First, you try denial. “Maybe it’s just a rumour,” you whisper to your toaster. You refresh the TfL website three times, hoping the red strike alerts will magically turn green. They do not. They stay red, like a furious digital stoplight mocking your optimism.
So you pivot to Plan B: Google the nearest Overground station, only to discover it’s also affected because, of course, the universe has a sense of humour. This is when you start mentally calculating if you can afford an Uber to Zone 5. Spoiler: you cannot.
When the Tube Says “Nope”
Walking suddenly seems heroic—like you’re on a pilgrimage, except your destination is a desk job and your reward is a lukewarm tea. I once walked from Clapham to King’s Cross during a strike. By the time I arrived, I looked like I’d run a marathon in a rainstorm, and my shoes had developed a permanent squelch sound. My colleagues greeted me with the same look you’d give a stray cat that somehow found its way into the office.
And then there’s the bus. Oh, the bus. A London bus during a strike is like a tin of sardines that also smells of damp wool and regret. You stand so close to a stranger that you can hear their audiobook. The driver, a stoic hero, pretends not to notice the chaos behind them. Every stop is a small drama: will someone get off? Will five people cram on? The answer is always a firm yes.
Tube strike – latest: London brought to a standstill…
