Central London Underground Map from Transport for London, 2026
Ladbroke Grove, W10
Taking the side route to the Hammersmith & City Line, three Metropolitan Line trains first - Chesham, Amersham, Uxbridge - ten minutes to the Circle Line to Hammersmith. As one the crowd moves forward, three deep behind the yellow line. I hedge my bets, look out for a seat being vacated along the platform, check the notice board, five minutes to the next Circle Line train. I make my move.
Finally, safely on board and in the priority seat by the doors on the next Hammersmith train, I look around. Lots of visitors, others making their way home. A seedy lawyer in a grey suit. As a seat becomes available he moves to take it, notices a bag underneath, calls to the smart woman, blond hair tied back in a black bow, "Your bag, your bag!" but she says no and he sits down.
By the next doors, a smart alec in glasses and a plaid shirt says, "Did you check? Is it heavy? Is it empty?" "No," says the lawyer, "I did not". Glasses and plaid shirt moves forward, "Best to check," he says, with a grin on his smug face. "Best not," whispers every other passenger silently to themselves, thinking about their children and their dinner and the bills waiting for them at home. "Best phone the transport police and get them to check at the next station," murmurs the silent chorus, "give them something to do, if you must do something".
Plaid shirt looms nearer the bag, determined, looking like Michael Caine with a bad hair dye. Oh, he must be a hero and kicks the bag.
"It's empty," he says and laughs. The lawyer grunts. The rest of the carriage lets out a breath, the heating bills wait.
Euston Square, change here for trains to Liverpool and the north west. Also Mornington Crescent on the Northern Line, if you were ever a fan of I'm Sorry, I Haven't a Clue with the debonair Humphrey Lyttelton, pianist Colin Sell and the lovely Samantha. Now hosted by dour Jack Dee, perfecting the grumpy old man persona at a much younger age.
On to Great Portland Street, where I stayed in a seedy hotel, some great building turned into the 1990s version of a boarding school dorm, each of us with our tiny sliver of a single room, most of it taken up with the compulsory bathroom as we headed towards the 21st century. It always smelled slightly of sweat as if the walls had absorbed it.
One time I was meeting a friend, a senior technical executive at [redacted], overnight in London on his way from the States to somewhere else. He, of course, was staying in a much grander place, a single armchair in the hushed lounge very nearly taking up the same floorspace as my single bed down the street. I smiled at his beautifully plucked eyebrows, the only sign of his other life. He told me he had found a nice couple and was very happy visiting them.
Ah, Baker Street, so many, many journeys changing here from the Bakerloo Line from Kilburn Park, passing through Maida Vale and Warwick Avenue, Paddington, Edgware Road, and Marylebone, before sliding into Baker Street, Madame Tussaud's and Sherlock Holmes. Whispered conversations after the community meetings in Kilburn, one of the multi-million pound regeneration areas, led by residents, and subject to the most eye-popping fraud and corruption in later years. After my time, though. Not sure if I'm pleased or sorry.
After Edgware Road, rushing into daylight at Royal Oak as the underground continues overground. Watching the backs of houses, white and stuccoed, dirty brick, not tainted yet with the glass sided high rises south of the river.
Westbourne Park, walking in the winter with one of my colleagues, ousted from Hammersmith & Fulham through a combination of sub-standard, poorly maintained, commercial buildings and local authority officer malice. Stoic, he moved to Brent, found another little nest underneath Dickens House, where someone fell from a balcony one Sunday afternoon and was left there unattended by any emergency service, or indeed anyone, until Monday morning. The same square where two young girls were killed caught in the crossfire between rival gangs circling in cars. He set up his robot classes and English lessons and pulled his community around him. Karma came for the malice, and it got its own comeuppance in years to come.
Then Ladbroke Grove, in all its stinking, heaving humanity, still with its indigenous communities, regardless of the gentrification and family houses costing £1.65 million. The corner shops still selling Cock Soup mix and cigarettes in singles, women in overwhelmed lycra and scragged back hair eating Hula Hoops at the bus stop, and calling, "Trouble yourself!" to a greeting.
Moving under the Westway, great rolling conduit sounding like the sea, past the Pepperpot Club with its ancient pale blue VW minibus, up on to the balcony with the aloe vera plants and blood-red geraniums, peeking in the lighted windows of the Georgian mansions opposite, mature trees, and the light fading as the takeaway and beers arrive.
I'd found two plastic chairs and brushed them down. Stalwart, an early design in red, bucket seats and chrome legs. A hose down with hot water and they were ready to use, watch the sky change and the ornamental street lamps in the conservation area come on, the Westway continuing its roaring and ebbing as the traffic moved across London.
Children out on the streets with their bikes and scooters, running, chattering in their high pitched voices, a skate board trundling. No buses, no sirens, and, strangely, not every space filled with cars.
This is London.
Tuesday 22 September 2026
