Four Foot Eight

Waterloo

Embankment

The station gates are locked shut during the morning rush hour. A sign conveys London Underground's apologies for the fact there is no service on the Underground today owing to industrial action as temporarily tubeless travellers stream across Hungerford Bridge, washing around the sides of the closed station as they walk to work from Waterloo.

Others crowd onto already-crowded buses while still others remain at home, muttering to themselves and cursing the RMT (or, depending on their outlook, the intransigence of LUL management) for forcing them to take a day off because they wouldn't be able to face the journey into town.

Just for one day, Londoners are reminded what life would be like if the Tube wasn't there. And tomorrow, just for the one day, they'll be glad it's there again.

Charing Cross

The silent and dusty Jubilee Line platforms, disused since the extension to Stratford opened, are quiet and still early one morning. The remaining lighting dimly illuminates the abandoned station as years-old litter blows about in a scene that's a million miles away from the rest of the station, already beginning to bustle with early morning commuters on their way in and night workers heading for home. Five-year-old posters line the walls.

The litter begins to blow about a little faster, then faster still as an air current disturbs the peace. Soon after, the unmistakable rumbling and clattering of an approaching train echoes from the tunnel and sure enough, the headlights of the day's first southbound Jubilee Line train appear in the distance before the train itself nervously pulls slowly into the station and stops.

Confused travellers stab at the "door open" buttons and peer at the station signs, trying to figure out exactly what it is they can see through the windows. The driver switches on his PA.

"Er, ladies and gentlemen, as you've probably noticed we seem to have arrived at Charing Cross, where I guess this train will terminate. I'm keeping the doors closed while we work out what to do. I'll be right back with further information as soon as I've asked the signallers exactly what they're playing at. Thank you."

Leicester Square

I used to be someone, thinks the faintly familiar woman in her fifties who's standing waiting for a Piccadilly Line train among the station's usual evening crowd - tourists, buskers, the odd worker who's been for a late drink. If I'd been here 20 years ago, she thinks, I'd not be able to stand here without being mobbed, pestered, asked for autographs. In fact, I probably wouldn't be standing here. I'd be taking a taxi. My adoring fans would have been waiting outside the theatre. Now here I stand unnoticed, just another face in the crowd. But isn't this better? Being a household name is bad for your privacy and certainly doesn't make for a quiet life, and at least now I can do what I want to do without being constantly bothered. Yes, I think maybe I prefer it this way. Fame is for the young.

A group of late-night revellers pass, and one of them frowns slightly in faint recognition before walking past without stopping.

Aha!, thinks the woman. There's still at least something there. I was beginning to worry.

Tottenham Court Road

The staircase down into the station on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street is narrow. The thirty-something male (there are a lot of thirty-something males shopping on Tottenham Court Road) who just bought a widescreen television hasn't planned his shopping trip terribly well, and after half-carrying, half-bouncing the enormous box down the stairs he staggers across to the barriers, pushes it through the luggage slot, and drags it to the down escalator.

He's just got to the platform when he has a sudden heart-sinking revelation that he's going to have to do all this again at the other end as well as changing at Notting Hill Gate.

Maybe he should have taken a cab after all.

Goodge Street

At half past nine in the morning two trains arrive at the station simultaneously - one from the north, one from the south. Two hundred passengers disembark and head simultaneously for the stairs to the lift landing. As they round the corner they find themselves stopping dead, piling into each other like ball bearings poured into a bin as they run into the back off the crowd who arrived on the previous train.

While the lifts are being sent up and down as fast as they can go, with one lift out of action ("due to a mechanical fault", according to a sign) it's still slow going and the crowds only seem to be getting bigger. It's amazing how many people suddenly find the energy in them to climb the 130-odd spiral stairs back to the world of daylight rather than waiting in a crowded subterranean tunnel for their turn to trudge forward into the lifts, heads down like extras from Metropolis.

Warren Street

tssh tssh tssh tssh tssh tssh tssshtytsssh
whoa, baby, baby, whoa.. tap tap tap
doo dum doo dah.. duh duh uh duh ah..
bap buh bap bop.. slap tap tap slap slap
da da duh duh dah duh duh dah
whoa YEAH uh do doo vuh vuh uh uh vuh
taptaptapBAPtaprapTAPtapbapTAPrapbuhtaptapSNAPrapuh
doo uh duh uh ah oo ba ba doo uh ba doo duh
tssh tssh PSSH tssh tssh PSSH tshtshtshPSSHtsshtssh
boo bop ba boo buh duh vuh uh YEAH uh voo bah ba pah DAH
TSSHTSSH PSSH TSSH TSSH TSSH PSSHPAPSSHPOSHPSSH
badabapaBOObapaDUHbosorry?

Oh, pardon me. I hadn't realised it was disturbing you.

Euston

It's a hot, sticky day. In the booking hall there are big queues at the ticket windows and the only machines without big queues are in EXACT CHANGE ONLY mode. A man rummages in his pockets and manages to come up with approximately the right amount of money, so heads for one of these machines to buy a ticket.

As he's just finished dropping in lots of small change and is collecting his ticket, a figure appears next to him.

"Spare some change?"
He doesn't have any change left. "Er, no mate, sorry."
"CHRIST!", shouts the figure before walking off. "None of you bastards have any fucking manners, do you?"

Ho hum, the man thinks. There's a good start to the day, eh?

(based on a true story)

Mornington Crescent

Two people get off a northbound train and look around at the platform with its cream tiling, station name fired into the tiles and wooden benches. One of them braces his feet firmly against the floor, holds a camera as steadily as is possible when neither flashes nor tripods are permitted, and takes a photograph.

Then they look at each other, shrug, and head to the southbound platform to wait for the next train back into town.

Elephant & Castle

A woman walking down the passageway to the Bakerloo suddenly stops dead, causing the three or four people behind her to pile into her and each other. "Oh!", she says, and apologises, removing her headphones. "I was miles away - pardon me."

The inconvenienced passengers mumble their own apologies to her, the others, and to London Underground, and continue on their way while the newly awake woman looks around her. She's done this journey so many times she can do it entirely on autopilot, but now she wonders if maybe it's time for a change. Yes! she decides. She will have a change. She'll go via the Northern Line instead of the Bakerloo today - it's an extra change but hey, you're only young once.

Borough

A neatly-dressed man carrying an umbrella walks onto the platform. Deep in thought, he waits for a northbound train.

What he isn't carrying is a briefcase, which is why he's deep in thought. He is so senior at work that his briefcase is usually almost empty anyway apart from a copy of the Financial Times - he doesn't have to read it himself, there are people at work who prepare a daily digest of what's important for him to know. Still, you can't go to work without a briefcase, he thinks. He has staff to handle his diary, take minutes and produce summaries. They even decide where he's going to lunch today and who with.

He's scared that one day someone will work out that amid all the hubbub of his executive office and its staff, he doesn't actually have to do anything himself. He's too important. And then where will he be? The problem is that once you've got far enough up the ladder you begin to forget how you got there. He knows that if he lost his job he'd be finished. And he's having to try very hard right now to remember the contents of the shopping list in his forgotten briefcase. Margarine, semi-skimmed milk, green olives, maybe?

Oh well. He'll get someone to sort it out when he gets to work.

London Bridge

Rush-hour crowds are streaming through the station at half past eight in the morning, flooding down from the main line platforms into the Underground on the way to work. They push and shove and hurry and tut, glaring at anyone who dares to move more slowly than themselves, a huge mass of tutting, stressed humanity.

One man walks along slowly with his head down. The crowd flows around and past him, tutting and rolling its eyes in impatience at his dawdling. Let them tut, he thinks. Why are they all in such a hurry? It's only bloody work - by the way these guys push and shove and rush you'd think they were on their way to do something they actually want to be doing.

Bank

Good morning, London! The time is exactly ten minutes to eight and you're listening to the Breakfast Show on fabulous London FM, the pulse of the greatest city on Earth. It's a beautiful day out there, the sun's shining, the sky's clear, and we're looking at highs today of over twenty degrees Celsius, that's about seventy Fahrenheit. So get up, get moving, and get started - it's shaping up to be a great day to be a Londoner. We've got the new Oasis single coming up in a couple of minutes along with your chance to win ten thousand pounds on the Disco Dilemma, but before that on this perfect morning, here's an update on the travel from Sally.

Thanks, Ken. Starting with the good news, traffic inbound on the Westway's flowing fairly smoothly this morning. Not too many tailbacks, although things are of course slow around Hanger Lane and coming off the M40. Apart from that there's congestion, some of it severe, on all major routes into the City with particular problems around the east end of the North Circular and the Dartford Crossing. Due to the hot weather tempers are fraying on the roads and the Department of the Environment have issued a smog alert for Central London, so be extra careful out there and allow extra time for your journey. Finally, there are no major problems on the railways although Bank station is closed after an earlier security alert and is likely to remain so for another hour or two. There's also slow running on the Piccadilly Line due to signal problems at Acton. Another update in half an hour.

Moorgate

A man in his twenties is leaning against the wall on the Circle Line westbound, head back against the cool brickwork, deep in thought.

It all started so well, he thinks. Old-fashioned romance, it was, or as close to it as you get these days. It had been a student ball, one of those things where you get to wear a penguin suit for the night and pretend to be civilised. He'd just gone with his mates for a laugh. But sometime around ten he saw her, and she saw him. The next thing he remembers it was 4 o'clock in the morning, the tired-looking DJ was playing the night's last record, and they were still dancing, oblivious, locked in an embrace, spinning across the virtually empty floor among the bottles and crushed plastic glasses.

Things went fine for ten months after that, at least after he'd found the guts to call her. Actually, he's wrong on this - he hadn't had the guts, but she'd had the sense to call him anyway. Suddenly, though, something went wrong, and he still doesn't know what. All he knows is that it was his fault. She told him as much. That's the way it always goes with me, he thinks. I always end up ballsing it up, throwing away life's opportunities. Throwing away a good thing without even noticing I'm doing it. Oh well, that's how it goes, he glooms, as the familar sick feeling that always accompanies thoughts of The Breakup wells up in his insides.

Old Street

As she climbs out of the subway and back into the world of sunlight, fresh breezes, and full Orange coverage, Jane Bradfield's cellphone rings. She answers it.

The man on the other end introduces himself as Sergeant someone of the British Transport Police. A Mr Bradfield has been involved in an incident at West Finchley station. Tripped and fell down the stairs, they think due to the sudden onset of a heart attack. He's stable, but he's on his way to hospital. Yes, madam, your number was found in his wallet. Yes, madam, he's stable. No, madam, there's no immediate cause for concern.

She thanks the policeman, rings the office to say there's been an accident and she won't be in until later, and is about to turn right back round at the top of the escalator when something in her mind waves a little attention-getting flag. West Finchley? Odd place.. it's nowhere near home, and he was supposed to be away at a meeting in Glasgow last night ...

Angel

The platform is crowded, but there is one space left on the benches. One man takes that space, and soon finds out why it was free when the unremarkable-looking man next to him looks around furtively before addressing him.

"I don't think I should be even telling you this. I've made a discovery."
"Sorry? And this is?"
"There's been a long-standing series of mind control experiments going on for at least thirty years. Everyone's involved."
"And.. er.. right, what form did these experiments take?"
"Bad pop records. I first became suspicious watching old footage of Joe Dolce perfoming 'Shaddap Ya Face' on Top of the Pops."
"Er, everyone needs a hobby, I suppose."
"It's simple! The military-industrial complex was experimenting with a plan to soften people's minds into unquestioning submission! Dolce, who had been programmed already, was on stage in front of the crowd to monitor their reaction! Those so-called innocent records were just government mind control drugs! Administered via the television! I can't tell you too much, but... well, as you're a friend.. watch out for the Corrs, that's all I can say."
"Right. I think I hear my train coming. Goodbye.."

King's Cross St Pancras

It's the middle of the rush hour. A weary traveller walks onto the station forecourt from the Euston Road and takes in the scene before him. A couple of junkies beg for used Travelcards at the exit from the Underground station while various other providers of local colour offer various goods and services or simply demand money. Thousands of tired and cross-looking people pick their way around the building works and the passed-out drunks. A couple of overworked-looking members of the British Transport Police attempt to keep the peace.

The traveller takes a deep breath, strides through the station doors, ignores someone who's either asking if he has some spare change or whether he wishes to buy a knocked-off Travelcard and heads down the stairs towards the Underground with a sense of relief. King's Cross station, he thinks. You will not find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Camden Town

It's the beginning of the evening peak. The station is largely quiet as two trains approach simultaneously from the south - one from Bank bound for Edgware, one from Charing Cross bound for High Barnet. They pull into the northbound platforms to stop more or less simultaneously, and as the doors open the station comes to life.

Commuters burst from the doors, sprinting for the connecting passageways linking the two branches of the Northern Line as if their lives depended on it. In a way their lives do depend on it - every minute they have to spend waiting for the train is a minute they're not spending at home putting their feet up, having a bath or being with the kids. Passages which were deserted twenty seconds earlier mill with pushing, shoving commuters who simply want to go home.

Some of them make it to the other platform in time and leap onto the northbound trains which will finally take them home. Others arrive too late and look irritatedly at the indicators, wishing that they were somewhere else as the trains pull away.

Kentish Town

"Excuse me, which platform do I want for Acton Central?"
"Acton Central? Dunno, mate. What line's it on?"
"I was just told to change at Kentish Town for Acton Central."
"Never heard of it. Let me check the map. Well.. there's North Acton, West Acton, East Acton.. keep goin' south and change to the Central. Or there's Acton Town. Change at Leicester Square, Piccadilly line."
"No, it's definitely Acton Central. Look, here are the directions I was given."
"Oh, see - that says Kentish Town West, not Kentish Town. You want the main line station, mate, not the Underground. Here's Acton Central, see. On the North London Line. One stop away from South Acton."
"On the Northern Line? I thought you said.."
"No, no. North London Line. Different thing."
"Right. So it's the main line station here?"
"Nope, Kentish Town West. Different station entirely. Map on the wall somewhere should have it. Bit of a walk, mind."
"Oh.. right. Any idea how often the trains go on that line?"
"Sorry, mate. You want Network Rail for that kind of info."
"Network Rail run those trains?"
"No, Silverlink do, I think. Network Rail just own the track. Oh, and someone else owns the trains."
"Er, right.. so who'd know when the train's going?"
"Don't ask me. Not my place to speak for, Network Rail, it's not Underground business. Probably at least one an hour, though."
"This is why I love London, you know. Getting around is so simple and uncomplicated. Anyway, better get going and find this other station. Thank you so much, you've been.. very helpful."