A middle-aged woman sits on a platform bench. From a bag at her feet she produces a black notebook before unscrewing the cap of an expensive-looking fountain pen, riffling through the pages of the notebook and sitting with pen poised.
A couple of teenagers walk by chattering loudly, and she frowns at them. When a man passes by talking on his cellphone she slams the notebook and pen down and leaps to her feet.
"If you don't MIND...", she shouts, "some people here are trying to CREATE."
The young woman waiting for a London-bound train has a nervous face that won't stay still. It flits constantly between anger and pleasure, anticipation and fear as her mind registers the thoughts of the handful of people waiting on the platform.
As the train pulls in she can see that it's nearly full. Not good. The doors open and she rocks on her feet as a hundred different minds start shouting at her about work, about hangovers, about whatever someone's listening to on their iPod. A flood of raw, conflicting emotion tugs her this way and that as she concentrates hard, painfully forcing her own consciousness to regain control of her body enough to get her on board the train.
Sometimes it isn't easy being London's only genuine telepath.