London is a city I love deeply. It is home, memory, and mosaic—a layered place stitched together by centuries of culture, contradiction, and character. But if there is one ritual of London life I’ve never quite warmed to, it is catching the Tube.
To visitors, the Underground may seem an emblem of British efficiency, a whirring marvel of steel and signal that keeps the city’s pulse alive. But for those of us who’ve grown up here—whether or not we ride it daily—the Tube is something altogether less romantic. I never took it that often, even when I was young. But whenever I did, I found it annoying in a way that defied explanation. And as I’ve grown older, that feeling has only hardened into aversion.
Some days it’s the man pacing in circles and muttering slurs under his breath. Other days, it’s the young woman filming herself singing aloud to her phone, oblivious to the fact that her stage is not, in fact, the Central line. Sometimes it’s a middle-class gent who insists on reading the Daily Mail out loud, complete with commentary. Or worse, the seemingly sane person whose mind, without warning, fractures mid-journey, turning the carriage into a theatre of chaos. The point is not to mock, nor to pass judgment, but to admit this: I do not board the Tube with a sense of calm. I board it with bracing anticipation—for someone, somewhere, always, all at once.
London’s trains have become a curious reflection of the city’s anxieties. Mental health struggles unravel in public, racial tensions simmer just beneath the surface, and self-expression sometimes strays too far into provocation. There are days I feel as though the carriages are pressure cookers, where everyone is one missed stop away from boiling over. I miss the idea of commuting as quiet. Of slipping into a seat, eyes closed, letting the rhythm of the journey hush the mind. These days, it’s as if silence itself has become suspicious.
And so, I find myself doing something increasingly un-London: I drive. Yes, I know. It’s slow. It’s expensive. It’s environmentally sinful. But it’s mine. My own seat. My own space. My own music. No one huffing and puffing beside me, no unsolicited sermons, no strangers insisting on conversation when all I want is quiet. Driving gives me back something the Tube has long since taken—autonomy.
In my car, I can think. I can breathe. I can linger at traffic lights and feel no one’s breath on my neck. I can retreat, which for someone like me—a person who often feels the world a little too much—is not indulgence, but necessity.
I often wonder what this says about our city, that something as simple as wanting to be left alone now feels like a radical act. That silence is no longer default, but luxury. Perhaps I’m growing older. Or perhaps I’ve simply grown tired.
London will always be my city. But the Tube? I leave that to braver souls. Give me the road, the quiet hum of the engine, the solitude of stop-and-go. At least in the car, when I’m surrounded by madness, I can keep the windows rolled up.
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