Of course, for every good thing, there has to be some downside…and with such a good day in prospect, something somewhere had to go wrong.
I guess it started on the tube. 25 minutes to catch my train…and on the platform waiting for the Piccadilly line at Piccadilly…when an announcement comes over about some selfish bastard…er, poor sod…who has gone under a train at Kings Cross. Always that double-edge on the tube: you can see it in the faces; a mixture of sympathy and suppressed seething rage that the simple journey home is now going to become a nightmare.
As it rapidly became.
OK. I can’t go piccadilly to KX. So Bakerloo to Oxford Circus and Victoria to KX? Mmmm. Except it was only as we approached KX that the driver politely informed us that we wouldn’t be stopping there and we were therefore shang-hai’d to Highbury. At Highbury, attempt to get on Victoria going South.
No go. No. Literally, the tube isn’t going because of a failed train (what the hell is a failed train? A bus?) at Victoria. For good measure, he adds that the signals are out too.
So over to National Rail…to Old St…Northern to KX, only to be told we won’t (you guessed it) be stopping at KX. An ordinary everyday London nightmare.
Catching my train home about an hour-and-a-half late…I am reminded of another side-effect of these hormone thingies…my sense of smell seems to be growing more acute. Either that or there are a lot of smelly blokes about.
First, weedy Jarvis Cocker look-alike sits opposite me and fishes something onion’y out of a bag and spends the next few minutes chewing at it. The onion is whiffy. He is more so.
Then Mohammed Ali junior…a mountain of a man…decided to sit next to me. He is careful, gentle in his movements…and large. I give up a third of my seat…and turn away, cause HE is whiffy too!
In desperation, I head for the loo for a refresh and to sort out my hair. I place my handbag on the sink which, unknown to me, is gifted with one of those delightful sensors that turns the tap on when it detects motion, or hands…or presumably even handbags.
I look down to find my handbag is wet. No. Not wet. That is the sort of thing that happens when you take a shower wearing nothing but your handbag. This was actually flowing with water. I lift the bag. An inch or more of water is sloshing about the bottom.
My trip home is spent carefully lifting paper things out of my bag and patting them dry with tissue paper. I may need a new handbag!