All change

Now that I'm a resident Sarf Londoner, I no longer have to commute for 65 mins each morning and night, via bus and Hammersmith and City Line, to reach my place of work. Now I simply walk a few paces from my front door, hop aboard a Northern Line tube and, theoretically in less than 20 mins after departure, I should be ensconsed at my desk, slouched down in my uncomfortable office chair, counting the minutes until I can leave to go home.

However, I have now commuted into the City several times from my new abode and the reality is a little bit more... fragranced. The Hammersmith and City line may have been slow but I always got a seat. This Tuesday I had to wait for six packed Northern Line trains to go past before I found one I could squeeze on. And when I say 'squeeze', I mean 'get my feet on the step, lever myself in using the handrail, duck my head to avoid the doors, categorically do not catch anyone's eye for fear of being stabbed or shot using a silencer, where no one would realise that I was dead until we reached London Bridge and the train emptied a fraction, leaving me unpropped and allowing my still-sweaty corpse to crumple to the ground'.

Then on Wednesday, at precisely the same time and for no discernable reason, the carriage was pleasantly empty and I even nabbed a seat after Kennington. Today was somewhere between the two extremes - still full as a fat man after a buffet but a little bit less aggressive. One thing's for sure, I am determined to get on the first tube home at 5pm today - it's all go at the flat and being at work is tantamount to torture. I will pour myself into any available space, disregarding the clucks of irritation from any nearby passengers who boarded the train at an earlier stop and are therefore allegedly justified to resent me for trying, like them, to get home. Yesterday, I admit, I did slightly take the piss, slotting myself on board a more-than-max-capacity train at 5.15pm while carrying my sizeable orange leather handbag, an overnight bag, a gym bag and a large carrier from Robert Dyas containing awkwardly shaped items including a largeish plank of wood affixed with several coat hooks. The guy opposite me shook his head in an exasperated manner, exhaled loudly and said 'What are you doing?' in the tone of a disappointed parent. I apologised and explained that I was hoping to get home and that the next train was not for a further five minutes. An older couple sympathised with me and even though I know that the rush hour tube is a free for all, I felt rude and selfish for crowding him.

Talking of Sarf London, as opposed to South, Laura told me a story about her boyfriend's 6-year-old daughter who has grown up in Dagenham, Essex, and who was writing about her weekend for a school project. Describing a trip to the park, she wrote that she'd been on the swings and the 'randabat', never having realised that this fun playground activity was named fairly straightforwardly because it goes round and about. Being able to spell what one hears is a massive part of writing so the young gal should be publicly congratulated - and then perhaps laughed about behind her back. Laura didn't manage this last part, chuckling openly in front of the confused child, and was reprimanded firmly.

George W. Bush is on TV. God he's thick.