I've never actually worked full-time in London, but I have to visit the metropolis frequently enough to know it really isn't be for me. The depression etched into the faces of those I see commuting tells the story eloquently, and shows a clear contrast with those living and working in the country.
Wednesday morning, wet and cold,
I’m off to work, do what I’m told.
So train to Euston, Northern line,
The sardine squeeze, for once on time.
And then the quandary, bus or foot?
Slow but dry, or quick but wet?
I run the last mile, collar high,
Feet wet, legs wet to the thigh.
Then up the lift, to fourteenth floor,
My desk, my chair, six feet of floor.
A boring day, with boring folk,
A boring lunch, with feet still soaked.
Job satisfaction? Not in here,
Just sweat, and strain, and low-grade fear.
Then finally its time to go!
Rush to the door, then down below.
Reverse the trip, its raining still,
Depressed commuters all look ill.
Two hours spent each way, each day;
For what? Just stress and piss-poor pay.
I cannot stand this agony,
The daily grind is killing me!
I must find something else to do,
Like grind in bed, all day, with you.