Tube Drives Accountant from Amersham to Get New Job

Dear H,

It is with the utmost relief and happiness that I tender my resignation with immediate effect. Although you are a decent man and your Company is passable, there is no greater incentive for me to stop coming to your office than to avoid the journey there.

How I looked forward to narrowly missing the tube train every morning. Hearing it pull in as I reached the station entrance, I could guarantee a half-mile run through piss-soaked subways before seeing it pull away. Believe me, it took me a lot of practice to effect a nonchalant "I didn't really want to catch that train anyway" walk with an exploding heart and boxer shorts lodged deep in my arse!

On a good day I would only miss the train, on bad ones my momentum as I rounded the final bend threatened to make me an "incident on the Metropolitan line". I've often wondered whether the "thunk" just outside Amersham was just such an unfortunate passenger.

Once on board (third carriage, second door), I never had a seat, but had my regular place: squashed between the fat guy and the doors. I could tell exactly which stop we were at by the smells: sweating armpits and cheese croissants at Harrow; cappuccino and sweating armpits at Finchley Road; sweating armpits and flatulence at Baker Street.

I'm sorry that I could never give an excuse for being late. Since Underground drivers are trained to lose the power of coherent speech after the words "delayed because" I never had any satisfactory answers myself. Whenever we were stuck in a tunnel the driver clammed up completely. If I was lucky, the lights went out, otherwise an old lady was certain to engage me in conversation about last night's episode of Sex and the City.

Not even the proximity to a multitude of heaving sports bras can convince me to ever get on the Underground again. I will be working out my notice at home!

Yours,