Hope Winters Eternal

The day started off poorly. The first three buses from Cricklewood to Kilburn were full and sailed by, the occupants no doubt happy that they weren’t to be subjected to further squashing indignities. Meanwhile, the throng at the bus stop swelled to 80+. Nobody queues for buses anymore, despite what AA Gill says in “The Angry Island”. And anyway, when was the last time he took a bus do you think?

The motley bunch of bus-riders assembled at the Cricklewood broadway bus-stop, like any other bus-stop, throng. Throng like third-worlders waiting for the aid truck to chuck a bursting bag of rice at them. The fittest get on first, the old, the sick, the disabled, the kids and mums get on last. No queue. No order. just survival of the fittest.

The fourth bus accommodated me and part of the swelling throng. We didn’t make it very far before a temporary traffic light claimed our morning. As we approached the lights, the driver unwilling to let anyone off, despite the fact that a veritable plague of cyclists and a flock of pedestrians had overtaken us; I saw that the small area at the top of Shoot-up-Hill (Crawl-up-Hill most days) that was the cause of the temporary lights had nothing happening there whatsoever. It had taken us half an hour to do a three minute journey. I was late. I was not happy.

At the summit, the driver urged us off the bus, indicating that those wanting Kilburn station should walk the rest of the way. Then halfway down the hill, he overtook us in the clear bus lane. Thanks.

It had taken me 35 minutes to get to the station. Fortunately, the Jubilee line is (usually) excellent.

“Thank you for choosing the Jubilee Line Service. We aks (sic) you to mind the gap between the train and the platform” announced the lady driver of the train, ever so politely, but still innocently betraying her heritage through the transposition of the letters “k” and “s” in a three-letter-word that she should have been corrected on at school if the teachers weren’t such pathetic liberals. You don’t hear Sir Trevor McDonald fucking up a three letter word.

Anyway, we had no choice in the line. So please stuff your pathetic customer services crusade - and do try not to sound like an airline captain, because you are a striking idiot who brings misery to Londoners, even though you get paid more than me for driving something most boys managed quite happily aged five.

The train then sailed past Baker Street as we were informed that due to some passenger-initiated emergency (that’s right, blame it on the passengers - poor workmen etc. - except that you London Underground - are the tools) we would not be stopping at my station. I watched the empty platform helplessly as I was reminded, painfully, that my past treks on buses were no preparation for daily commuter-rush-hour-hell.

The day got better. It had to.

I left the office for a walk to Duke Street St. James during my lunch break. The air was crisp and the streets were lively. The darkness of the oppressive, smog-seeded clouds was held in check by the sheer force of hope of the buried and distant sun.

It whispered a promise of spring and I hoped it would return my call, but my hopes were fading like the light.

It strained as hard as it could for an hour to keep Londoners free of the will of the night, but no sooner had my lunch hour expired than did the sun’s hope. Darkness was beginning to descend. The afternoon blurred into the evening in the space of a lunch-break and the long winter night was waiting, like a tax-collector, or the grim-reaper even.

I paused to exit Davidoff to allow a swiftly walking, stick-aided gentleman of advanced years by. He was pushing 70, not daisies, so let’s hope he keeps the daisies off longer than the sun is currently keeping darkness off. He thanked me. In a perfect, distinguished, English accent. Perfect, clipped tones. Richard Baker would have been proud. And I smiled broadly and answered “You’re welcome”.

I love London sometimes. It was a beautiful, haunting evocative afternoon. Like being shown a world where you used to live, but all of the people you knew have gone. A life review. A city review. The bright lights after the white light at the end of the tunnel.

By the time my walk back to the office was done, it was measurably colder, but hope still burned somewhere. I could smell it, like a distant smoke signal, or maybe even a raging fire. Somewhere. Soon.