Petropolypse now

On the day: 
22/06/2012


On the way:
The Apocalypse has come. 
Those four horsemen have ridden through, roughshod. War, Pestilence, Famine and... oh, the other one. 
Once a hub of activity, a thriving petropolis, now it lies abandoned, a tarmac wasteland. Not a soul to be seen. The unthinkable has been thought and turned into word and, indeed, deed. 
It's not as though there weren't warnings. The threats followed demands, and then the strike was launched. The rest is silence. 
Almost.  
Uncomprehending huddles stand under ineffectual bus shelters but the station is empty. Not a single deck to be seen, let alone the legion of doubles that routinely patrol this place. 
Except for a 261 passing through, and who takes a 261? Certainly not me. Besides, its out of service. 
The drivers have wasted no time with their industrial action. And it's a long walk home. 
My kingdom for alternative transport. Even a horse. Left behind after the fourth rider - it's Death, that's who it is - popped his bony clogs... 


On the pod: 
Secret Messages - Electric Light Orchestra 


On the front page: 
Doctors and dentists: the taxman will see you now (The Times)