Morning Catastrophe!

OMG!! I had the biggest catastrophe this morning,
As I was getting dressed I experienced a fatal dawning,

That my treasured ring bought by my Dad to celebrate my wedding,
Was lost, gone, vanished, I searched everywhere including my bedding.

I vaguely recalled I may have left it in the fourth floor toilet at work,
So panicking I raced to get out of the house, berating myself for being a jerk.

Then the damn train was packed to the hilt with people refusing to budge,
So I heaved and cajoled till they shifted aside with a deft little push and a nudge.

Some horrible man was loudly chewing literally right into my ear,
So with one finger rammed in my eardrum, the other had to hold on in fear.

As the train jolted and bucked from Harrow to town, my distress became gradually more,
I could feel the sweat building, my fear reflected in the fogged up windows of the door.

Swapping over at Finchley Road I raced from the Met to the Jubilee,
Thankfully chewing man didn't follow as I willed for the train to hurry.

Arrived at Green Park and did something unusual, well what I don't usually do,
I strode up the escalators at warped speed anxious to get to that loo.

Face full of panic I got to reception hoping someone handed it in to them,
No came the answer but we'll put out a message and let you know if it comes in.

Meeting a colleague waiting for the lift I recounted my tragic tale,
Together we rode up to the fateful loo as I rushed in face haggard and pale.

My heart stopped, as OMG sitting on the white windowsill I saw,
My ring, where I'd left it, sparkling in the sunlight, I exhaled and sank to the floor.

Gathering myself and my treasured ring I returned to my desk panic-free,
And sat down to write of all I've gone through with my morning catastrophe!

Strike Three...

They claim they’ve no power, financial or real, as we daily clamber aboard,
Fighting for space, a metro or seat, just to be told to get off!!

Windows get fogged in the cold winter months as viruses make use of the space,
Reluctantly people crack open the windows, though not before coughing in your face.

Silence typically settles as people choose not to converse,
Rather to sleep with headphones on ears or get lost in their favourite book.

Only when stuck in tunnels for hours on end do Londoners engage with their peers,
Sharing in common dislikes for the tube and discussing frustrations and fears.

You’d think for £169 a month they could deliver a service to boot,
I certainly don’t expect to complete, my morning commute on foot.

Millions of Oyster cards swiping us through as we head straight into rush hour,
Faces are dark, expecting the worst, turning ever so slowly more sour.

Delays, signal failures, people falling on tracks, the problems just seem to get worse,
At this rate, any hope of arriving on time will more likely come thanks to a hearse.

Huffing and cursing, in-fighting abounds as priority seats become sparse,
Forcing earlybirds up from their comfortable perches to make room for those old and knocked up!

As the third of three strikes takes effect on this eve, the buses will be crammed to the hilt,
I stop for a moment and consider just how TFL staff can sleep with the guilt,
Of causing such ‘mares for us London folk who rely on the carriages and wheels,
To transport us to work and meetings and such, where we’ll bash out our deadlines and deals.

Facing epic treks to locales far and wide most would prefer to stay home,
But bosses alike will hear none of that, ignoring our pleas and our groans.

With tube staff loitering outside the closed stations directing angry mobs away,
Bus drivers revel in the unadulterated need that commuters have for them this day.

Pushing and shoving to get on at their stop, getting thrown every time the bus halts,
We’ll all stand together, clinging on for dear life, bitching of all the tube’s faults.