Evening in the Docklands


What a divine evening.

Docklands is just… so far away. To stay sober and drive? An hour and fifteen. To go by public transport? An hour and fifteen. To get an Uber? An hour and fifteen and thirty quid each way. To drive but to take out the “avoid toll roads” stricture? An hour and ten. Five minutes saved.

I got on the tube.

The tube used to be second nature to me. All of us who have learnt it properly – we feel a kind of ownership. It’s much the same now. There is a new avoidable bullshit tunnel at Victoria – like the old one at King’s Cross. There are more and more of them springing up. But I get it. People need to be corralled. It’s a Wednesday and I walked down King’s Road on my way out of the area. It has never ever felt more like New York in Chelsea. Footfall near Sloane Square was vast. I had to stay alert or be walked at. It’s never normally that bad. Usually it’s just a few slouching addicts in their daddy’s clothes who don’t really even know you’re there, and their fantastically rich siblings attempting to show off their whatever. Every so often on the weekend they all just drive around in their arsehole cars. But today, just a Wednesday, all the Japanese, all the Americans… Everybody is still on desperate rescheduled holiday.

Beth organised an evening of cheese and wine in the Docklands. It was marvelous but I left my bag. I made it all the way there by trains and tubes after the plastic COVID nosejudge told me I was ok to do what I wanted. Now I’m home I’m just gonna pass out. But my bag is in the Docklands. I could say I’ll sort it out tomorrow, but truth be told, Beth will bring it in and we will go to our friend’s museum in the fullness of time.

I’m happy after an evening of being social.

Here’s the view… Part of it:

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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