Afam X The London Rush Hour

I had the dreaded nine O' clock. Some of you will read that and shake your collective heads at me, but I am not a morning person. I think mornings are brilliant. They've got this uncanny habit of deleting the misfortunes of the day before. But I would think the better of them if they weren't so inconvenient.

I've made a new found commitment to punctuality. It's rather un-Nigerian of me. In Nigeria, it is hardly ever better late than never. It is more often than not better late than ever. However, I am certain that I won't get an appropriate reference if I am even a minute late to any of my lectures. That is why I woke up at 5am to make it to a 9am.

The plan was to make it out of Tottenham by 7:30, that way I'd be at university for 8:15, but I didn't have a stitch to wear. The things that were clean were un-ironed, and the things that were ironed unclean.

I am so annoyed by the unappealingness of unironed clothes that I cannot even stand to look at them. So I hopped out of the shower and did my best to disguise my naked disdain. I believe that my clothes will not look good on me if I spend hours telling them that they are the ugliest things in the history of ugliness. Clothes have feelings too.

Would it be the pink Jack Wills shirt, or the stripey Ralph. Would it be the H and M t shirt nicked from Hobbit or the Levi Flannel nicked from the brother father? I didn't know. I put on my boxers, got a cup of coffee from the kitchen, returned to my room to gaze at the clothes on my bed. I finished the cup of coffee, went to my desk to see what twitter was saying. I turned from my desk and looked back at my bed with a face that said "All of you are useless."

I sat there for 2 hours and a bit, procrastinating before I decided that it would have to be the pink one.

I made it out of my building at 8:15. I wasn't doing badly but things had become dangerous. I was now a rush hour commuter. There's nothing wrong with being a rush hour commuter if you don't mind being squashed like a sardine while you try to discover the offenders. The man that didn't shower and likely hadn't for three days, the hand that seemed to be trying and failing from brushing against your crotch. The heavy breathing in your ear.

I was about to be disgusted with my situation when I discovered that I didn't mind. I was like London, don't go wasting your emotions, lay all your love on me (complete with body parts, bad breath and body odour).

Happy Days,

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