A gaggle of German tourists clatter down the escalator and head towards the Piccadilly Line, fresh from seeing one sight and on their way to see another. As they pause to examine a signboard a small, fast-moving figure emerges from a side tunnel, stops briefly behind one of them, and keeps moving in the direction of the platforms.
The visitors work out that the sign is warning visitors to be on the lookout for pickpockets operating on this station, and agree that they should all be very careful. One announces that he really should move his wallet to somewhere other than the back pocket of his jeans, and reaches round to do so...
In the early morning a couple dance slowly and silently on the southbound platform, holding each other close, eyes closed, ignoring the rest of the world as it passes by.
One by one trains arrive and commuters pile out onto the platform, surging towards the exits in the last phase of their trip to work, hurrying headlong into whatever the new day will bring. The crowds flow around the dancing couple, not seeming to notice them, close to them but never bumping into them, leaving a space through which they continue to dance, oblivious. Silently the dancers drift to and fro, sometimes close to the platform edge, but always turning back in time.
As far as they're concerned, the new day can wait.
'Twas Brixton, and the Theydon Bois
Did Ruislip Gardens in Archway.
All Morden was the Barkingside,
And the Moor Park South Quay.
Beware the Underground, my son!
The wheels that bite, the doors that catch!
Beware the New Cross Gate, and shun
The Finchley Central Bankersnatch!
He took his Travelcard in hand,
Long time the Maida Vale he sought,
So rested he by the Burnt Oak tree,
And Sudbury Hill in thought.
And as at Upminster he stood,
The Underground, headlights aflame,
Came Wapping through the Chorleywood,
And Barking as it came.
He mound the gap! - the Underground
With cries of "Please, do mind the doors!"
Conveyed him down to Acton Town
And Heathrow Terminal Four.
"Then hast thou used the Underground?
Come, Marble Arch, my Balham boy!
Oh, Gunnersbury! Cyprus, Croxley!"
He Shoreditched in his joy.
'Twas Brixton, and the Theydon Bois
Did Ruislip Gardens in Archway.
All Morden was the Barkingside,
And the Moor Park South Quay.
During a busy morning rush hour an ordinary-looking man in his fifties is sitting on the platform with his head in his hands, rocking gently and emitting muffled sobs which occasionally erupt into brief uninhibited wails of despair. His open briefcase lies next to him with papers and folders spilling out of it onto the ground.
Shameful, thinks a passenger waiting for a train into town. That man's just sitting there like that and all the platform staff are doing is hanging around over there rather than helping him. What are they here for, anyway?
The station assistant nearby is also thinking. What, he thinks, can I do? The guy didn't answer when I asked a couple of times if there was anything I could do to help, and calling the cops to have him removed seems a bit harsh. He must have been sitting there for an hour now. What can I do other than leaving him to it and keeping an eye on him to make sure he's okay? This certainly wasn't covered in the training.
A well-dressed woman alights from a southbound trains, looks around briefly, and heads for the exit. Louise Kenning leaves the train a couple of seconds later.
"Excuse me! I think you dropped something!", Louise calls out in her best cheerfully-helpful-passer-by voice as she catches up with the woman. Before she can protest, Louise has pressed the crumpled tissue she's been carrying firmly into her hand. As the surprised woman looks down in horror to examine the slimy object she's just been handed, Louise skips cheerfully back on board the train just as the doors start to close.
Louise wipes her hands as the train pulls away. Serves her right, she thinks, blowing her nose and just dumping the snotty tissue on the seat next to her like that. The rude cow'll hopefully think twice before doing that again.
"This is a passenger announcement.
"The 1736 departure to Hell, calling at Purgatory, Hades and all
stations to Dis, is currently delayed due to staff shortages and
emergency track maintenance in the Abaddon area. In addition, all services
from this station are currently experiencing delays owing to a lost soul
under a train at Pit of Despair Junction. We apologise for the delay,
and hope to have our regular services to hell running more or less
smoothly by 2008. In the meantime, please remain in Limbo and await further
information.
"Thank you."
As a young woman gets off the train, a young man leaps from the next carriage and catches up with her.
"Hey!"
"Oh! Hello again.. you don't usually come this way, do you?"
"Uh, no. Sorry. I changed at Stockwell because.. uh.."
"Because what? I'm late already, y'know."
"Oh, what the hell. Because, well, er, sorry, but, well, look, ah, I think I.. er.. I think I love you?"
"You... what?"
"Ohwhatthehell. I'm stupidly nuts about you, I can't think of anything except
you, it's driving me crazy, it's been driving me crazy for ages, and I
finally just had to tell you, you know, like, as it were. Er, sorry."
"And.. you followed me all the way from Balham just to tell me this?"
"Um, yeah. S'pose I did. Sorry about that."
"God. Eh.. I don't know what to say."
"Look, I'm sorry, this is stupid. I didn't talk to you earlier because,
well, I didn't know how you'd react, but now I've said it, I'll be off
and leave you in peace. Um. Sorry again. Cheerio."
"Hey! Where do you think you're going? Come back here right
now, you daft bastard."
"Um. Mmmph."
The station entrances are all open, but there's nobody in sight. Outside on Oxford Street, only silence.
The ticket office is open and brightly lit, but there's nobody behind the counter. Ticket machines stand ready but idle as the barriers stand a lonely guard.
Down the running but deserted escalators we fly, past advertisements that nobody sees. The normally crowded spaces underneath echo eerily as their bright fluorescent illumination seems dazzlingly bright in the absence of the usual crowds.
A Bakerloo Line train stands in the southbound platform with its doors wide open. Bags and newspapers lie scattered around the cars and platform, the passengers who own them nowhere in sight. A discarded coffee cup rolls across the platform and drops onto the line.
Originally written 12th September 2001
On a damp Thursday morning, the station staff break for a cup of tea.
"Odd day today."
"Aye."
"Lot of odd people coming through."
"Aye."
"This one guy, I tell you. Looked like he was carrying something large on his shoulder. Couldn't tell what it was, but he barged his way through the crowds like he owned the place."
"Aye?"
"Yeah. And his odd mate asked me something about flying saucers then started giggling. Bunch of weirdos, if you ask me."
"Some new religious group opened up?"
"Could have been, could have been. One or two of them said
something about trying to find their creator. And the weird one said
something about having a lot of questions when they finally got hold of
him."
"There you go, then. Aye."
"Strange thing, though. They all came back after a while. Went back into
town looking disappointed. The weird one said something about how inconsiderate it was, and how he'd never be able to ask those questions now."
"Now you mention it, I saw that lot on the platform. One said something about that being that now as far as those diodes were concerned, and another one just seemed to be speechlessly fuming with indignant rage."
"That settles it, then. Weirdos. Wonder where they came from?"
"Not around here, that's for sure. More tea?"
"Aye."
For Douglas Adams, 1952-2001, with thanks for all the fish.
A young man is standing staring at the wall. He looks a little dazed.
It's all just simple lines, he thinks. Swirling colours, weird shapes, trippy patterns. Moving in and out of each other, writhing around in curves and straight lines with an almost.. yeah, an almost hypnotic grace and fluidity. Kind of reminds me of that acid we scored a couple of years ago off that mate of Steve's. Great stuff, this.
So, er, yeah, he thinks as his eyes refocus - that's six stops on the Piccadilly Line, and it looks like if I change onto the Central at Holborn that'll be the quickest way to Marble Arch. Sorted.
It's a beautiful morning, thinks a man in his early thirties as he bounds into the station to catch an early train. Great start to the day. Hope it carries on like this - there's nothing too heavy happening at work, and then Steve's leaving do afterwards, so should be okay. No doubt everyone will be pissed enough tonight that an early start tomorrow won't be necessary. Yeah, so long as I leave in time for the last train home I'll be just fine - a nice long sleep and a good lie-in before going into work, no hassle. Nobody'll be there to spot that I'm not there at the usual time.
Yes, he yawns to himself. Looks like it should be an okay day, all in all.
An elderly couple pass through the ticket barrier and head for the escalators. The woman is almost dragging her husband along while he mutters about "what if they return while we're out" and "we shouldn't leave the house". Eventually she reassures and cajoles him enough to get him onto the escalator and down to the platform.
A couple of minutes later they come back up the escalator and head for the exit. She's reassuring him that it's not silly of him, well, maybe it is a little silly but it's great that they got all the way to the platform this time and didn't have to turn back at the station entrance like they did before. She's sure the house will be just fine when they get back, and no, she doesn't mind putting their shopping trip off again. But still, she points out, we can't let those burglars rule our lives forever, can we? She's sure that next time they'll get on the train, and then it'll all be fine.