On Commuting and Water Projects

Yesterday morning I attempted an exercise at the tube station closest to my residence – that is Camden Town tube station. I had with me three large glass boxes, which I had filled with water. Each of the glass boxes were identical in size and shape; being perfect cubes with dimensions measuring at around 1 metre, each of the containers were filled to around 10cm off being full and were open at the top. One at a time, I carted these boxes to the station in order to place them on one of three tables, which had been neatly placed at the furthest end of the ground level floor of the station – that is the wall furthermost from the stairs and escalators down to the platforms.

I placed the first glass box on the leftmost table in the station. Unfortunately the moment that I placed it on the table it broke, the water flowed away and the glass – now in millions of tiny ‘safety glass’ crystals scattered across the floor. This disaster did not, however, deter me from my exercise – although I was indifferent to the outcome of the exercise too little water got on me to be sufficient to push me towards a resolution of quiting the activity.

I quickly managed to get the second box onto the second table – this one being in the middle of the station, adjacent to the drenched table on the left and the dry table on the right. This time the glass box did not shatter as soon as it was sat on the table. The table sat a little over the height of my legs making the top of the glass box now loom just above my head. Looking at the box of water, I was overwhelmed by the urge to get into the box – and the water – despite my full knowledge of the shivering that would result.

I clambered into the box quite awkwardly as I failed to even think of getting something – a small ladder, or even a box perhaps – to aid me in getting in. I entered head first. Whilst my legs were still in the air and my head was submerged the container that I was entering began to wobble and spill water, it was not until I was fully in that it tipped to the right…

My container did not smash on the floor, almost as soon as it had tipped to a sufficiently precarious degree it disintegrated of its own accord. The glass of this container was different to the other – by ‘different’ I actually (of course) mean cheaper – it fell into slightly larger pieces which I realised as the container fell apart around me would pose a danger to the unscarred youthfulness of my skin.

Tumbling from the table with the glass and water I landed with my right knee and right hand, the hand clenched in a fist, breaking my fall. Drenched, but absent minded about the effects of water and English weather on people, I turned my body to a more comfortable position and inspected myself. Apart from the wateriness of my clothes I had sustained a nasty, cut across my knuckles – but the wound was not sufficient to cause me any great consternation. It was, however, when allied with the aforementioned wateriness, enough to deter me from taking the third glass container to the last table now existing alone, inaccessible and haughtily in it’s world of dry wood and metal.


About barkingcoins
This author is just another fucking dickhead.

2 Responses to On Commuting and Water Projects

  1. anarchafairy says:

    Um, what? I don’t get this. Is it for real? Is it a metaphor I’m missing? *confused*

  2. barkingcoins says:

    I am sorry but I can’t offer any excuses for this one…


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