The older I get, the more I realise that somehow, somewhere, I left the path of youth and vigour and started down the slippery slope that leads to being an adult, and we all know that at somewhere along the "being an adult" road comes the sneaky (but terrifying) offshoot into "turning into my mother/father".
First it was debit cards and credit cards, then before long came grey hairs, bills, renting my first flat, having my boiler break down - all the little things that take you that little step further towards being a proper Adult.
I've managed to dodge some of the really big stuff so far - I'm not married, I don't have kids, own a house or a car, and I've never been self employed, but despite all my best attempts to slow my progress, it's happening anyway.
I turn lights off.
Obsessively.
And get quite annoyed when they get left on.
Not because I'm an eco-nazi, but because my mum spent years moaning at me to switch lights off, and when I said "but muuuuuuum" (as you do when you're, any age, really) the response was always "when you have a house of your own I'll come round and leave all the lights on and see how you like it!" and y'know what? I don't like all the lights on.
Gah.
The sneakiest of all though, happened recently.
There I was, buzzing through life, diet-coked up to the eyeballs and telling anyone who dared question my decision to not drink tea that it was just like drinking stewed grass, and "ew, no thanks".
Then something weird happened.
I got an urge to drink tea.
I've had these urges before. Every few months or so, I'd buy the latest box of herbal tea bags that caught my eye (I'm such a packaging-whore), think it smelled lovely, make myself a cup and find that it tasted of stewed grass (so far, so predictable, so reinforced) and the urge would go away, leaving me with a trail of almost full boxes of weird tea.
I was happy with that. It was comforting. I wasn't a tea drinker. Tea didn't exist in my world. Give me Diet Coke or give me death! (cos with the caffeine withdrawal headache it seemed the only way out)
Then the inevitable happened.
I found a tea I like.
Of course, while most cafes and hotels have a wide selection of the aforementioned stewed grass-tasting teas available to those who like that kind of thing, the selection very rarely includes Rooibos.
Why am I mentioning this?
For two reasons:
1. The place we book to deliver our monthly Beyond the Basics training course had a box of Rooibos Tea Bags sat out in the tea and coffee area today, and I nearly giggled with glee (cos I was gasping for a cuppa).
2. Despite all attempts to avoid it, I've taken another step down the "turning into my mother road". Whenever I go away anywhere, I now carry and envelope or small ziplock baggie with teabags in it.
DOOM.
It's all very well for Ken Livingstone to use the Congestion Charge to stop Londoners using cars and get them using public transport to get to work in the morning, but it all kind of falls down if the public transport then gets so congested that it's completely impossible to use.
As I now live beyond the end of the Victoria Line, I have to get a bus each morning to take me to Brixton so I can get on the tube to work.
So far, so good.
Well, until a couple of weeks ago, when things went from bad (on a bad day, not being able to get on the first bus which arrives), to worse (not being able to get on the first, or the second bus which arrives, or a bus or two going past while totaly full).
This morning, however, I was struck with the worst Public Transport Congestion Charge of all.
I left my house just after 8am, and proceeded to freeze my arse off (almost literally - I bought a jacket at the weekend, reasoning that since I don't often have to stand long at the bus stop, it'd keep me warm enough while standing at the bus stop, and wouldn't be too hot for the Tube) for almost an hour, as the bus service spectacularly failed to be an actual service.
The first bus to go by was the express service, which doesn't stop anyway. Fair enough.
Bus two was clearly full, so drove past without stopping. Also fair enough.
Bus three stopped (yay!), but stopped slightly short, so I was towards the back of the large group of people waiting, and consequently didn't get on the bus. Arse.
Bus four was also clearly full, so drove past without stopping.
Bus five was not full at all, with seats visible upstairs, and only two people standing downstairs, and swerved wide, sped up and drove past without stopping, causing everyone assembled to make varied exclamations of annoyance, and form a momentary, very British (but very multi-cultural) bond in mutual loathing for the driver.
Buses six and seven similarly drove past, packed full.
It wasn't until bus eight rolled up that I was finally able to get on a bus, by which time I was cold, irritated and late for work.
Yes, I could have walked, but it would have taken me 25 minutes, and by the time the first three buses had gone past, the risk that by leaving, I'd wind up later than if I waited and got the next bus was too great. There may have also been a tiny but of stubborn-ness involved.
Either way, in addition to the £90something I pay each month for the pleasure of using public transport, congestion has cost me, by my reckoning, at least 7 hours in the last two weeks alone.
That's 7 hours where I could have stayed in bed longer, or got to work earlier, so I could leave earlier.
I don't mind the odd long wait for a bus, but a whole working day's worth of time is too precious to lose, and far more of a congestion charge than I'm prepared to pay.
I'll be writing a letter, I think.
Nice weather for the time of year, isn't it?
Yeah, I kind of stopped blogging for a bit there.
Sorry about that.
It wasn't intentional.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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