Well, the Barbican actually.
There are so many different ways of getting home from the Barbican, none of them exactly convenient, but all adequate.
This evening I chose to get the Circle Line round from Barbican to Kings X and then the Victoria line down to God's Own Country.
It's actually not especially wise at the moment, because all the building work (Channel Tunnel related - what's wrong with keeping the terminus in God's Own Country?) means you have to walk three times round the station just to transfer.
Just before I descended the Escalator to the Victoria Line, I spotted a board and heard an announcement that there were severe delays on the Northbound VL, due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park - which I believe is somewhere in the Badlands of North London. Smugly I thought, it will be plain sailing to God's Own Country and confidently mounted my tube train, poised to take me swiftly to God's Own Country.
It sat there and sat there, and an announcement came that it was delayed due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park. I sighed. Why do the north Londoners' local difficulties have to become our problem?
Two young women opposite me sighed and complained. One reassured the other - it will be okay when we get past Finsbury Park. I was thinking of leaning over and pointing out that it wasn't going through Finsbury Park. They had previously been discussing the cost of renting in Walthamstow.
Five minutes later the train arrived at Highbury and Islington. Oops. For the absolute and utter first time in my life I got a Tube going in the wrong direction.
Due to signalling problems at Finsbury Park affecting the Victoria Line in both it took ages to get back to Kings X where it sat and sat and sat, whilst the heater blasted out extremely hot air and made me feel extremely claustrophobic.
I got off and ascended the escalator surreally bereft of any adverts - I have never seen an Underground escalator without adverts. I paused for a fag on the mainline station and re-descended to the Northern Line, where I got a frequent and fast train that took me direct to Clapham Common where I picked up a bus practically to my door. The sad irony was that this train passed through Moorgate, handy-ish and convenient-ish for the Barbican, and I could probably have been home at least half an hour or more earlier. Well, the concert finished at 9.30, I reached home at eleven.
I've only lived in London for fourteen years, with an extra 18 months as an Essex girl. You'd think I'd know the Tube by now.
