Three buses and the truth
If you can't read this it's because the entire internet has been sucked into the twin black holes that are the bags under my eyes. I was up all last night helping the Special One complete her project for today's deadline. She does the concepts, I do the words; it works quite well. She this week decided that she wants to go on and study at the London College of Fashion, not St Martin's, so, alas, there goes another chance of legitimately quoting Pulp lyrics. No-one ever mounted a blue plaque out in that field in Kerry either...
Actually, sleep has been rather hard to come by of late in general. Having worked evenings for six years now, I am perfectly used to the routine - get in late, wind down for an hour or so, get up late, occasionally get up when the Special One goes to college; however, this last month I've been working a shift that starts at 4pm and ends between 12am and 12.30am, and it's thrown my body-clock off completely. More importantly, the last tube home leaves at 12.25am; it's a bit of a lottery.
When I miss the last tube, the first of the three night buses I have to catch doesn't start until 1am, so a little more time sitting round the office. The first takes me to Trafalgar Square, the second to Victoria, and then on to Cricklewood. And, yes, it is an awful dose, especially when it was so cold a couple of weeks ago, but part of me quite enjoys my late-night jaunts around London. Unlike during the day, when it is wall-to-wall rambling tourists, cut with a few impatient Londoners trying to walk around and weave through a stubby forest of gyroscopic rucksacks, Trafalgar Square is almost empty at night - the crowds are packed a couple of hundred yards away in Soho and Leiscester Square. It's ever so slightly eerie.
This impression is reinforced on the next leg, which takes me through Westminster, past Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, etc, and they are absolutely dead to the world. Passing through the centre of power, where so much happens during the day, is like sneaking a peak at the stage and set of a play during the day, hours before the curtain comes up. There's a feeling of trespass, and a feeling of emptiness; the magic hasn't begun, the stage looks strangely vulnerable. It's like the opening scene of '28 Days Later', when Cillian Murphy wanders round a completely deserted London.
After the wait at Victoria - usually the longest - it's a quick jaunt through the kind of places you'd expect on a Monopoly board or a Richard Curtis film - Grovesnor Place, Park Lane, Marble Arch - before things get grottier the closer you get to Kilburn and Cricklewood, as they do. A quick lash up Edgeware Road and Maida Vale and you're at the foot of Kilburn High Road and almost home.
On these journeys, I like to sit up front upstairs - most people stay downstairs at night, safety in numbers, etc - and these scenes unfold in front of me like it's a cinema. Sure, getting the tube is more convenient, but this way you can really link up the vast city you're living in.
Actually, sleep has been rather hard to come by of late in general. Having worked evenings for six years now, I am perfectly used to the routine - get in late, wind down for an hour or so, get up late, occasionally get up when the Special One goes to college; however, this last month I've been working a shift that starts at 4pm and ends between 12am and 12.30am, and it's thrown my body-clock off completely. More importantly, the last tube home leaves at 12.25am; it's a bit of a lottery.
When I miss the last tube, the first of the three night buses I have to catch doesn't start until 1am, so a little more time sitting round the office. The first takes me to Trafalgar Square, the second to Victoria, and then on to Cricklewood. And, yes, it is an awful dose, especially when it was so cold a couple of weeks ago, but part of me quite enjoys my late-night jaunts around London. Unlike during the day, when it is wall-to-wall rambling tourists, cut with a few impatient Londoners trying to walk around and weave through a stubby forest of gyroscopic rucksacks, Trafalgar Square is almost empty at night - the crowds are packed a couple of hundred yards away in Soho and Leiscester Square. It's ever so slightly eerie.
This impression is reinforced on the next leg, which takes me through Westminster, past Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, etc, and they are absolutely dead to the world. Passing through the centre of power, where so much happens during the day, is like sneaking a peak at the stage and set of a play during the day, hours before the curtain comes up. There's a feeling of trespass, and a feeling of emptiness; the magic hasn't begun, the stage looks strangely vulnerable. It's like the opening scene of '28 Days Later', when Cillian Murphy wanders round a completely deserted London.
After the wait at Victoria - usually the longest - it's a quick jaunt through the kind of places you'd expect on a Monopoly board or a Richard Curtis film - Grovesnor Place, Park Lane, Marble Arch - before things get grottier the closer you get to Kilburn and Cricklewood, as they do. A quick lash up Edgeware Road and Maida Vale and you're at the foot of Kilburn High Road and almost home.
On these journeys, I like to sit up front upstairs - most people stay downstairs at night, safety in numbers, etc - and these scenes unfold in front of me like it's a cinema. Sure, getting the tube is more convenient, but this way you can really link up the vast city you're living in.
posted by exileonpatrickstreet at 8:56 pm
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