Time was, many posters on the London Underground could be either fun – Off to the Zoo, with a troop of penguins – or arty (the Tube map outlined in trails left by tubes of paint). Now they include pieces you might not want the children to look at, let alone impressionable tourists.

The latest image you may wish to avoid features a woman – rather a pretty woman with cropped hair – who appears to have had a double mastectomy. You can see the scars where one of her breasts has seemingly been removed. It’s topped by the slogan: “They/Them…#WeAreEverywhere”. At the bottom is written: “Supported by the Mayor of London”. 

If I were promoting a group, I’d hesitate to plug it by saying “They’re Everywhere” because it doesn’t have positive connotations; it’s what you’d say about earwigs. But that’s secondary to the decision to use this image at all. The first thought, on looking at it is, what on earth? The second, practically instantaneous with the first is, what is the Mayor of London doing, supporting this?

I like Sadiq Khan personally; he’s civil, friendly and outgoing. This, though, seems intended to shock us. And that’s not what public transport is for.

But then posters on the Tube are quite often either propagandistic or hostile these days – which is odd, because they’re trying to make transport more welcoming. There are big, aggressive ones telling us that “Staring of a sexual nature is Harassment and will not be tolerated”, and another about rubbing against someone on purpose. These should make me feel safer, but they don’t. 

They just make for an environment where any kind of contact between people, between the sexes, is seen as threatening. They make us that bit less likely to see each other as fellow travellers on the journey of life, and more like potential adversaries. 

In public places, in stations, on trains, we can’t avoid looking at giant posters. Is it too much to ask that it should be a pleasure?

Ice woman

If you haven’t heard about the Ice Box craze, where have you been? What started as a health fad promoted by “Iceman” Wim Hof, featuring breath-holding and immersion in icy water, has become a consumer aspiration. Show-offs are having ice baths installed in their gardens, which is one up from a paddling pool. Now there’s a backlash; several deaths have been attributed to the Iceman approach.

I tried a spa treatment the other day at a very luxurious hotel (it was a press trip, OK?) which entailed spending up to eight minutes in a hot sauna, then up to three minutes in a Brass Monkey (ha,ha) ice bath, repeated three times, under the supervision of an instructor. Though I say it myself, I was a little soldier. The sauna was a trial but the ice bath was fine.

That’s because for quite a while – not now, alas – I swam in winter in the Irish sea. Mediterranean swimming is for sissies. And FYI, it’s colder after Christmas than before. It wakes you up. But when your palms start to tingle, get out. On some days when I’d stayed too long, I’d find myself shivering during the day. With all these things, just don’t be stupid.
On the bright side, those on the Welsh and Irish coast don’t need silly ice baths. They have one, right on their doorstep.