I left work tonight in the knowledge that getting back to the safety of my own home was going to involve a tumultuous ordeal of torment and suffering, a salacious nightmare of epic proportions, and a fermented hotbed of misused and mispelt adjectives.
When the tube workers of Old London Town decide that standing around like a fart in a trance is worth top dollar, the rest of us, millions of people, are subjected to, what the ancient tragedian Sophocles once described as a “pisser of a journey”, upon returning to Athens from a caravan holiday in Dorset (Modern-day Belgium). A wiser, more politically-informed man would most probably tell me, “That’s not what they’re striking about! They’re striking because of unfair...” which is when I would block them out and return to my preferred ignorance.
After leaving the office, I negotiated my way through an industrial estate looking for a bus that would take me somewhere in the direction I was going, or at least hoping to go. The cold, sultry night air was filled with the smell of raw industrialism. Heavily grinding machinery, Polish women, and occasional wafts of freshly welded metal, which reminded me of my childhood. And welding.
In search of warmth, sanctuary and Willesden Junction, I wandered through the night; through an unknown and undesirable area, armed with nothing more than my printed-out Google Maps map, my “I’m from around this manor” fake attitude, and the fervent intention to roundhouse kick the head clean off the first Dickensian backstreet shadowman who dares to think he (or she) is going be making off with my phone and wallet. With my fake, streetwise attitude, I’m trying to send out a message. A clear message that, “If you mess with me; if you back me into a corner... I will pee.”
I followed my map meticulously, which got me lost many times, and, as if one of greatest explorers in history, I finally arrived at Willesden Bus Station, fully expecting a hero’s welcome. A welcome involving a sky full of ticker-tape, the flashing bulbs of the world’s press in my face, and a good-looking dame to smooch passionately with. Like I had just came back from occupied France in 1945, or as though I’d just completed the gargantuan Great North Run. But instead I arrived to find around seventy better explorers who had found the Bus Station quicker and more efficiently than I. I can only assume that they were all more proficient in the use of Google Maps, but by the look of them, I doubt it.
But standing out amongst this array of bedsit glitterati, one individual stood out, shining brightly like a blazing fire emanating from The Lighthouse of Alexandria; when The Lighthouse of Alexandria was surrounded by odd looking Turks. The Lighthouse in question was a young brunette with a pretty face and decent boobs, and the blazing fire was from her lighter. I watched her as she seductively pulled drag after drag from her cigarette, and sensuously coughed into her scarf. She knew I was watching her, and from her eye-contact, I’m pretty sure she could see into my mind and hear the poetry I was writing for her. I’m never 100% about eye-contact, and body language in general; and it can take me up to 12.7 seconds to truly freak a girl out, and I suddenly found myself inadvertently going for my record. I decided to just leave it. I have more taxing things occupying my mind. Like where these buses would take me, for a start; and would I even recognise any familiar places in the dark.
The bus was incredibly busy, and I found myself standing at the top of the stairs on the upper deck, waiting for a fellow commuter to get up so I could sit down. Suddenly, I thought I spotted an empty seat right at the back, so I set off towards the rear, when five feet from my intended destination, my stomach turned as soon as I saw that there was no spare seat at all. The shame! The long walk back to the stairs was like a death march. Fifty pairs of eyes, full of judgement and scorn, followed me as I slowly made my way towards my new status of ‘social pariah’. I could even sense Smoking Girl’s disappointment in me as I passed her, with her sitting there, acting as though I hadn’t just stared at her for an inappropriate amount of time only ten minutes beforehand. Talk about fickle!
Towards the end of the bus journey, I had the horrid, sinking feeling that I’d been on the bus for far too long, that I’d missed my stop, and that my quest towards a hot bath was a long way from being completed. I decided to get off. The only thing I could think of doing was finding a cash machine and a taxi rank, and taking the £20 hit for the sake of simplicity and a hassle-free life. And in true Bay of Pigs style, at the eleventh hour, just when I thought all hope was lost, I saw it.
Like a glorious desert mirage, there at the top of hill was none other than... La Dorada. Just say that wonderful word with me. Laaaa Do-raaaada. Heavenly. But this hacienda of happiness is no lost city of gold, or even the ancient ruins of Atlantis. It’s simply a chip-shop in Finchley Central, and a mere ten minute walk away from home and my hot Radox heaven. Instantly, all of my stress and anger washed away as if a mere skidmark on the porcelain. La Dorada was my North Star, and my bed was my manger.
To quote the great Sophocles once again, ‘There is truly no hardship, or period of extended darkness and sorrow, that cannot find resolution and harmony in the bottom of a scampi supper.’
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