the invisible hand

If no-one sees any artistry, how do you know it's there?

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pitfalls of the consumer society (#274)

Thinking oneself - one's problems, peccadilloes and perfections - unique, is the first step on the road to ordinariness.

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west london tales 10

On a good day it takes 15 minutes on the 18 bus from my nearest stop to Warren Street. The buses are regular and this day was no exception. However, at the Paddington Green police station stop, which is the junction with Edgware Road, the bus hit heavy traffic. The driver opened the doors early, to let people out. The rear door wouldn't shut. The bus sat in traffic for five minutes. I offered to go out and give the doors a push for him, but he said they had to shut on their own or not at all.

I got out, as there was another bus behind, but almost as soon as I did, the driver got the doors to work, and the same bus pulled up, and I got back on. I wasn't in a hurry, merely heading to Tottenham Court Road for what turned out to be a doomed mission to buy Christmas presents.

The bus filled up. Just past Marylebone, I heard a thud. I looked up. There was someone on the floor. She was writhing around, her head under the seat, her legs stretched out. A stocky man, who looked Turkish, with a short, neat ponytail, looked at me, and we both called an ambulance. He got through first. The woman was still writhing on the floor. Several people had gathered round her. Finally someone told the bus driver to stop, and he did so, at the Harley Street stop. 

No-one was quite sure what was going on with the woman. She had her clothes - primarily her hijab - bundled over her face. Someone tried to pull them back. They spent what felt like an age trying to get the black cloth away from her face. For a moment I wondered if there was actually a head there at all. Perhaps this was a symptom of a new horror, the headless fit. Finally the clothes came away. The woman was a young African woman, bundled up against the cold.

Most of the passengers stood around for a bit, looking at the spectacle, and then got off. The woman still lay on the floor. Suddenly she began to fit and then appeared to pass out. This was the only occasion I found myself able to do anything useful, as I reached to undo the buttons of her coat which were constrictively tight, the top button throttling her.  A European man appeared and pressed on her chest. Suddenly the woman sat up. 

Besides myself there was the Turkish looking man, the European, a white English woman who seemed to have some idea of what she was doing, a frenetic Italian woman and a smiley black man with two protruding front teeth. The man with the teeth spoke the woman's language, Somali. The woman was concerned about her hijab. The Italian tutted at her for being so silly, telling her that god wouldn't mind how she was dressed. We waited for the ambulance to come. The African man explained he'd been born in the UK, and his Somali was rusty, but she was thanking us. The ambulance still didn't come. The driver was full of calm and good sense. 

Nothing much happened for five or maybe ten minutes. There was no value in most of us being there. But the longer we all stayed the clearer it became that the value was just in the choosing to be there. To ensure that whatever could be done - those things that society can provide - would be. This woman wouldn't be left to fend for herself. She would be looked after. Even though, by now, she seemed to be alright again, the crisis passed, sitting up and wrapping her hijab around her. She'd only arrived recently, the man explained. He'd go with her to the hospital. The ambulance arrived, and I left. The man with the protruding teeth waved goodbye. 

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