LONDON FOG

Otago Daily Times, Issue 22563, 6 May 1935, Page 26

LONDON FOG

By E. J. T. "Sorry, guvnrr; this blooming fawg ain't 'arf a bit of orlright." I mutter reciprocal apologies for colliding, and, mentally observing that contrariwise it is a " bit of all wrong," I hasten blindly on. What a" night! About 5 p.m. somewhere near St. Paul's Cathedral, here am I literally groping my way for London Bridge Station in a foul, blackishyellow atmosphere. Moreover, one has to breathe in this filthy excrescence of industrial London, for, nauseating as it is, one cannot temporarily stop his respiratory organs from functioning and, consequently, is coughing, sneezing and spluttering most disconcertingly. Through the .sickly yellow pall I can dimly discern shadowy, blackened forms making haste slowly. It is at least comforting to know that others—in fact, hundreds of thousands of others—are at this very moment homewards bent—struggling to free themselves from* the grip of this paralysing fog terror. This ceaseless stream of traffic, which crawls past me, only to grind repeatedly to a standstill, is no doubt bearing hundreds away from fogland. Now there is another hold up. I pass a long line of monstrous-looking omnibuses, all packed with suffering humanity.. Many ghoullike faces glue their noses to the steamy windows, anxiously, peering for sign of movement. Walking is wearisome enough, but it is quicker and definitely preferable to bus travelling on a night like this, I opine, as I press down Cannon street. The car lights, street lights, shop lights, neon lights and a host of other lights are suffused into a grand , guignolesque setting—-fantas-tically and horribly deceiving in its ghostly murkiness. Yet the Londoners who hustle past me seem inured to these spasmodic visitations, so expressively termed " pea soupers." for they assume an almost stoical indifference to it. I'eihaps one may detect a ..soupcon of anxiety, but they take no more notice of those around them than is their usual wont, which is precisely none at all. Cannon Street Station looms eerily through the night, and draws like a huge magnet hundreds of phantom forms into its capacious maw. While seeking an opportunity to cross the street I stand and stare at the wave of humanity, moving past the held-up traffic into the station yard. No doubt 'many are seeking the tube railways, which are always least affected by fog. I look across my intersection; a " bobby " is, beckoning, so I move on. From Cannon Street Station to London Bridge, past the Monument, is no great distance, and, knowing the district fairly well, I have no difficulty in finding my way. I am indeed thankful that I did not " bus" it, for upon nearing London Bridge I pass an amazing congestion of traffic. Bus, cab, car, lorry, dray, pantechnicon are all, throbbing with impatience, in three files, to move forward. Wilfc they never move, I wonderingly ask, as I hurry past? At last they do, only to cover a few chains before grinding to a standstill again. The pedestrian multitude presses on, ••arelessly indifferent to anybody's fate hut its own, and casting only the most rasual glances to right or left, save to find an opening into yhich to dive. It is impossible to see up the River Thames. Only a yellowish blur indicates the whereabouts of flood-lit buildings and riverside electric signs. Once across the bridge, I thread my way through the standing traffic, and i-ross over to the approach to the station. Here I join the train-hound stream, to be swept into the maelstrom inside. I am met everywhere by fog service notices. Crowds are gathered round the detailed time table of trkins. At, most they indicate a skeleton service only, which will run to scheduled times as nearly as possible. There is much pushing and shoving to get near the notices, but they all take it very well. 1 decide, however, to take my chance, and to scan the destination boards at the platform barriers. From the high level station I dash by an overhead footbridge to the low level platforms. By good luck I happen upon an electric suburban train, bound for Tottenham Corner—on the same line as my home, Coulsdon. I jump into a rapidly-filling compartment and with a sigh of relief flop down into a seat. I neither know ; the time of the train's departure nor care; sufficient for the moment to realise that sooner or later this train will get me home. -j Half an hour passes, an eternity of waiting moments, and there is not the j slightest sign of imminent departure. The; compartment, with a normal seating capacity for 10 people, is packed to its; uttermost. There are 17 or 18 people \ both seated and standing, all jammedj tightly* together. The door is closed: presumably to keep those already in still' in, and to keep others out. There is ' a little shuffling, movement of arms, j taking off of hats and general fitting ! in before we all subside, waiting for something to happen. At long last the : electric engines begin to pulsbte, the! guard's whistle is blown, and we lurch forth; homeward bound! Under normal conditions these fast electrie trains are a joy to ride in. Hardly a second is wasted anywhere en' route, so smartly do they run to schedule times. Hence you may well imagine how insufferably tedious our journey is I of to-night. Every attempt to gather speed is persistently frustrated, in fact j we barely crawl at best. Numberless \ times we screech' to a halt; at one place, and goodness only knows where, for over ; half an hour! -It is, impossible to see j anything out of the window* except an j occasional train which passes us. The I sight of one doing so is very exasperat-' ing, but conversely we do get a little' satisfaction from moving past a station-: ary train. And every one tells the same j tale, fog-bound passengers bundled into | the-first available train going anywhere' near their homes. Every available inch of room is taken up. Only the inordin •'! ate number of parcels with which we English people do love to burden our-1 selves prevents the luggage racks from being used by small office boys. Outside is fog, so thick that it is > impossible to see more than a few yards. I Signals are lost in it. The rumbling I roar of trains is punctuated by fog ] detonators, the only signal to which j the tnotorman can trust himself. Con- i sidering the vast amount of train traffic and the amazingly intricate network of j rails over which it moves when nearing ! the London termini, it is a wonder that j we move at all. I

But the most amazing feature of this tedious journey is the apparently inhuman behaviour of these 17 or 18 human beings, I scarcely know whether to admire their self-possession and dignified reticence, or to feel sorry for their inability to chat of this and that by way of relieving the tension. Is it tlu- fear of being regarded as unconventional and " infra dig." which inhibits the free flow of friendly speech in these exceptional circumstances, I wonder, or does none feel disposed to chat on this uninspiring journey? In truth nobody utters a syllable, except two young oflice " bloods," complete with bowlerhats and evenii papers, who are standing over by the far door quietly agog with other fog experiences. The elderly city men opposite bury their heads in their evening papers, and must feel fearfully conscious at the rustling crackle of turning pages. Still perhaps it is a better escape than attempting to stare past or through the people standing opposite, as a ledger-looking gentleman on my right is trying to do. The worried-looking business man in-the corner," staring vacantly out of the window, has evidently been through this ordeal often enough and doesn't need to be reminded of the wretchedness of

it all. Two smartly-dressed jw&m ladies, typists I presume, complete witt Home Chat and a sixpenny novelette respectively, are beginning to nod. It looks as though the severe-looking let-me-read-my-paper gentleman is going to hiive one of the young ladies' head upon his shoulders. Yet, no, the train jolts forward and the young lady of the nodding head, blinks cheerlessly into her Home Chat. Those standing shift their weight from one foot to the other, alter their holds on the luggage rack, stare indifferently at the ceiling, and cynically at the advertised invitations to travel by this company's fast trains to some of its seaside resorts. Human nature is having a sore trial, but no one speaks. The silence intensifies the tedium into a seeming eternity. Speak I must. " Would you care to take my seat, sir!" I make so bold to ask the standing gentleman with his feet nearest to mine. I tre/nhle to hear my own voice. I feel I have become the cynosure of all eyes'. I fear I have outraged the susceptibility of some when I follow up my offer with a* facetious remark to the effect that a change as is good as -. "Yes, yes," he thinks so too; and sits down with a peremptory grunt , of thanks. The severe-looking gentle-" man, glancing up from his paper, is wondering very possibly how next I shall outrage his sense of propriety, but at least a similar idea has occurred to other seated passengers. For a minute or two the air is vibrant with offers and thanks. It really does look as though the spell is broken at last. Even the typists have wakened to a while the young bloods in the bowler hats are inquiring of the platelayer on just what night did he expect the train to arrive. We were thawing, indeed. Alas! just as Rome wsfen't built In a day, so the deep-seated habits of suburbia cannot be chan o ed in the space of moments. It is too much to ask of human nature. So we lapse into silence again. Resigning myself to the inevitable, I hang desperately on to the : luggage rack in the hope that by doing so I shall at least not lurch disturbingly against the city man in front or crumple up into the typist's lap when we start or stop. Meanwhile we huve struggled #ut of • the metropolitan areaL to judge by the faster travelling and appear to be over the worst of it. The visibility is better, although it is still foggy. There is' a general movement of relief when we pull up at Norwood Junction, our first scheduled stop. The door is flung open, but unfortunately only two or three struggle out with, their papers, umbrellas and parcels. Still there is a distinct easing off from our cramped positions. At East Croydon, our next stop, we fare better. Here we lose the young bloods, the typists and the "noli-me tangere " . gentleman of severe countenance. Among others were one or two I had not seen until they rose to get out. We can breathe easier now, while in another few minutes I, too, shall be" at my destination—over an hour and later than the usual time of 25 minutes.' Small wonder the suburbantraveller is not disposed to talk about London fog!