Perhaps it is too much film noir, perhaps it is the sheer unworldliness of these places. Perhaps it is that smidgeon of unease, a tad of disquietitude, the discomfort of isolation that makes these places both exotic and uneasy. Whatever the reason, somehow I love them.
There are precious few in Southend-on-Sea, and I rarely use them. But boy do I get a kick out of travelling their long, tubular passages. Their thrusting penetration into Mother Earth; their inevitable rising, their proud entry, and exit.
These underground journeys, quietly traversing roads away from view. I celebrate your every inch.