Diary of a Suburban Squeen

I know how you all like a little London transport story, and boy have I got a doozy for you. Think of Shackleton, or Scott, or Hillary, and then thrust them aside. The Boysown genre has a new hero of brave and daring exploration. And yes, that hero is me. I have never been one to indulge in false modesty.

My story begins some weeks ago, when pim2005 sent me a plaintive little email asking if I could I do Brownies this Friday, as she was planning to be gadding around somewhere (in what I suspect is a very unheroic fashion). Kindly, I assented. Some might call me saintly, but I would flap a self-deprecating hand at that; one should not go overboard.

The day of Brownies dawned (today, for those who weren't paying sufficient attention), neither particularly bright nor particularly clear, but heroic souls such as myself disregard such unencouraging omens. I merrily took my new route to work (Barnes-Clapham Junction-Balham-Tooting Broadway), and burst into the office with enthusiasm shining from every inch of my happy little face*. And I knew had a task to look forward to that would challenge me in every way possible: to plot a journey from Tooting Broadway (deepest, darkest south west London) to Lee (deepest, darkest south east London). A journey, more over, that had to take place in rush hour on a Friday, between my leaving work and the start of Brownies at 6, and that could not involve zone 1 (my travelcard being confined to zones 2 and 3).

A challenge indeed.

Reader, it would not be true to say I was undaunted by this prospect. Travel between south west and south east, for those not familiar with London's transport infrastructure, is notoriously difficult. The received wisdom is that it is speediest and most straightforward to go in and then out again, as it were. The recommended route between Tooting and Lee would be to take the Northern line up to either Waterloo or London Bridge and pick up the overground train to Lee. A simple journey; TfL's favoured choice on the Journey Planner. But those more eagle-eyed of you will notice the flaw: both Waterloo and London Bridge are in zone 1.

[An editorial note, again for those not familiar with London transport. Zone 1 is like a ticket of doom when it comes to your transport costs. Zone 1 is the single most expensive zone to travel in, because, natch, it's central London and has all the fun touristy-businessy-travel-through stuff going on for it. Travelling through zone 1 on your way somewhere will double your ticket price, even if you don't stop there. Additionally, if you only have a travelcard for zone 2-3, as I do, travelling through zone 1 (a) means having to pay more money and (b) when that travel involves a train, it apparently becomes stupidly complicated and usually requires queuing for three hours.]

Another route was needed. I consulted Journey Planner again. Unfortunately, Journey Planner is pretty much wedded to the in-and-out-again option. Hmm, I thought. What I need is an option to not go through zone 1. On closer examination, Journey Planner does not provide this function (probably, though I am of course reluctant to impute negative motives to such a fine institution as Tranport for London, because the cocks want everyone to go through zone 1 so they can overcharge them). Bum. I could, of course, exclude the train option altogether, but since Lee isn't on the tube, that would mean a bus journey. In London. In rush hour. With a 6pm deadline.

I needed to think this through, before my voyage was scuppered altogether. I needed to gather together every scrap of experience I'd had travelling round south London, every piece of research I'd done on train times, every half-remembered bus map. How, oh how, could I solve this seemingly unsurmountable problem?

I decided to approach it logically. The easiest method of transport would be the tube from Tooting and the train to Lee. If I couldn't get to London Bridge, how far could I get? Elephant & Castle, as it turns out. Conversely, the first station I could catch the Lee train from was New Cross. Well, then, I simply had to bridge the gap between E&C and New Cross. Couldn't be far, I thought. And it turned out it wasn't that far, and there were two buses that did it. Woo! Victory! I wrote down the details on a little piece of paper, much as I imagine whathisname did when planning his route into the African interior.

But then I was inspecting my proposed route on a little map, and I realised something about New Cross station: it was but a hop, skip and a jump from New Cross Gate station. Hmm, I thought. Interesting, I thought. Because I could tell from the trainlines on the map that New Cross Gate was on the same line as Forest Hill, which is on the same line as Balham and Clapham Junction - it does a big loop between Victoria and London Bridge.

Did you notice? Did you feel that little thrill of discovery? Did you pick up on that key name: Balham. Bal-ham. Gateway to the south (oh yes). Balham, which is on my way to work. Balham, which is but two stops from Tooting Broadway. Feverishly, I returned to Journey Planner, cursing its inefficiency as it tried to exclude trains and tubes again. A

And, readers, there it was. There was my route. Tube to Balham. Train to New Cross Gate. A little wander down the road, then picking up the Lee train from New Cross. It couldn't be simpler. I didn't even have to approach central London. I left work just after 4, and was at the church just before Brownies started.

And in theory, the journey home was to be as simple; the New Cross Gate train back to Balham would travel through to Clapham Junction, where I could catch the train to Barnes. The only problem: Lee changed its timetable recently. If you don't catch the 19.40 train, you're waiting there a fucking lifetime. Brownies finishes at 19.30, but they don't all go immediately. And I had to catch the 19.40, or I'd not get a train from New Cross Gate until about 21.00.

I had swiftly** written a quick email to xanantha, explaining I would have to leave on the dot, to which she was amenable (thank you, darling). Brownies happened. 19.30 came, and I rushed out of that church hall like there were hellhounds on my tail, coat, scarf and bag clutched to my bosom.

And this is where fate intervened. I was nearly at the bus stop by Lee station, when I noticed there was a 202 there. A 202 going to Crystal Palace. Ein minuten bitte (I thought to myself): Crystal Palace is a station between New Cross Gate and Clapham Junction. Taking the word for the deed (or something), I jumped on board, and asked if he was going to Crystal Palace station. He said yes. I asked how long it would take. He said about 40 minutes. I swiped my travelcard and sat down.

Which is the point the man in front of me asked me if I wanted Crystal Palace station. On learning that I did indeed, he informed me that the bus didn't in fact go there. I knew the bus driver had sounded a bit useless. However, in the course of our conversation, I heard the name Sydenham. And Sydenham... well, I imagine you can guess what train line Sydenham station is on!

Actually, the man wasn't sure it quite stopped at the station, and then he got off, and I was left alone in a strange land. Alone, but for my trusty iPhone, because I had a little brainwave. With GPS and a little map, I could see when I came near to a station! Anyway, when it came to it, the 202 did in fact go past Sydenham station, and I caught a train to Clapham Junction, arriving there at a perkily early 20.28. I would easily reach home by nine, which is usually when Katie got home from Brownies when using the in-and-out-again method.

(I didn't: I got off at Clapham to buy plastic white bread for bacon sandwiches and yogurt to mix with my fig jam, and then I got the bus home: still in by 9.15.)

And there you have it. A little transport adventure. Go about your business, and remember this shining tale. As with Robert the Bruce and the spider (whether told in mime or words***), one must try and try and try again if the Journey Planner doens't give one what one wants.






* This is a lie for narrative purposes. It was a Friday morning, I'd had a busy week, with a faffy journey across London and back to look forward to. I was neither merry, enthusiastic or happy.

** This is an in-joke for katie__pillar. It involves a British spy, a ski resort, a strip club, and an eastern European girl called Anna.

*** This is an in-joke for the Dandelion Bitches.

♥ I am wearing scrubs. This is not, I hurry to point out, because I have been allowed to watch a bit of surgery again. Oh no. That would be a good reason to wear scrubs; a proud and noble reason. But it is not the reason. I am wearing scrubs because in a moment of strategic sartorial suicide, I gave in to my lunchtime yearnings, and walked to Tesco to buy a sandwich.

My clothes dangle limply off an office chair, shifting pathetically with each gust of luke-warm air from the old plastic heater.

Let us never speak of it again.

♥ xanantha: Is the BBQ plan going ahead/being amended for indoor use?

♥ helenmia: Have realised I don’t seem to have an email address for you other than your work one. MtW on 7 Aug? We will be joined by katie__pillar (obviously), slemslempike and morganmuffle (also xanantha, should she wish to come).

♥ On another note, it’s the last Harry Potter book tonight!! I am now actually really excited, and bravely face the likelihood of my reading it as soon as I get it, into the wee (and not so wee) smalls. Such is the life of the fangirl.

♥ I can’t remember if I mentioned it (other than to, y’know, the fifty million people I’ve told in person), but one of my SPN fics got crack_impala’d. Am vee vee proud. Alas, Helen, I don’t think I’ll be writing anything today, so you are spared the potential of angsty monologuing…

♥ I have an urge to make a stethoscope out of string and bottle tops. I am fighting it. I hope to be triumphant.

♥ Finally, I’d just like to say I HATE THIS FUCKING RAIN. This message was brought to you by capslock!squeen.

OK, is it stupid to be *this* scared about QMing for pack holiday at the weekend? I'm sorting out the shopping list, and there's just so much to get, and so many to cook for (thank god we've only got a fraction of the Brownies, frankly, or my brain would melt), and I'm a bit worried that it's all going to go hideously wrong, because although I can cope with a few people, I've never catered for nearly 20 at a go, not for proper meals, anyway, and it's a bit terrifying. Well, no. Quite a lot terrifying, frankly. And underneath I rationally think it's probably going to be fine, and if it goes a bit pear-shaped, well, so be it, and it's not like the Brownies are going to starve. And Katie will be there to act the part of anti-kitchen-spaz when need be. But still. Yes. Scared. And I've worked out to the slice how much bread we'll need, and exactly how much fruit, and logically how much fruit juice etc, and then I add a bit more for safety's sake, but I don't really trust the end result, which is ABSURD because if there's one thing I *can* do, it's basic arithmatic. Oh, Xanthe, please don't hate me if I fuck it all up. And don't worry, because it probly will all be fine. Because see above re me being quite stupid.

...that a young man of twenty in possession of an open bottle of wine must be a COMPLETE AND TOTAL WANKER. As Little Owl and I discovered whilst waiting at Lee for our train. Two blokes (and girlfriend) were both knocking back wine from a bottle apiece, harrassing a couple of Polish girls sitting next to us, leaping back and forth between platforms ACROSS THE RAILS, and coming *this close* to being eligible for a charge of public indecency. It makes one weep for the future of the nation. Anyway, have come home and am being comforted by Johnny Cash and yogurt and raspberry/strawberry compote (very nice - will endeavour to save you some, Katie). Am tempted to write of my despair with The Youth of Today to the Times, signing myself "Disgusted of Richmond".

As, in fact, I am similarly tempted to do on the subject of Oyster cards. The Oyster card is a fine, fine invention (though I will admit to being a little troubled by their earlier advertising campaign, whispered forth on station speakers throughout our fair capital, about how it was better and easier and would make the world a happier place, because shades of 1984, tbh) and should be embraced by everyone. It is cheaper and far more convenient.

Except, of course, when it comes to topping up the beknighted things, because then they turn, on a dime, as they say, from a sailor's friend to an albatross around his neck. Most of the stations I frequent have a paltry number of Oyster card ticket machines, all of which have ginormous queues at them, in comparison to the fifty million normal ticket machines that NOBODY IS USING. Now, obviously I appreciate that the Oyster card is (relatively speaking) a new introduction to the London transport system, but the fact remains that if they wish to get everyone using them, TfL needs to provide an infrastructure which makes the whole process as painless as possible. Waiting in a queue for the best part of a quarter of an hour (as I have experienced at Waterloo on one occasion) is A BAD THING.

And let's not even touch on Richmond where, despite being a terminal stop on the District Line, has decided to foreswear tube ticket machines altogether, and half their ticket booths refuse to have anything to do with Oyster cards. WTF? Rawr.

But yes. La. On a lighter note, I was on leave today, which is always pleasant. Although I didn't manage to have a lie-in (actually up in time to exchange words with Katie, which is unusual on a normal day), I prepared myself for the day in a leisurely fashion, and bopped off to Ealing Broadway to meet up with Chris and Bex, who were doing a spot of house-hunting there. (For those who might not otherwise be aware, mon petit frere et sa petite-amie are moving down to London next month, which is Jolly, Jolly Exciting, parce que he is a fine young chap, albeit gradually turning into our father.) We dined on toasties at a select coffee house, and chatted of this and that (chiefly TV and politics - both fine topics). Then they went off to look at flats and I investigated the shopping possibilities of Ealing (not particularly inspiring, on their main drag, at any rate, though I bought some relatively cheap shoes - shiny (literally), brown, flat, and with little velvet bows (in a non-twee-ish-annoying way, obvs) - which is always satisfying).

After my sojourn into Ealing, I returned to the PF, did very little, then rang Xanthe, chatted for a while, then realised that if I wanted to get to Brownies in time, I would actually have to leave. So I left. (See my through logic there...)

Sadly, I was about twenty minutes late to Brownies, on account of stupid trains not working properly. Bastards. Unfortunately, Katie was on la meme train, so we were both sadly delayed. The Brownies this week were slightly mental (although still, under the insanity, their usual rather cute selves (I don't really like the word 'cute' but I can't think of a better one of the top of ma tête so it will have to do)) so it was a job of work for all of us to keep them in line. We were doing Brownie traditions stuff and they all enjoyed themselves so yay (not, obviously, that I can take any credit for the programme, but whatever...), and I felt quite useful and not standing-about-like-a-lemon, so huzzah for that. I quite enjoy being Puffin, and will be going along with them next week to visit the fire station.