Just picked up Masana Mulaudzi, Mbali Vilakazi and Bulelwa Basse from Heathrow. They came loaded with serious heavy suitcases and it just happened to be the day that almost the entire of London Underground is closed due to strike action. Paddington Station was chaos, commuters dashing back & forth swarming around the thin green jacketed line of beleagured London Transport staff.
Of course, this being London, the staff seemed to be almost uniformly clueless as to the best alternative routes from Paddington to Cutty Sark, Greenwich, where our hotel is. One guy directed us to take alternative bus route outside the station, but directed us the wrong way, so we walked all the way around the station through streaming crowds of people, like some kinda outtake of The War of the Worlds.
| Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, | |
| A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, | |
| I had not thought death had undone so many. T S Eliot |
I went back inside the station to buy Oyster cards for the poets, only to discover from a TFL rep, who actually knew what was going on, that we could go via Bakerloo. Only, I couldn't buy Oyster cards inside the station, so I had to go back outside into the madding crowd to find a newsagent that sold them. Oh, did I mention it was drizzling?
Then, down down into the chthonian depths of the Tube we plunged, dragging coffinlike suitcases behind us. I never realized how many bloody stairs there are in London Underground. Doesn't that break the Equality of Access law or something? I explained to the SA poets that the only way to deal with the labyrinthine intricacy of the Tube is to view it as a Mobius strip, an Escher conundrum or a Zen koan. There is no right answer, and logic will not help you find your way.
2 hours later we emerged from the Cutty Sark DLR station feeling like extras in a Georgio Romero film. Somehow, the poets are still smiling after 36 hours with no sleep. Welcome to London!
Segun L-F
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