Never run for the tube. It is pointless. The next one is 2
minutes away.
This is something I say to pretty much everyone. I think all
Londoners say this to each other. Do I listen to my own advice when running
late??
Nope.
Living in Shadwell wasn’t exactly my dream. A tiny flat,
with no lounge, but a scaffolding balcony that only others could dream of. It
was also so central everywhere took 30 minutes to get to. This led to me being
extremely lazy and waiting until the last minute to crawl out of my pit and get
ready for work. I was late. A lot.
Waking up, the time that you’re meant to be at work is never
a great feeling, so I ran. I ran around putting clothes on (no deodorant that
day), I ran down my flat stairs (too impatient for the lift that never worked –
Shadwell shitness), I ran to the tube stop. I ran onto that fucking tube that
was beeping.
I ran, jumped, slipped fell – not that bad so far? Wait.
I fell, landed on my back. My bags contents scattered around
me. My skirt exposing my granny pants (still not horrific??). Before I had the
option to get up and out of the way of the closing doors, they closed, on my
head.
Surrounded by businessmen, who were all polite and helped me
up and collect all my items, I saw in their eyes the laughter that they were
trying desperately to contain. The rest of my journey was spent standing facing
the demon doors, not wanting anyone to see the redness that would not
disappear from my face.
Did I receive sympathy when I was at work and retold my
tragic story? Nope. Instead I was asked repeatedly to get the footage from the
underground and show it to the office and see what you’ve been framed would
offer me for TV gold.
Never run for the underground. Especially when it’s raining.