London welcomes me back in style...

Well, I’m returned from my little break in the wild lands of the north. Had a lovely time, but now the cold reality of work and London itself is hitting me roughly about the head. I think I had convinced myself that after taking a little break, I might find my work a bit more fascinating on my return. Not so. Not yet anyway. Not whilst there is still more HTML to be painstakingly keyed into the archaic database our time-warped boss refuses to update…but let's not get me started on that.

I’d also hoped that when I came back, perhaps the tube would have sorted itself out, and there would not be any problems on the Northern line. I know, I know, it was a foolish notion. On Tuesday evening, after a VERY long day at work, I descended into the depths of Goodge St. station, only to find the platform uncharacteristically rammed and the temperature roughly 105 degrees. It was that old chestnut: signalling problems. Although I am not usually claustrophobic per se, being sandwiched between a vending machine and two tall men wearing bulky rucksacks, who were in turn hemmed in by everyone else, I started to feel a leetle beet tight-chested. The awful thing about these situations is that when you suddenly realise that you have to get out, and you can’t bear to be underground a moment longer, you have to resist the urge to panic since you can’t simply run out of there. Oh no. You have to slowly push past, round and through a sea of people, most of whom aren’t at all keen to give way. So. Twenty minutes later, I get back up onto to Tottenham Court Road, having made no progress in my journey home whatsoever. Hit by a flash of inspiration, I take the bus down to Warren Street and get on the Victoria line. Actually get a seat in the carriage, get my book out and start to feel a little bit smug about my triumph. Oh, folly, folly. Get as far as Victoria and the driver announces there is a ‘signalling problem’ and that everyone has to get off the train. Scream inside. A couple of beleaguered tourists lose their rag and start shouting and swearing about what they have had to endure in their journey so far. I’d sympathise, but you don’t associate with people making a spectacle of themselves at rush hour; you just move on. Decide to try to catch an overland train, controversial, but needs must. Go from Victoria to Clapham Junction. Of course the train is delayed, but at least I’m not underground any more. So. Get to Clapham Junction, or as I like to call it, the sixth circle of hell. Because I don’t use the station regularly, I never know where I am supposed to go to get the connecting train, and am usually forced to walk the entire length and breadth of it until I unwittingly stumble onto the correct platform. Managed that, got the next train and although it was just as rammed as the tube train, elbowed my way off at my destination. Of course, I wasn’t actually home yet. Now I had to catch a bus. Bus arrives, all going well. I sit down and breathe huge sigh of relief – it’s nearly all over. I regret taking a deep breath as it immediately becomes apparent that one of the passengers has not washed for many a year. The smell was completely over-powering and permeated the entire bus. There was a uniform opening of the windows, but it made no difference as the bus was stuck in traffic. All the women, including me, were holding their scarves to their faces and trying not to breathe at all. I can’t describe how bad the smell was. I just can’t. Finally get off the bus and start to walk towards my home, and it starts raining. I do not have my umbrella with me. I left the office at 5.45pm, it’s now 8.30pm. Oh how I love this city, let me count the ways…