Grit

The highlight of my two and half hour journey home last night from London Bridge has to have been the Story of Two London Transport Staff.

About thirty people were standing before the Departure Board, silent, "Delayed, Delayed, Delayed." It was the same story for us all. And then in the next moment we were in the company of a young man, in a high-vis vest, carrying a bucket of grit. Nothing was happening and it was pleasing to be able to watch him dutifully scatter grit, even amusingly between people's feet. This went on for some time. I don't exactly know why he was spreading it in this undercover space, but he'd done a good job. Off he went, pausing by the doorway to look back and admire the even coverage.

Another man in a high-vis vest and a big tummy appeared. He paused, looked at the ground, shook his head, and proceeded to sweep all of the grit into a pan before walking off.

About twenty minutes later the gritter returned. He stood utterly flummoxed. He picked up a caution-slippery-surface cone and looked underneath. He looked suspiciously at us. No grit in sight. And so he started again, rhythmically scattering like the sower.