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A Christmas Tale

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onionbag blogger

Sunday 24 December, 2006

Lighting up time

The stretch of the Northern Line between The Oval and Sunny Stockwell is insignificant for any number of reasons. This North bound tunnel is usually a particular pain for rush hour commuters, with the carriages packed to the full as Brixton based boys and girls change at Sunny Stockwell en route to the City; the route is deadly straight - no tight corners to perfect your carriage surfing technique; and no glamour of a branch split, as is the case for Kennington, or even the aesthetic appeal of an island platform that has been left behind at Clap'ham.

I needed a drink...

As the carriage crawls underneath the Clap'ham Road, the sheer boredom of the journey is likely to reduce you to a catatonic state of commuting.

But eyes right midway through the stretch and you might just catch a glimpse of the South Island Place sidings. A glamorous name for a ghouly location on the London Underground.

This little hubby hole for midnight tube workers has historically been used to store the essentials of the job - replacement rails, signals, copies of The Sun etc. The only access to South Island Place is along track side, with no entrance or exit from up above.

South Island Place sidings are also the location of a tragic accident on the London Underground some fifty years ago. A workman was crushed to death by an oncoming late train. No early warning signals then for safety, just a trusty Tilley lamp to warn any drivers of the danger ahead.

It is a local SW8 myth that the ghost of South Island Place can still be see at night, some 100 feet below the surface, patrolling his particular patch with his trusted (but ultimately useless) Tilley lamp.

You're unlikely to see the night talker whilst trains are still running, but many a London Underground employee has asked for an SW8 transfer after seeing the lone man and his Tilley lamp in the early hours.

Fast forward fifty years and we return to the onionbagblog darts dungeon. I really am addicted to the arrows right now, regularly spending some three hours plus an evening down in the wine cellar.

It's a fine way to pass away the winter months, shutting yourself away from the rush of London life above ground, routinely and obsessively throwing three sticks of titanium into a bed made out of natural rope fibre.

The obb darts dungeon is below ground level, situated... opposite South Island Place. The clunking noise of passing Northern Line trains is as hit and miss as my arrow action. The cellar vibrates slightly with each passing carriage. It's a reassuring feeling that I'm living in the Big City and that obb HQ II is ideally situated for a Boy About Town.

The darts dungeon is lit by a solitary light bulb. The decor of the place doesn't really call for anything more lavish. In case of power cuts then we have a couple of torches stored beside the stairs leading down. Forward planning and all that.

Except a couple of months ago, I misplaced one of the torches. I was changing a bulb above ground level at the time and couldn't place the red torch once the job was done. Never mind, it will turn up some other time.

In fact it turned up last night.

I've been sleeping alone the past couple of nights as the fragrant mrs obb is doing the family thing back with her folks. My evening routine was no different to normal; I played darts until around 11pm, and then retired to bed.

Darts is not exactly the most draining of activities, but I was exhausted after a demanding pre-Christmas day that had just passed. It was lights out and fast asleep within minutes.

I slept fine until the early hours. I was awoken by the familiar sound of a Northern Line train passing underneath. Looking at the bedside clock, I assumed it was around 12.30, with the noise coming from the last train. But no, it was 3.30 am.

How very strange. Maybe it was a train being tested? Your brain doesn't really stop to think of too much detail at this time in the morning. Still, I had been disturbed and needed a drink.

I went downstairs and passed the door to the cellar. Pitch black outside and I noticed a faint light shining through the cracks in the floorboards from up above. I was now fully awake and thought that maybe I had left the light on from my earlier darts session.

I opened the cellar door, and from the foot of the stairs, peered down.

I'm not sure how long I stood there. It may have been minutes; it may have been an hour. The light was coming from a faint beam in the far corner of the cellar. I wanted to ignore this and head back to the safety of my duvet. But still, the clunking of a Northern Line carriage could be heard.

I had to act. I stumbled down the stairs to find out where the light source was coming from. Down in the depths of the darts cellar and finally the clunking of the Northern Line stopped. Precisely at the same time, the faint light source disappeared as well.

Now with the main light on, and very much awake, I tried to make sense of it all. In the corner of the darts dungeon was the red torch that had been 'lost' all those months ago. But where I found it was a corner that I had cleared out the very night before, and it definitely wasn't there earlier.

I bolted for bed and hid away until sunlight.

If you're catching the last Northern Line train tonight, keep an eye out as you pass South Island Place. You might see my torch.

Sleep well tonight.

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I needed a drink...

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