When I arrived at the 134 bus stop on Tottenham Court Road, in central London, yesterday evening there were maybe 30 or 40 people there. A lot, but then, it was the first day of the two-day Tube strike, so to be expected. I also thought, as the bus was due any minute and another shortly afterwards, that we'd soon all be trundling home. Forty minutes later, and still no 134 had appeared, but the world and her sister had. Still the board said the bus was due any minute, but at this point I knew that, even if three buses came at once, there was little chance of getting on.
Fortunately, someone nearby with a smartphone announced that the Northern Line had 'good service'. Really? Well, cool! I'm off then. Strangely? There was a slow-moving crowd to get into Tottenham Court Station, but once through the barrier, it was actually emptier than usual!
So, as Day 2 of the strike begins, I know what I'll be doing... And this is the sky I woke to: one for sailors to take warning from. Very pretty, but this country is sodden enough. Dramatic pictures yesterday on the news showing the train line to Cornwall – a scenic ride I've enjoyed a few times – hanging like a suspension bridge as all the ballast underneath is now washed away. The forecaster I heard last night said we're in for six more weeks of storms. How they know this, I don't know and, based on previous long-range forecasts, no doubt means we're in for an early, sunny spring.