Kind of like going back to an -ex

I’ve moved.Not in: a hottie brushed closely against me by accident in the supermarket and ‘I moved’, kind of way, but pack up your life, throw it down the stairs, leave half your stuff behind and gawk in amazement about how one backpack and a rucksack have become enough to fill a VW Golf (thanks Doc, or Mrs Harris as I shall now call it) moved.

Now I hate moving. Loving settling in to a new place, but hate moving. Let’s face it we all do. If people liked to move we simply wouldn’t have obesity. But after the huffing and puffing that is the actual moving, the sweet and sour deal is getting to know your area. First the sweet.

I’m now in Balham. This little area just south of Clapham is like Fitzroy. There’s a whole bunch of cafes, pubs, bohemian style bars, restaurants, Chinese takeaway for Luke, and the world’s greatest kebab shop. All in all a good little area. Now for the sour.

It’s not the area, but the act of moving to a new area. When you live somewhere for so long (I was in St John’s Hill for 18 months) you get used to everything there, namely the supermarket. I went to my local Sainsbury’s for the first time last week and mass confusion galore. I couldn’t blame anyone. I was the retard. You get use to your own way of dealing with things in your own supermarket. The flow, the people, where things are, how it all works, etc. A new supermarket is so confusing. The OJ is not where it should be, the steak is next to the lamb not the pork – it’s a mess. I was well confused.

But this is nothing compared to the thing that I have returned to. The bridge that I thought I’d burnt. The ex-girlfriend I’d thought I’d left – Mrs Northern Line!

Just like a dagger through my heart, that little Black Line that runs South to North from Morden to Edgeware has crept back in to my life under the guise of being helpful. After being smacked in the face with the musky smell first thing on Monday morning, I knew I had returned. And like a revengeful harpy – it knew I was back – throwing a crowded train with a greasy haired man too closely invading my personal space (I definately didn’t move). I had to cop it like the returnee I knew I was. And just to add insult to injury, the good old queue was back.

Now I don’t mind the queue in the UK. These guys realty know how to do it. Line up in one long queue and branch off at end. It’s better than the mass rush at a door that occurs in Eastern Europe or the queue envy you get back home if the other one goes faster. This was one thing that I knew how to do in my new area – queuing. After dithering around for 45-minutes in the supermarket and bumping in to things like a drunk playing Tetris, I showed those fuckers when it came to lining up! I love queues.

On top of all these issues with the Tube there has been talk about metal detractors in some underground stations. It’s damn busy enough. There’s not one way in hell that this would work. I for one blame the current climate of fear for this knee-jerk reaction. I mean take Lego for example. There was a time when the Lego Airport collection was sweet and innocent:

That is the one I had. When on earth did we start seeing full security scans at Lego Land Terminal 3????

Well at least they got one fucker – Off to Camp Guanta-lego Bay with you, sir.

All this talk of threats and violence makes me scared. Think I might just go home and go to the supermarket. Maybe even try to find the Lego in that maze. Not too sure where it is on the shelves. Might just join a queue instead.