Trains and Traumas

I'd ventured out a few times in the past couple of days but always made a point of not straying too far from home. I, like so many who are not from these parts, was daunted by the complexity of the London underground network. Glancing over the tube map, it looked a little like a colourful yet deluded game of snakes and ladders, not a guide to the delights of Ol' London Town. Chatting with my new flat-mates didn't help, it just added to my underground inferiority complex. Calls like, 'that's a piece of piss Doddo, just take the Elephantiasis line to Won Chong Lane, change onto the Sploodgy Doodle line to Wick Whack Cross then cruise the mauve line through to Blinkleberry Circus.' were all too commonplace. They'd memorised whole sections of track for crying out loud. I was still having problems remembering the name of the station over the road. I longed to understand its intricacies. To seem knowledgeable when questioned by tourists in the street. The truth was, I still had problems using the ticket machines. Zones, peak times, interchanges and replacement buses gave me further cause for concern. It was something I would have to work on over time.

I'd lived in towns like Bendigo, Cairns and Canberra. Places with no tube network and a single train station that offered services twice daily for major capital cities. The last train I'd caught before arriving in London was from Beijing to Moscow. Fairly difficult for even a locomotively challenged bloke such as myself, to mess that one up. One piece of track gets you half way round the world. The way trains should be. So the London Underground was yet another new challenge in my pathetic little life. My next assignment though, find Covent Garden. I had a starting point, the Piccadilly line.

With the aid of a setsquare, a compass and a piece of common household jute I plotted my course. West Norwood to Victoria, then change onto either the District or Circle lines eastward bound to Embankment and from there change to the Northern line for two stops to Leicester Square and then a short single station hop to Covent Garden. Was I being paranoid or does that seem like an adventure worthy of a Paul Theroux novel? That was only one of the many possible permutations - the simplest.

I checked my wallet, funds were at an all time low. I could have sworn I heard my VISA card crack a cruel and unwarranted joke to my MasterCard but dismissed it as another hungover phantasm. Tomorrow I'd have to find a job, so tonight I would drink in pre-employment celebration.

With a slam of the door I left the house.