The day started bad enough. Granted, it could have been worse. It could have rained, or I could have missed the alarm, or my house could have burned to the ground while I was slumbering peacefully. None of this happened. When I woke, brilliant sunshine welcomed me into the day.
It turned bad almost instantly. I got up before nine to make it to another PhotoGym that was scheduled to start at ten on the other side of town. Without breakfast or coffee I headed for the door when I noticed that my wallet wasn't in my pocket. No wallet, no money – and no money, no breakfast in the pub. Also no money, no Oyster card – and no Oyster card, no trip to the pub in the first place because the tube doesn't run for free even on a weekend.
Thankfully, two invaluable treasures stood by to get my out of this dire situation. My bike got me to Imperial, though my stomach angrily reverberated hollow grumbles, and my swipe card got me in. In my drawer, locked away for safety, I found my wallet. By that time it was shortly before ten already.
Ten is the time the museums behind Imperial open. This weekend ended half term, and the sidewalk outside the entrances was besieged by early-rising families wanting to be the first in. Loads of ecstatic kids were bouncing off the buildings' walls with screams of overboiling anticipation. I made only slow progress, digging trough dense throngs of tired parents and avoiding the interception of little live projectiles on indefatigable legs.
The starting bell of the photo gym had rung when I finally reached the tube station. I was late but still optimistic. Temple, the stop nearest the tube where we were meeting, was only a fifteen-minute ride away. My optimism was ill-founded, though. The District line only went to Embankment, and the Circle line didn't run at all.
Partial closures plague the Underground every weekend. I don't think there has been one with all lines running normally since I got here. Most lines are old. Some, notably the Circle line, are manifestly ancient and need constant care, life support if you will. They carry millions of commuters each workday, reliably for the most part, but on weekends they need to wind down a bit. Signals need to be mended, points fixed, the electrical system upgraded. The process is continuous and of no surprise really. Except I wasn't aware of it – again.
I stepped into a District line train that was as crowded as it must be during rush hour, as crowded as it could possibly have been with befuddled tourists standing shoulder to shoulder, and had myself ferried as close to my destination as possible. Together with everyone else, I was spit out at Embankment and released onto street level, left to my own devices.
A few hurried steps took me to the Strand from where I could already see the steeples of the churches at Aldwych. Taking in urban air that smelled spring for the first time this year, I raced toward them. Behind would be the pub, hidden in an obscure lane and out of view, but easily found as it had got its name from the lane branching off the Strand, and the sign was obvious. It was nine thirty by now, but I took a breath and coasted the last hundred yards. Not only would I be in time for the talk preceding the photography assignment, I would even arrive early enough to grab a coffee and some beans and egg.
The topic of the workshop was Composition, and the participants were asked to choose a format and then work with it. Naturally, I went for square. After some ambling, I got my best shots at the National Theatre.
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