The Great Midnight Ramble

 People often ask me, with a look of genuine curiosity: “What exactly do you do on night shifts?”

Normally, the response is a standard, heavily rehearsed, and deeply treasured: “As little as possible.”

This week, however, my sacred routine of meticulous tea drinking and a highly anticipated World Cup match marathon was thrown into absolute, unmitigated chaos. The telephone rang (always a tragedy at 1:00 AM).

📞“Your track familiarisations have all expired.”

🗣️“Ya, I know…”

📞“Well, we’re going on a walk. Book a cab, meet me at East Ham, we’re going on a walk.”

 Absolutely not the call I wanted to receive. Lionel Messi was playing, for heaven's sake. So, because misery shared is misery solved (it really isn’t, but if I must suffer, I’m dragging an audience along), I arranged a taxi and scooped up a couple of unsuspecting colleagues on the way.

Off we went, stumbling around the ballast in the pitch black like a flock of well-fed pigeons looking for dropped chips. I successfully proved to the powers that be that I wouldn’t get lost or immediately perish if I ever had to step down there.

But the glamorous fun didn’t end there. The following night brought a spectacular encore at Upney. And last night? Another romantic 2:00 AM stroll at Plaistow. Classic Underground move.

The glorious news is that I am officially certified and safe from this nonsense for another couple of years. The bitter, tragic reality remains that my World Cup enjoyment was brutally vandalised. Entirely.