I’m riding home on the train. A man approaches and asks me whether I wouldn’t rather be riding a submarine instead? He’d take me through every canal in London. I could have my first choice of bicycle; he wouldn’t argue back or try to claim it first. He’d even get his friend to do it up for me. Imagine! You could be the only person in London to spin by on a bicycle which knows the waterways better than it knows the streets.

I ask him who he is, and he shakes his head and laughs. When I say I would rather stay on the train, he asks to see my ticket. He says he is actually the conductor doing me a favour; this is famously the worst carriage in London and it’s a shame I have to be on it. Look around you. Do you see anyone else actually enjoying their journey? They’re all listening to their iPods, reading the free paper and ignoring the gum pressed into their seat. They wouldn’t want to do that on a submarine. They’d be too excited.

I say no and try to put my own headphones on. When I look out the window, I see a silver periscope peering directly at me. It seems to be moving parallel with the train. The man examines my ticket again and points out that actually, I bought the wrong one. If I look closely it says—quite clearly—in red print:

ONE WAY JOURNEY ON ANY SUBMARINE ROUTE. OFF-PEAK.
FIRST CLASS.
LET US SUBMERGE YOU IN YOUR DREAMS!
UNDERWATER.

This is undeniable. I am dismayed; I offer to buy an ordinary train ticket, but the man says no, his dispenser is out of orange cardboard and it would be easier if I just did what I’d promised to do in the first place and took the submarine. I should stop being an inconvenience. I am wasting taxpayers’ money because I am in the wrong place and hoovering up valuable resources which could benefit other people. Honest citizens would not hesitate to call me greedy—though really, it’s the children they feel sorry for.

I am cowed. I allow the man to take me to the entrance of the submarine, which is situated in the driver’s compartment. The driver is looking ahead; he pays us no attention. He chews the stem of an unlit pipe. The man drops me down a hatch. I land on red carpet and right in the middle of a cocktail party. I immediately wish I’d arrived better dressed, but everyone is very kind regardless, and they literally press canapés on me.

The experience was pleasant enough. I might consider taking the submarine again in the future—except I can’t remember how to find the subaquatic option on the ticket machines. I’m too embarrassed to ask the station assistants. I just gaze mournfully at the triangular buttons until I feel too pressurised by the person waiting behind me and leave.

However, it is probable that I won’t need to take any sort of public transport again. The man actually found me a bicycle, wedged beneath an overturned trolley which was, in turn, wedged beneath a small coracle. He handed it over to a thin mechanic at the party and the next morning it was delivered to my door, wrapped up in a giant doily and a red silk ribbon. It has a thin black frame and lovely shiny spokes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t up in time to see the courier place it on the steps. I would have liked to question him. I’m waiting for a good night with a full moon to turn the canals silver and mark out my route.

Story by Annabella Massey
Photography by Rachel Rebibo