My own bank crisis

Did you know, six of the top 10 one-day rises on Wall Street occurred during the Great Depression?

When you get to the Wharf, Birleys are giving out free sausage sandwiches and coffee, and your boss tells you not to worry too much about working hard today, just try to beat your best score on that internet cricket game you’ve been playing so much. Oh, and I’ve just bought a big packet of biscuits. And why don’t you knock off early tonight. You deserve it.

Yesterday wasn’t like that.

My first train was so crowded I couldn’t open my paid-for newspaper of choice, which I’d paid for. I managed to leave it on my second train, which only had free seats because I’d not read the sign and it was going to stupid Poplar.

It was another day of Mortgage Panic Unemployment Depression Repossession Downturn Two Years Consecutive Shrink Negative Equity Pain.

On the way home, paperless, I listened to depressing American indie music to cheer myself up.

The red letters of the DLR said Bank. Not many people on the train, but I took that as the one good piece of luck in an otherwise lacklustre day.

Then we got hoofed off at Shadwell. Next train on the board: Bank. But I’m the only one on the platform.

Is there a word for being the last moron to notice that your situation has changed?

Or one for the impotent anger you feel when you’ve been misled by incorrect train information (but missed the Tannoy announcement saying Bank is closed, because you’ve drowned out it and the rest of the mewling, crappy world with guitarish downie music?)

Talking to a passing train captain, I point at the sign. “But the sign says ‘Bank’,� I tell him.

I don’t want to swear. Swearing at train captains goes against everything I believe in. Besides, if this is anyone’s fault, it’s mine. And if it’s the DLR’s fault, it’s not the train captain’s fault. I don’t swear.

He says walk to the Commercial Road. Take the 15 to Cannon Street. Down the stairs, turn right.

It is squitting it down. I walk behind two Wharf women, in the same boat battling down this wet orange-lit street. An aggro-looking yoof passes, saying he’s going to tap blondie’s sweet behind. She ignores this offer. I don’t even consider saying anything, which is as depressing as the music I’ve switched off to be more alert to my unfamiliar surroundings. It’s what Ray Mears would do.

Ray Mears would, when he finally got home, go back to bed and try to imagine this silly day had never happened. And hope for a better one tomorrow. Because chances are it will be.