Olympic commuting hell

Today was my first taste of what it is going to be like to be a London commuter during the Olympics and Paralympics. For reasons best known to themselves, the authorities have shut off access between the station where I disembark, and the office where I work, which is a distance of nearly two miles. I think I tried at least five different ways to get to the park through which I usually walk, including by darting through a slightly disconnected barrier when a security official's back was turned, only to find another line of barriers 50 yards further on. The wide, wide detour I was forced to make, added a good 20 minutes to my commute. All fine and good in sunny weather, but of course this is England, and for at least four days out of every seven it is going to hurl, and those of us who are exhorted to get on our bikes or shape up by walking for at least half of our route, are not just going to get blisters, we are also going to get coughs, colds and pneumonia. There is little reason for cutting off such vast spaces in central London so I can only assume that having failed in their bid to get Londoners to do more sport in the spirit of the Olympic year, they decided to force us to it by shutting off our regular routes and making us take to the streets. Like ants whose march has been disrupted by some careless human stepping on the middle ranks, we all run hither and thither in total discombobulation, searching for an alternative route to the Mother Ship. As someone who has commuted since the age of 9 - my school was in central London while I lived in the suburbs - I like to think I'm pretty savvy about the back streets, but this invasion of my carefully honed route has been comprehensively executed, as many of the back streets are cordoned off too. It's like one of those challenges from the Crystal Maze, only at least they have team mates cheering them on. All I have, all any of us has, is the company of surly commuters, equally resentful and confused, turfed out likewise and seeking their own path home, even if it means climbing over buildings to get there. All you need to throw into the mix is a few hundred tourists clutching maps and asking for the way to BuckingHAM palace for total mayhem to break out. Luckily some things appear not to have changed, including a breakdown in the Northern line forcing me off the train two stops earlier than my destination. I get into the lift and behind me a girl of around 17 steps in. She is texting vigorously on her phone with one thumb, while the thumb on her other hand is stuck uncompromisingly in her mouth. It stays there as she texts, sucking meditatively. She is dressed intimidatingly fashionably so I can only assume thumbsucking is the new Ecstasy. Some feelgood hormone secreted from the epidermis? I watch her doing this and feel really, really boring and square all of a sudden. I decide to do something to exhibit my maturity, and duck into Carluccio's to order a Macchiato coffee. I don't drink coffee - HATE the stuff - and I usually go out of my way to avoid Carluccio's, which is to Mums with newborns what Starbucks was to them in the nineties and is therefore to be avoided by anyone without a bewildered sprog in tow at all costs - but occasionally I am drawn to it, usually by their wildly overpriced bottles of chocolate truffles.I buy my coffee, taste it, grimace, and chuck it in the bin, waiting for the thumbsucking teenager to disappear from view before I do so. Sigh. I really should have bought the truffles.