4:07 p.m. 18 July 2002
So. Tube strike today. I expected a feeling of murmuring unrest yesterday as I rode home, but I didn’t quite see that. I did see more London Transport people milling about than usual, but that was it. But this morning, anyway, I had to find an alternate mode of transportation to work, since I normally take the tube.
The consensus opinion at work yesterday was that the best way would be for me to walk to Willesden Junction, a train station that should, since it is called Willesden Junction, be near where I live – Willesden Green – and take a train from there to a train stop relatively near my work: West Brompton. Seems like a good plan, right?
Yeah. Well. Willesden Junction turns out to be about a hour’s walk away from my house. A confusing hour’s walk. Making it an hour and fifteen minutes’ walk for me. And when I finally got there . . . my god. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more packed station in my life. But of course the station was nothing compared to the crush that ensued as people pushed their way on to the train. Keep in mind that this train system is now supplying the needs of all several million commuters to London plus the additional three or four million who normally take the tube to work every day. Plus day-trippers who are just unfortunate. That gives you some idea of how many people were all trying to get on this train.
Honestly, I had several visions – very possible vision, they seemed – of being either a) crushed to death b) suffocated, or c) forced down into the gap between the train and the platform (mind that gap) to my untimely and horrible death on the electrified third rail. I really very nearly did fall in. There’s no way to move independently in a crush of people like that. You simply go as the crowd is going – in this case on to a train that is already truly stuffed to capacity. There were several heartsoppingly terrifying moments during which I was hanging off the edge of the train, holding the closing doors apart with the index fingers on my left hand, being pushed towards the gap by the crowd inside and off-balance by the crowd outside. It was awful.
I finally got a place, though, if you can call about three square centimeters of air a space. I tried very hard to think of this as a loving huddle, rather than a squishing, claustrophobic, suffocation chamber. Suceeded part-way. Hope the girl next to me did not hear me muttering “lump of puppies. Lump of puppies” to myself in order to remind myself about loving-huddleness and keep myself from panicking because I could not breathe.
And then – here’s the punchline, folks – it turns out, hilariously, I’ve gotten on the wrong train! But by then I was in Kew Gardens, thirty minutes south of Willesden Junction, an had to force my way out – defying death yet again – buy an additional ticket, find my way through the station (for some reason, you have to go completely out and come back in again, like going to France on a day trip when you need to renew your tourist visa), and shove my way back on a slightly less crowded (five sq. centimeters breathing space) train to Willesden Junction.
Where I finally did catch the correct train, along with two blind men and a crowd of others. Seeing the blind men made me think what amazing stamina they must have. This situation was defeating me, and I can see. So I really shouldn’t be complaining. Mostly, I’m amazed. They must be blind superheroes to be able to navigate that mess.
Then once I got to West Brompton, I walked the thirty minutes to work. By then I was an hour and a half late, but I really didn’t care.
So that’s where I am now. But now that I know what to expect, I think getting back will be easier And seem more like the adventure it should have been. This is a really lame conclusion for this entry, but I can’t think of a better one.
We have a Scottish electrician here! How about that for a conclusion? I love to hear him talk. He sounds just like Trainspotting. I keep smiling at him. But unlike the people on the train, he does not harass me for it. Scottish people must be better about that.
Aw! He's drilling! In a Scottish manner! I love him automatically because he speaks with a scottish accent and seems sweet and shy.
So. Tube strike today. I expected a feeling of murmuring unrest yesterday as I rode home, but I didn’t quite see that. I did see more London Transport people milling about than usual, but that was it. But this morning, anyway, I had to find an alternate mode of transportation to work, since I normally take the tube.
The consensus opinion at work yesterday was that the best way would be for me to walk to Willesden Junction, a train station that should, since it is called Willesden Junction, be near where I live – Willesden Green – and take a train from there to a train stop relatively near my work: West Brompton. Seems like a good plan, right?
Yeah. Well. Willesden Junction turns out to be about a hour’s walk away from my house. A confusing hour’s walk. Making it an hour and fifteen minutes’ walk for me. And when I finally got there . . . my god. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a more packed station in my life. But of course the station was nothing compared to the crush that ensued as people pushed their way on to the train. Keep in mind that this train system is now supplying the needs of all several million commuters to London plus the additional three or four million who normally take the tube to work every day. Plus day-trippers who are just unfortunate. That gives you some idea of how many people were all trying to get on this train.
Honestly, I had several visions – very possible vision, they seemed – of being either a) crushed to death b) suffocated, or c) forced down into the gap between the train and the platform (mind that gap) to my untimely and horrible death on the electrified third rail. I really very nearly did fall in. There’s no way to move independently in a crush of people like that. You simply go as the crowd is going – in this case on to a train that is already truly stuffed to capacity. There were several heartsoppingly terrifying moments during which I was hanging off the edge of the train, holding the closing doors apart with the index fingers on my left hand, being pushed towards the gap by the crowd inside and off-balance by the crowd outside. It was awful.
I finally got a place, though, if you can call about three square centimeters of air a space. I tried very hard to think of this as a loving huddle, rather than a squishing, claustrophobic, suffocation chamber. Suceeded part-way. Hope the girl next to me did not hear me muttering “lump of puppies. Lump of puppies” to myself in order to remind myself about loving-huddleness and keep myself from panicking because I could not breathe.
And then – here’s the punchline, folks – it turns out, hilariously, I’ve gotten on the wrong train! But by then I was in Kew Gardens, thirty minutes south of Willesden Junction, an had to force my way out – defying death yet again – buy an additional ticket, find my way through the station (for some reason, you have to go completely out and come back in again, like going to France on a day trip when you need to renew your tourist visa), and shove my way back on a slightly less crowded (five sq. centimeters breathing space) train to Willesden Junction.
Where I finally did catch the correct train, along with two blind men and a crowd of others. Seeing the blind men made me think what amazing stamina they must have. This situation was defeating me, and I can see. So I really shouldn’t be complaining. Mostly, I’m amazed. They must be blind superheroes to be able to navigate that mess.
Then once I got to West Brompton, I walked the thirty minutes to work. By then I was an hour and a half late, but I really didn’t care.
So that’s where I am now. But now that I know what to expect, I think getting back will be easier And seem more like the adventure it should have been. This is a really lame conclusion for this entry, but I can’t think of a better one.
We have a Scottish electrician here! How about that for a conclusion? I love to hear him talk. He sounds just like Trainspotting. I keep smiling at him. But unlike the people on the train, he does not harass me for it. Scottish people must be better about that.
Aw! He's drilling! In a Scottish manner! I love him automatically because he speaks with a scottish accent and seems sweet and shy.
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