Grip, brace, clench, hold, clutch, seize and pray. It’s just like Body Pump but you get this workout by catching a bus during peak-hour traffic in and around London. Bus drivers drive in the most amazing manner here. Regardless of how gridlocked the traffic is they duck, weave, accelerate and (abruptly) brake as elegantly as any Premier League Footballer. The only thing is, on the inside it is nowhere near as glamorous. Commuters must hold on for dear life as the bus jerks down the road, stopping and starting at terrifying speeds. Very often there is nothing to hold on to. What can be done?

However. I have to admit, if i was a bus driver, i’d drive like that too.

Worrall snuck into the Soho Post Office, feeling quietly smug as the lunch hour had not yet started and she would be sure to miss the crowds as she arranged for her Christmas card postal delivery.

She was, however, entirely unprepared for the scenes that immediately confronted her.

The seemingly endless queue writhed around the tiny, sweating space. It was almost as if Euro Disney had gathered all of its angry, impatient crowds waiting for a 3 minute entertainment ride at the end of a long Saturday in August and piled them all into this one terrible place.  

Muttering all the swears she could remember, and even inventing some herself, Worrall detected the end of the queue and began the arduous process of ‘who could break first’. Minutes ticked by. Seasons passed. Worrall began to display the seven signs of aging. Perhaps the most irritating thing during this ordeal was the pre-recorded voices that chirped ‘please proceed to cashier 3 please’, ‘please proceed to cashier 6 please’ in alternate male and female voices, both of which were pronounced with a false brightness that made Worrall believe: ‘I am in hell’.

A loud crash broke the hostile silence – a large plinth had collapsed to the ground, spewing forth a variety of festive detritus. The elderly man who had narrowly missed an appointment with his maker exclaimed to all those that would listen “That was a deliberate attempt on my life!”

Worrall shrugged. The old man had a point. Perhaps it was. The Post Office obviously could not keep up with the demand and had to control crowds somehow.

Several hours later Worrall stumbled out of the Post Office. Sweet freedom at last. Next year she’d use pigeons.