Mar. 9th, 2009
Slip Slidin' Away
Mar. 9th, 2009 02:28 pmThis time I thought of a fitting song title for my post, yay!
If every Monday is like today, I will either have to get out of the house one or two trains earlier, or investigate other means of going from London Bridge to Liverpool Street than the tube. The dreaded Northern Line was so overcrowded that I had to wait three trains until I could squeeze on board, at Moorgate the ticket controllers were out in force and made me miss one train, the next was again full but I managed to get in for the one station it'd take me to where the Stansted Express was getting ready to leave.
I looked at the clock at Moorgate while I was waiting. I had arrived at London Bridge at a minute past eight o'clock, and now it was 8:36. The Express leaves at 8:40.
When I got to Liverpool Street, there were crowds of mostly tourists between me and my goal standing at platform 5. I sprinted and weaseled through as best I could, reached the ticket gate, pushed my ticket through, took it, tried to avoid the rather solid lady standing on the other side at the wrong gate if she wanted to get out, and felt my feet slipping.
I have no idea how it looked like to a bystander; I suppose it was like a cat trying to turn a corner claws-out on linoleum, desperately trying for purchase and failing. There is this split second between starting to slip and actually falling when you think that you might manage to stay on your feet if you can only put that one there and shift your weight a little and maybe... nope. I don't quite know how I ended up lying on my back, but I know that I exhaled in frustration, certain now that my train was gone.
A lovely ticket lady helped me up, asking if I was alright. I told her I had only slipped, and I'd be alright if I could still reach my train. She smiled, and I ran, and managed to get on board about 30 seconds before it was leaving.
Of course, once I was sitting down, the adrenaline seeped away and I started to feel a few new bruises blooming. But at least I was at work on time.
If every Monday is like today, I will either have to get out of the house one or two trains earlier, or investigate other means of going from London Bridge to Liverpool Street than the tube. The dreaded Northern Line was so overcrowded that I had to wait three trains until I could squeeze on board, at Moorgate the ticket controllers were out in force and made me miss one train, the next was again full but I managed to get in for the one station it'd take me to where the Stansted Express was getting ready to leave.
I looked at the clock at Moorgate while I was waiting. I had arrived at London Bridge at a minute past eight o'clock, and now it was 8:36. The Express leaves at 8:40.
When I got to Liverpool Street, there were crowds of mostly tourists between me and my goal standing at platform 5. I sprinted and weaseled through as best I could, reached the ticket gate, pushed my ticket through, took it, tried to avoid the rather solid lady standing on the other side at the wrong gate if she wanted to get out, and felt my feet slipping.
I have no idea how it looked like to a bystander; I suppose it was like a cat trying to turn a corner claws-out on linoleum, desperately trying for purchase and failing. There is this split second between starting to slip and actually falling when you think that you might manage to stay on your feet if you can only put that one there and shift your weight a little and maybe... nope. I don't quite know how I ended up lying on my back, but I know that I exhaled in frustration, certain now that my train was gone.
A lovely ticket lady helped me up, asking if I was alright. I told her I had only slipped, and I'd be alright if I could still reach my train. She smiled, and I ran, and managed to get on board about 30 seconds before it was leaving.
Of course, once I was sitting down, the adrenaline seeped away and I started to feel a few new bruises blooming. But at least I was at work on time.