The Commute

Suits to the left of me, tourists to the right, I’m stuck on the central line with you.

Yeah… welcome to the hottest place on earth and the scene of my voyage from home to work and back.

Picture me at Notting Hill, perfectly poised to make my move for the ventilation window.

If some cunning bastard hasn’t beaten me to it, I have my prize – the glorious breeze of the underground blowing against me as the rest of the carriage forms a puddle.

This served as a small triumph as often I came to expect an L, whether it’s a tube strike, station closure, cancelled train or even my neighbours blocking my hacks…


Back to the journey – with TFL completed and it was time for Greater Anglia.

Now I know everyone thinks they have the worst rail provider, but everyone is wrong (unless you use Southern, probably).

I mean, their trains don’t even have wifi and this was the summer of Pokemon Go.

Thankfully though I found loads to do and see on my adventures to and from Kensington.

Five hours of travelling and nine hours of unpaid interning later, I’d find myself home in Suffolk.

And that was my summer, over three months of joining the elite ranks of journeyman commuters on their daily routine.

It’s a phenomenon that people spend their lives doing it, though I’ve since moved to London and I’m still pretty fucking miserable.

Now my commute is shortened to just over an hour, but takes four different tubes.


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