Trainspotting, South London style
Earlier this year we moved from Tower Hill to Southwark, only to find ourselves just one of a number of media hotbeds in the area.
While our new home has its teething problems – the mystery pong in the lift (aka The Smellivator) is the most entrancing -- there is a suspicion that other offices in the area could have full-blown sick building syndrome. Or perhaps there's a danger of lightning-fast infections from abroad caught from the line of global tourists shuffling past on their way to inspecting Doris's crack at Tate Modern next door. Exotic imports have a lot to answer for.
How else to explain the sudden winter colds that infected a number of our neighbours from a high-profile publishing empire the other evening? They were having a quiet pint in a serviceable boozer that's become something of an attraction for us incomers -- you'll forgive me for being vague about the exact location: it serves a lovely drop of London Pride and deserves its anonymity.
The malign influence of their new digs may be to blame, or perhaps they too had been inspecting the crack: one by one our comrades from another planet nipped into the bogs only to be overcome by sickness unknown, emerging dripping of nose and feverbright of eye moments later.
The pub's matronly landlady was so worried for their health as she observed the mystery malady take hold that she gently suggested it'd be better if the afflicted crew went elsewhere to sleep it off. Her concern wasn't well taken: as they congregated on the pavement outside to polish off their pints, tempers grew strangely hot.
Doubtless driven crazy by the contagion, one of their number tried to glass another, only to find his higher motor skills missing in action. His target dodged with ease. Infuriated further, our would-be Begbie lashed out with a karate-like flying kick. Witnesses report that any resemblance to that oriental art was fleeting. Indeed, so badly timed was the manœuvre that the kicker dislocated his knee and toppled to the ground.
A terrible keening filled the Southwark night.
London's blue light brigade was swiftly summoned. In the subsequent (and, one hears, highly entertaining) confusion, the Metropolitans misread the situation, identified the attacker as victim and dispatched him with a pat on the head to the nearest hospital. In the words of DCI Gene Hunt's manual of modern policing, advice was given to the remainder and peace restored.
Such are the dangers of working in publishing. Youngsters, take heed. Choose a quieter career. Choose shelf-stacking in PC World. Choose washing machines, cars, iPods and Windows Vista.
Choose life.