I'm standing at the end of a line of about a dozen people. They are all strangers to me. We're underground - I don't know how far below the surface - with our backs close to a brick wall. A single torch provides some illumination, then I hear a click and and we're plunged into pitch darkness.
We're not in danger, however. We are in fact paying customers on a tour of the Victoria Tunnel, which stretches for a couple of miles below Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
It was built in the ninteenth century to transport coal. Not for the first time, I'm grateful I was born much later, for it literally isn't wide enough to swing a cat in. It's also very low. My hard hat keeps scraping the arched brick ceiling, obliging me to lean forward, and playing havoc with my lower back. At one point I sense the first stirrings of panic, brought on by the sheer claustrophobia of the place.
In places the floor is wet and I can hear the dripping of water. The walls in these sections are covered with a weird brown scum, which we're told takes several months to remove should you touch it.
In the Second World War the tunnel was converted into an air raid shelter. 'Many people were afraid to use it', according to my guidebook, a statement which comes as no surprise at all.
Our tour guide shows us the latrines, which look like steel buckets. Apparently, those desperate enough to go had to sit back to back and use newspaper rather than toilet roll to clean themselves. For a moment I consider disclosing that I had a friend at university who did this voluntarily, but I decide against it.
Near the end of the two hour tour, I think I have some idea of how the hardy folk of Newcastle must have felt during an air raid. I'm cold, uncomfortable, hungry and I want to leave. A story about how the tunnel got its name flies straight over my head.
Eventually we are liberated. I remove my helmet and practically run to Grey Street, where I wolf down a lasagna.
