I skipped up the stairs at Earl's Court this evening just as Ringo's drum solo began to hammer it's way out of my headphones. My final footfall and that first decisive crash synchronized perfectly. And a hundred sodden Londoners smiled at me from where they hid beneath the bus stop.
All day all I've heard are the repeated words 'tube strike.' They've been spoken in hushed whispers with a mixture of excitement and fear from all corners of my office. As the afternoon wore on and the nondescript coffee cups were repeatedly filled and drained the sky outside the glass walls began to darken. September stormed into our lives again with the dark promise of thunder and the low whistling sound of the wind. Everything was charged and for the first time in my life I was 26.
The tube strike starts at 21:00 but all day we've watched the TFL website and seen the list of functioning stations grow shorter and shorter. The pinks, greens, yellows and blues of the tube map have blinked out like malfunctioning LED's.
On the journey home everything was silent beside the tones of Paul and John hushing the carriage into blissful ignorance. Aboveground the storm was breaking.
The rain pelted the first of the commuters as they ran for the cover of the last few trains.
Crash. That first decisive drumbeat and the final footfall at the top of the stairs was the first I knew about it. And with their sense of camaraderie; that "we're all in this together" attitude; the Londoners smiled at me as I skipped past listening to one of the very last songs ever recorded by four men born 200 miles away.