I still laugh when I hear someone shout it across the ward. Iron Horse. Sounds like I should be galloping across the outback or pulling a steam train through the Red Centre. Instead, I’m usually elbow-deep in paperwork or racing between beds with a cup of tea that I swear I brewed three hours earlier. Still hot though. London hospitals do strange things to time.
The Shift That Started It All
A Night That Refused To End
I came in for what should have been a standard evening shift. I told myself I’d head home at sunrise, cook a half-decent fry-up, and treat myself to the kind of nap that makes you forget your own name. The universe had other plans. The ward filled up. Alarms sang their sad little tunes. My mates faded one by one, faces turning grey under the fluorescent lights.
I pushed on. I felt my legs ache, yet something in me kept rolling. Could be pride. Could be the stubborn streak my mum blames on our convict ancestors. I like to think one of my great-great-great uncles whispered in my ear, telling me to pull my socks up and stop acting soft.
The Sunrise Surprise
By the time we reached morning handover, someone muttered, “Mate, you’re a bloody iron horse.” They meant I plodded on without slowing, same way some outback mare would trot through dust storms and snake pits without so much as a blink.
The nickname stuck faster than London grime on a white trainer.
The After-Shift Shenanigans
A Pint Instead Of A Pillow
You’d think after a shift like that I’d collapse. I should have. My body begged for mercy. Yet the pub next to the station lit up like a beacon. My feet steered me there without consulting my brain. My mates followed, claiming they wanted to “see how long I’d stay upright”. I told them I’d outlast every one of them, partly because I believed it, partly because I like winning at things no one should be trying to win.
Pints went down smooth. Spirits rose. The sun climbed higher over the city, and I felt that warm, reckless rush you only get when you’re young and foolish in the best way possible.
A nurse from the floor above spotted me and said, “You’re still going? Iron Horse rides again.” That’s when I knew the name wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
The Aussie Comparison Game
Back home, a long shift usually ends with a cold beer, a hot shower, and the strong intention to avoid anything that involves loud noise or bright light. Here, London tempts me out. The pubs call my name. The streets hum with energy. Even the Tube feels like a little adventure if you catch it at the right moment.
In Australia, people brag about surviving scorching heat. In London, people brag about surviving endless shifts and then dancing at a club that smells faintly of old cigarettes and ambition. I slid right into that tradition without breaking stride.
My Convict Blood And Stubborn Streak
A Bit Of Heritage Pride
My family wear our convict background like a medal. Most folks hesitate when they talk about it. Not us. We’ve got stories, legends, arguments over which ancestor stole what and how often they tried to escape. That stubborn streak travelled through the generations, landed squarely in my chest, and refuses to move.
So of course I keep going when a shift turns savage. My ancestors crossed oceans in chains. I can cross a ward without flopping on the floor.
Why The Name Fits
I won’t pretend I never feel tired. I do. Sometimes I’m dragging my boots behind me, half convinced I’m dreaming while awake. Yet something in me loves the push. Loves the effort. Loves the challenge of seeing how far I can go before common sense taps me on the shoulder.
Iron Horse suits me. It’s a bit silly, a bit bold, and a bit true.
London Life Keeps Me Rolling
New Streets, New Stories
Moving from Australia to London felt like swapping blazing sun for foggy mornings, but I’ve grown to adore it. The city keeps offering new things to try, new streets to wander, and new problems to laugh about. My wardrobe now includes jumpers I never thought I’d own. My vocabulary includes slang that still confuses my mates back home.
Every shift gives me something to write about. Every night out adds a tale. Every odd London habit gives me a fresh way to compare life here with life Down Under.
The Nickname Lives On
These days, even folks who’ve never worked a shift with me call me Iron Horse. I could try to shake it off, yet I’ve grown attached. It reminds me of that strange, wild stretch of hours when I kept going long after I should have stopped. It reminds me of the mates who cheered me on. It reminds me of the thrill of earning a name rather than choosing one.
Why I’m Telling This Story
A Start To This Whole Blogging Thing
I thought it made sense to kick off my blog with the tale behind my nickname. It’s a piece of me, the sort of thing that shapes how people see me before we’ve even shared a cuppa. It says I work hard. It says I don’t give up easily. It says I probably need someone to drag me home when I finally hit my limit.
I’ll keep writing about life in London, the chaos of nursing, the odd beauty of this city, and the ways I stumble through it with an Aussie brain and British roots. If the name Iron Horse inspires a grin or a raised eyebrow, that suits me fine.
I’ll keep charging on. I always do.