The Night I Spent in King's Cross

Ten minutes into the second half, I was crying again. The show was that good. It was sort of pathetic, really. Peter Pan. Fucking Peter Pan.



The tears kept coming during the entire second half, which really wasn't good, because I needed to have my wits about me. We were about to make an epic run throughout central London. You see, Peter Pan was ending at around 10 P.M. The last train to Cambridge left King's Cross at 12:07 A.M.



So that gave us roughly two hours in which we had to...

1 - Get to the nearest underground to catch the tube to Victoria Station

2 - Go to Victoria Station to pick up Becca's luggage. (Becca? Kate's little sister, who came into England during our week off to visit)

3 - Hop on the underground again to get to Kings Cross, where we would hopefully arrive in time to catch the last train home.



Now I know this list isn't very long, but London's a big place, and Kensington Gardens (which is where we saw Peter Pan, and, appropriately enough, where J.M. Barrie found the inspiration to write Peter Pan in the first place) is very far away from everything, really. Everything is far away from everything. In short, we were cutting it close.



So, we book it out of Peter Pan, and start running towards the underground. After about a minute of this, we tire and start speed walking. After about five minutes of this, we realize we need to book it and start running again. Repeat X2.



We get to the underground station, swipe our cards in, get down to the platform and...lo and behold the circle line isn't making the normal stop at Victoria Station.



So, we book it back up the 72 stairs to the entrance (And, yes, there was a sign that said "72 stairs to be used in the case of an emergency", which I reckon this was) and go out through in the "in" door. Like the reverse of that Prince song.

At any rate, we're standing on the side of the road, outside of the underground, at 10:20 at night, trying really hard to hail a cab.

Nothing.

So Kate stalks over to the closest restaurant, and, very discreetly, asks a waiter for the phone number of a cab company.

He bitchily informs Kate that hotel is just around the corner, where a consierge could point us in the right direction.

Run, speed walk, run, speed walk, 6 city blocks in total I'd reckon, all the way to this hotel.

Where no one spoke English.

So Kate's inside, trying to translate "taxi" into Spanish, when I manage to hail a cab on the side of the street with Becca. Becca runs off to get Kate, and away we go to Victoria Station.

The cab cost £17. But, since we were in a hurry, Kate handed the guy a £20 note and said "keep the change" which I thought was really cool, kinda like getting into a cab and saying "I'm trying to get to the United Nations. I'm being followed. Can you do anything about it?"

Anyway.

We get to Victoria Station, it's about 11:15 P.M. Kate and Becca run off to get Becca's luggage, while I stay behind to smoke a cig/make sure the tube hasn't stopped running for the night.

Lucky for us, it hasn't.

20 minutes on the Picadilly Line late, and we're at King's Cross.

All the while, a man's whistling that song from the Phantom of the Opera that's actually pretty cool. Kinda soft and lilting, and I think the lyrics go something like "softly, sweetly, barely even whispering..." or something like that.

At any rate, here's where I would make up some elaborate tale about how we missed the train and had to spend the night in King's Cross with that old dude singing Phantom of the Opera. But I'm too tired for lies and creativity, so the truth will have to do.

We made it, just fine.

P. I. Staker