Shock and panic. Woke up 20 minutes late this morning. That's not really a problem, since i am always half an hour early. Walking down Elgin Ave, towards the underground, I see flashing blue lights, ah, police i think, I'll tell you later how I came to learn the difference between blue and red flashing lights..

As I get closer to the underground, I can see that fire engines are parked there, closing off entrances and being generally dominating, as huge red chunks of metal with flashing lights and sharp corners are. There is a London Underground staff member, peering through the latticed gate, like a muppet, telling me that there is a fire in the tunnel.

I contemplate turning back and heading for the number 6 bus. Not my first choice, although i prefer to bus it, it's too late, in order to use the bus effectively, i'd have to have been at the bus stop at 7:30, it is now 7:50. I decide to walk up to St Johns Wood underground. It's a fair walk, best case scenario, the Jubilee line is working overtime and I get down to Westminster in time, 3 stops to Blackfriars, sorted.

Best case scenario? Do I need to remind myself that I live in London - pessimism has been welded into the English DNA, a remedy to that natural state of expecting the worst is as simple as 'musn't grumble, it could be worse'. So, on entrance to St Johns Wood station, the machine that accepts bank notes and cards is, yes, you guessed it... closed. I turn my attention to the window where I will have to deal with a human sales interface, not optimal, but I don't actually have a choice. I find myself in third place on the grid. The woman in poll position is speaking, I tune in, I hear speak of stolen wallets and cards, new cards without PIN numbers. I can sympathise, owing to my recent misfortune of being the victim of ATM fraud. Honey, don't expect the human sales interface to understand or actually assist you, I realise that the sign clearly states assistance, but it's really there for the blue color contrast against the red tiles.

There is a problem with her new cards. I hear her tell the ticket selling muppet in the window that she doesn't mind waiting, but could he help the rest of the queue. I don't need to tell you what he said, do I? I'll repeat something I said not too long ago;

Honey, don't expect the human sales interface to understand or actually assist you, I realise that the sign clearly states assistance, but it's really there for the blue color contrast against the red tiles.

20 minutes in the queue, the gaumless assistant is still infinitely preplexed by the little square plastic thing that can pay for things. I had begun to wonder why there were 3 windows for human sales interface zombies, 2 of them were blacked out, the one, as we know, is having a 2001: a Space Oddyssey moment with the little square plastic thing. A commotion behind me reveals that they are actually going to open another window for assistance, I get my ticket and make my way to the platform.

I let 3 trains go without me. There is no way I am going to subject myself to standing in a carraige where I would have to fight for breath. I would never actually be able to step into the carraige anyway. The only way would be to grab hold of the hand-rails and pull yourself in. The 4th train comes soon enough, still no place to sit, but at least there is space to stand. I am understandably vexed by this stage and very close to the edge. What i'm really hoping for, is to find a random hand-granade in my pocket. As we go through a few more stations, the carraige becomes full. I develop a thing about people, there personal objects and the space required for those objects. Bags and newspapers are the big offenders. There's a suited wanker, mid to late 30's - they come off a production line, there's a multitude of them. The closer you get to the city, Bank, Westminster, Embankment, Fleet street, the more of them you'll find. I need to find the mould for 'suited wanker with newspaper #1' and smash it. This guy actually has his Financial Times news paper on maximum fold-out, there is a harmless old man in front of him, wanker is actually using the back of old man's head to prop his newspaper up. I am remaining calm as a hindu cow to stop myself from ramming the newspaper down wanker's throat. In a way, I wish it was me. I am ready to ambush someone like wanker with a barrage of Learmont temper, before I take it out on someone who doesn't really deserve it.

Despite all of this, I am still the first one in the office. My bacon roll has a mark on it, a finger dent, I don't want to see visible evidence that a human has been involved in the making of my roll. I let it slip, breath deeply and forgive them, for they know not what they do. I remember my blog, it's purpose, to let me rant and vent and hurl abuse at nobody and nothing, nice and safe.

Word of the day:

in·com·mo·di·ous (nk-md-s) adj.

Inconvenient or uncomfortable, as by not affording sufficient space.