1 October 2004
In the distance the majestic towers of Canary Wharf rise through the morning haze, glinting in the weak sunlight, and I slow my pace, resisting the urge I always get to run down the slope.
It's that kind of slope. The kind that I know will cause me trouble when it gets really wet, or icy, but for now, it's steep, and it makes me want to run and giggle as I go, like a small child that has no sense of the consequences of going too fast, or landing in a crumpled heap when the braking systems inevitably fail.
It's a beautiful autumn morning. Warm enough that I don't have to wear a coat or cardigan, but crisp enough to make me feel alive.
I've made it from my door to the train station in 6 minutes, without running, and with 2 minutes to spare.
The train pulls in, a minute late, and stops in just the right place so that a door opens right in front of me. I step up onto the train and for the first time this week, I'm not wedged into someone else's armpit.
North London suburbs pass by outside the window, and I smile as the train that carried me home last night pulls into the maintenance depot.
It isn't my fault, it was fine when I left it.
At Finsbury Park we slow, and the unholy spawn of Jamie Oliver and Thom Yorke appears at my side, throat swaddled in a huge woolly scarf, tucked into his moss-green pinstripe jacket.
We get off the train and he nips in front of me to dash down the stairs. I consider tripping him, but notice that he's wearing too-big flip-flops and decide it's just too easy a target.
As we race down the spiral staircase, I'm careful to stay a step or so behind, giving myself space to leap over his sprawled body, just in case.
When I reach the platform, a train is there - doors open - waiting for me. I leap on, mindful of the inevitable beeping which will surely start as I approach, and sit down, ample space around me, and pick up a copy of the Metro, thoughtfully discarded by a previous passenger.
At the other end, both up escalators are working, and I feel spoiled for choice.
Weaving through the throng of fellow passengers, I make it to the stairs, and up, out of the station into the noise and bustle that is central London in the morning.
I get to work, exactly 29 minutes after closing my front door.
It's Friday, and no matter what else is going on, the UK is a better place today.
*Applause*
Oh, and congrats on everything running together so nicely on the journey, too.
Tonight will now take you two hours to do the same thing. It's a karmic swing-balance.
Oh its so lovely when it ALL comes together!
Sounds like the pefect commute.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
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