Wordmap

Travelling on the London underground every day to work is not just a means of getting from A to B. It’s so much more than a network of tunnels underground. Negotiating public transport is a defining part of what makes you a Londoner. It’s that shared joy of planning a journey with a good friend (“Take the Northern Line, then change to the Central at Tottenham Court Road…” “Or!” The joy of a triumphant or!  “You could get the overground to Victoria, then nip straight onto the Victoria Line.”) It’s the glue that holds sprawling old London together.

 

And yet what language do we have to describe this experience? Delays, litter, noise, smells, all the pebbledash of images and sounds that make up a slice of so many people’s days. It is all unmarked, and unbounded. I was reflecting this one day, as I was planning an entry (see, it does happen! They just don’t ever make it out of my head) as I stared at the underground map. I had forgotten my book, the normal armour with which I defend myself against the onslaughts of the day, and was staring at the map, looking for new connections, planning journeys… paying homage, let’s be quite honest.

 

And lest this should sound funny, I should add that the tube map is undoubtedly a lovely thing. Iconic, even. Take a look if you don’t believe me. I believe it might actually be William Morris’ wet dream, in primary coloured and topological format: both unutterably beautiful and undeniably useful.

And it was in that beautiful moment that it struck me. All those meanings with no words. And there, on the map, all those words and phrases with no meanings. A moment of synchronicity. A moment of serendipity. (A moment where one should really come clean and admit a paucity of one’s own ideas, a terrible tendency to steal other people’s, and a debt of gratitude to Douglas Adams and a book called the Deeper Meaning of Liff …)

And so, armed only with the inspiration of that moment, a stolen idea, the tube map, and the mad desire to write an entry – any entry – I present to you:

 

A dictionary for the tube

 

Belsize Park: A term of abuse, levelled at anyone who thinks it is acceptable to open a newspaper in a truly crowded train.

 

Charing Cross: The tendency of two people, in zone 1, squashed together into impossible physical contortions, against their will into a tiny space, to avoid eye contact.

 

Chigwell: verb. To move up and down, slightly, with the movement of the train, in perfect but unknowing synchronised motion with a line of people.

 

Crossharbour: The look you exchange with a person opposite, as another delay is announced. Brief eye contact, accompanied by either a slight incline of the head, or an almost imperceptible roll of the eyes. Emotional bonding, tube-style.

 

Cutty Sark: A sarcastic rejoinder made by people already squashed onto a crowded train, when someone outside the carriage calls for them to, "Move up!".

Euston: A man who takes up all of the armrests on both sides of his seat.

 

Gallions Reach: A short-cut. Which looks like a long-cut. But is actually shorter in time than it looks on the map, because of a cunning ruse, such as use of a Mudchute (see below).

 

Marylebone: Verb. The squishing, squirming, squashing and worming movements by which a Neasden (see below), against all mathematical, comfortable and statistical probability, manages to make its way into a full train.

 

Mudchute: A cross-platform change of tube lines. Speedy. Demonstrates serious insider knowledge. (see the Northern Line and the Victoria Line at Stockwell, or the District and the Central Line at Mile End. Genius.)</font>

 

Neasden: The group of people who gaze hopefully into the carriage as the doors open, as the carriage’s inmates gaze at them impassively, knowing that the laws of physics dictate that there is not enough room in this carriage for even one more person, let alone seven of them.

 

Paddington: The layers of winter clothing you are desperate to remove as soon as you enter a tube train, all of which suddenly appear to have grown extra zips and fasteners, and to be glued to your body, and hence cannot come off without taking with them other, flimsier and more crucial undergarments, which you are less keen to shed.

 

Perivale: The light touch of wind on your cheek, lifting fine hair around your face, which tells you that the train is in fact coming.

 

Plaistow: The jolt when you wake up, and in waking up realise that you have been asleep on the Tube in front of strangers. Probably, let’s face it, with your mouth open.

 

Ruislip: (pronounced, just by the by, ‘Rye-slip’) The action of nipping onto the train, just as the carriage doors close.

Snaresbrook: The web of arms, briefcases, newspapers, elbows, legs, walking sticks and torsos that knits itself into an impenetrable barrier between you and the open doors at your stop.

 

Temple: A space on a crowded train, suddenly glimpsed as you get a view over one person’s elbow and under another’s copy of Metro.

 

Totteridge & Whetstone : The factors most likely to be cited as cause of death by the coroner, after tube accidents which take place late on a Friday night, when it’s been raining.

 

Upney: The unfeasible amount of time it takes a ‘next train’ sign to move from 3 minutes to 2 minutes. “I’ve been waiting here an Upney!”

 

Westferry: The collective noun for party of schoolchildren, accompanied by a shrill and pink teacher, who trail onto a tube en masse.

… There is so much more to add to this, but for now, I must go to sleep…

with love,

therumtumtugger

xxx