What I listened to on the Tube Today #1

The Giant White Basket

I miss a tube due to an overcrowded platform. I'm at the edge of the platform and would have squeezed in but a French trio want to travel together so wait for the next train, blocking my route and giving the boarded passengers an extra inch of space for their £400 a month tickets.

The next train arrives 45 seconds later. Already annoyed that I have been set back by almost a minute I am further irritated when I see a space I had spotted is in fact filled by a giant white basket.

In the unlikely event of me being shopping for white baskets in London during rush hour I am fully sure that instead of dragging said giant white basket through thousands of shoppers, tourists and commuters I would find the nearest pub, possibly Match Bar or that place across from Debenhams that I always forget the name of, and have three beers and a bowl of chips and wait for everything to calm down again. Anyone who wouldn't do likewise is simply uncivilised in my opinion, and an idiot.

Adjusting quickly to the basket disappointment I find room alongside the yellow hand pole on the right-hand-side of the train. A man is asleep in the corner seat and when I stand a certain way his resting leg is nestled right between my standing ones - with touching. He looks quite tough and the possibility of him being offended by our intertwining limbs is real, I make every effort to adjust my stance but leg space is premium.

Squeezed between me and the door are the French three from the platform. Two girls and one guy. One girl is pretty, wears a hat and has a lip piercing. She doesn't say much. The other two natter away as if there aren't another 820 people in the carriage. He is dark haired, is in his early twenties and has typical Gallic features. He's wearing very skinny black jeans, a Mac and battered Vans. The other girl, who seems older than the others, looks like a prostitute.

Back to him. He has dreadful fingers. Red marks and missing bits of skin surround his finger nail cuticle area. He nibbles at them constantly, not in an embarrassed, fidgety way but in an almost urbane one, like he's smoking a Gitane or tuning a trombone.

And so it is, the model, the musician and the whore are crushed by the door and I'm playing footsie with a possible goon-for-hire in the corner. I'm thinking my usual rammed-tube thoughts, unemployment, West Cork, Australia, and they're chatting away like they don't have a care in the world. They probably enjoy crowds, the young.

They speak constantly, about what I don't know. I have no French. He mentions Seven Seesters so I assume they're visiting an exhibition of some sort in Seven Sisters, or an orgy.

We arrive at Kings Cross. Mother tube usually sheds a few of her litter here so I'm confident that soon I'll be able to free myself from my tryst with Sleeping Beauty.

A woman, short and a little frumpy with her hair tied back too tightly, picks up the giant white basket. It reaches from her thighs to her throat. She moves from the centre of the aisle in my direction.

As she approaches me I move as far over to the other side and kind of squash up against a man in a suit to allow her room to pass. Internally I sigh and bitch and moan as I do this but I also afford her a polite smile as she passes. She doesn't respond.

Now her only obstacle from tube to platform is the French. They are chatting as before. The man is facing the woman with the giant white basket. He sees that she needs to pass. He must know the doors are going to close. He doesn't move. He stands firm. He stares at the woman and her basket. This lasts for a two tenses seconds.

The sleeping ruffian has woken up and is smirking with his friend (also rough) at the impasse before him. Everybody else in this part of the carraige stares.

What a prick is my first instinct. Obviously. But then I think, this type of thing must happen in cities like New York, Moscow, Rome & Paris all the time. Cultures where less of an emphasis is based on the British idea of politeness. I, afterall, think this woman is a total idiot for even considering carrying a giant white basket on the tube and would love to tell her so so maybe he's right and we're wrong, how else will the morons learn? He is wrong though, and a knob.

The woman blinks, lets out a small sigh and goes for it. She simply barges through him. Giant white basket first. And with that she's gone. Off the tube. The Frenchman doesn't react and casually goes back to his conversation.

The rough guy in the corner gives his friend another smirk and our eyes meet. He knows our legs have been touching I think.

"Mind the closing doors" the voice announces.

Post theatre

Leaving a theatre, film or symposium alone is an odd thing. The desire to discuss the performance, the absence of company, seems to be replaced by an increased purpose of stride, that’s my experience anyway.

And so it was that following a very enjoyable evening at One Man, Two Guvnors (10/10 first half, 7.5/10 second half) I strode purposefully into the McDonald’s on the Strand and right into what I suspected was the ladies toilet. I simply had to go. As I went, a huge belch, of Barney Gumble proportions, came from the cubicle next to mine. A male voice then shouted,

“Rude boy”

Profanity followed. I was in the ladies with a very drunk, and possibly hostile, drunk man. Perhaps I wasn’t even in the ladies.

I knew the bathroom door was open, and in my confusion about the male/female toilet situation I had made eye contact with a number of diners. I also knew the burping and language would be audible in the restaurant and that I would be a prominent suspect.

I finished my wee, shook, and left the cubicle. A youth with bleached blond hair and a large chain was at the sink splashing his face and neck with water. I decided not to wash my hands (dirty) and quickly left to what I now presume to be the unisex toilets before hurriedly shuffling through the golden arches and back into the night.

The Strand (or is just Strand?) is full of homeless people, one of whom was being fed burgers and coffee by two pretty young girls. Reality was disturbing my post-theatre stride so with added purpose I walked towards Charing Cross Station and down the escalators to the north bound Bakerloo line.

On the last escalator I heard the chanting. I know Millwall had a big win this evening (I checked Twitter at the interval).Great. Second only to ‘Millwall fans after a loss’ when it comes to people you don’t want to meet on a train, Millwall fans celebrating a victory are guaranteed to ruin a late night train journey.

Even as a lifelong football fan, I’ve never been a fan of chanting outside of the ground. It’s clannish, aggressive and, especially when one is trying to read, quite rude. The chanters are in the middle of the platform. I edge towards the top, at least two carriages away from them. The train is due in three minutes. I look down, they are kids, the lot of them, still intimidating though, it’s the chanting, it’s like they’re headed to a lynching, even if I know they’re going home to mum.

I board the train, sit down and relax. I can hear the youths chanting in the distance, but ignore them. At every stop they seem to get closer, like they are changing carriages, like they are looking for me.

A man in his early thirties is sitting opposite me with a woman he clearly has been on a date with. She is dressed like a posh hippy. He’s wearing a shabby suit. He has a poorly groomed beard and a blotchy face. He holds himself with confidence though. Or he may be drunk.

“They are determined to annoy as many people as possible” he says to his date.

Right on brother I think.

The bell rings and the doors close. We are safe for another stop at least.

The man continues a conversation with his girl.

“I was in Café Nero killing time” he begins.

“Hey, what did time ever do to you?”

“Oh” he laughs, pauses, then laughs again saying “very good”, touching her hand as he does so.

He touches her hand. And she likes it.

As I make notes he continues his story and touches her hand again at least one time. Later they’ll kiss and maybe more. There’ll be more dates and for the next few years, perhaps for the rest of their lives, they’ll share a little joke, that neither of them find funny, every time somebody says ‘killing time’.

Liam

The end of the first day back in the office after Christmas.

Before the lift, a beep.

A text from Denis.

An instant callback. The tragic details confirmed. Poor Liam.

On the way to the station a phone call to Mum who remembers Liam in the buggy. The rain is torrential and before long I'm soaked through.

On the tube home, lost in thought, I notice the hand of a middle aged black woman gripping the handrail. Her face is concealed by the small post-Christmas commuter crowd. The middle finger is missing from her grip. I see her in a Rwandan village. Being held down by men. Taking much more than her finger.

My dark thoughts continue and always return to Liam. RIP.

The first Sunday of Christmas

I am carrying a can of Diet Coke, a bottle of water, a packet of Maltesers and a flyer for a BBC Three TV show looking for people who are unhappy with how they look.

I walk onto the station platform. L is there, waiting for me to return with provisions. The skies are blue, the sun is shining and there’s a Christmas tree standing against the railing. As surreal as that sounds this is not a dream, we’ve just bought our Christmas tree and for the second year in a row are carrying it home on the train, which is due in 25 minutes.

A woman is pacing around on the opposite platform. Our eyes briefly meet. I’ve got her attention. Look away, look away. Too late.

"You live here?"

Yes, I say, in my best I’m-not-in-the-mood-to-chat-to-strangers tone.

The woman looks to be in her early fifties, is wearing a large overcoat and is carrying a plastic bag, if I had to guess I would say she was second generation Caribbean. I wouldn’t go as far as to call her brow beaten but she’s certainly weathered.Her accent reminds me of our mortgage advisor, whose name escapes me.

“I hate the place” she continues. “Too quiet, around here” she’s looking down the stairs now. “Nobody would find me if I was murdered.“
I nod and mutter something. I doubt if anyone has ever been murdered in Crews Hill. It’s basically a road of garden centres and pet shops.
She stares at the platform sign and takes a mobile phone from her pocket.
“They put me on the wrong train. And I end up in Bedford.”

Silence. L picks up and pretends to be engrossed in the BBC Three flyer.

“My friend went to Bedford too. And her mother died.“

We don’t respond.

There’s more silence. It’s a lovely, fresh afternoon, perfect for relaxing on a train platform not talking to crazy women.

“And I have a twin sister. They thought I was her.”

“Where are you trying to get to?” L asks.

“The West Indies she says. I’m going to miss my flight”

Although I have only just met her I feel very confident that this woman is not booked on any flight to the West Indies today.

She takes the phone out of her pocket, again doesn’t use it for anything and wanders towards the other end of the platform. I ready myself for lifting the 6-7 foot, £60 Christmas tree onto the train.

At 14.52.36, 1 minute and 24 seconds before the train she has been awaiting for a half an hour arrives, the woman disappears down the stairs.

I want to call out that the train is coming but don’t.

Our train, which is going the other direction arrives, I manage to get the tree on, prompting smiles from fellow passengers.

As we depart, and head home to a day of tree decoration, Christmas dinner and Brian Blessed’s Christmas top 40, I look out on the empty platform, and wonder what this woman, walking around Crews Hill in an old overcoat, and carrying a plastic bag and a mobile phone that probably hasn’t worked for years, is going to do with the rest of her afternoon.

Illustration by Gemma Luker

Early Sunday afternoon

Hungover and feeling sorry for myself I have just boarded a train for the final leg of a long journey. I am sitting across from an older man who has dressed for Sunday. When I’m his age I’ll dress for Sunday I think to myself.

As I open my paper I look up. A woman has appeared by my seat. The train is less than half full and very silent.

“Excuse me” she says to the middle aged woman who is seating adjacent to me.
“Where is the toilet on this train?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I’m ever so sorry” the middle aged woman replies.

The toilet seeking lady looks at me.

I look up. She has thin hair and hasn’t put her make up on very well.

“I don’t think there are any toilets” I say. I want to add an ‘ever-so-sorry’ but on
account of my Irishness and hangover I don’t think I’ll pull it off, so I don’t.
The woman stares back at me. My eyes creep back to my paper.

Silence.

She remains standing, over my shoulder. I can hear her bladder filling but admit it’s probably the hangover.

Finally, a fat man, bless him, pipes up and confirms she’ll have to hold.
“Gosh something or other” she says.

She’s speaking to us like we’re all in it together, strangers on a train bound by shared experience. We’re not though.

She sits back down.

How rude I think. This woman has totally ruined my trip. How am I supposed to enjoy my hangover and newspaper knowing this lady’s is bursting for the toilet? I mean how bad is it? Should I put some paper down?

I try to forget about it but can’t. Her shifting is right in my eye-line. Reading the Sundays with a hangover is hard enough without all of this I think.

The train stops. We’re not at a station. This could be a disaster.

The driver makes an announcement apologising for the delay. He’ll keep us informed he says.

We all look at the woman. She gives a squirmy smile.

I sigh and wish I didn’t know she was dying for a piss.

Monday, a few minutes before rush hour

The life of a commuter is full of many things; stress, Angry Birds, influenza. The diet of a commuter is not, stir fry, pasta, chicken Kiev, the list of week night dinners is not a long one.

Casseroles, curries or any other dish that requires any real cooking time rarely makes it to the school night dinner table of the London commuter. Not today though. Today I have finished work on time and have all the ingredients needed for a chicken casserole with tomato and cider recipe I was given.

The train is mostly full but my usual seat is free and I slide into the window seat. Across from me sit an elderly couple. They must be in their 70s. He looks like a cross between Martin Sheen and Murray Walker and is wearing a flat cap, a green jacket and dark green cord trousers. She has a slightly camel looking face, in a charming way, and wears a cream overcoat, leather gloves and wine coloured trousers. She carries an umbrella and a large handbag. They both wear poppies.

As I sit down I quickly take out my headphones to make sure the noise doesn’t bother them. They have been talking about the crowds on the train.

“It’s going home time, almost” she says, looking at her watch.

“Yes” he replies, giving her a smile.

He pauses and then leans into her.

“We’re going home with the workers”

They both smile and he leans back into his seat still smiling. It’s all very sweet. I go back to my book and they continue to chit chat to one another.

“Downton” I hear the lady say.

“It’s funny what they did”

I fumble for my headphones.

“Not really funny but…” she continues.

I have been avoiding Twitter and conversation with colleagues all day so as not to find out who snuffs it in the last Downton Abbey of the series and now…

I quickly press PLAY. Ghostpoet fills my ears. I lay back still ignorant and my evening’s entertainment unspoiled and think about the direction my life, full of casserole and period drama, has taken.