I said to Ondine, who was sitting behind the Editor’s desk rifling through his drawers. “This brings to mind all kind of questions regarding the awful risks journalists are forced to take in the pursuit of entertaining copy.”
“It has its compensations,” she replied, arranging the desk surface more to her liking. “How’s he doing, anyway?”
“They wouldn’t let me in to see him, I’m afraid. Still under heavy sedation. He really shouldn’t have attempted to assault that paramedic.”
“I know. He gets so angry, poor man. Still, he could probably do with the rest. I’ll certainly pass on all the, ah…message of support,” she said, picking up a single piece of paper between thumb and forefinger.
“Excellent,” I said. “By the way, as you seem to be acting on his behalf at the moment, would you mind awfully…”. I indicated a form lying on the desk.
“What’s this?”
“Just a few, um, taxis, you know…expenses, I mean. Work-related stuff, of course.”
“Taxis? Sorry, there’s been a change in policy as of…well, as of now, really. You’ll have to foot them yourself. Have you ever considered getting a bike?”
I went downstairs and ground my teeth together for a while.