My trip to London

G'day all,

This morning I woke up nice and early to go for a wee little trip up from Basingstoke to the big smoke (or perhaps more appropriately big smog) of London.  Before I upset all of you London dwellers who may rise up in arms at the slur on the quality of air of your beloved city, my reference is to etymology, based on vaguely remembered history lessons from Miss Bateman rather than counting the number of particles suspended in the atmosphere on my trip, the nature of which I am shortly to relate.  I had carefully prepared the things I was to take with me for the day.  The first was my laptop.  The second was all the receipts which remain unclaimed for my expenses.  As the journey from Basingstoke to London is somewhat close to an hour, my plans were laid to do all of my expenses on the train on the way up there.  In order to find my way from the station to where my meeting was, I had the London A-Z with me.  (This was based on my last experience of a meeting in London, in which I realised the meeting point was really very close to the station which I got off at, and as I had about 45 minutes to spare between arriving at Clapham Junction and the start of the meeting, I decided to walk there.  After about 10 minutes of walking I decided I wasn't sure where I was going, and started looking at the maps on bus shelters. After retracing my steps twice, incorrectly deciding the right direction was the wrong direction and purposefully heading off in the wrong direction and eventually arriving back at Clapham Junction with about 10 minutes to go I decided the time had come to give up and find a cab.  In the meantime, all cabs had decided that the time had come to dematerialise.  I made it to the meeting about 2 minutes late, sweltering in the suit that I had decided to wear for the occasion.) As a backup, I also put Notes From a Big Country by Bill Bryson in my bag.

So, ready and prepared, Felicity dropped me at the station, where I bought my tickets, and walked up the platform, and found a quiet spot next to a wall to wait. This is all very well, but then the nervousness set it. Firstly, there were lots of people, what if I don't get a seat? OK, I'll move further up the station away from the entrance because people are less likely to walk that far and I've got a better chance of getting a seat. Secondly, I'm standing next to the wall, and everyone else is forming some sort of line along the yellow line which runs parallel to the end of the station and which is the yellow line referred to in the signs which say "Stand behind the yellow line until the train stops."  Having just taken up my new position next to a wall further down the station where people are less likely to walk to, I'm a little reluctant to move and risk not knowing what I'm doing. On the other hand, because I'm standing next to the wall, and everyone else is standing behind the yellow line, I'm taking up space where people walk between the people standing behind the yellow line and the wall. So I join the line of people standing behind the yellow line. Thirdly, I'm now in a line of people lining up to get into a carriage.  But what if the carriage we are lining up for is a first class carriage?  How am I supposed to tell that?  My fears were interrupted by the train arriving, and I joined the amiable rush for the door.  The line very quickly decomposed from a line into something representing a rugby maul, and I found myself in the train.  I sat in a seat which faced another seat with a table in between, thinking to put my computer on the table, but was deterred by not wanting to intrude into the personal space of the person sitting opposite who seemed to have incredibly long legs which intruded into all my leg space. Fortunately, I made a quick decision not to attempt my expenses at this moment, and extracted Bill's book from my bag, which I stowed in the overhead luggage rack, which meant I was afforded a modicum of foot space.

The trip passed quickly as I laughed knowingly and with a faint sense of superiority at Bill's descriptions of his return to his home country, interrupted only by the request for tickets and the man selling refreshments whose job it is to ask everyone twice if they want anything.  Arriving at London Waterloo, I reluctantly returned Bill to my bag, hefted it and got off the train. I now had to go from Waterloo to Bank. I had laughed at the peculiarity of the name of the station.  Bank.  As if that says it all.  I made my way down the steps to buy my ticket, along a corridor, and was about to go down some more steps when the sight of a huge crowd spilling out of the station and halfway up the stairs persuaded me that perhaps I should check which direction I needed to go to. For those of you who know the Waterloo and City line, you would know the redundancy of such a check.  The Waterloo and City Line would more descriptively be called the Waterloo and Bank Line, and hence encapsulate the entire route and stations in which it stops in the name, with a word left spare.
During this time, the crowd had made it's way into the station, so I went and joined it. This was my first experience of the tube in peak hour, so I was a little concerned. At least I wouldn't be able to miss my station.
Another train arrived, and I just joined the general amiable stampede into the train.  It's very easy, you just go with the flow, and found myself standing halfway between the doors in a crush of people.  I had my computer bag in one hand, the arm it was attached to slowly lengthening with the weight (and the wait), and my other hand was by my side.  Not a good move as I discovered.  All the trains on the tube have a map by the doors of the line.  The one for the Waterloo and City Line looks like this.

Whilst one knows intellectually that this is simply a representation of the route, and not an accurate depiction, the lack of bends gives one a certain impression which it is hard to dispel.  Hence, the fact that both hands were trapped by my side, and the train was about to start and I had nothing to hold onto was not of great concern.  I just planted my feet firmly, slightly apart, and in the direction of motion.  Of course, any slight jostles which might occur would be absorbed by the mass of bodies around me.  I began to doubt this analysis as the people around me seemed to magically extract their hands from nowhere, and attach them to overhead rails, poles and whatever else they could get their hands on.  I considered this, but please remember I was smack bang in the middle of the carriage, as far as possible from the two overhead rails. Thoughts of grabbing a rail were deterred by the fact that I had the tallest person in the carriage standing right in front of me, and I'd have to reach over his shoulder to get to the overhead rail - if I could reach.  The train started, with only a slight lurch, easily absorbed by my carefully spaced feet. It was at this point that the train began to dispel any notions I had of the straightness of the track. It immediately began a turn which put the opening bends of the Mad Mouse to shame.  I survived that, and making a leap for the overhead rail was becoming more attractive.  I looked up, only to find that the guy in front of me had grown about 2 feet.  I toyed with which was going to more embarrassing, falling over while trying to reach over the bloke in front of me to a rail which was out of reach, or crash into 5 people when the train gave a lurch, and decided that if I went I'd go in style. This proved to be the better solution, and I got swept out as the train pulled into Bank, and the crowds left.

I walked out of the station, and looked around a bit to get my bearings. Having learnt from my former experience, I opened my bag and felt my bowels loosen as the A-Z was no where to be seen.  Then I moved Notes from a Big Country and to my relief there was the A-Z.  The A-Z clearly marked the way to Cannon Street, as well as Bank station.  Unfortunately the map seemed to bear very little resemblance to where I was.  So I wandered along Poultry, and spotted St Pauls.  I eventually found the street I was looking for, and spotted 46.  I was heading for 47, and so made the assumption it was near 46 (probably across the road).  Not so!  Across the road was 75, and next to 46 was 50 (I'm very glad I wasn't looking for 48).  Anyway, to cut a long story short (although why I should begin to do so at this stage is beyond me) I found the place up the other end of the street, was early, so got myself a coffee in Starbucks (one of the American chain stores that I'm not unhappy has populated the known universe) and wandered in to the meeting.

Meetings are meetings are meetings so why bore you with the details of it when there are so many other details in the world.  The trip back was pretty uneventful, except to say that I got on the train with enough room to dig the computer out and type most of this email.  I was also walking back with a guy I work with, who enlightened me on the naming of Bank.  It is because it is right next to the Bank of England, which intriguingly has walls around it, built in the good old days to the keep rioting peasants and such like away from the gold.  It is also in the centre of the banking district of London, where banking started in England, and just down the road is Lloyds.

Well, all the best everyone,

Jonathan

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© Jonathan Main 1999