A few weeks ago I had a horrendous London-commute morning. I arrived about two minutes late at Greenland Pier, only to see my boat (which is normally at least 5 minutes late) sailing away to Canary Wharf without me.
Another 20 minutes, another boat-this one packed full so I had to stand, all the way to Tower Pier. This especially hurts as the reason I pay a premium to take the boat (rather than bus and Tube) is so I can have a civilised, comfortable commute where I sip my coffee (now a decaf soy latte since I've given up caffeine and gone vegan) and flip through the morning paper.
Standing and steadying myself on the outside deck as we bounced down the river, I reached into my bag to distract myself with my Blackberry, only to find...I'd forgotten my Blackberry at home. Just then, a crew member came by to check my pass only for me to realise I'd forgotten my pass at home too. I had to fork out another 10 pounds to pay for a full-freight boat ticket.
When we docked at Tower Pier, I strolled up to Tower Hill tube station, to go two stops on the Circle Line, to Liverpool Street. As I stood on the platform waiting for my train, the shoulder strap on my leather bag snapped, and the contents of my bag spread all over the platform, conveniently just as the train was arriving. Commuters stepped on and off and train, and all over my things at the same time. I managed to gather what I could together, and hop on the train, but when we got to Aldgate, the train mysteriously re-routed to Aldgate East (note: NOT in the direction of Liverpool Street), and I had to take a bus back in the direction of my office. I arrived 40 minutes late, panting and disheveled, and the harried rush of the morning stayed with me all day.
Later that night, as I made my way home through Tower Hill station, an unfamiliar pamphlet stacked on the usual racks of Tube maps and rail schedules caught my eye. It was a small white booklet, titled "London: Poems on the Underground." There were maybe a handful on the rack, and so I picked one up. It was a lovely little bound book, not a pamphlet at all, and it full of poems about London, with entries by Blake, Wordsworth, and Wilde, as well as modern poets like Grace Nichols and Patience Agbabi. I flicked through the little book in wonder, smiling to myself. "I hope that these poems inspire you," read the foreword by Mayor Boris Johnson, waxing a little poetic himself about "the capital's diverse and endlessly fascinating story."
That little book of poems, which I tucked into my (broken) bag, made my day. I have looked every day at the brochure racks, keeping my eye out for another copy to give to a friend, and have not seen one since. It never ceases to amaze me how this universe somehow manages to always give us what we need. I am trying to remember this lesson, to bank it for those moments to come where I rail at the universe and the events that cause me grief and frustration. We always get what we need, and not anything more. And for this we should be grateful.
Go where we may - rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.
Thomas Moore (1779-1852)