From its very inception Warming Up has enjoyed documenting
unacceptable behaviour on public transport. But today I might have seen something that might just top them all. Well, it's probably not as antisocial as blowing up a train with a homemade bomb or shooting an innocent man seven times in the head. But in terms of low level, non-violent, Warming Up style incidents that I have witnessed, this one is in a league of its own.
I was heading into town on the Central Line. I had just managed to jump into the last carriage before the doors closed and it was quite empty. An attractive and respectable looking blonde lady was sitting opposite me, next to her were a couple in their twenties and a bit further along on my side another woman on her own, presumably heading for an exciting Saturday night out. Then a couple of stops later another passenger got on.
He was unremarkable, initially at least, though he was one of those hefty, 20 stone plus fellas, with a big round belly like a Weeble. But I am not fattist (not on this train anyway, to paraphrase the Jimmy Carr joke) and as long as these people eat their pies in the comfort of their own home - and remember the importance of bathing, which some of them seem to neglect in favour of having more eating time - then I don't have a problem with them. I sometimes wonder how fat someone has to get before they decide that it might be time to do something about it, yet have a sneaking admiration for those gluttons who keep going through the pain barrier, continue to stuff their face, even when it makes them incapable of walking or getting out of their bedroom. This fella was not in that league and like I say, I have no problem with people carrying weight and wouldn't bother commenting on it, unless it was completely relevant.
It has no relevance to this story. I am just acting cocky because I have lost 1.5 kilos this week.
The man sat in the corner seat, with a spare place next to him and put down his bags. He had a little leather pannier and two Sainsbury's bags for life and he immediately started unpacking some stuff. Inside the bags were smaller thin blue plastic bags which the man had sealed up with wooden clothes pegs. He was clearly a little eccentric, as his actions were about to prove. He hoisted up his trouser leg to reveal his chunky, flabby calf. This seemed a slightly personal thing to be doing in public, but maybe he was being bothered by something. He certainly seemed to be examining his lower leg, which did have some marks or scratches on it. It was difficult to tell if these were scabs or sores, but they didn't look particularly bad - not that I was looking as closely as him. Like the other passengers I was trying to ignore him, but finding myself unable to stop glancing back. He left his trouser leg up as he dug into his bags. He got out a big sheet of uncut plasters - the kind of plasters you put on cut, in the old school format of a long strip that you have to cut to the required size yourself - and a tube of savlon. He then got the Savlon out of its little cardboard box, took off the lid and squeezed a sizeable amount of the cream into his hand. I think my mouth might have fallen slightly agape - the blonde woman nearest him certainly had a face indicating disbelief, disdain and minor disgust.
Oblivious to the reactions and unspoken objections of the people around him, or the basic laws of civilisation which dictate we don't do these things in public, he smeared the cream all over the sore part of his shin. The blonde woman caught my eye, her face a mask of horror. I laughed. But then she was close enough to smell the Savlon. To most people it is just an unspoken fact that a tube train is not the place to start tending to wounds - unless the wound has happened on the tube - but this man had clearly been to the chemist and bought his cream and bandages and then decided to wait until he was on the train to see to his wounds. To be honest I was as much surprised by his decision to put on Savlon before the plaster. This is something I don't think I've seen an adult ever do. I can't think of the last time I saw Savlon outside of a Harry Hill sketch, but it's something I associate with childhood. This man was at least in his forties and acting his shoe size, rather than his waist size.
Having spent a little time rubbing medical unguent into himself the man then took an entire strip of plaster and placed it, uncut and whole on to his not particularly injured shin. Satisfied he pulled down his trouser leg, acting as if nothing strange was going on. Of course it's only social convention that says this is unacceptable behaviour. He wasn't hurting anyone. But everyone was unsettled by the actions. The couple actually got up and moved up the courage to a different part of the train. And why not? If a man doesn't think twice about smearing himself in Savlon in public, then who knows what he is capable of. I was slightly worried that this eccentricity might lead on to some full blown mentallist incident. But was also aware that today's Warming Up was, so to speak, in the bag, with a peg on top of it and I wanted to see what would happen next. Even if that meant getting a knitting needle in my face.
The blonde woman sat tight, although clearly a bit tense and worried. I smiled at her to let her know that everything was OK and that I would be keeping an eye on things. But maybe she was now worried there were two mentallists on the train and if she escaped one, then the other would surely get her.
Luckily the man was more interested in his collection of plastic bags with pegs on - and how efficient is a peg in keeping the contents of a bag inside the bag? - and all he did for the rest of the time I was on the train was take out a plastic orangina bottle filled with tap water and take a drink. Who knows what else was hidden in his pegged bags? His life was certainly organised. Maybe he was a high powered businessman and couldn't afford to waste a second, thus his need to apply medical items on his travels across the city.
But it's fascinating to see what some people see as acceptable beahviour. Like the old man who stands on the next running machine to Andrew Collings when there are a row of 20 unoccupied ones to choose from. You'd think everyone would pick up on social convention, but some don't or choose to ignore it. Or get to a point where they just don't care any more.
I find this low level mental illness quite fascinating, partly I think because I am aware that the older I get the more likely it is to start happening to me. If it hasn't started already. I guess you just don't know that you're doing anything wrong.
