Showing posts with label London Transport. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London Transport. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Thursday, 1 October 2009
The London Morning
Early sunshine is split by the looming tower blocks, twin shafts of light gracing dusty lines of cars and bouncing off the auburn hair of the lady hurrying ahead of me. A man jogs past, white trainers easily visible under his navy suit. I look at my watch and smile at his eagerness; the die-hard commuters travelling towards their Mecca know when to walk and when to run. We do it as one, we cross the busy road as one, and we all file into the train station mute and accepting.
I stride ahead to my staked spot on the platform. My territory is bordered by the see-through bin and the post with the CCTV screens. I share my grey concrete land with a group of ladies who interchange English words with a more musical language, and try to decipher the patterns the words make in my mind. Their laughing chatter sounds friendly. A man flicks my arm with his free newspaper, another generously shares his tinny sounding bass emitting from white earphones that snake down his suit jacket. On the opposite platform a small boy stands alone, away from the shouting school-shirted crowd further down the platform. His uniform is freshly ironed, the cuffs of his blazer are too long, and his shoes are too smart-shiny. He has no friends, and as yet remains too small and new for the pack to notice him. I feel for him, this brand new boy, the solitude he must embrace as a friend.
The train pulls up with an indignant whine. We shift and group around the doors and then squeeze singularly past the two large people who always firmly plant themselves at the entrance. There is no point in seeking a seat; indifferent gazes already in place in each carriage. Instead we all crowd near the doors in our bid to be first off the train when it pulls into a station with an underground connection. Timing is everything. We stand as a human block and listen to half a conversation on a mobile. Did he? Did she? Would he though? Is it? My gaze flickers on various things – the mole on the man’s neck in front of me, the strange hair-piece that woman is wearing, the painted toe-nails peeking out from flip-flops, the square of dirty sun through the windows.
There is an expectant murmur as the train pulls into the important station, the station with the underground. My carriage is perfectly positioned in front of the steps leading down, away from the chill blue sky. Years of commuting gives a secret knowledge that rides over what we once thought important – the best conker tree, the best alleys for short-cuts to school, and the best newsagent for Slush Puppies. Now it is all about where to stand for the doors to open in front of us; the short-cut corridors through the tube stations, how to rush ahead for the empty tube train so you get a seat.
The doors open and we pour forward, suits and scarves, bags and briefcases, earphones and newspapers and books and take-out coffees. We blend into one giant person on the threshold, all hands and arms and legs, and then separate back into ourselves, clattering down the steps. The daylight grows weaker and then disappears, replaced by fake light that takes no prisoners.
When I next see the sky again the blue is replaced by grey.
I stride ahead to my staked spot on the platform. My territory is bordered by the see-through bin and the post with the CCTV screens. I share my grey concrete land with a group of ladies who interchange English words with a more musical language, and try to decipher the patterns the words make in my mind. Their laughing chatter sounds friendly. A man flicks my arm with his free newspaper, another generously shares his tinny sounding bass emitting from white earphones that snake down his suit jacket. On the opposite platform a small boy stands alone, away from the shouting school-shirted crowd further down the platform. His uniform is freshly ironed, the cuffs of his blazer are too long, and his shoes are too smart-shiny. He has no friends, and as yet remains too small and new for the pack to notice him. I feel for him, this brand new boy, the solitude he must embrace as a friend.
The train pulls up with an indignant whine. We shift and group around the doors and then squeeze singularly past the two large people who always firmly plant themselves at the entrance. There is no point in seeking a seat; indifferent gazes already in place in each carriage. Instead we all crowd near the doors in our bid to be first off the train when it pulls into a station with an underground connection. Timing is everything. We stand as a human block and listen to half a conversation on a mobile. Did he? Did she? Would he though? Is it? My gaze flickers on various things – the mole on the man’s neck in front of me, the strange hair-piece that woman is wearing, the painted toe-nails peeking out from flip-flops, the square of dirty sun through the windows.
There is an expectant murmur as the train pulls into the important station, the station with the underground. My carriage is perfectly positioned in front of the steps leading down, away from the chill blue sky. Years of commuting gives a secret knowledge that rides over what we once thought important – the best conker tree, the best alleys for short-cuts to school, and the best newsagent for Slush Puppies. Now it is all about where to stand for the doors to open in front of us; the short-cut corridors through the tube stations, how to rush ahead for the empty tube train so you get a seat.
The doors open and we pour forward, suits and scarves, bags and briefcases, earphones and newspapers and books and take-out coffees. We blend into one giant person on the threshold, all hands and arms and legs, and then separate back into ourselves, clattering down the steps. The daylight grows weaker and then disappears, replaced by fake light that takes no prisoners.
When I next see the sky again the blue is replaced by grey.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Commuting is fun (repeat)
Hello and Happy New Year – finally! Luckily everything did get sorted, with minimum disruption, and now all is declared fine, which of course makes me suspicious. But enough of 2007, let’s kick things off again!
As you may remember, the self-imposed deadline for finishing my novel is now ticking loudly in my ear. I have to, without fail, finish it by Jan 24th; at least to complete a first draft. There are a couple of reasons for this date, one is that I am going on holiday with friends on Jan 25th to Cape Town, where my lovely pal S and her fiancé are getting married, and I am her bridesmaid. I have been looking forward to this for so long (it was already in the budget!), and I always saw this as the deadline for finishing the book. Not only that, but my project manager friend C will be on the plane with me, and she expects to read a copy on the flight, so I cannot fail her! The other reason is, of course, that I need to start earning real money again soon, which is something I have been thinking a lot about recently!
So with that all in mind I have been reading Paul McKenna's book of confidence, which is great, although I don't think all the positive thinking in the world can put a happy slant on commuting, which is something I may be going back to sooner rather than later. I know no one likes it, but I had managed to forget how completely awful it can be. Such as yesterday evening...
The following takes place between 7pm and 10pm...
All day: Every time I glance at my mobile I realise the battery is dying. Oh still there! No, dying. Oh… dead. Whoops, no mobile. Still, I won’t need it, right?
7pm: I am in west London (Shepherds Bush tube station) and have decided the easiest way to get home (with minimal walking / steps involved) will be catching the Central line to Oxford Circus, the Victoria line to Highbury & Islington station, and the overhead train from there. The minimal walking thing is because I not only am I lugging a suitcase (work stuff, not fun stuff inside), 3 carrier bags (also mainly filled with boring work stuff) and a handbag; I am also wearing boots that are killing me. Never mind, onwards and downwards… I stagger onto the Central line.
7.25: Lug my stuff off at Oxford Circus to change for the Victoria line, only to hear the announcement that the Victoria line is severely delayed. Ah. Bugger. Quick, maybe I can lurch back onto the Central line… The doors close in my face. Bugger. Again.
7.27: Ponder whether the announcer was lying. You see, they sometimes say a line is delayed and that you should really travel another way, when in reality the problem might be cleared in a few moments and then you get a seat on a fairly empty tube. Decide however that this time they mean it, as the platform is packed with disgruntled commuters who would have been on the Victoria line. Now we are all trying to get back on the Central line to get the tube further down, as the next place to change should you want to go north will be Holburn, for the Piccadilly line. I will then go to Finsbury Park station to get my overhead train, rather than Highbury & Islington, which is only accessible on the Victoria line.
7.30: The tube draws up and there is a small sigh of dismay in the air as the tube is packed and no one is shifting. However, along with that sigh is the steely eyed determination everyone on this platform has about getting home. People square shoulders as the tube doors open – young, old, male, female – it is a no holds barred fight for freedom. Me, my suitcase, 3 carrier bags and stupid annoying handbag are swept into a corner of the carriage roughly the size of a small pea.
7.31: My trailing scarf (another enormously stupid idea) has trailed itself over several commuters, all of which doing their level best to ignore it. I ignore it as well, being that I cannot move to free it anyway.
7.38: Holburn! I can breathe! Ah, but it looks like everyone wants that Piccadilly line. And the reason I wasn’t changing here in the first place is because there is a long walk, and stairs, and an escalator… bugger.
7.48: Made it to the platform, except it is just as bad as the one at Oxford Circus. I stagger down the far end (a good tip is always to go to the ends unless you know where your exit is!) in the hope that an end carriage will be emptier.
7.51: End carriages are packed. Cannot get on the first train. Listen to an argument between commuters about someone pushing ahead. It sounds vicious.
7.55: Finally get on tube. My view is a small triangle of window (showing rushing blackness) between people, arms reaching up like branches to hold on where they can. I can smell after work drinks, cigarette smoke, sweat… I focus on that fact that it is only six stops to go. Or seven… damn.
8.20: The Piccadilly line is delayed. The news is met with apathy; nothing surprises anyone down here in the pit.
8.35: Get to Finsbury Park, and remember that I have to now lug everything up a spiral staircase to the overhead trains. I have no time to get ready for this as I am caught in a sea of people, all determined to get up those stairs. So up I go, yet people are also coming down… Now there are quite a lot of people coming down, so that should make you wonder what is going on with the trains up above, however I don’t have time to stop and think, a man has just barged past me carrying a rucksack, hitting everyone in the face with it, including me. I think of ways to trip him, and by the sounds of the mutters in the crowd, am not the only one. Another man barges into me, but says sorry, so I forgive him. I forgive him even more when he asks if I need help with my suitcase and carries it up the other 2 flight of stairs. Yay! A nice person! Just the one!
8.45: Am finally up the stairs, and up the other stairs to the overhead train platform. It is totally and utterly packed. This is a bad sign, as it means one of the train lines isn’t running. I rest up in a small corner by a drain hating everything – trains, suitcases, handbags, that stupid trail-y scarf, these amazingly stupid boots, the train guard as it’s surely his fault…
8.50: The announcer has said there are no trains, none to where I need to go anyway. I go to call J and realise my mobile is dead. Damn… but then I see those old fashioned pay phone thingys and lug everything over to one. After the slight gasp of horror that it now costs 40 pence (40 pence!) I fish out two 20’s and call J. Nothing happens and I realise that the phone is out of order. Oh typical… I drag everything to another phone and have the novel experience of queuing for a pay phone. What year do I live in again?
8.55: Slot in my two 20p’s, and listen to the phone ring, and ring. Damn, where is he? I go to put down the receiver but then that stupid 1571 answer phone thingy kicks in, and I lose 40p. This somehow, after everything, makes me even crosser. I slam down the phone and the shifting queue behind me (has everyone’s mobile died?) look alarmed. ‘Does it not work?’ asks one man with panic in his voice. I reassure them that it is only me that has a problem. They all look relieved. The sods.
9.00: Decide to drag everything down to the Piccadilly line again, and try and get to Southgate, as from there I can get a cab.
9.20: Tube terminates at Arnos Grove, the stop before Southgate. Mr Livingstone, I just want you to know that at this moment, 9.20pm on Wednesday 9th January 2008, I was thinking of you, and not in a nice way.
9.30: Back on tube, get off at Southgate and stagger to the free phone to call a cab. This is great, it goes straight through to a really reliable cab company, and within minutes I was sailing home.
10pm: Arrive home to J, who gets plus points for having a surprise dinner ready, but minus points for not hearing the phone over the wonders of the Setanta Sports channel.
As you may remember, the self-imposed deadline for finishing my novel is now ticking loudly in my ear. I have to, without fail, finish it by Jan 24th; at least to complete a first draft. There are a couple of reasons for this date, one is that I am going on holiday with friends on Jan 25th to Cape Town, where my lovely pal S and her fiancé are getting married, and I am her bridesmaid. I have been looking forward to this for so long (it was already in the budget!), and I always saw this as the deadline for finishing the book. Not only that, but my project manager friend C will be on the plane with me, and she expects to read a copy on the flight, so I cannot fail her! The other reason is, of course, that I need to start earning real money again soon, which is something I have been thinking a lot about recently!
So with that all in mind I have been reading Paul McKenna's book of confidence, which is great, although I don't think all the positive thinking in the world can put a happy slant on commuting, which is something I may be going back to sooner rather than later. I know no one likes it, but I had managed to forget how completely awful it can be. Such as yesterday evening...
The following takes place between 7pm and 10pm...***
All day: Every time I glance at my mobile I realise the battery is dying. Oh still there! No, dying. Oh… dead. Whoops, no mobile. Still, I won’t need it, right?
7pm: I am in west London (Shepherds Bush tube station) and have decided the easiest way to get home (with minimal walking / steps involved) will be catching the Central line to Oxford Circus, the Victoria line to Highbury & Islington station, and the overhead train from there. The minimal walking thing is because I not only am I lugging a suitcase (work stuff, not fun stuff inside), 3 carrier bags (also mainly filled with boring work stuff) and a handbag; I am also wearing boots that are killing me. Never mind, onwards and downwards… I stagger onto the Central line.
7.25: Lug my stuff off at Oxford Circus to change for the Victoria line, only to hear the announcement that the Victoria line is severely delayed. Ah. Bugger. Quick, maybe I can lurch back onto the Central line… The doors close in my face. Bugger. Again.
7.27: Ponder whether the announcer was lying. You see, they sometimes say a line is delayed and that you should really travel another way, when in reality the problem might be cleared in a few moments and then you get a seat on a fairly empty tube. Decide however that this time they mean it, as the platform is packed with disgruntled commuters who would have been on the Victoria line. Now we are all trying to get back on the Central line to get the tube further down, as the next place to change should you want to go north will be Holburn, for the Piccadilly line. I will then go to Finsbury Park station to get my overhead train, rather than Highbury & Islington, which is only accessible on the Victoria line.
7.30: The tube draws up and there is a small sigh of dismay in the air as the tube is packed and no one is shifting. However, along with that sigh is the steely eyed determination everyone on this platform has about getting home. People square shoulders as the tube doors open – young, old, male, female – it is a no holds barred fight for freedom. Me, my suitcase, 3 carrier bags and stupid annoying handbag are swept into a corner of the carriage roughly the size of a small pea.
7.31: My trailing scarf (another enormously stupid idea) has trailed itself over several commuters, all of which doing their level best to ignore it. I ignore it as well, being that I cannot move to free it anyway.
7.38: Holburn! I can breathe! Ah, but it looks like everyone wants that Piccadilly line. And the reason I wasn’t changing here in the first place is because there is a long walk, and stairs, and an escalator… bugger.
7.48: Made it to the platform, except it is just as bad as the one at Oxford Circus. I stagger down the far end (a good tip is always to go to the ends unless you know where your exit is!) in the hope that an end carriage will be emptier.
7.51: End carriages are packed. Cannot get on the first train. Listen to an argument between commuters about someone pushing ahead. It sounds vicious.
7.55: Finally get on tube. My view is a small triangle of window (showing rushing blackness) between people, arms reaching up like branches to hold on where they can. I can smell after work drinks, cigarette smoke, sweat… I focus on that fact that it is only six stops to go. Or seven… damn.
8.20: The Piccadilly line is delayed. The news is met with apathy; nothing surprises anyone down here in the pit.
8.35: Get to Finsbury Park, and remember that I have to now lug everything up a spiral staircase to the overhead trains. I have no time to get ready for this as I am caught in a sea of people, all determined to get up those stairs. So up I go, yet people are also coming down… Now there are quite a lot of people coming down, so that should make you wonder what is going on with the trains up above, however I don’t have time to stop and think, a man has just barged past me carrying a rucksack, hitting everyone in the face with it, including me. I think of ways to trip him, and by the sounds of the mutters in the crowd, am not the only one. Another man barges into me, but says sorry, so I forgive him. I forgive him even more when he asks if I need help with my suitcase and carries it up the other 2 flight of stairs. Yay! A nice person! Just the one!
8.45: Am finally up the stairs, and up the other stairs to the overhead train platform. It is totally and utterly packed. This is a bad sign, as it means one of the train lines isn’t running. I rest up in a small corner by a drain hating everything – trains, suitcases, handbags, that stupid trail-y scarf, these amazingly stupid boots, the train guard as it’s surely his fault…
8.50: The announcer has said there are no trains, none to where I need to go anyway. I go to call J and realise my mobile is dead. Damn… but then I see those old fashioned pay phone thingys and lug everything over to one. After the slight gasp of horror that it now costs 40 pence (40 pence!) I fish out two 20’s and call J. Nothing happens and I realise that the phone is out of order. Oh typical… I drag everything to another phone and have the novel experience of queuing for a pay phone. What year do I live in again?
8.55: Slot in my two 20p’s, and listen to the phone ring, and ring. Damn, where is he? I go to put down the receiver but then that stupid 1571 answer phone thingy kicks in, and I lose 40p. This somehow, after everything, makes me even crosser. I slam down the phone and the shifting queue behind me (has everyone’s mobile died?) look alarmed. ‘Does it not work?’ asks one man with panic in his voice. I reassure them that it is only me that has a problem. They all look relieved. The sods.
9.00: Decide to drag everything down to the Piccadilly line again, and try and get to Southgate, as from there I can get a cab.
9.20: Tube terminates at Arnos Grove, the stop before Southgate. Mr Livingstone, I just want you to know that at this moment, 9.20pm on Wednesday 9th January 2008, I was thinking of you, and not in a nice way.
9.30: Back on tube, get off at Southgate and stagger to the free phone to call a cab. This is great, it goes straight through to a really reliable cab company, and within minutes I was sailing home.
10pm: Arrive home to J, who gets plus points for having a surprise dinner ready, but minus points for not hearing the phone over the wonders of the Setanta Sports channel.
***
So today I have been back writing, thinking please, please spare me the commute! The novel is surely the only way out but I am still on chapter 13 (what with various things going on, nothing has advanced very far since we last spoke!) and that means I have 5 chapters left to go in 14 days. Can it be done? Stay tuned to find out! *Quickly reaches for the Paul McKenna book*
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Weekend Transport
What happens to my local train line on a Sunday? Does it stay out too late the previous night? Is it sulking with a hangover back in the yard? All I know is no matter what weekend you want to travel; my local trains will have transformed into a bus replacement service which will thoughtfully add an extra hour or two to your journey for you to admire the scenery.
It all started so well…
I had stayed with my good friend R the previous night; we had drank mulled wine and let off some small fireworks in her garden in a totally girlie sort of way (‘eek! Is it lit? It’s not lighting… ooo it’s fizzing – RUN!’ We stampede to the other end of the garden and turn to watch a tiny little fizzy thing shoot little stars a foot high.). It was great fun, and today we stomped around a heath-y park near her, managed with luck more than judgement to be silent at 11am for Remembrance Sunday, and a little while later she waved me off on a bus.
And there it began.
The bus went approximately four stops down the road, and then the police stopped it, as there was a Remembrance Sunday parade coming down the road we wanted, and therefore all traffic was suspended for the foreseeable future. This was fine, I didn’t mind about that, but what I did mind was that the bus driver parked and told us we might as well get off. There was no alternative route planned, no diversion; the bus company was not prepared for this in the slightest. That was that, as far as this bus was concerned. Hometime. See ya, losers.
So, since no other bus went anywhere near where I needed to go, I ended up having to walk all the way back to the train station, and catch a train into Kings Cross in London, so I could get another train back out to where I live. Only there wasn’t one, as per. If anyone heard a deep sigh at around 1pm today it was me, as I descended the stairs to the underground. I ended up getting a tube as near as I could to where I live, and then had to wait for another bus to take me further, and finally I had a nice 20 minute stomp to my flat. All in all, a journey that should have taken me an hour took me three! I was not a happy bunny.
But maybe this is London transport’s revenge since I no longer commute in the week… ‘get her at the weekend’, it mutters. Okay, I hold my hand up, London Transport. I have been truly got. Can bygones be bygones? Please?
It all started so well…
I had stayed with my good friend R the previous night; we had drank mulled wine and let off some small fireworks in her garden in a totally girlie sort of way (‘eek! Is it lit? It’s not lighting… ooo it’s fizzing – RUN!’ We stampede to the other end of the garden and turn to watch a tiny little fizzy thing shoot little stars a foot high.). It was great fun, and today we stomped around a heath-y park near her, managed with luck more than judgement to be silent at 11am for Remembrance Sunday, and a little while later she waved me off on a bus.
And there it began.
The bus went approximately four stops down the road, and then the police stopped it, as there was a Remembrance Sunday parade coming down the road we wanted, and therefore all traffic was suspended for the foreseeable future. This was fine, I didn’t mind about that, but what I did mind was that the bus driver parked and told us we might as well get off. There was no alternative route planned, no diversion; the bus company was not prepared for this in the slightest. That was that, as far as this bus was concerned. Hometime. See ya, losers.
So, since no other bus went anywhere near where I needed to go, I ended up having to walk all the way back to the train station, and catch a train into Kings Cross in London, so I could get another train back out to where I live. Only there wasn’t one, as per. If anyone heard a deep sigh at around 1pm today it was me, as I descended the stairs to the underground. I ended up getting a tube as near as I could to where I live, and then had to wait for another bus to take me further, and finally I had a nice 20 minute stomp to my flat. All in all, a journey that should have taken me an hour took me three! I was not a happy bunny.
But maybe this is London transport’s revenge since I no longer commute in the week… ‘get her at the weekend’, it mutters. Okay, I hold my hand up, London Transport. I have been truly got. Can bygones be bygones? Please?
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