Created: 21 Mar 2004
I’m now living in West Hampstead (some might argue that my flat is in Kilburn, or even Swiss Cottage, but I refer to these people as poor deluded fools) in London. Conveniently it’s only about twelve minutes away from Farringdon, where I work, direct on the Thameslink trains. It’s been a busy month and so far I haven’t had time to relate this amusing anecdote.
I was invited by my colleagues to attend the leaving drinks of someone from work, who I had never actually met. One thing led to another and I managed to drink quite a lot of Red Stripe, before leaving the pub at about 11.30pm. I managed to find my way to Farringdon Station and board the next train to West Hampstead, a station, remember, which is only twelve minutes away.
My next recollection is of waking up to see the train leaving a station called Harlington. Briefly, my alcohol-impaired brain ran through the possibilities:
Sadly the truth was far worse; a look at the railway map pasted above the door (there was probably a problem with the printer when they produced this one, as it seemed to have overlapping, repeated text and the lines were all printed twice, a short distance apart too) revealed that I was only a couple of stops south of Bedford! The next stop turned out to be a place called Flitwick. I disembarked and studied the electronic timetable on the southbound platform carefully - it seemed blurred and was jerking around in the wind. A trip to the platform to get a better view and noted that there was a southbound train, due in at 0204 - about 1 hr 20 mins later.
I passed the next hour and a quarter, in what I imagine to be the standard way in these cicumstances: purchasing a pasty from a 24hr garage and devouring it ravenously; answering a call from Sally who was wondering why I hadn’t phoned her before bedtime (answer: I had no credit on my phone and was in fact many miles from bed); getting cold; muttering to myself angrily; enquiring how much a taxi to West Hampstead would be (£90, or £70 if I bartered). About ten minutes before the train was due, another passenger arrived to await the train and positioned himself at the far end of the platform from me.
I boarded the train, as planned, and proceeded on my way, having vowed that I would not allow my eyelids to drop again until I was safely esconced in my humble yet wildly overpriced studio flat.
I awoke while passing through a part of London, which I didn’t recognise. This didn’t worry me unduly: there are many parts of North London that I don’t recognise from a moving train. However, on looking at my watch I realised that I should have been at West Hampstead long ago. I stood by the door waiting for the next station. We passed through Streatham! I became aware of a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wondered where the train would stop next. East Croydon! Descending from the train, I examined the timetable to determine when the next train to West Hampstead was. It was only fifteen minutes away. But then a train to London Bridge arrived and I decided that it would be quicker to catch that train. Possibly, I reasoned, there might be a quicker connection and if all else failed I could always catch the train that went to West Hampstead from there.
I settled into my seat and managed to avoid falling asleep. London Bridge was completely devoid of fellow passengers and the doors were locked, but there were some cleaners. I noticed that the next Thameslink train was not until after 5am. At this point it occurred to me that travelling to a closed station to shorten my journey was not the hottest idea that had occurred to me, against some pretty stiff competition of other blunders I had made that night. A kindly cleaner approached me and offered me a copy of the Metro to while away the time until someone came to unchain the doors and free me from this prison masquerading as a major transport hub. I tried to explain that I worked for a company that produced a respectable left wing broadsheet and despised the Metro, but it came out as a burbling mumble. Eventually I took the paper and pretended to read it, thus earning some peace.
At last I was free. I examined the bus timetable and realised that there were no buses going anywhere near home and not many buses going anywhere at all. I headed off in the direction of the city, crossing London Bridge and then passed St. Paul’s towards Ludgate Circus. Every tube station was closed. Grim faced people occasionally passed, with heads bowed and the look of folk who have worked at insanely early hours of the morning for several years. I caught a bus from Ludgate Circus to Charing Cross station and waited for the N139 which stops yards from my flat.
London at this time is an odd place, lit by the orange streetlights. Figures warpped in warm clothes, hats and scarves scuttle past or stand miserably at bus stops. I had the impression that, save for the backpackers who were probably trying to get to an insanely cheap flight or hostel, most people abroad at this hour were going to horribly grim jobs.
I caught the bus without incident and arrived home at 0540 - approximately 5 hours 40 minutes after leaving Farringdon, having made the whole journey on my 2 zone travelcard. I sank gratefully into bed for a few short hours until my alarm roused me.