Moving to Forest Hill. 2007.

Moving to a new area plays havoc with everything, from disbelief at the broadband connection time, to the differing dimensions between purchased sofas, and the actual size of your flat.

In particular your London compass is blown. You’re convinced it wasn’t this far out when you viewed it, and now ‘zone 2 borders’ sound a little less gilded. My previous commute was 10 minutes. That’s close enough to nip into work while you run a bath. A 10 minutes cycle ride home did not allow for much to happen. I used to marvel at people’s wretched descriptions of train delays, station closures and crowded buses, before pitching in with a gleefully short description of my easy commute; god how they must have hated me.

Now of course the shoes on the other boot, or however it works. I’m currently experimenting with the best route to work, by trying all the available options. Of course the first was the best, but one has to be sure. I arrived on the first morning 20 minutes late, if 20 minutes can be described as late. However this morning I arrived 40 minutes late, which even by liberal standards is a little too close to an hour late for comfort. The journey home was worse. Following a 20 minute walk, I waited for a bus amongst a gathering, large crowd of people who, if their jostling for position, while appearing not to be, and ignoring other buses pulling in was a clue, were almost certainly waiting for the same bus as me. The pavement could barely contain the throng; how was the bus going to? And as it finally turned into view, already bulging like an alligator swallowing a cow, my smug interior dialogue of how much I loved the new flat despite this, and my ‘blitz spirit’ smile, evaporated. I squeezed ahead while holding my bag up above my head; the rest of my body was surrendered to the surge, I left its survival to chance. Somehow I got on board. We all stood awkwardly and without hand support, while the Driver’s oyster reader stripped any remaining credit we had from our back pockets and bags.

As the journey continued passengers were getting off, but somehow without causing any extra room. For 50 minutes we stood, avoiding eye contact, and most importantly the doors at each stop, while I reminisced about how the most momentous thing to have happened while cycling home was a leaf falling. With a new found belief in God, I finally recognised my road that, which since that morning, had strayed beyond the London borders, much less Zone 2. As I disembarked I noticed a few people smiling, as though to indicate they knew I was new to the area, their knowing, ‘I’ve dealt with it, so will you one day’ glances told me so, and once I was back in our glorious flat, I realised they were already correct. And now of course I can bitch about my journey home with the rest/best of them.