Tuesday 03 Feb 09

Tubular Hells

Where’s my train? Oh, here it is.

“Mind the gap.” Which gap? I don’t see any gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…(thud).

No, that doesn’t happen. Because the gap isn’t a gap unless you are a borrower. Besides, you have enough on your mind what with trying to remember to keep your belongings with you at all times. Had it not been for that warning you would have flung your possessions across the platform.

Once you’ve made the great leap onto the electronic locomotive it’s time to tetris yourself into a comfortable position. Make sure you cough into someone’s face. “Please use all the room inside the carriage.” Thanks, tube voiceover. Will do.

But this raincoated man won’t.  There is usually a slicker from the city that usually blocks a carriage usually with a copy of the economist usually opened across the fleece of another commuter.

It takes a brave soul to tap someone on the shoulder and ask politely, “I’m sorry, could you move along please?” Why is that person apologising?

“I’m sorry, could you turn your music down?” “Apology accepted. Yes I shall.” Never happens.

“I’m sorry, could you stop eating your Egg McMuffin in my ear?” “Apology accepted. Yes, I probably could.” Chomp, chomp, chomp...

It’s that same Economist-reading, music-blaring, McMuffin-chomping city-gibbon that squeezed the bodily fluids out of everybody on the carriage when he crammed himself onto the train. Clearly the intimidating call of “please stand clear of the closing doors” and the light-hearted beeping didn’t stop him from ram-raiding a proportion of the city’s employees.

Once the train has taken its breathers to help the passenger alarm at Oxford Circus to turn itself off and to regulate itself (everyone hates an unregulated journey), it’s time to margarine your way out of the urban cylinder on rails. And once again destiny is in your hands. You can choose the speed with which you chicane past the inevitable snails that clearly don’t need to start work until tomorrow morning.

Thank the lord escalators have a fast lane. If only that one woman’s mind worked as fast – but she’s failed to grasp that you need to keep walking at the top. For some reason the silent leaning and looking-up from the frustrated urbanites behind hasn’t given Little-Miss Jennifer Saunters the hint.

With only two minutes to spare before you’re declared officially “late” there’s only the barriers to tackle. Shame the female half of a couple hasn’t worked out she needs to put money on her Oyster Card. And that her husband has reading difficulties when it comes to interpreting “Seek Assistance;” clearly in his language that reads “please repeatedly touch your oyster on the pad and maybe something will eventually happen.”

Beep. You’re free. With only thirty seconds to spare before the world melts. If only there was an alternative to this one-stop journey into work, but you can’t think of one. I can’t wait to get the Bacon McMuffin in my face at six o’clock. (JT)