A Cautionary Tube Tale

Here on Speakers’ Corner, we are somewhat averse to London transport rants. Delays, strikes, crushes, rudeness, daily morning barge fests – we’ve heard it all before. But I’m going to make an exception. Because until last week, I’d never been made to feel like a criminal on my commute to work.

It all began bogstandardly enough. I boarded the 07.59 train with two seconds to spare using my handbag as a battering ram to get past the usual staircase loiterers. I stumbled off the train at Victoria nine minutes later in a vague fog of sleep and the previous night’s white wine, and marched purposefully towards the barriers of freedom. Those barriers whose little green lights of virtue beep up at me every day to tell me how honourable I am, before waving me off into the sullied jaws of the city. Except this morning the little green light did not appear. On placing my Oyster card firmly over the yellow reader, the light gleamed a devilish, culpable red.

Despite knowing that it would enrage my fellow platform escapees, I tried the card again. Again, red. Baffled as to why my monthly travelcard was refusing to play ball, I threw the ticket lady on the gate a desperate look, hoping it would be enough to get me through. It wasn’t. Unbeknown to me, my travelcard had run out. I was directed to the ticket office on the adjacent platform, but before I could run off she whispered, ‘Don’t show them your Oyster.’ Even more baffled. But I did what she told me.

Except all that got me was a £20 fine. As I pleaded with the nasty fining man that I thought it was perfectly fine to buy tickets at the other end, I suddenly thought that it would surely be better to just tell the truth about my Oyster. They have those readers after all, so it would take a simple click to prove I’d just made an innocent mistake. It is, after all, impossible to fair dodge on London transport.

Ignoring my gate lady’s advice, I told the truth. The nasty fining man’s eyes narrowed with a look of unadulterated evil glee. ‘That’s a different matter then,’ he drawled. ‘I’m going to have to give you a formal caution.’ He reached for his mobile, presumably to call the police and lock me up in basement cell with no food or Ribena for 10 days. Then I cried. I couldn’t help it. The tears just started to flow and wouldn’t stop. How dare this nasty fining man accuse me – me, who rarely even swears! – of being a criminal? Let’s also remember at this point that I had consumed a fair amount of white wine the night before and was not, shall we say, feeling the strongest.

I must have looked like I was about to start wailing very loudly, because he begrudgingly told me to put the Oyster back in my pocket and continued to fill out the fining form as if he’d never seen the card. Sourly disappointed that he’d not managed his first caution of the day, he then accused me of lying about my address, which was lovely. He even made an actual call on his mobile this time, to the police central database, to check my address was legit.

When he said I was lying for the second time I couldn’t take it anymore. A slew of new train passengers was snaking their way past, humiliatingly slowly, and past the point of caring I just shouted, ‘Well what are you gonna do? I’ve told nothing but the truth to you and it’s getting me bloody nowhere!’ I blindingly signed a slip of paper and stalked off, brushing away the last stray tear. My lady on the gate was shocked when she saw me. ‘Did you show him your Oyster card?’ she lamented, shaking her head. ‘Oh they’re being harsh today.’

The whole traumatic ten minutes left me seething with anger. I pay London transport services more than £100 a month, for the privilege of standing room only and almost daily delays. I make an innocent mistake and I am made to feel like a criminal. I am going to buy a bike.

Image by By J-Cornelius courtesy of Flickr