Tuesday 5th September 2017

Or the day in which I spent most of the day waiting, watching a digital readout for my lucky number to come up.

Let me explain.

I had been advised by the passport helpline that I could just go up to the office in London and get a new passport that day. Seemed unlikely to me, and all the information on their online help page, no mention of such an option was mentioned. Heck, I even called up a second time to make sure.

So it came to pass that I stood on the platform at Martin Mill at just gone seven in the morning, having been dropped off by Jools with an envelope with all the supporting documentation, all packed away in my camera bag. I had madly thought that maybe I could get some snapping done in the unlikely event I got away from the office by two in the afternoon. It was just about dawn, but dark enough not to be able to read, only by the station lights. Birds had yet to stir, and the usual cawing of the crows that an early morning start here is subject to, was quiet.

The train came, I get one of the seats I like, and wait for the train to pull away. Going up to London again, already. THis time it being a working day, and the first week of the new school year, the train was going to be busy.

I am aware of the train filling up; friends meeting friends and the latest on TV shows and such being discussed. Outside the usual landmarks speed past as we leave Kent and enter Essex, the train now has standing room only, and the woman next to me who got on at Ebbsfleet, gets off less than ten minutes later in Stratford; long enough for her to unpack her complicated headphones, select a soundtrack for the journey and then check on Facebook before we dive into the tunnel under East London and she loses the phone signal.

I am last off the train, as I'm in no hurry. I walk through the undercroft pondering whether to have a coffee or not. I decide not, as that would mean needing the facilities in the passport office. By the time I had walked to the underground station, caught a Victoria Line train to Victoria, I had changed my mind. I could have joined the queue right away, but decide that a ten minute wait until I had something to eat would be OK. It was quarter past eight and the queue had been going for half an hour, longer if people waited outside. I have a bacon and cheese baguette and a coffee in a cafe opposite the office before going in. This would take some time.

I book in at the reception, am asked, and answer a whole load of questions and given a ticket with a letter and number. And wait.

Minutes. House. Pass. I have brought something to read. So I delve into that, inbetween people watching and swapping small talk with people also waiting. For £103 I could have made an appointment. I pondered on this more than once.

I am called, asked the same questions again. A form is filled out.

And I am to wait some more.

Just before two I am called, more paperwork filled out, and told I have to pay anyway. There is no arguing with them, I accept and stump up the money. If the chip is faulty, I might get the money back. Forms are scrutinised, photographs too. And more forms filled out. All the information is put into a plastic wallet, one last check and I am told I will have it sent to me in 5 working days. Or less.

That is all.

Outside, it is just gone two, and if I am quick, I can do some church crawling. So, flag a taxi down to take me to Holborn to one of the city churches I have yet to visit. St Andrew's is a large church, right on the Circus, so I must have walked by, and yet not noticed it.

It is open, so I can go in to take my shots. It has a fine chequerboard floor, which I really like in a Wren church. But then again, no time to ponder it too hard, as I have other targets. I wanted to visit a Roman Catholic church, one hidden behind a row of shops. I grab a taxi to take me the two minutes to the other side of the City, the drive is none too impressed with the short trip, but I give him a couple of quid and go in.

I feel awkward about going on an RC church, as I was yesterday; there are four people in, two on their knees, hands clasped and eyes squeezed shut, while a third starts into the flame of a votive candle, maybe pondering on what prayer he wanted to make. I take four quick shots and am out in under 5 minutes.

Next up is St Michael Paternoster Royal, or the Seaman's Mission church as it is now called. I march down Bishopsgate, past Liverpool Street, St Helen's and Cornhill, then heading down past the Monument towards Cannon Street, where I knew the church lay.

I am in and out of there is 5 minutes too, marvelling at its modern windows, which I am rather taken by.

Back outside and another taxi is flagged down, taking me to near the Barbican where I had heard a rumour that the bete noir of City Churches, St Botolph Without Aldersgate, is now open on a regular basis. Back in the early days of this project, the church was looked after by a sect that seemed to frown on things like photography, and getting inside was all but impossible.

Going through Postman's Park, the door is open, and after asking if I can take shots, I am told I can, but have to be quick as it is to close soon. So, 5 minutes, snap. snap. snap. And I am done.

There is one final target, as the clock ticks towards four, St Giles Cripplegate. A fine city church, now marooned among the brutalism of The Barbican, and accessed my a unbelievably complicated series of walkways and passageway. I am next to one of the walls; how hard can it be.

Twenty minutes later I reach the Barbican Centre and have to ask how to get to the church. Calmly I am told to go up the steps to the left, and turn left at the top of them. There are no signs to the church, and after walking around blindly for 5 minutes, I look at a map and make my way to the church.

It is still open, so I whizz round getting shots, and amazed to find that it is the final resting place of John Milton. Someone I had heard of! Paradise Found.

But that was it: if I was quick I would catch the next train at ten past five. If I could only find my way out of the bloody estate.

I follow signs to the underground station, find a set of steps and then look around manically for a taxi. One comes round the corner: take me to St Pancras I say.

And we are off, weaving through the narrow streets of the City, then north through Bloomsbury and suddenly on Euston Road and at the station. Ten minutes to spare!

Heck, I even get a seat, so am able to call Jools for her to pick me up on her way home from work at quarter past six. THe train gets full before departure. And jammed once we leave Stratford. But its a pleasant evening, I look out of the window as we cruise across the southern Essex marshes. I close my eyes.

I wake up as we pull into Ashford, half an hour gone like that.

Jools is waiting for me, to take us home after another day, one for me different from the average.

Back home I cook burgers for dinner. Yeah, I know after complaining about them in Yellowstone. Well, sometimes there are times only a burger will do. One with onions and curry ketchup oozing out. Yum.

And beer. Sweet beer.