I forgot to dry my skinny jeans after Tuesday’s brief but monsoon-like downpour, and now they smell like cauliflower. I, like the bus I had been waiting nearly three-quarters of an hour for, was highly unprepared for the tropical storm that hit East London at around 7.15pm; my £1.99 Superdrug umbrella can barely cope with traditional British drizzle – it stood little chance against raindrops the size of brussels sprouts.
Following much loud swearing at my wilting brolly, and two failed attempts to wedge myself under the overcrowded bus stop, I resigned to an unsheltered patch of pavement, and was promptly as soaked as if I’d power-showered in my clothes. With water running down my back, and iPod and phone stuffed under my sopping top, I spent the remaining bus-waiting time trying not to acknowledge what substances were most likely involved in the opaque grey liquid swirling over my flip flops.
After whipping the occupants of Mare Streets into an uncharacteristic sense of togetherness – London College of Fashion students frantically seeking to shelter their asymmetrical hairstyles amid crowds of buxom East Enders – the sheeting rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and Hackney was left shell-shocked, bedraggled, and a tiny bit cleaner. Of course, the periodic downpour meant all buses were then running late for the foreseeable future, and even when I finally scrambled onto a 55, the driver clearly thought the puddles far too hazardous to risk going above two miles an hour.
I do realise it’s common knowledge that British transport doesn’t cope well with extreme weather – we live in a country where ‘leaves on the line’ is considered a completely valid reason for day-ruining travel disruption – but I still don’t quite understand why.
I was particularly confused in February, when the Underground was subject to partial closures, big delays and general chaos because of the heavy snowfall – surely one of the few plus points of working, as the name dictates, ‘underground’, should be that tube drivers needn’t have to bother checking the weather forecast before heading off for a day at the office?
Even when the brief Siberian spell had passed, the remaining murky skin of ice covering much of the city lingered for days, and, because nobody thought to sprinkle a little road salt Old Street-way, getting about by foot resembled something out of Takeshi’s Castle. But whilst slightly wounded by Hackney Council’s nonchalent attitude toward pedestrian safety, witnessing the gaggles of stern and suited city chaps waddling their way to the tube penguin-style was more than worth the three times I fell over.
