|sent from: London, UK. destination: Wandsworth, London, UK|
Waterloo, on the concourse. Tube or walk, Tube or walk. Walking’s nice, it’s sunny, a little chilly. Screw it, Tube’s easier. Down. Oyster on the reader. Beep. “Seek Assistance.” Beep. “Seek Assistance.” Reverse, try another. Beep, open. Bakerloo or Northern, brown or black. We always pick brown. I like brown. Down the escalators, me one step lower, head to head, perfect height. Hug. Watch advertising for advertising. Stream left, Northbound. Air blowing from tunnel like massive dryer outlet. Platform curves around, train’s here; that’s a big gap, mind it. Seats, for the win. Scan fellow passengers. Book.
shit Oxford Circus, we’re here. Which way out? This way. Shortcut. Always different, oh well, in the herd again. Way out, way out. Past the busker and his “Hallelujah’s”. The barriers, the Great Barriers. Tap. Beep. £2. The fare’s gone up again. Got to get on our bikes again, that’s £8 a day for us. Exit, exist, go left, wait that’s Oxford Street South, no, no, want North. It was here yesterday, I swear. Someone’s reconfigured the station, turned it around. They do this everyday, turn it 90% clockwise and we emerge on a different corner. Sunshine. Cold air, hats on. Shoulda walked.