I really do enjoy working in London. I'm close to any store I need to be, the food choice at lunchtime (even though they closed Harry Morgan's) is excellent, and I really do feel like I'm in the center of everything. That's probably because I am. This is an unfortunately typical scene which awaits any weary commuter trying to get home after a long day at work at Oxford Circus:
There's really no point in getting worked up about the wait. Most people in this photo have their heads down (save for the curious chap smiling for the camera on the left), reading a newspaper. We're used to this - it happens every day and you just have to wait it out (usually less than 20 minutes). What gets my goat is the people who decide that they are going to try another method of transportation (usually gormless tourists with oversized suitcases), pushing past everyone and saying "excuse me" when they really mean "get the f*%£ out of my way!". I seem to attract pushers for some unknown reason - forget the fact I'm wearing a large TfL "Baby on Board" badge or that I am, at seven months pregnant, sporting a rather telltale uterine bump.
Some people, usually younger ignorant little sods and sodettes, see my waddle as a sign of weakness. I wouldn't do anything to put myself or the baby in harms way, but if you're trying to cut in front of me, I will just keep walking (arms around the bump, of course). I have pregnancy weight on my side, and at 5'10 I'm slightly taller than the average Londoner, male or female. Trying to get on the Tube when people haven't yet exited is another prime example of gravity and weight, I'm not stopping, and I'm coming down from the train - that usually means you are, too. In real life, I'm very polite and courteous, but something about the sooty London air turns me into a fullback who believes that "every little helps" when teaching good manners to the masses of the capital.
Thankfully, good samaritans exist, even in the urban social skills deprivation zone known as London. A lady stopped someone from pushing past by putting her arm out in front of my stomach, saying to the pusher to watch herself. Another lady asked me if I was okay as we were navigating through the crowds after they finally opened Oxford Circus one night. More recently, owing to my gargantuan stomach, have been jumping out of their seats as soon as I do the pregnant belly rub. If all else fails, I break out my secondary weapon - the North American accent - and politely tell the sir or ma'am that they're sitting in priority seating for pregnant women.
I'll miss my job and the people I work with, but I'm very much looking forward to waddling back into the confines of a relatively polite Hertfordshire, where pushing is seen as rude, not necessary.
