Short Cuts Anne Robinson

For the first time in thirty years, I venture onto the Underground

My daughter jokes that whenever I’ve bought yet another house in London, I’ve carefully measured the yards and inches from the nearest Underground station. Yet, to the best of her knowledge, it is many, many moons since I last ventured on public transport.

This is no longer true. For the first time in thirty-odd years, last week I went on the tube.

Admittedly, not alone. I dragged with me my long-suffering housekeeper, Barbara. For days before, she insisted I would not last the journey to London Bridge because of the noise and the heat.

I argued that the last time I had driven to London Bridge (less than six miles), it had taken me just under an hour-and-ahalf. And even with my terror of being late and the latitude I allow myself, I still entered the meeting 25 minutes after it had begun.

The reason for insisting Barbara came with me was because, however many times I travel abroad, I cannot operate those electronic passport machines. At large airports, a person in uniform comes to help but, even as deaf as I am, I can hear the tutting and puffing of the short-tempered passengers behind me.

I, therefore, had visions of whole banks of commuters swearing and kicking me because my old people’s pass was facing the wrong way.

Well, what a surprise – London Underground has a much easier system than Heathrow.

Meanwhile, Barbara said we were very lucky that the lifts at Gloucester Road were working. And once we were on the platform, she pointed to a seat which I obediently took; where, alongside me, was a girl applying foundation to her face.

I was glad of the chance to rest but, the next thing I knew, Barbara was cruelly pushing me into the opening doors of the newly arrived train despite it already being horribly overcrowded. I was going to fire her there and then. But she just about redeemed herself by finding a bit of metal bar for me to hang on. A seat would have been preferable.

Depressingly, from where I was hanging, there was not a newspaper in sight. Instead, almost everyone was staring at a phone, except for one man reading a book on a Kindle.

But the astonishing bit is how the young girl, who had applied her foundation on the platform, then proceeded, standing up, to add eyeliner, mascara and blusher, and paint perfectly shaped lips in the time it took to arrive at Green Park.

It was worth the journey just for that.

These days my second ex-husband and I often share out the business of attending funerals or memorial services for old friends.

Indeed, one of the many reasons we are no longer married is that, while I like to arrive at the church in time to comfort the grieving from an earlier funeral, Penrose leaves everything until it is an inch from his face.

On this basis, as I fruitlessly lectured him for years, there are no minutes to spare for the inevitable consequences of being in a hurry.

Thus, after a rushed journey from Gloucestershire to Highgate to attend the funeral of Tony Miles, a former editor of the Daily Mirror, Penrose finds he has left behind his jacket and tie. All he has is his bank card.

Already late (no surprise), he abandons his car and runs towards Highgate High Street, only to discover there are no men’s outfitters in sight.

The only possibility is a Cancer Research UK charity shop. The assistant is most understanding. She points to the first jacket on the rack. A shiny, electric blue linen number with purple and red silk lining and purple silk cuffs. Penrose, being half-italian, is reluctant to attend a church service looking like Robert Maxwell or Joe Loss; despite the time constraints that would worry a normal person, he insists on making his way through the rest of the jackets on offer before conceding none of them fits.

Fortuitously, the previous owner of the first jacket – be he the one who conducted a band or stole money from a pension fund – had much longer arms. So, with the gaudy cuffs tucked out of sight, plus a sombre tie, Penrose is ready for business; total cost £15.

It is doubtful, as he slipped into the back of Holy Joe’s on Highgate Hill, that many other mourners noticed his attire. Even though he insists by the end of the send-off that dozens of men were demanding the name of his tailor.

The jacket label says Grey Flannel, London. Further research has Penrose claiming that, in view of the flamboyant design of the garment, the most likely original owner was a tall, long-armed showbusiness person residing in N6.

This, he further argues, pretty well narrows it down to Ray Davies of the Kinks.

If so – cheers, Ray!