Time has come again for me to wax lyrical on the pitfalls of HIV and perhaps toss around a few ideas about conquering negative thinking after a positive diagnosis? But then again, maybe not.
Increasingly, these days I think less and less about the virus and more about...well, anything but. How many readers are fed up with people assuming we are nothing more than the sum of our symptoms with views on little else? As far as I’m concerned it is a good sign that currently I’m more worried about whether London should host the 2012 Olympics.
So hands up who’s for, who’s against. Okay, the Nos have it. But we’ll bid for them anyway... When in the company of Londoners and the Olympics are mentioned, faces drop and lips pout followed by a variations on “but we can’t cope as it is.” They have got a point.
Didn’t one recent autumn cripple the transport system, due to ‘leaves on the line’? And what about the half-inch of the ‘wrong sort of snow’ that brings annual chaos to the capital? Okay, so the Olympics would not take place in winter, but that doesn’t mean we are safe from catastrophe. “Rails buckle in soaring temperatures”, screamed last July’s headlines, thus completing the trilogy of summer, autumn and winter pitfalls. What next? “Daffodils on rail lines bring London to a standstill”? “Unexpected crocus causes ten-carriage carnage”?
Imagine a typical day at the East London Olympic stadium: the weakest competitor picks up gold in the hundred metres because the event started at 8am and the other athletes were still stuck on the Northern Line. Suppose the powers-that-be do make good their boast and we get fantastic new buses, speedy rail links, and diligent staff. Will there be room to move?
Last Saturday, I absent-mindedly broke one of my own rules, and found myself shopping on Oxford Street. The meek among us kept bags clutched to the bosom and opted for the British, head-down-and-don’t-look-at-anyone approach. More seasoned shoppers remorselessly elbowed a path through the crowd, connecting heavy bags of shopping with my kneecaps whenever possible.
What next? Congestion Charge for pavements perhaps? Imagine phoning up the credit card line: “Yes, hello, I’d like to pay for a pavement space please. I’ll be shopping next Tuesday on Tottenham Court Road; two carrier bags and a trolley. What? A two-bag maximum? Surely you can squeeze me in to Regent Street instead? Oh pleeeeease try... I’ll walk sideways, I promise.”
Next submit your credit card details, the digits from your new Euro photo Id, your personal DNA coding and, of course, the account number of your Pavement Nectar Card to collect four free FootMiles with every sidewalk space booked.
And what about the ‘speedy’ rail link from Kings Cross, will it be finished by 2012? Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s fantastic that I’ll be able to get from Kings Cross to Europe at the drop of a construction hat, but meantime just try getting from Kings Cross to Euston in less than an hour...
Promises of fairy-tale Olympic villages and lightning transport links are all very well, but can we really rival other major cities? Picture the chain of events: the private company responsible for recruiting the manager, who is in turn responsible for hiring the person who is ultimately responsible for the maintenance of the Olympic torch, has breached its contract. The torch spectacularly extinguishes at a crucial stage in the grand opening ceremony. Sir Cliff Richard covers an eggy moment by delivering an impromptu chorus of Congratulations from his wheelchair, while Dame Gerri Halliwell fumbles around with a disposable lighter.
I was made aware of my own cynicism when an Austrian friend came to visit. We did the Tate Modern, the London Eye, the Wobbly Bridge, a West End show, and the Planetarium. I suddenly realised we were in good shape.
