I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me. I used to love you. I used to love the way you could take me through central London in about 4 stops. Naming no names (Picadilly!), there are other lines that need 11 stops to get as far. I used to love the fact you could get me to work in 20 minutes. Your simplicity was your beauty. Not for you was the desire for different branches; not like the sheer awfulness of the does-this-branch-go-to-Kings-Cross-oh-no-wait-it-goes-to-high-barnet-but-hang-on-does-that-mean-it-goes-to-Kings-Cross-fuck-I-hate-you Northern Line. Even when you were suspended the other day for signal failure, I laughed with my mates about how I’d rather walk along your tracks than use the Northern line. You remember that whole YEAR when you shut at 10pm? I left the pub early every night so I could use you. I was faithful to you through it all.
And yet, what do I get in return? I have to start thinking about me, Victoria line. I need to be selfish for a bit. I’m just at a point in my life where IF YOU SHUT FOR THE WHOLE OF THE FUCKING BANK HOLIDAY WEEKEND I’m going to have to look elsewhere. I mean, surely it’s not unreasonable? I mean, to expect SOME LEVEL OF FUCKING SERVICE FROM YOU AFTER YOU SPENT A WHOLE FUCKING YEAR SHUTTING AT TEN O’FUCKING CLOCK. I MEAN FOR FUCKS SAKE, WHAT WERE YOU DOING FOR THAT YEAR? DID YOU ACTUALLY FIX ANYTHING? WERE YOU JUST FUCKING AROUND WITH THE DISTRICT LINE THE WHOLE FUCKING TIME OR WHAT?
I’m sorry. I don’t mean to rant at you. I’m sure some of this is my fault too. I guess I expect too much. But I’ve come to realise that it’s ok to have high expectations. I’ve been too hard on myself over the years. I need to move on, so I can grow, find my own way around London. There’s so much I haven’t done; pink lines, brown lines, red lines to try. Maybe even use the buses.
I hope we can still be friends. I hope in the future if I meet you, we can chat and laugh about old times; racing me to Victoria to get my last train; holding me tight in your chairs when my dizzy, drunken head wanted to collapse to the floor. I can hope, can’t I? But I’ll need time to get over you. I hope you understand that. I hope you can give me the space I need. For now, Victoria Line, I’m sorry, but it’s over.