Whilst I was up north over Christmas, I had one of those inevitable "cost of transport" discussions. This conversation was on the depreciation in value of cars. The result was that the annual depreciation value of their car was roughly £1,000. So if they bought their car - not a new car incidentally - left it on the drive for twelve months, and then sold it, they'd be around £1,000 out of pocket. If they left it on for two years, they'd be £2,000 out of pocket. And so on.
One of the few reasons I continue to tolerate a lengthy commute to White City every morning, is that it gives me plenty of time to read - something I confess to rarely doing at home.
A discussion in the canteen recently involved around one of my colleagues saying about how he is less inclined to do DIY and more inclined to get someone in to do things - it's about balancing up how much your free time is worth in comparison to the cost of getting someone in.
Train is very busy. People are left on the platform. You notice a woman stood next to you. Her belly looks slightly big. You cautiously attempt to look at her face just to make sure she's not just well built. She could be pregnant. It could just be the way she's standing due to her grabbing on to the rail. You're just not sure.
Shepherds Bush. What an odd place to target. And what a bloomin' nuisance. The whole of Shepherd's Bush Green was sealed off as I set off for home. Which left me with an interesting problem - how to get to Kensington Olympia so I could get my train to Clapham?
Which prat decided Crystal Palace was a good place to host a Coldplay concert on a weekday evening? I ask as one of thousands of commuters whose journey home this evening was made a misery thanks to countless train disruption on the Southern Metro network, caused by hordes of gig-goers filling trains and stations whilst railway staff struggled to cope with the crowds.
Every day I get the 0835 West London Line service from Clapham Junction to
Wilsden Junction. Every day the train leaves the platform at 0835. Every day the train leaves the platform packed like a sardine tin - with people crushed into every available space in gross miscomfort.