A logistics-ridden jaunt to Islington

Logistics are the difference between going out when you’re young and going out when you’re old.  As in: you don’t think about logistics when you’re young.  You just go out.  But something happens when you reach… I don’t know, your mid-thirties?  Instead of just going out, you think about how you’ll get there, what’s likely to happen while you’re there, and what time you’ll need to be home.

So… how long is the journey, exactly?  Will I need to eat beforehand or get something when I’m there, or would it be better to take a snack with me?  What if it’s crowded?  Will I have to queue for anything?  What sort of people will be there?  Will they be kind, or hostile, or annoying?  Is there an interval?  Are there toilets?  Will they be free when I need them?  What time is the last train back?  Feasibly, how much sleep will I get before my alarm goes off the next morning?

The logistics involved in an average night out can feel so exhausting that it’s tempting to just Not Go.  Geoff Dyer’s novel, Paris Trance, contains a scene where one of the characters doesn’t go to an event he’d booked, because he can’t be bothered.  Later that night he muses that if he’d gone, he’d be back home by now… so since he’s already at home, it’s like he actually went!

It’s a strange mentality, I suppose, but I can relate.  You could ask: why book things at all, if going out is so much hassle?  All I can say is, when you book those tickets or say yes to that party, it’s abstract.  All good fun, in theory.  The events don’t feel real until you’re a week or so away from actually going, which is when the logistics kick in.

This is a roundabout way of saying that I went out on Tuesday, to Islington in London.  The event was at Union Chapel (to see Perfume Genius, if you must know). It’s a bit of a trek from Southend, but I couldn’t just not go because I really like Perfume Genius, and it was my husband David’s birthday, and he’d already bought the train tickets.  “It’ll be easy,” he said.  “It’s just one change at Stratford, that’s all.”

(I don’t like changes, though.  When I get on the train, I like that train to be the only train; that I’ll get off and my destination is right there, within walking distance from the station).

The Mildmay Line to Highbury and Islington wasn’t packed, as I’d expected it to be at six-thirty in the evening.  There were even seats free, so nobody had to sit next to a stranger.  Assorted people played on their phones, chatted, and – gasp! – read physical books, while all around, the dull orange walls lectured us.  “Keep your belongings with you and safe, so as to prevent crime,” one sign said (this stood out to me because most signs just mention the “keep your belongings with you” bit without mentioning crime prevention, so presumably, passengers on the Mildmay Line need this spelling out).

The next sign told us to direct anyone begging to StreetLink for help, rather than giving them money ourselves.  As if on cue, a dishevelled man in his twenties stood in the doorway of our carriage, eyes darting nervously around as if getting ready to speak.

“Hi…” he eventually said.  “My name is Tom, and I’m sorry to bother you this evening, but I’ve fallen on hard times recently and I wondered if you might be able to help me?  Anything would be gratefully received, however small it is.”

Nobody made eye contact with Tom.  We all pretended he wasn’t there instead, and when he realised no-one was going to respond, he mumbled a “thank you” under his breath.  Then he shuffled past us to the next carriage, where he started all over again.

As Tom’s voice drifted into our carriage second-heard, I felt myself well up.  “He’s probably just a scammer,” David said by way of reassurance, but really, what if he was?  It takes guts to ask strangers for money, even if you’re not desperate, and especially when you know that most of them won’t acknowledge you.  It takes perseverance to keep going, keep asking.  Isn’t that worthy of some reward in itself?

I think I might welled up at how intimidated and ineffective I was in the face of someone like Tom.  I didn’t direct him to StreetLink for help, mostly because that just seemed patronising.  Anyway, he clearly had enough nous to know about them already.  Their contact details were plastered all over the walls, for one thing.  And I didn’t give him any money because I don’t carry cash, because hardly anyone does.

I could have said all that, but I didn’t.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it was because no-one else said anything, or looked like they were going to say anything, or because none of the things I could have said were in any way positive.  Either way, I resolved to do better next time; to carry some cash with me, or at least say something human, like, “sorry things have been so hard for you.”

Anyway.  We got to Union Chapel unscathed, and the concert was great, though due to my mis-calculation of the logistics we left earlier than we should, so I missed my favourite song (why do singers always leave their best stuff to the encore?).  As we got on the Mildmay Line train to come home again, we saw Tom getting off.  I’d like to say I spent the rest of the journey thinking about whether he was OK, but the toilets were blocked at the station, and the one on the train was occupied by a drunk man for what felt like hours, so I spent the rest of the journey cross-legged and furious.

It’s the logistics, I tell you.