London traffic is chaotic this week because of a strike by members of the Rail, Maritime and Transport (RMT) union which has crippled London Underground services. I have simply no idea as to the rights and wrongs of the issues about pay which have caused the strike. It is the reaction of Londoners to the strike which has struck me.

On Monday I was at St Thomas’s Hospital keeping my 3.40 pm appointment there. At 4.00pm I discovered the doctor was running an hour late and I would not have been able to get home with the buses over full from 5.00pm. I went to the reception desk and the staff could not have been more helpful or understanding. I cancelled the appointment. While on the homeward bus I had a call on my mobile phone to tell me of a new appointment for next Monday.

On Tuesday I took my usual bus, the 360, from Elephant and Castle to the Royal Albert Hall for a concert. The bus is direct, almost door to door and usually takes about an hour. The first bus ‘terminated’ at Sloane Square and the next 360 ‘terminated’ at South Kensington. Both bus drivers had negotiated heavy traffic and traffic jams with skill and good humour. When I thanked one of them he said, “We do our best mate.”  And they had. For the last leg I took a taxi. The journey took two and a quarter hours but that was fine as I had allowed three.

On Wednesday I took a crowded bus to the swimming pool. A young man, seeing me with my walking stick, gave up his seat for me. It was a ‘priority’ seat. At the next stop more people got on including an older woman who was standing alongside me. When she caught my eye I said, “I’m not going to get up to give you my seat but you can sit on my knee if you like.” She laughed aloud and said, with a great smile, “Thank you, but no thankyou!”

Today, Thursday, I will walk to church, visit some friends and walk home.

The strike has inconvenienced people mildly, as I have been, and greatly. What I have realised is that how we deal with inconvenience is our choice. Most of those I have met have chosen to make the best they can of the strike and to deal with it calmly, patiently and often with humour.

Thank goodness for medical science.

I readily admit that science was not my strong suit at school but I know enough to recognise that it is discriminating; science discriminates. 

I have been diagnosed with Grover’s Disease which, according to the British Association of Dermatologists, ‘is an itchy rash…..this commonly affects white men over 50 years of age.’

So it is racist, sexist, and ageist. 

Religion doesn’t play a part and, fortunately, it is neither hereditary nor contagious. The origin is unknown, it is comparatively rare, and it is treatable. 

The cap fits. I am white, male, over fifty and, thanks to the diagnosis by an excellent dermatologist, I no longer itch nor, more importantly to me, scratch.

My new ‘smart watch’ is very clever. I bought it because I understand it will contact my daughter if I have a fall and am lying unconscious. It will also tell her where I am – if I am wearing the watch of course. I wear it.

It sends me a message when it considers I have been sitting still for too long and need to walk around and it congratulates me when I have reached fitness goals that I didn’t know I had set. It is quite bossy.

It indicates when someone is calling on my iPhone or sending a message. I gather it and my iPhone are in some way related. It tells me the air temperature and claims to be able to tell my ‘state of mind.’

It has an alarm which is very helpful because it wakes me up by vibrating rather than by sound. This is important as I take out my hearing aids when I sleep and cannot hear my alarm clock.

My watch tells me how many steps I have taken during the day. If I set it correctly it shows me not only how far I have swum but also how long it took me to swim the 25 meters length of the Elephant and Castle swimming pool and what stroke I was swimming.

Yesterday I swam 275 meters freestyle, 200 breaststroke and, according to my smart watch 25 meters backstroke. The last was a surprise because I can’t swim backstroke without bumping into other people so I don’t. I did look with envy at a swimmer doing backstroke and keeping in a very straight line. Perhaps the watch either read my ‘state of  mind’ or is not quite so smart after all.

I am sure my smart watch can do much more than I have discovered so far. And it does show me the time.    

Recently a woman told me of a conversation with her partner. He had suggested that while women want to change men, men want women to remain the same. I tested the idea with a number of contemporaries. Their reactions varied.

It brought to my mind another conversation; one I had with my mother many years ago. When speaking of a mutual friend I had said, “So and so has improved. I met him last week and we had a very good and interesting conversation. My word he has changed.”

“Or you have”, responded my mother.

More and more I believe that we can change no one but ourselves. It is a truth inherent in Christianity. Christ offers a path to fullness. I recognise that I am not completely fulfilled and am far from perfect – and that the key is change.

I suppose it is why worship includes penitence: not a focus on sin but rather opening the way to a brighter and better future.

I enjoy hugely having people to dinner, a friend on their own or a number of friends. It is wonderful. I don’t even mind doing the washing up.

I also enjoy larger groups of friends and family. Sunday lunch is a particular joy especially when we include a range of ages from great nephews and nieces and their friends to my contemporaries. The food is fine, (usually chicken from the Saturday market, which works with preparation before church and cooking after) and the conversation wide ranging.

And I enjoy eating alone. I prepare the tray. I like it to look good. I set out everything before pouring myself a glass of wine and in due course taking the tray through to the sitting room and enjoying my meal. It may be just cheese on toast and salad but that suits me.

My mother, when on her own, followed a similar routine in the evening except that she always changed for dinner. I do not.

And then last week I gave myself a special treat which I may do of necessity when travelling but not when at home in London. I went out to dinner on my own to a restaurant, St John, at Smithfield.

I was not celebrating anything except the enjoyment of going out to dinner. It was so good. I had three starters and then the wonderful Eccles Cake and Lancashire cheese. I had my cake and ate it.