Hurry

Every time I'm in a rush in London it feels like I'm in Sliding Doors. Except Aqua will never permeate my conscience at times of great hurry, nor am I as graceful as Gwyneth Paltrow. I always seem to equate public transport with running. Yesterday saw us legging it for the train home. Boots stuttering a rhythm on the marble, manically sloping in amongst the crowd, deftly weaving, clambering onto my bag to avoid bludgeoning unwitting and flustered strangers. Though those that leave their cello cases and wheely suitcase deathtraps in our path seem to deserve this fate. Something monumental feels like it should happen for making it, perhaps the train we are in time for will provide a brief encounter, a lustful hour and forty five minutes. No. Getting to the platform on time merely means I have time to buy an Appletiser. A girl can dream.