One lightning strike.
4 hours, 5 trains, 6 platform changes and a lost driver later I make it home.
It was a welcome reminder of why we’ve left. Another nail in the coffin of ‘NEVER COMING BACK TO THE UK’. The smile of smugness I’d worn as I skipped around London past all the suited workers scurrying out of office blocks I used to frequent was coming loose by the time I trudged through the front door.
Within less than three days my Bali Zen has faded. I even called someone a dickwad on the train. Where did that come from? I haven’t used that word since I was about 16. It just erupted out of me. Luckily he was wearing headphones. Sarah v2.0 (Ubud Sarah) seems to have been corrupted by the virus that is London. She’s fighting to not become obsolete.
But he did smack me up the head with his bag. Dickwad.
London spawns rage. It explains the misery on the streets, the aggression, the stress in the swearing, shoving commuters.
I want to incite a revolt. People, this is not fun. This is not the way it needs to be.
I say this to the wishful thinkers amongst you, I know you’re there because you email me a lot, to those of you verging on the cusp of wanting to break out, those of you who think that maybe there is another life that doesn’t include a commute on Southern trains. Well, guess what? There is! I want to become an evangelist for another way of living, for a life of watermelon and sunshine and happiness.
Believe me. This is not the way it needs to be.