Tubewhore (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} tubewhore) wrote,@ 2008-01-17 20:26:00 |
|
| Entry tags: | custom house, dlr, signage |
Custom House
From Oakwood, we journey down the Piccadilly to Holborn, change to the Central eastwards to Bank where we lose![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
failing_angel for the afternoon, as midnightxpress and myself change to the DLR to get to Custom House for the Boat Show at Excel.
Descending to the DLR platforms, interesting signage at the entrance to the surprisingly narrow corridor downwards. This isn't at an exit to the outside world, but deep in the bowels of the Bank Complex, or maybe the complex is so tortuous to navigate, a narrow corridor is just too tempting for full-bladdered city types.
I have an exhibitors pass for the Boat Show, but I need a passport photograph for it and we waste time trying to locate a photo booth in several stations en route. Irritatingly there was a photo booth at Angel that I could have used on Friday as I'd arrived early for the lunch date. Nothing at the Bank complex, and nothing at Canning Town either in the station or the bus garage. On the way back through Canning Town ticket hall to the DLR platform the chap manning the barrier asks if we're lost - as I suppose we do look odd popping out and popping back inside two minutes. I tell him what we're after and he shakes his head - all the photo booths have been removed recently as the company that ran them went bankrupt - the one at Angel may be some weird anomaly then...so I decide I'm going to have to rely on charm alone to get us past security into the Boat Show. 'Haven't you go a camera on your phone?' he asks. 'But how do I print it out?' I reply...
Our connection towards Prince Regent arrives and we manage to snag front seats. The DLR is driver-less, so if you're quick and lucky you can sit at the front and indulge childhood train-driver fantasies as the train speeds along lit tunnels - commuting as theme park ride! As we leave Bank, if you screw your imagination up really tight you can almost believe you're a a space pilot on Battle Star Galactica hurtling towards the bomb bays doors to dogfight amongst the stars as the train emerges into the spangled night city skyline. For a Sunday night the Docklands skyscrapers are still well-lit - it doesn't look like London here, it's all a bit more Bladerunner and sleek European. It looks more like Singapore then dirty old London.
Sadly, photographs taken on the platform at Custom House are horrible and fuzzy and just not enough light. This the best it gets:
...and yes, my day job is with a company that sells sweatshirts, polo tops and sailing jackets.
Our connection towards Prince Regent arrives and we manage to snag front seats. The DLR is driver-less, so if you're quick and lucky you can sit at the front and indulge childhood train-driver fantasies as the train speeds along lit tunnels - commuting as theme park ride! As we leave Bank, if you screw your imagination up really tight you can almost believe you're a a space pilot on Battle Star Galactica hurtling towards the bomb bays doors to dogfight amongst the stars as the train emerges into the spangled night city skyline. For a Sunday night the Docklands skyscrapers are still well-lit - it doesn't look like London here, it's all a bit more Bladerunner and sleek European. It looks more like Singapore then dirty old London.
Sadly, photographs taken on the platform at Custom House are horrible and fuzzy and just not enough light. This the best it gets:
The station from the walkway above; lots of staff about:
The Boat Show is only open another half hour, so throw myself on the mercy of security, who decide they 'like my face' or maybe they're just bored with the usual customers here to look at the large, expensive bath toys. They keep G as security though, as I go find our stand where Mo is supposed ti have a second pass. Everything you could possibly want in the way of nylon rope, cleat hooks and brass instrumentation is on display. At the stand, the spare pass has vanished into the blank hole that is a woman's handbag, so B heads back to the entrance to plead for G's freedom, and manages to trade my exhibitor's pass for some day tickets. While we're waiting, Mo and I get busy selling sweatshirts - Mo at least is wearing 'our clothes'; I look out of place but that doesn't stop me from flogging mundane clothing to other exhibitors.
Bored of posting pictures of me, here instead are my colleagues, Ben and Mo, who've been patiently listening to me obsess about the tube for a year now:
Bored of posting pictures of me, here instead are my colleagues, Ben and Mo, who've been patiently listening to me obsess about the tube for a year now:
...and yes, my day job is with a company that sells sweatshirts, polo tops and sailing jackets.
I fail to look like the yachty type:
And that's it, the best evidence you're going to get that I was there...185 stations in.
