With a deep breath, the journey begins as I leave the comfort of home, and step out onto a grey London street.
A London waiting under an ever present dull grey sky.
The red and grey Docklands Light Railway train pulls in to the station and I join the masses heading for central London.
‘This train terminates at Bank’ announces the conductor.
Taking a seat I join the sea of black jackets and sensible shoes – the London commuters ‘go to’ apparel.
The faces may be varied, the lives even more so, but the clothes display a unity of purpose.
We know the rules.
We understand the role.
We’ve played this game before.
We are Londoners.
Blank expressions, no eye contact.
Pull your feet in. Keep the central aisle clear.
Only the brave, the arrogant, or the weary take the disabled seat.
Arriving at Bank, everyone files off in quiet determination, mounting the escalator that takes them toward the next part of their journey.
Here the group split, some head straight for the exits, others to the Northern Line, but like the majority, I head toward the Central Line.
‘Stand on the right, walk on the left’ sounds the tannoy.
Wo betide anyone who fails to adhere.
It’s an unwritten rule amongst Londoners that you don’t, even for a second, delay a fellow Londoner’s commute.
This, more than any other outward sign, distinguishes a local from a tourist.
Onwards, then, for the Central Line – the underground’s troublesome child – and the four stops to Tottenham Court Road.
‘Mind the gap ‘ is the familiar call.
Tottenham Court Road – white tiled rat runs linking line to line.
Tired stairways with brass edged steps – criss cross patterns polished bright by the souls of a thousand passing feet.
Dirty floors suffering oily black chewing gum stains.
Bright Advertising posters hint at a better world above ground: thought seeds seeking fertile minds.
‘BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, BEAUTIFUL PLACES, BEAUTIFUL THINGS.’
But that’s for another time, another life.
Not this life, not now, not yet.
Now’s the time to brave the Northern Line – noisy, old and clunky.
Final destination – Warren Street.
There the escalator climbs, lifting me back out of the subterranean tunnels and into daylight, or more accurately, grey light.
‘Gadget grabbers operate in and around this station’ is the warning over the station’s entrance tannoy.
I check my pockets – phone and wallet still present?
The shops outside reflect the social status of the street: low.
Low budget street, high crime beat.
Lidl, McDonald’s and Tesco Express. Robbers on e-bikes, faces obscured.
Time to divert to Cafe Nero, order an espresso, and leave the London tensions behind (a temporary respite for a brief half an hour).
Fortified by caffeine, I then walk the final leg of the journey.
, Passing the beggars pleas ‘I’m Hungry, Please Help, God Bless.’
Now to avoid the pile of soiled mattresses stacked against the street corner. (Mattresses that will be laid out in the shop doorways and occupied by the time my shift ends that night. Their occupants jostling for prime spots with the pop up tents).
Soon I reach the sanctity of the hospital; clean, quiet and modern.
Another day’s commute finished, another day at work just beginning.
The above essay was written by me.
I then asked GPT to rewrite it as a poem.
Here’s the result;
In dawn’s embrace, I leave my cozy dome,
Onto London’s streets, grey as my soul’s roam.
The train arrives, a crimson-grey chariot’s flight,
Into its bosom, we blend, a sea of might.
“Bank is the terminus,” the conductor sings,
In solitude, we disperse, on escalator wings.
Right we stand, left we tread, an unspoken creed,
In London’s heart, we plant our commuter seed.
To Central’s embrace, we journey forth,
Four stops to Tottenham, a whisper from the North.
“Mind the gap,” echoes, a solemn plea,
In silent agreement, we avert eyes, let be.
To the clunky Northern Line, we dare to wade,
Toward Warren Street, through shadows we wade.
Escalator’s ascent, back to the world above,
Where light meets grey, a testament to love.
Beware the grabbers, lurking near,
In Lidl’s shadow, they hide, spreading fear.
Cafe Nero beckons, a refuge from the rush,
In espresso’s warmth, we find a quiet hush.
Fortified by caffeine, we tread the final mile,
Past beggars’ plight, and mattresses’ pile.
Sanctuary awaits, in the hospital’s embrace,
Another day’s commute, another journey’s grace.
And then asked ChatGPT to rewrite it as song lyrics;
(Verse 1) In the midday gloom, I leave my cozy nest, Onto London’s streets, where dreams are put to test. The train rolls in, a steel behemoth’s call, Into its belly, we merge, one and all.
(Chorus) “This train ends at Bank,” the conductor cries, We scatter like leaves, under dreary skies. Stand right, walk left, the city’s silent plea, In the rhythm of the commute, we find unity.
(Verse 2) To Central’s heart, we make our way, Four stops to Tottenham, where shadows sway. “Mind the gap,” echoes, a cautionary tale, In the dance of avoidance, we set sail.
(Chorus) To the Northern Line, we take our stand, Through clunky carriages, to distant land. Up the escalator, into the light we rise, Where grey meets noon, under afternoon skies.
(Bridge) Beware the grabbers, lurking in the fray, In the street’s low budget, they’ll have their way. But in Cafe Nero’s warmth, we find reprieve, In the swirl of espresso, our hearts believe.
(Verse 3) With caffeine’s embrace, we journey on, Past beggars’ plea, to the hospital’s song. Another day’s commute, another chapter’s start, In the rhythm of the city, we find our part.
(Chorus) “This train ends at Bank,” the city’s refrain, In the pulse of London, we leave our stain. Stand right, walk left, in this urban sea, In the rhythm of the commute, we find unity.