Having moved house in London for the umpteenth time and now living for the first time south of the river, I am still struggling to acclimatise.
First of all, yes, there are very nice areas in South London, but
having mostly lived up north, with a few hills and more importantly,
where the areas used to be little villages that were swallowed by the
mass that makes up London but still managed to
retain their villagey feel somehow, coming to South London now feels
like entering one massive housing estate that stretches on and on for
ever and ever.
That, and that my particular area is just filled with young
professionals, who destroy any area they move into by taking over decent
pubs and turning them into places where it is impossible to have a
conversation over the blaring music, and where real
ale is a thing of the past, as alcopops are suddenly the fashionable
drink or something like that. The small shops where you could get
everything you would ever need are being replaced by yet another Byron,
or yet another Jamie Oliver-gone-whatever-the-
Nonetheless, I am willing to overlook these downsides by taking
slightly longer journeys for shopping or food to Brixton or Tooting
Broadway, both on the brink of yuppie-hood but at least in some areas
they have still been able to maintain their character.
What really makes me suffer now, living where I do, is the fact that I
have to commute into the City with the Northern Line…
The Northern Line… or rather The Horror Line as I call it, is busy.
Very busy. Crazy busy. Yes, the trains arrive every 2 minutes, but even
so, on a good day it takes me 5 trains before I can find a tiny bit of
foothold to be able to stand in the carriage
door and somehow push the mass of human bodies in enough to make it
within the closing door limits. On a bad day I have to let many more
trains pass before I can find such a chance.
And then I am inside. Squashed against the door on my back and
against the person in front of me, who I am spooning in a fantastically
uncomfortable manner with my bag propped in somehow to make the entire
experience at least nominally a little less indecent,
one arm reaching in an attempt to hold onto a rail, cramped muscle in
such arm while trying to keep myself from leaning even more into the
surrounding bodies on turns and breaks of the tube, and the head in an
awkward angle under the inwards-curving door and
carriage roof in an attempt to find a position that is least
uncomfortable and allows me to get at least a little bit of air. Which
is futile, as air is non-existent in such tube, any oxygen that once was
has long been used up by the mass of bodies and replaced
with a hot, sweaty and stifling gas that miraculously does NOT suffocate
everyone present. I don’t know how it is that people don’t faint en
masse under these conditions, but then again, even if they did, there
would not be a chance in hell for them ever reaching
the floor, the bodies squashed against each other will hold everyone in
place. So who knows, maybe half of the people in the carriage are
already unconscious, but I will never know…
Yes, such fun is to be had every morning. I have taken to getting
off a station early and walking the last bit to work, for one because it
means I can cross London Bridge with the views and, with enough time, a
coffee in my hand. A walk of a few minutes,
fresh air, I repeat, fresh air, and the chance to shake off the worst of
the physical stress my body has had to endure in the airless, squashed
and unnaturally bent position on the train. But also, at London Bridge a
number of people get off, so following them
to the other side of the carriage, as of course I get on through one set
of doors but have to exit on the other side, is easy enough. And, if I
stayed on, a new bulk of human bodies squeezes in to ensure not even one
stop can be travelled in even remotely comfortable
conditions. And on a good day when I get ready early enough, I treat
myself and take the bus.
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