The Great London Shutdown

It’s the summer extravaganza, that time of year again where our capital grinds to a halt under the oppressive unionize yolk, battling against the powers that be.

29C and rising.

Sweat drips down my neck. I lean out into the road to get a better view. Slow traffic. Steady red rolling metal boxes. I see one, the one that will take me half way home, and re-adjust my position to ensure departure.

I’m slowly crawling closer to the bus doors, throngs drawing in. Left. Right. Same faces. Frustration akin to madness. We all push. Push, push.

But the doors won’t open. The expectation is killing us, hot, embattled.

Someone bangs on the window. “Fucking let us in”.

The driver shakes his head, experienced in this hell. He gives us a look of “You’re all screwed, sorry”.

And so in a slow, steady fashion the bus moves off. Onto the already saturated tarmac, slowly crawling back somewhere, somewhere I don’t know. I just needed to be on it.


I walk back dejected. There is no way I’m getting on a bus. Time for plan B. I pass the shutters down at London Bridge Underground like some long lost friend, born into a dysfunctional family, yet a saviour to us all.

I begin to forget the heat, the delays, the crush, the bustle. I just want it to run, to run us home. One every 2 minutes, mind the doors, stand clear of the doors. To Morden. Onwards my chariot. My faithful yet detested steed. Take me home.

But that won’t be until tomorrow. Today they strike. Today they create hell.

Frankly, I just wanted to get home in time for the Wimbledon highlights.

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