Every Londoner has a Blackwall Tunnel story. My mate Dave once sat in it for two hours because a lorry shed its load of melons. He still twitches when he sees a fruit bowl.
The tunnel is the heart of the capital’s east–west artery. It’s the reason you can get from Greenwich to the Olympic Park, or from the A2 to the North Circular. When it’s closed, the whole city holds its breath.
The “Is it open?” dance
Checking the tunnel’s status has become its own little ritual. You refresh the TfL website, glance at Google Maps, and text a friend who “always knows.” It’s the modern equivalent of sticking your head out the window to check for rain.
If it’s closed, you have two choices: sit in the queue like a patient saint, or attempt the Dartford Crossing. The latter feels like trying to get to Scotland for a pint of milk.
