Broadgate, London: And so we queue to evacuate the capital, lined up on the pavement outside Liverpool Street station waiting for our one-way journeys to Essex and beyond. Hundreds of us who'd escaped from the stalled tube, along with the last of the City workers who'd got caught up in events above ground, and one power-crazed policeman with a gun keeping us all in check.
Naturally we've been pumping everyone else in the queue for more information about what happened earlier this morning, but no consistent picture of events has emerged. The Prime Minister is either dead, kidnapped or running the country from a bunker deep beneath the Pennines, depending on who you believe. All the early media and internet speculation dried up fast once the power failures began, so nobody really seems to be sure of anything any more. All we really know is that several places have exploded, probably, so things are very very bad, somehow. Our new life in the countryside could only be an improvement, surely.
Except that, like Martin, I really don't want to be forcibly dispatched on a random train journey out of the capital. I don't want to end up this evening in an East Anglian church hall being fed tea and sandwiches by eager Women's Institute handmaidens. I don't want to go to bed tonight in a government-issue sleeping bag. I don't want to be stuck in the clothes I'm wearing for the next however-many days. I don't want to spend the foreseeable future marooned in a far-flung village armed only with an empty wallet and my Oyster Card. And (you know, I hadn't considered this before) I don't have any spare disposable contact lenses in my pocket, so I really don't want to wake up tomorrow morning spectacle-less, myopic and visually crippled. No, I want to go home instead. Just so long as I can get there without dying in the process. Posted at 16:21 from 51°31'2"N 0°4'56"W via my Z470xi mobile