As a beauty editor I spend a lot of my time running (literally!) from one launch to the next, so I largely rely on London transport and my legs of to get me from A to B. The latter, although not exactly in a fit state, is far more dependable and quicker than any tube or bus I've recently travelled on. The Northern Line should be renamed The Suspended Line, because nine out of ten times, it's exactly that.
Sod's law, the suspension announcement almost always comes across the tannoy just as my bank card has authorised my Oyster card top up for yet another twenty pounds.
It pains me to be running late. Call me anal, but everything I do has to be organised down to a T. Maybe it's the mother hen in me or perhaps It's because I married a German with meticulous ways. Even filing utility manuals, which I used to casually throw away in my single days, are filed alphabetically with dividers in a special filing cabinet which is again categorised by colour. Don't ask!
Though the most frustrating thing about these travel delays is you can't even blame the staff. I'd love nothing better than to rant and rave at someone, but it's not really their fault? They look sad enough. I'm not being bitchy, but have you ever been greeted by a smile from a member of the London Transport staff? Me neither.
If only I had the financial means to travel like VB, at least I'd be intentionally fashionably late.
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