#upney

Station tea is a specific genre of experience: it is less a beverage and more a liquid coping mechanism. Today, I find myself consuming my caffeinated salvation at Upney, a station that is not quite my least favourite place to be, but certainly nowhere near the top of the list.

The name itself is a beautifully succinct piece of Anglo-Saxon geography. A millennium ago, this area was a low-lying, boggy expanse dictated by the shifting whims of the Thames Estuary and the River Roding. Coming from the Old English upp (meaning higher up) and eg (meaning an island or a patch of dry land in a marsh), Upney was the "upper island in the marshes". It was a strategic bit of dry gravel where one could stand without their boots immediately becoming sentient sponges.

The station arrived as a bit of interwar geometry, opening on 12 September 1932 as an "infill" stop for the colossal Becontree Estate. Designed by the LMS architect William Henry Hamlyn, it was given a distinctly austere, rectangular brick-box look that has remained aggressively unchanged ever since.

Indeed, the station seems to have decided that 1932 was its aesthetic peak and has steadfastly refused any form of modernisation. It is a structural time capsule where the highlights include the Private CS (Cone Store). This is an exclusive sanctuary for orange plastic (a VIP lounge for platform management devices) tucked away behind a door that advises you to mind the step.

Then there is the waiting room, which has been waiting for a renovation since the day the station was built. The blue wooden benches are quite handsome, but the walls are currently performing an interpretive dance of peeling paint and crumbling plaster. It is a masterpiece of geological decay.

One cannot ignore the historic infrastructure, specifically the venerable drainpipe dated 1931. It has leaked with rhythmic consistency for the last decade and is currently being held in place by a single, heroic zip tie. It is a testament to the fact that, on the Underground, "temporary" is a word that spans generations.

Moving to the staff quarters, we find the kitchen: a room containing a wet patch that never dries. It is an eternal subterranean swamp that appears to have established its own micro-climate, defying the laws of physics and evaporation.

In the midst of this decay, however, one piece of history survives: the station still possesses one original lock from its construction, though the key itself has long since been replaced. It is a lone sentinel of 1930s security.

A variation of Trash Queen’s theme that’s used for her hometown of Upney.