The True Subterranean Controller

Thirty years ago, on the completely opposite side of the Atlantic, a boy from Canada met a girl from Hornchurch under the artificial perfection of the Florida sunshine. It was a classic Disney setup, but what followed was the real magic. Somehow, she managed to lure me back to the United Kingdom, and from the second the wheels touched down, I have never looked back. I have always felt that England is precisely where I belong. Maybe it’s the country itself, or maybe, more accurately, it’s just her.

Today marks exactly twenty-five years since I stepped onto the tracks of the London Underground. A quarter of a century. And while I have spent those decades sitting in a climate-controlled room drinking a spectacular amount of tea and coffee, she is the one who has been doing the actual heavy lifting behind the scenes.

For twenty-five years, she has endured the bleak, quiet solitude of the night shifts. She has single-handedly juggled the chaotic logistics of raising our two gorgeous daughters while her husband was subterranean. She has navigated the unpredictable emotional weather of a man permanently suffering from shift-work fatigue, crafted countless Underground packed lunches, and baked glorious mountains of cupcakes to keep my work colleagues from mutiny.

The standard line is that TfL keeps London moving, but the reality is that *she* does. And after a quarter-century of flawless, stoic service on the home front, all she has to show for it is a nominee pass, a slightly grumpy husband, and my absolute, eternal gratitude.

Thank you, Alli. Here’s to the next stop on the line.