Bank
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: The London Underground from a different perspective...
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Here I am deep underground, my glorious past long forgotten... I’m shabby, neglected and abused.
There were times when the world thought me famous, in fact, the best. Sometimes even infamous but now hordes deride me, shout that I am expensive and outdated. Yet I am never lonely, thousands visit me every day. At night, families of mice scavenge my depths along with people who clean and prepare me for the next day.
For the most part my main arteries pulsate with movement in all directions but at this hour, silent echoes drift on the wind. Mosquitoes of a kind, found nowhere else, fly unheeded along dark and winding passages. My gateways to life in another world have stopped, adding to that eeriness. The blaze of lights, sounds accompanied by a silvery flash, the singing and the shivering of my rails, has retreated for a few short hours. Now in the deep of the night between one and dawn there is silence and semi-dark.
Sarah Whitehead, more commonly known as the “Black Nun,” visits me during this time. She still wears that dismal outfit and the story goes that to this day she searches for her brother in my darkest recesses. Someone should tell the poor soul, he hanged for forgery.
I love the sensation of the wind blowing ahead of a train as it thunders into my realm. That singing rattle composes a constant background of music. During the day performers play a variety of tunes, some skilfully, others, well who knows, who cares.
I’m always warm, in fact in the summer months, like my numerous drunken visitors, and I’m unbearable. Those who wish to seek me out will find me on the brash scarlet Central Line.
Today, now the perpetual fogs of steam and soot have gone, I’m much cleaner. My visitors, however, are an untidy lot as they deposit their take-away boxes and free magazines in every conceivable place. My many staff have the task of collecting these and every day a ton of rubbish from my insides finds its way to the tip. This refuse embraces umbrellas, expensive briefcases, parcels and once, a giant turkey. How anyone could have forgotten that, I don’t know. Ironically, blonde, black, in fact every colour imaginable, everyone leaves hair. It falls, clogging up my systems and causing delays. I have a special team called fluffers, a very strange group of people, who work in my veins and rarely see daylight. Their tedious job is to collect this waste hair before I come alive.
Gone are the days when people travelled in rail cars padded from top to bottom and windowless; the original padded cell. People were smaller then which is one of the reasons travellers find their journey so uncomfortable today.
Whilst waiting, my visitors stare at lofty arches skilfully decorated. These artists created wall paintings in such a manner one cannot destroy them. Conan Doyle mentions me on several occasions in one of his novels and the film, `Sliding Doors,' started and ended down here.
They call my voice ‘Sonia’ because it gets on yer nerves. I don’t know why as I’m always silent until my guests arrive. Not having a huge vocabulary and I know it’s boring constantly repeating, Mind the gap, stand clear of the doors, but it’s all I have. That very wide gap which exists is down to my maker who had to move the tunnel so that it didn’t pass under the Bank of England Vaults
Colourful advertisements adorn my brightly lit platforms, depicting places I will never see. On the other hand, I have secret places, for all around me are disused tunnels and shafts. Some of these once contained lifts, now replaced by escalators. If one has the chance to look up any of these they will see in the dimness the old Edwardian tiling, a yellow and brown design, spiralling the circular walls following the course of what was once a staircase. Within my domain are the signals and communications rooms that control my traffic.
I am a non-smoker now since a lighted match fell through an escalator at my sister station, Kings Cross. Anyway, it’s approaching that time. Remember the next time you visit that I am here for you so, have a nice day.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The London Underground from a different perspective...
_____________________________________________________________________
Here I am deep underground, my glorious past long forgotten... I’m shabby, neglected and abused.
There were times when the world thought me famous, in fact, the best. Sometimes even infamous but now hordes deride me, shout that I am expensive and outdated. Yet I am never lonely, thousands visit me every day. At night, families of mice scavenge my depths along with people who clean and prepare me for the next day.
For the most part my main arteries pulsate with movement in all directions but at this hour, silent echoes drift on the wind. Mosquitoes of a kind, found nowhere else, fly unheeded along dark and winding passages. My gateways to life in another world have stopped, adding to that eeriness. The blaze of lights, sounds accompanied by a silvery flash, the singing and the shivering of my rails, has retreated for a few short hours. Now in the deep of the night between one and dawn there is silence and semi-dark.
Sarah Whitehead, more commonly known as the “Black Nun,” visits me during this time. She still wears that dismal outfit and the story goes that to this day she searches for her brother in my darkest recesses. Someone should tell the poor soul, he hanged for forgery.
I love the sensation of the wind blowing ahead of a train as it thunders into my realm. That singing rattle composes a constant background of music. During the day performers play a variety of tunes, some skilfully, others, well who knows, who cares.
I’m always warm, in fact in the summer months, like my numerous drunken visitors, and I’m unbearable. Those who wish to seek me out will find me on the brash scarlet Central Line.
Today, now the perpetual fogs of steam and soot have gone, I’m much cleaner. My visitors, however, are an untidy lot as they deposit their take-away boxes and free magazines in every conceivable place. My many staff have the task of collecting these and every day a ton of rubbish from my insides finds its way to the tip. This refuse embraces umbrellas, expensive briefcases, parcels and once, a giant turkey. How anyone could have forgotten that, I don’t know. Ironically, blonde, black, in fact every colour imaginable, everyone leaves hair. It falls, clogging up my systems and causing delays. I have a special team called fluffers, a very strange group of people, who work in my veins and rarely see daylight. Their tedious job is to collect this waste hair before I come alive.
Gone are the days when people travelled in rail cars padded from top to bottom and windowless; the original padded cell. People were smaller then which is one of the reasons travellers find their journey so uncomfortable today.
Whilst waiting, my visitors stare at lofty arches skilfully decorated. These artists created wall paintings in such a manner one cannot destroy them. Conan Doyle mentions me on several occasions in one of his novels and the film, `Sliding Doors,' started and ended down here.
They call my voice ‘Sonia’ because it gets on yer nerves. I don’t know why as I’m always silent until my guests arrive. Not having a huge vocabulary and I know it’s boring constantly repeating, Mind the gap, stand clear of the doors, but it’s all I have. That very wide gap which exists is down to my maker who had to move the tunnel so that it didn’t pass under the Bank of England Vaults
Colourful advertisements adorn my brightly lit platforms, depicting places I will never see. On the other hand, I have secret places, for all around me are disused tunnels and shafts. Some of these once contained lifts, now replaced by escalators. If one has the chance to look up any of these they will see in the dimness the old Edwardian tiling, a yellow and brown design, spiralling the circular walls following the course of what was once a staircase. Within my domain are the signals and communications rooms that control my traffic.
I am a non-smoker now since a lighted match fell through an escalator at my sister station, Kings Cross. Anyway, it’s approaching that time. Remember the next time you visit that I am here for you so, have a nice day.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
A writer for many years, Ron has penned numerous short stories and five complete novels. One of the novels, The Collectors, was published by Taylor Street Publishing in 2012.
A writer for many years, Ron has penned numerous short stories and five complete novels. One of the novels, The Collectors, was published by Taylor Street Publishing in 2012.