A travel chaos day. St Albans station is buzzing with police, and all the platforms are closed. The ticket hall is full of people staring fixedly at the departure boards. A man has jumped in front of a high speed train. It's been an hour since it happened, and fast trains are passing through, but none of them are stopping, and nobody is allowed through the barriers. I'm guessing that the platform and track are (horribly) in no fit state for the general public. None of the station staff have any idea when trains will be running again - maybe ten minutes, maybe one hour, maybe not (reminiscent of Greek ferry timetables). It's tough. I want to ask for specifics - what stage are they at? Hosing or still scooping? I don't. It would feel wrong, but it's information I could do with.
I'm meant to be running a taster session in London Bridge at half twelve. Is it worth waiting? Should I try an alternative route? Should I cut my losses and go home? If I don't show, I put my colleagues on the spot. I can't be late - it's a pitch, and there's a very specific time window. And as a freelancer, it's a no show, no pay situation. Worst scenario is that I battle my way in, but don't make it in time. With sinking heart I get on the replacement rail bus to Radlett, and grit my teeth as we lurch lugubriously through the clogged town centre. One of those days when every light is red, and every crossing features a slow-moving pensioner.
Eventually Radlett station, where we are informed that all trains are stopping, and everything is running (hooray!). Two London trains whoosh past within minutes, not stopping (ohh...). The sands of time trickle away, but finally a train does actually stop, we troop on, we get under way (hooray!), and then someone presses the emergency stop button (ohh...). We stop. For another ten minutes. No information. We start again. Hooray! (Guardedly...)
St Pancras and I'm off like a bullet, dodging and weaving. When I get clear of the crowds, I RUN (not jog - proper being-chased-by-a-foe type running) to the Northern Line platform. (Quite a distance - Kings Cross St Pancras is very spready. Just because you never see daylight doesn't make it one compact station. It's still two. Just covered.) BOUND up the escalator at London Bridge (man, that is a DEEP station), RUN to More London, have my name spelled incorrectly by the receptionist (don't care - you can call me Pinocchio as long as you let me through), barrel into the lift, run through another reception, skid into the auditorium - twelve twenty-nine. One minute to spare. I'm out of breath and sweat is trickling down my back. But it's a result. I'm there. And ultimately it makes no difference whether that's with thirty calm minutes to spare or one sweaty one.
All the running was worth it. If I hadn't, I'd not have made it. If I'd stood on the escalator, it would have cost me that minute. And yes, I know it's just for a petty job. But it means more than that to me.
Because I knew as I was running hell-for-leather that it might not pay off. But I decided to give it my very best shot, in the hope that I'd make it. Because that's all you ever can do.
I am sad for the man who decided today that he couldn't.
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