Travelcard

Central London is soaked in history, from Cromwell to Robert Peel, Thatcher to whichever Queen it was that was ugly - but I doubt that narrows it down. Each Tube station dots off into another section of this city, I've always thought it like a spider. Not a very friendly spider though, imagine if you had all those different coloured legs. It'd drive you up the walls. I suppose each person could be described as a small bristle on the spider's leg, but they're not on the map and they don't matter. The greatest thing about this spider though, is that he loves to travel. All about London, I suspect he knows more about this flat city than any of us.
The greatest excursion down his pins was a few long months ago, a girl I knew decided to take me for a spin and perhaps show me her boudoir, who I was to refuse. Her particular leg was the disgusting pink one, I imagine it is the worst for the spider to coordinate with outfits. She sat me down on a muggy seat and said 'now I know you're not from around here, so I'll help you get around,' and she placed her hand in mine. The carriage rumbled and shook, the lights lining the tunnel whirled past. The Underground is still a bit of a novelty to me, although I've spent many grueling hours on it, I don't want it to become a chore. It makes this city even more unique. She grabbed my arm and before I looked down I was standing on the platform, ticket in hand, approaching the machines. I've had a bit of trouble with ticket machines before, my cards always seem to reject me as soon as I touch them.
'Baker Street,' I muttered. 'This was Sherlock Holmes's home wasn't it?' She turned to me with fury in her eyes, 'that's why this place is so awful! Bladdy toursits, Sherlock Holmes was fictional I don't understand why they want to come here.' I chuckled and patted her on the head, 'you Londoners!'