We are living in the 21st century. It is now the future. The technology available to us is developing so rapidly that by the time you you have got your brand new, top of the range personal computer/DVD player/Digital Camera/Mobile Phone/MP3 player home from the shops, it’s already outmoded and obsolete.

Scientists can clone sheep and horses, develop microscopic nanobots for use in surgery, put man on the moon and robots on Mars and explore heaven, earth and deep blue sea. We’ve split the atom, seen the creation of stars and mapped human DNA.

Sometimes I still feel like a child, in awe of the gadgetry that pervades our lives and marvelling at human achievement. We have become our own technological gods and the future is ours for the taking. The predictions of H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Arthur C. Clarke and many other great visionary authors are manifesting themselves in reality as we watch. Science fiction, slowly but surely, is becoming science fact. How long, I ask myself, before the first ion engines and warp drives will be taking us to the other side of the galaxy at speeds nearing (or maybe even faster) than the speed of light.

My friends, we live in amazing times.

So can someone please tell me how it is still possible for the air-conditioning challenged London Underground to be brought to a standstill by a power cut tonight. We’re not talking just one line, we’re talking the whole kit and caboodle, every tube line throughout London. And several regional overground services. And Eurostar.

This happened at 6:30pm.

On a weekday.

In rush hour!

The first indication that something was wrong was when I got to the station and found that the stairs were closed. Not an uncommon sight in itself, but accompanied by the sirens, the flashing lights and the sound of Big Brother demanding that everyone leave the underground immediately, I sensed that this might be more than just the usual “mouse shit on the track” problem.

Then a remarkable event took place. Rather than join the grumbling hoardes flocking patiently at the station entrance, I took a bus.

My dislike of London buses warrants another post in itself so I won’t go into it here. But tonight, largely driven by the unconquerable urge to get home, I gritted my teeth and hopped on. At least I would be heading in the right direction. After all, I only had two or three miles to go, through the centre of the city.

As it transpired, this turned out to be quite a prudent choice when I later learnt from the kind young lady sitting next to me with her phone-cum-radio (technology actually working for a change!) that it wasn’t just my station that was closed. The bus was the only way to get anywhere. Fortunately for me, I got on at the buses origin but I felt a tinge of pity for the crowds of commuters massing around the bus stops all the way up Oxford Street waiting in vain for a bus that wasn’t packed out. It was only a tinge though and it passed quickly.

An hour and a half later, I arrived at my destination. The one that was only three miles away.

I could actually have walked it in half the time which I would happily have done except that a) I have blisters on my feet that are so big I’m thinking about ringing the Guinness Book of Records in the morning and b) after weeks and weeks of dry weather, the heavens opened and it pissed down with rain.

But, as the saying goes, all’s well that ends well. I got to where I wanted to be and alighted from the bus with almost a spring in my step.

Only the west coast main line between me and a nice glass of Shiraz in the comfort of my own lair.

But that’s another story.