“Did you know they found a mammoth under there?” She nodded across at the derelict Drummond Street entrance to Euston station I was trying to photograph. “A dead one, obviously.”
by David Slater
Soon such a reputation surrounded Upper Banham that many began to prefer the longer walk to Manor House or the Number 29 to get them to town. A few weeks later, another commuter rushed, screaming, out of nowhere and into a group of late-night revellers. She remembered nothing and the authorities insisted she had been the victim of a fit, but after that only the brave, foolish or ignorant went near the place. [read more...]
by Leighton Critchley
The man sitting opposite me on the tube
is reading Moby Dick.
He’s not quite
The Twelve Days of Smoke
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…
by Jude Rogers
Whitechapel station, for some time now, has been a peculiar place. Try to find a train northbound for Dalston Junction, or southbound to New Cross, for instance, and you’ll chance on a sign for the Overground, a name that might suggest futuristic monorails or fresh-air outdoor thrills or the glorious sunniness of above-the-earth transport. [read more...]
Please Do Not Touch The Walrus No. 5
A fantastic new series in which we attempt to catalogue some of the amazing things you can’t do in our fabulous capital city. Today: touching your Oyster. [see more...]
Removing his coat, he breaks through the buses and levers himself over the railing that divides Upper Street. Dismounting, he smiles at me drunkenly, then jigs into Angel’s welcoming mouth.
Have you ever noticed, he suddenly said, almost as if he knew her, that the studs fixing these tube-seat covers in place all look like the faces of startled bears?
London Transport Apologises No. 2
London Transport wishes to apologise for the fact that, due to earlier passenger action, all Bakerloo Line trains are currently hiding in a big shed in Willesden and refusing to come out. [read more...]
At Clapham North he pulls a knob of root ginger from his bag and, with eyes cast down, rubs its surface tenderly; perhaps, I think, it’s his lucky magic ginger.