Moments on a Train

I entered the station, cold, wet, and dripping from the apparent typhoon that had begun earlier that morning. Already bothered, I glance up at the train board and lo and behold, I see my train and a big seven attached to it. How? I thought... how is it possible? Actually, 'how' isn't the right word, but 'why the fuck' are three better words, distinctly apt words that attempt to describe my disdain at TFL. Why the fuck is my train so bloody late. I look at the digital clock and again at my watch... bloody hell it's nearly 7:30.

I let out an audible groan as if to signal my utter dissatisfaction to these tube workers, but to my dismay the only people that looked around and behind them were my fellow passengers. Unfortunately, this red-and-blue-clad-uninformed worker continued his high pitched whistle, clearly unphased by 100s of collapsed smiles and grunts as the war against Monday began all over again. I searched for my debit card, clearly annoyed at why it wasn't in my wallet, and eventually found it in one of my 20 apparently recently added coat pockets. I beeped myself through the barrier, curious at how much my journey had cost this time, and into the lift. £2.90 they say, but who really knows.

Once we all entered into the metal shaft and descended 100 ft below, it all began. True... I make it sound like the beginning of The Minotaur or some modern hashpot... the Maze, but think about it. Really take a second and visualise the scene. Once we are all underground, the rules of interaction are silently rewritten, especially on the Monday morning. People line up along the platform, anxiously or indifferently waiting for their train, some hoping... others praying for enough space, more often than not to be left the f*** alone.

However, too often we are all left reeling, the incoming train pulls up, and we all dart our eyes across the carriages, assessing our chances at getting on. On this particular Monday, the carriage that pulls up in front of me is nearly filled to the brim with sombre looks, wet suits, and in the middle; a Japanese couple, clearly overwhelmed.

I smile to myself and make my way onto the train, securing one of four spots I like to position myself at. This spot was one by the interlinking train carriages, by the window to be exact. Here I could stand fairly unobstructed and look across my fellow passengers, the 'locomotive collective' as I refer to them in my head.

Looking down the carriage, one can always see a relatively orderly file of black smart shoes. Among the sea of plain oxfords, patterned brogues and heels, I smile wryly and wonder at those select few who decided to break the mundane routine by wearing their colourful gym shoes into work. Tangerine orange, lime green, and hot pink all stood out, as if it was their debut.

After taking the tube for so long, you start trying to entertain yourself. The name of the game is to do anything you want, anything except lock eye contact with someone. It's almost comical to the extent I found myself chuckling to myself.

This particular day I was on a very busy bakerloo train, and found myself squeezed next to a demure-looking brunette. In the gap between us and the doors, she glanced up and smiled. Admittedly I wasn't sure to whom the smile was directed at, but had it been any other city, I may have smiled back, or Hell... even struck up a conversation. However, convention prevailed and we remained silent.

People witness all sorts on the tube—there are the quintessential tourists, looking confused with their umbrellas, or the night workers with their fluorescent jackets and dusty timberlands. There are school kids with their baggy blazers and oversized rucksacks, the night-after couples snuggled together, lamenting the death of the weekend, but sneaking in a final kiss before the daily routine sets in.

On occasion, an event or even a particular character breaks up the monotony of the carriage, or let's stick with the locomotive collective for the sake of uniformity.

A musician maybe with his guitar, confidently strumming away until the end when he realises that people are more appreciative for the visual distraction, than the actual melodies, which often explains the wall of silence. I often admire these buskers and street performers, it's not easy to orchestrate and rouse feeling on a tube carriage, when most people's thoughts are anywhere but in the present moment.

Anyway, I digress as usual.

Recently, I've come across one or two platform conductors who are a real credit to the TFL ranks. One guy in particular, Chris, is normally stationed at Oxford Circus. Standing 5 foot 11 inches with a head of thick, wavy white hair, probably in his late 40s. His signature (if you can call it that) is to make some witty remark. The comments are usually aimed at some unsuspecting tourist, or an over-eager office worker, trying to edge his way ever so closer across the bold yellow line pasted onto the platform.

What I love about this two minute spectacle isn't the fact that he calls people out, but rather his delivery.

Only in England could a tube conductor politely insult people. Instead of receiving glares, the whole platform is set off with chin down chuckling, and wandering smiles.

It's rare moments like these that I feel a weird sense of pride towards my city.

After all, in these collective moments, we're all looking for a distraction.