Greetings from Hammersmith! I've got another 35 minutes and I've already finished my business elsewhere on the internet, so I shall fritter away my remaining time by recording the random thoughts that entered my brain on the voyage here.
According to the wall above my head, someone should have come and sat next to me from Cardiff onward. They never showed. I'll try not to take it personally.
God the Red Skull's updated Marvel Universe entry is complicated.
4 hours on a train wasn't so bad. The thought of another four hours tomorrow arriving back in Glasgow at 11 at night with all the recriminations of a tricky exam for company on the way up is less appealling.
Everyone in London Euston walks at my speed. I'm not sure I like that.
Man this place is busy. Surprised by the lack of trampled corpses of people who stopped to look at the map boards.
Oh yeah, it's rush hour. Standing at the queue for Burger King is fraught with danger as folk gallop past to their connections. Actual crowds of adults charging about like kids playing tig. I love it!
This isn't the underground platform! This is outside somewhere! That sign lied to me!
Wait. The underground has two entrances for the... five lines that intersect here. Time to whip out the Transportdirect.info info.
Victoria line. Groovy. Why is there a queue for the escalator?
Oh right. Escalator's roped off so everyone has to use the stairs. He who hesitates is lost.
Think I'll go to a window. I get nervous around foreign public transport vending machines and I'm slightly worried that if I take more than 30 seconds to press a button I'll be euthanised for the good of the herd.
Bloke at the window was more pleasant than I was expecting, and ticket was cheaper. Yay. I elect to give a quid to the bloke at the bottom of the stairs playing Livin' La Vida Loca on his saxophone. I am a tourist after all- it's my duty.
Just missed a train! Da- oh wait. There's another one in 1 minute. Blimey.
Saxaphone man finishes his crazy life and kicks off Can't Buy Me Love by the Beatles. I nip back into the thoroughfare and toss the rest of my small chance into his sax case just before the train arrives.
The lady standing next to me is in full polo gear. I wonder if this happens often.
Apparently not- the bloke next to me asks if he can try out her mallet for weight. She says it's surprisingly light. I chip in with an enforcement of negative stereotypes about Glasgow and feel thoroughly ashamed of myself.
Wearing 5 layers seemed like a good idea 400 miles further north.
Green Park! Change here to Picadilly apparently. Right. Yes. Picadilly. Hmm.
Not the Jubilee line! The lines must intersect on different levels or something. Go back to the platform and try further down!
A big "Picadilly Line" sign and a waiting train! Bonanza! I let it leave though, because a) there'll be another train in 60 seconds and b) this isn't the Picadilly Line. It's a sign for the Picadilly Line with an arrow that I couldn't see for the edge of the corridor. Almost went on a fantastic voyage of discovery there.
This is a long-ass corridor.
Another corridor! Yay.
At least the escalators work here.
Train. Groovy. More stops this time. Last train was just a short hop.
Please don't put your feet on the seats? The seats are four feet apart. The only way I can see to rest your feet on the seat in front would be to sit on the floor, and I can't imagine that's comfortable.
I have come to the conclusion that the people who occupy the seats in London underground trains are employed by the transport committee to keep people fit by forcing them to stand for their entire journey. I have yet to see a sitting person get up while standees get off and on regularly.
Hammersmith! Woo! So... where's the way out?
I'm in some kind of shopping centre. Lots of stores, lots of booths and stalls, not a speck of litter and yet no bins. I scrunch up my BK Chicken Royale/dinner wrapper and stuff it into my pocket.
28 Hammersmith Broadway... big signs everywhere for the local tourist hotspots, but not one street sign.
I recognise a Chinese woman from the train platform, clutching a Google Maps printout similar to mine. I feel a moment of kinship. Then she picks a direction and marches off.
I give up. I'll just ask a doorman.
It's right there! Groovy. Hey, a web cafe!
I'll check in first though. Hmm... the door won't open.
There's no other way in. I'll ask at the bar next door- people must ask them about it all the time.
Oh right- the bar is also the check in desk. Cool.
It's not a bad place. Ooh- garlic bread!
The toilets are a bit crap. One cubicle has a missing lock, while the other has a recently-replaced lock. Somebody's stolen the button from the hand drier.
I hope the toilets in the hostel are nicer.
I also hope I'm not in a room with 7 crazed Norwegian rapists with a fetish for Scottish accents and blue coats.
Update tomorrow I guess!
-Nick
