Extends further than the options on your cellular device, which I’m guessing has the capacity to access your in-house cd collection at the click of a button, or the tap of a screen.
I wasn’t blessed to experience this type of melodic mobility as I travelled southbound on the Northern line to get home one evening. I incurred, shall we say the wrath of the half talented artiste.
One is not skilled in pretending to like disturbances of any sort, especially whilst commuting.
But how do you overcome the audacity of an instrumentalist beggar who is simply, I’d assume trying to fund his next meal?
I hold no gift in refusing people, especially if it has anything to do with the needy – look me straight in the eye and you’ve got me, I find it too uncomfortable to escape.
You’ll find me endlessly conversing with phone fundraisers trying hard not to trip on their 1645 word ‘seal the deal’ script, all due to the street enthusiasts who managed to trap me.
As I attempted to walk the streets of Holborn this week I received the emotionally stirring line:
“Excuse me, you dropped something (we both turn around) – your smile.”
which caused me to waltz ever faster into Sainsbury’s as he hurled mentions of dying children at me, I stood inside afraid to leave in case he was lurking outside to re-install my missing jaw arrangement.
My 45 minute journey home which is normally a straight forward voyage was rudely interrupted this said evening.
Normally, I’d perch myself onto the tube, train and streets of Croydon before arriving at my abode laden with sweat due to my persistence to prove the gym is, and forever will be another way for companies to extract money out of people for no reason.
Usually accompanied by the sweet sounds of soul, I was unfortunately presented with a special edition to my ‘On the Go’ playlist and I wasn’t able to turn it down, or skip to the next track.
You see an alarming selection of passengers whilst on the tube home, each with their own unique sense of style or evening frustration. I’m used to this and normally shrug it off whilst whispering:
“Each to their own,”
quietly to myself. I failed to ignore a certain passenger this particular ride home. A rather peculiar looking old man with a checked shirt and duffle coat a few sized too large that suddenly made my apparel look half decent.
Standing at the heart of the carriage with a violin case laid beneath his legs, I was hoping he was just on the way to a lesson. No one was expecting the horrific sounds that were to come.
Imagine Boris Johnson attempting to play a violin whilst cycling on the Elephant and Castle roundabout, whilst being cornered by a BP truck: it was worse than that.
The first few cords were enough for me, as I beckoned my iPod to go up and above its manufactured sound limit as my ears refused to enjoy this creative showcase.
“That’s it guys, I have to go.”
And they say there is no God?
“Okay, one more - I’ll play you some Mozart, he single-handedly created classical music. So, this is a homage to him.”
He played with both passion and charisma, but no talent unfortunately and in true fashion took his case, which was also suffering from the storms of life and walked up and down the carriage to receive the fruits of his labour.
A few clinks at first and then a sudden clash of coins and loose change, it must’ve been a good riddance fee, afraid he would treat us to another arrangement unless he got a few bob.
He cautiously collected his earnings and uttered his last breathe:
“Thank you very much, you guys’ve been great.”
And with that he was gone, taking a sudden exit at Clapham North station.
I must admit, I failed to fund his musical engagement. I didn’t much like the forced screeches, nor the predicament he had me in, I had to be sitting the closest to him didn’t I.
What more can I say? Until next time…
