We went over on the Eurostar, just about! I met James in St Pancras station in good time for our 1830 train - but when he was checking in he found out that it had been cancelled due to a strike in Belgium! Apparently this was "all over the news" so it was our own fault for not knowing about it... James was unimpressed with the service...
We stayed in Brussels on the Thursday night in Le Meridien, complete with champers (thanks Shehla!) and then moved onto Bruges on Friday, after a delicious breakfast on the Grand Place, and a stroll around the city centre.
Image © Sky NewsIt's been the talk of the commuters all week but for those of us who hadn't experienced this before, it was all a bit of a novelty. How we laughed when the Transport for London website threw up farcical, 5-change bus routes taking 3 hours to get to work!
Come Wednesday night, it was time to actually start taking this thing seriously and figure out how to get to work. There was a ferry from Putney (about a 40 minute walk/20 minute bus) which would take an hour, and only get me as far as Blackfriars. An intriguing option, but not really all that practical.
Ironically, living quite close to Central London was proving a problem - those further out would have suburban rail to get them at least into one of the main hubs.
Sarah found a bus from the (relatively) nearby Hammersmith Road that would take her to Green Park. I could get a bus there too that would bring me to Kings Cross, and from there I could get another to Liverpool St. God knows how long that would take though.
After further digging, I had a Eureka moment as I found a bus, the #11, that amazingly goes from Fulham direct to Liverpool St! Not only that, but Fulham was the terminus so there was even a chance we would actually be able board the beast! But was this too good to be true? Well, yes, of course it was.
Nonetheless, Sarah and I set off the 'wrong' way out of Queen's Club Gardens at 7.45. Surreal scenes as the usual hordes of noisily-heeled commuters were walking away from the two nearby tube stations. A pleasant walk towards Fulham ensued, a throw-back to my merry Global Beach days (November - January). Shame I wasn't still working there, I mused light-heartedly. I wasn't quite so light-hearted later on.
Anyhoo, we reached Fulham and found Bus Stop R (where we had met Charlie Boorman ages ago actually). There was a #11 there about to leave, but it was fairly packed at this stage so we decided to wait for the next one in 6-8 minutes and get a seat for the long journey ahead.
12-15 minutes later, no sign of the next #11. There was a bus visible at the 5-way crossroads that is part of the Fulham Broadway interchange, but it hadn't moved in about 10 minutes for some reason. Murphy's Law dictated that this was the next #11.
And indeed it was. The bus eventually negotiated its way past whatever obstruction was impeding its arrival, and the inevitable scrum formed around the bus stop. All discipline broke down, satchels flying everywhere. In what must have been some sort of black comedy on behalf of the driver, he refused to open the doors, instead taking out a clipboard and starting to jot some stuff down! Then, further 'comedy' as he painstakingly changed the bus' display on the front. He didn't even get it right, ending up with Trafalgar Square instead of Liverpool St! It still took him an age. Why the fock didn't he do this during his 10 minute traffic light farce???
Meanwhile, Sarah had taken advantage of everyone else's incredulity and managed to work her way to the front of the queue. Once aboard, however, she started gesticulating wildly at me. I made vague responsorial gestures and followed on. Soon, her actions became clear. Despite TfL's promise of laying on extra buses, it turned out that the bus was not even going to its proper destination! It was indeed only going to Trafalgar Square! The surly driver kept grunting "Trafalgar Square" as each initially bemused but ultimately irate commuter boarded. "Why aren't you going to Liverpool Street?" I enquired. "Trafalgar Square!" he grunted. "But why not Liverpool St? There's a tube strike on!" I added somewhat superfluously. "Trafalgar Square!" was once again his riposte. Various sighs, taking of the Lord's name in vain, and cockney Facking 'ells resonated through the so-called #11 bus, as our best-laid plans were unravelling.
Still though, this would get me half way in, and there *should* be plenty of buses heading to the City from Trafalgar Square. (Sarah was fine, this would take here to within comfortable striking range of Green Park.) Thus we settled back in our seats at the front of the upper deck and waited for the long trek to begin.
And waited.
And waited.
Eventually, we set off, but not before a #11 which was actually going to Liverpool St arrived behind, shadowing and taunting me for the remainder of my journey.
The bus stopped at maybe the first 2 stops before reaching capacity. In fact, another farce soon developed. The crowded lower deck saw people coming upstairs in search of space. The driver pressed the button to play the generic TfL lady's "No standing in the upper saloon [sic]" announcement which was predictably met with disdain. Our friend in the hot seat stepped things up a notch by actually making his own announcement. "Trafalgar Square!" he didn't say. "You cannot stand upstairs! The bus is going nowhere until you come down!" He then raised the stakes further by switching off the engine! (At this point, the #11 actually going Liverpool St overtook us.)
After a period of awkward silence, a matronly hockey-captain type said "I think we had better go downstairs.." and the defeated shuffled downstairs and prepared to become intimately acquainted with the armpits of strangers.
There was light comic relief for the next 20 minutes or so, as we passed along the King's Road through Chelsea. The look of despair on the faces of the Sloaney Set as our bus sailed past their despairing outstretched arms was quite amusing. Schadenfreude at its best. The highlight was undoubtedly when the bus ignored a scrum of 30 people somewhere near the Royal Hospital Chelsea. Just then, a woman rounded the corner, her arms flailing desperately to hail the bus. Oblivious to the fact that the bus hadn't actually stopped, her gestures of outrage were priceless as her entreaties were in vain...
The traffic intensified around Sloane Square, and by the time we reached an utterly chaotic Victoria Station, we were reduced to a crawl. Sky News photo below.
Image © Sky NewsI didn't see any alternative to staying on the bus but when our friend switched the engine off again (for no apparent reason) I lost patience. I packed up my book and earphones and demanded to be let off the bus. The surly prick complied, perhaps wondering how I was going to get to Trafalgar Square, let alone Liverpool St.
Before I alighted, I had passed an actual RMT picket, or whatever the fock they call it... Unfortunately the window didn't open sufficiently to permit me to offer my thoughts on their strike.
I was approaching Westminster when the drizzle started. Every time a bus passed me, a sort of intense rage descended on me, passing only when I verified it wasn't either my #11, or the other one, or indeed any #11. (It took about 45 minutes of trudging before I ceased this bus vigil).
My plan was to follow the bus route to Trafalgar Square, which is something of a hub. On arrival, however, all I found were two buses heading to Liverpool St, my old friend the #11 and the #23. Needless to say, there was a mass of miserable, moist commuters, waiting impatiently for a red ray of hope rounding the bend.
I knew differently however. It was pointless waiting there, so I ploughed on. And on. And on. Soon, it became clear that I was going to be walking all the way in.
That's when the drizzle turned into a downpour.
Almost simultaneously, I received a text from one of the lads who had in fact made it in 15 minutes early. Inexplicably, the Northern Line, that most reviled of all the lines, had maintained a good service all morning while each of the others was closed! Despondency increasing.
As the Strand became Fleet St, my morale improved somewhat. Never have I been so happy to see the Gherkin, admittedly in the distance, rising up from the City into the gloomy morning sky. I nearly shed a tear of joy. I might as well have, I was soaked enough as it was.
Thus emboldened, I continued my march. The dome of St Paul's encouraged me further. When I passed near Mansion House station, I was in the home stretch, i.e. the walking route I take when I come in via the District Line.
I reached the office two hours and fifty-seven minutes after leaving Queen's Club Gardens. The receptionist didn't even look up from her crossword. My colleagues, smug in their pre-downpour, suburban-train assisted arrival took great pleasure at my drowned-rat appearance.
If I hear the phrase "Dunkirk spirit" again, there'll be a gun rampage.
2:57. Time to click here I think.
RAGE UPDATE
After a cup of coffee had soothed me on my arrival, my rage levels have risen to new levels of apoplexy.
It turns out that a tube driver's salary starts at £40,000.
They get 38 days leave a year.
They want a 5% pay rise.
AND, they want two of their sacked brethren reinstated. The first lad was sacked after opening the wrong doors at Victoria, an error which could have cost numerous lives - anyone who fell out would have landed on the live electrical rail of the opposing track (though at least they would have been electrocuted before the District Line train to Ealing Broadway crushed them).
The other lad was sacked for allegedly stealing from London Underground - he can't be named for legal reasons as there is a pending court case!!
In the interests of being fair and balanced, there is a vigorous debate in the comments of the (you can't make this up) Guardian tube strike live blog. Described by one commenter thusly:
Guardian journalists twitter their commute.
London-centric navel-gazing with the added futility of twitter. If only you could work the Wire in there somewhere, the Guardian's wet dream of a story would be complete.
Anyway, verbalising this rant has helped me calm down, and it's not all bad. There is some comic genius coming out of it, like the brilliant tube strike drinking game.
As for this evening, it's the perfect excuse to go to the boozer and watch the Lions game at 5.30, and wait for things to calm down before attempting the return leg.
Tomorrow? Well that's another day. Tomorrow I will be entering a twilight zone of getting the Overground away from the city centre, to the madhouse that is Clapham Junction, whence I will get a suburban train to Waterloo. I shall stroll to Waterloo East, a few hundred metres away, and board another train to London Bridge. There, I will be caught for a £20 fine due to my Oyster card not being valid, despite the assertions to the contrary of TfL. After that, I will have a 30 minute walk, before reaching the office sometime on Saturday morning.
Workers of the world, unite!
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