It was meant to be a straightforward get-together between two old friends meeting up for a few pints.
Satoshi and I had our few pints near my film company office at Warren Street (Zone 1, central London), and stayed until closing time before going our separate ways: I northwards to Highbury on the Victoria line and he westwards to Notting Hill on the Central line--about seven(?) stops away. For him, one stop south on the Victoria line, then a change of trains at Oxford Circus to the west-bound Central line train. Whereupon he promptly fell asleep.
When he next opened his eyes, the train had gone past his stop, so he staggered off the train, crossed over to the other platform and boarded the next east-bound train that came along. And instantly dozed off again.
The next time he woke up, the train was no longer underground. (For those who don’t know the London underground routes, the Central line goes as far east as Essex, which is not in London--and London is huge in terms of distances...)
When he got to the exit, the station staff was locking up, so it was obviously the last train.
He had no idea where he was, nor which direction London was, and wandered around trying to find some sign of human life.
As it happened, a bit later, a car came along with three young people who were going in the direction of London and they kindly got him to a mini-cab place en route where he could get a cab back to London.
He finished off the story with, “And don’t ask me how much the taxi fare came to!” (It was Essex and past midnight, so it must’ve been eye-watering.)
He added, “I won’t be able to afford going out for a drink with you again for a while.”
(London, 1983)
