Stepping off the plane, my bag was the first on the conveyor belt, and I was able to march through customs before the crowd. The same happened with the tube, I caught it straight away without having to wait around. So luck was on my side. “Too good to be true.” I thought, there must be a catch. Then stepping off at Green Park there it was before me; a fence blocked the entrance to the Victoria Line. It was out of action. So I dragging my belongings onto the next Piccadilly Line train, changed at Leicester Square, and caught the southbound Northern Line train to Morden.
On board there were no available seats, so I stood at the end of the carriage reading my book waiting patiently. At Charing Cross two men boarded the increasingly dense carriage, they were jolly, and probably had a pint or two of lager before hand. One of them said: “Alright, babe?!” to one of the three attractive girls sitting close by. I continued to read. “Look at the size of his arms!” The other said. I glanced up from my book and realized they were talking about me. How embarrassing, I bet everyone on the train thought that I was some kind of fitness fanatic, obsessed with getting that look, if only they knew the truth behind the appearance.
With jet-lag setting in I wearily hauled my bags out of Morden tube station hoping not to run into any recognizable faces. Morden hadn’t changed that much in three months, the only thing noticeable was that one of the shops opposite had a different owner, but that was about it. People were still waiting for buses and it was raining. Even so, I was pleased to see my family again. I made it home in one piece.
