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.

(Yes this is what I look like when I arise from my slumber)

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.

Did I mention it was raining?

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.