Piccadilly Line

I thought I'd start off with this one, as I took it last night. I was only marginally inebriated at the time, having quaffed a mere three quarters of a bottle of rather nice white wine. In fact, if you counter what I drunk with the family bag of Walkers Sensations Thai Sweet Chilli crisps and the pistachio nuts, I don't think it actually counts.

I was on my way home from Ealing - a most disagreeable journey made heart-stoppingly difficult by the fact that London transport does not seem to acknowledge that people in southwest London may wish to travel to the west of London, and vice versa. So there is mind-numbing amount of dicking about in and out of London on:

1) Overgrounds that only turn up every thirty minutes (if you're lucky)

2) The District Line, which is the tube equivalent of a confused old dear wandering down the high street in her draylon nightie and rollers at three O'clock in the afternoon

3) The deluded western stretch of the Piccadilly Line, which hurtles between far-flung stops at a breakneck pace, hoping you won't notice the staggering distances between each station as your breath is pounded out of your chest and your teeth crash together, all so people who live in west London can carry on convincing themselves that they live 25 minutes from central (note to west Londoners - YOU DON'T! YOU LIVE NEAR READING!)