Hello chums.
A lot has changed since I upped sticks from Thornberry View and made the arduous trek into Central London.
Previously, I had informed my professors that, if possible, I'd like to take my lectures remotely in the home theatre so that Papa could continue to bring me my elevensies (artisan ryvita with cream cheese, the ideal snack for a growing lad).
However the jammy bastards disagreed! Mummy wanted to "show them where to stick it", so I was forced to remind her of the incident a few years back – she was nearly barred from the David Lloyd after engaging in fisticuffs with Madeline.
In her defence, there was no way Madeline should've lent her membership to her sister-in-law. It sets a dangerous precedent if we're letting any old sort into the pickleball rooms.
So, unfortunately, I've been forced to undergo the daily pilgrimage to Bloomsbury. Originally this would have been but a marginal issue – Papa would drop me off in the Rover (Defender, not Range) and pick me up in the Volvo (affectionately named 'Gertie'), just to add some excitement to the trip — but Mummy totalled our XC90 after she got wine drunk with the Women's Institute.
I refuse to endure the monotony of single-vehicular life, so I was informed that the only option was to take the Underground.
This frightened me, chums.
If you haven't had the displeasure of shimmying up between a man who smells of Grandmama's old furs and a screaming infant in a tiny metal carriage no bigger than my en-suite, let me enlighten you about the "tube" (as the locals call it).
There are many lines, with the Elizabeth being the cleanest, and the Central looking like the men's bathrooms at the Royal Ascot, only with fewer baggies of cocaine. But the real threat isn't the hygiene (suffering through Alexander Throckmorton's egg salad pumps at school gave me a stomach of steel), no, it's the public.
Upon first boarding a Northern line train in a rather fetching quarter-zip, I was promptly assaulted by a young man in a ragged coat, begging for "change".
At first, like anyone would, I assumed he was partaking in some bizarre piece of theatre, perhaps a Brechtian monologue on the fragility of life. It was only when he relieved himself on my leg that I finally understood I was in enemy territory – even Artaud wouldn't stoop that low.
With my chinos soiled by another man's urine, I had no choice but to keep calm and carry on. Luckily my time in the Mountbatten Rugger Team allowed me to experience all kinds of fluids being splashed upon my frame, so I summoned the courage of my ancestors on the beaches of Normandy and focused instead upon the dulcet tones of The Rest is Politics. However Campbell was beginning to talk, so naturally I was obliged to mute it and confront the challenge of leaving the train.
Chums, no manner of training can prepare you for the insolence of London travellers. It seemed that nobody was willing to follow the clearly marked order to ascend and descend the staircases, forcing me to brush past several shady characters who've certainly never touched a copy of the Private Eye.
Furthermore, everyone was standing on one side of the escalator (presumably because of the stench of B.O. and credit card overdrafts). I did the gentlemanly thing and positioned myself languidly in the middle of the escalator step, which garnered me considerable umbrage from the rabble forming behind.
I made sure to flash my Monzo premium card to the security man in front of the barriers, and finally gazed upon sunlight for the first time in what felt like weeks.
Thank god Mummy's rehab (and charges) can be paid off, pronto. Whatever the insurance company provides us while Gertie's being fixed, I'll be thankful for it. Unless it's a Skoda. Or a Ford. Or anything that costs less than our yearly ski trip (Mummy drinks a lot of Savvy B at apres-ski).
I'll be thinking of you all from the Defender's ample backseat.
– Jonty Trent-Vandemburg