To Kew on the train, rattling along lazily in an off-peak manner. The station still looks like one of those 1920s transport posters. I don't know the crime stats, but I'm guessing they're pretty low (maybe someone stole an almond croissant back in 2006). The National Archives are surprsingly located at the end of a residential street that is the epitome of everything that is solid and safe. Generous red brick villas with well-maintained paint work. Piano practice and crumpets; wisteria and coat stands. Every front garden is lush and tended - Kew evidently takes its garden associations seriously.I think I'm OK with the fact that I don't work at the National Archives. Ya feel me?
On the way home, I am approached by two Japanese women who need Tube map guidance. There are language barriers. We use multiple handsigns - I even employ the classic double thumbs up - and then I watch out for them, making sure they get on the correct train. We smile; they bow. I bow back; we wave. We wave again as the train pulls away. We smile broadly and wave until we can see each other no longer. Kew has rubbed off on me. I may be travelling in an off-peak manner, but there's nothing off-peak about my actual manners. I am the epitome of everything that is solid and safe.
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