One morning last week, I returned to the organised chaos of the London rush hour.
Commuting to a job interview in Westminster was a jolt after a year away. How people cope with it, day after day, year after year for their entire lives is beyond me.
At the bus stop, 20 people stood in a neat queue. Resisting the urge to laugh, I joined the end, comparing it to the disorder of the taxi stands in downtown Port-of-Spain rush hour.
Queuing for a bus in London isn't normal; in most areas it's a mob of people squeezing on when they can.
But, in my middle-class area, orderliness and social equality rule.
Almost every seat was taken and my new leather shoes were already beginning to pinch as I walked upstairs and to the back of the bus.
It was a grey misty morning and the weather set the mood for the atmosphere inside.
Overcome by the stiff awkwardness of my fellow zombie passengers, I messaged a few mates: "Getting on a packed bus to the tube station with all the other slightly morose people going to work is a pretty sobering reality check."
"And it's distinctly not summer any more," one friend replied.
"Is it ever summer in this godforsaken place?" I asked, only half joking. "People just silently looking at their mobile or tablet devices, or simply contemplating suicide."
As I got off the bus I said thank you to the driver and smiled, before realising my mistake: two London social faux pas in one–talking to a stranger and being cheerful in public.
Entering the tube station and descending to platform level, I saw a mass overspill of people waiting for a train, who hadn't even made it on to the platform itself yet. That's how crowded Finsbury Park station is, every single morning.
I pictured myself waiting for a Cascade taxi into town under the shade of the large mango tree at the end of my road and let out an involuntary sigh.
Three trains passed–with people gradually inching forward, filling what space was available onboard–before I eventually got on, standing with my neck craned and with a man's rucksack jammed into my spleen. Ah, transport for London, I've missed you.
The tube hurtled on through dark tunnels, beneath places of note. Its standing cargo, all facing the wrong way, turned their faces away from the spew of dusty, Victorian-era air billowing through the window, opened for "ventilation."
It's recycled pollution you're breathing in. The Victoria line does not go above ground at any point along its route, unlike other lines, so there is no fresh air outlet or inlet. It is as hot as an oven–like putting a can of tuna into a microwave.
There were furtive glances–people looked at each other for a split-second then quickly averted their gaze, ashamed of having made eye contact–unlike the lingering, unbroken stares of Trinidad.
It's Thursday, September 11, the 13th anniversary of 9/11. People were a bit nervous of a terror attack as the national alert status recently went up a level.
Discarding these morbid thoughts, I clawed my way off the train and up the staircase to change lines–acutely aware that I'm walking less quickly than everybody around me.
Oh gawd! Have I become one of those annoying slow-walking people? I'm no better than a tourist in my own city. This is all too much, too real, too staid. Give me the vomit-stained Tobago ferry and let me never complain about it again.
A stack of Metro newspapers looked up at me, full of lies, spite and deceit. I ignored them and ascended into daylight (a sort of grey smog) at Westminster. The Houses of Parliament towered above me.
"Welcome home, Josh," said Big Ben. "We've missed you."
"I've missed you too," I replied, receiving odd stares from passers-by.
An army of commuters thundered on, heads bowed, like in TS Eliot's The Waste Land: "Unreal City, under the brown fog of a winter dawn, a crowd flowed over London Bridge. So many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, and each man fixed his eyes before his feet."
"It's 9 o'clock," said Big Ben, harmonically.
I was half-an-hour early for my interview. So much for Trini time.
What can I do to kill time, I wondered, as it began to drizzle. I could think about the sun beating down on Trinidad, I thought. And so I did, all through the interview and for the rest of the day and into the weekend.