It was September 1967 and I had just landed a job at the Chiswick High Road branch of the Westminster Bank. I was booted and suited and ready to brave the rush hour to get to work.
I was very good at finding my way around London. I used Red Rover bus tickets (a bargain at 3/6d) to explore the capital from the age of 14 or so. As the son of a railway employee, I was entitled to privilege tickets on the London Underground. I could travel anywhere on the Underground system for 6d (2 1/2p), so I sometimes took the train to Uxbridge or Upminster and buy a Green Rover ticket and travel on the London Country buses. It's amazing how far you can travel for less than ten shillings. The Dartford tunnel had just opened, and London Transport had a small fleet of vehicles based on a Ford Thames Trader chassis to take bicycle users through the tunnel. So I used my green rover ticket and travelled south from Grays to Dartford. I think I got as far as Sevenoaks before it was time to head back home again. On another occasion I sampled the delights of bus travel in and around Harlow and Luton, and the experience cured me from wanting to visit either location again.
So I knew my way around London. But I'd never experienced the rush hour. I used to walk the mile and a half to school every day, then back home for lunch, back to school for the afternoon lessons, then maybe cross country running after school before walking home. That's a minimum of six miles walking every day. I was built like a racing snake.
Travelling from North Kensington to Chiswick was fairly straight forward, with the advantage of travelling against the main flow of the rush hour. People took the tube into the city. I took it away from the city, from Ladbroke Grove to Hammersmith. Then it was out of the station and a short walk to the bus stop in King Street, just outside the Hop Poles pub. The bus travelled along King Street to Chiswick High Road, and then it was stay on the bus until the stop opposite the bank.
It was a ten minute walk to the station, then a fifteen minute train ride followed by a fifteen minute bus ride. Less than an hour.
In my time at the bank I discovered a universal truth.
The closer you live to your place of work; the more likely you are to be late.
The last person to sign in each morning lived around the corner.
I worked in Brentford a few years later, by Kew Bridge near the Star & Garter. Although it was only a mile or so further to travel, the extra distance made it harder to get to work. So I'd bunk off and visit my girlfriend instead. But that's another story.
The furthest I travelled to work when I lived in London, was in the early 1970s and I travelled from Shepherds Bush in west London to Stratford in east London. I walked to the Central Line station, grabbed a seat if one was available and stayed put as the train filled to bursting and then was empty for the last part of the journey from Liverpool St to Stratford. I endured that for a month or two, and then moved to Northampton and had to commute from there to Stratford. I really hated that. Luckily it was only for a month or two until the Stratford factory closed and production moved to Northampton. On the whole I dislike commuting, but have travelled up to 50 miles each way by car to work. These days I prefer to live and work in the same town.
I don't remember much about those first commuting journeys. I recall seeing a young lad who was convinced he was James Dean. He had the haircut, the jacket, and the way of sticking his chin in and looking up at you. I stayed well clear. He looked belligerent.
I stayed clear of the man who used to get in the same carriage, take advantage of the crush, and then touch me up all the way to Hammersmith. The cheek! I couldn't even persuade a girl to do that. That was a long way off.
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