Ramblings on libraries and life upon the wicked stage

Hello, everyone.  My name is David and I am a pedestrian.

Sometimes I feel that this fact about my boring little self is sufficient to mark me as a social outcast, a strange and peculiar creature that should not be able to function within the bounds of modern society.  Yet somehow I manage very well, and have no desire to learn how to drive.  I’d be a rubbish driver, anyway.

Today, as I wandered the streets of Singinglibrarianville in search of a prescription for my housemate, I was struck by the many oddities of crossing the road, a routine pedestrian activity.  I am glad I live in the UK, land of the amusingly-named crossing places, and more importantly, a land where pavements (sidewalks) actually exist on almost all roads, and where crossing the road somewhere other than a crossing isn’t a crime against the state.  Anyway… 

My first road-crossing experience of most days is crossing the busy road that my wee cul-de-sac branches off from.  This is made simple by the presence of a zebra crossing right at the end of my street.  Literally.  The ziggy zaggy lines of the zebra crossing approach extend most of the way across the street’s end.  It must be the most stupidly positioned zebra crossing in the land.  It has been there for over a year now, but many drivers like to pretend it doesn’t exist (for those not in the know, zebra crossings are odd things that don’t have ‘stop’ and ‘go’ indicators, and the pedestrians must wait for drivers to stop).  When it was first erected, drivers gave me strange looks that seemed to imply that I had hastily put the crossing up in order to fool them into stopping.  Yes, of course, Mr Driver, I ran across the road, put a beacon up, ran back and then waited for you, of course I did, well done you for spotting it…  Now, they just ignore it, and I often have to wait for quite some time for anyone to bother stopping.  I always give then a smile and a wave, and they inevitable catch up with the car in front by the time they reach the next crossroad, so everyone’s happy.  But the general non-stoppiness of the cars is reason enough to add a few minutes to estimated walking times to any destination on the other side of the road.

And pelican crossings (with lovely red and green stick people and loud beepy noises to tell you when to cross and when not to) are funny things as well.  My home town has several silent ones, which is fine for people who live nearby, but not very helpful for blind road-crossers.  Thankfully, Singinglibrarianville doesn’t have silent crossings, but it does have some peculiar ones.  My favourite one is between the Library of Doom and the City Walls, providing a way across the ring-road.  Very handy, particularly for the posh boarding school people, who have lessons on both sides of the road.  Except…  I walk fairly briskly when alone and non-depressed, and I have noticed that the beeping and green light last for exactly as long as it takes me to cross the road.  I can put my first foot forward on the first beep, and will put my second foot on the other side of the road just as the final beep sounds and the green man begins to flash madly to warn me that cars are liable to zoom over me at any second.  All well and good for me, but what about parents with prams, or elderly people walking with their sticks?  I have often noticed them being only half way across the road when the lights change, and have noticed the growing fury of the car-dwellers either side, who resent every second of ‘go’ time when the inconvenient slow person is in their way.  And not abnormally slow people, either.  Non-brisk people would be in a similar situation.  How silly.

And another thing about pelican crossings.  Why is it that I feel obliged to press the button, even if others have already pressed it?  I think it must be a childhood holdover, in honour of the breathless excitement of being able to press the pelican crossing button.  Maybe it’s just me.  I know it won’t make the lights change any faster, but I have to press the button.  Still, I suppose there are worse childhood traits I could exhibit!