2002-09-25 - 11:34 p.m.

So the tube strike forced the subterranean commuters blinking, mole-like from their usual morning hideouts. It proves stressful as three million people try and cram onto the eight or so buses that London Transport seem to put on for these occasions. Like a bus ninja, I planned my embarkation points carefully, though, and looked on from my lofty upper deck seat as the indolent, corpulent wretches who couldn�t be fagged to walk three stops fought tooth and nail to stand for 45 sweaty minutes in the virtual moshpit of the lower levels. You have to feel bad for the tube drivers, though � can you imagine dong four hour shifts of driving in a straight line whilst reading the morning paper and working up to thirty hours a week for three times what a nurse earns? How do those guys do it? They deserve so much more. Like invasive rectal surgery.

It�s nice that Londoners pull together in a crisis, though, and people were only grabbing each other by the throat in their frenzy to get on a stinking bus when they really had no other option.

So I�m packing, for which read: arsing about updating and stuff, for my extended holiday at Chicago airport, as that seems to be about as far as I�m going to get tomorrow, given Hurricane Isadore�s hissy fit at my destination of choice. If anyone fancies partying on down at O�Hare for the next 2 days, come and find me � I�ll be at the bar trying to trade my food vouchers for neat gin. I do hope to get to New Orleans for the weekend, though, if only to catch the tail end of the hurricane parties, and see Mr Marquis and Ms Meism, who you should send �don�t get blown away� vibes to, natch.

For now, though, I should go and throw some things in to a bag.

And then I might start packing.

Wish me luck. Isadore had better watch her back.