Four Foot Eight

Morden

It's 0856 as a train leaves the tunnel, emerging into the morning sunshine and surprising Laura Wilkins as her mobile phone starts to ring only a few seconds later. Hum, she thinks, looking at it. Number isn't familiar. Wonder who it is at this time of the morning? Must be something to do with work.

"Hello?"
"Hello. Who am I speaking to, please?"
"Laura. Laura Wilkins. And you are?"
Odd. They've hung up. What was that about?

Ah, well. Late for work, anyway. Best hurry. Hope he locked the flat up properly before he left. He's a nice guy, really. But too guilty. Always worrying about his wife. Admirable, really, that he's so committed. He really does love her. He'll never leave her. And that's why I'm going to have to let him down gently next time I see him. It's the right thing to do, she assures herself as she steps out onto the platform.

In the A&E waiting room of a North London hospital, Jane Bradfield puts her own phone down and looks again at the list of recently dialled numbers on her husband's handset.

South Wimbledon

The northbound platform is its usual crowded self, but the dark grey figure has plenty of space to move about in and a great view of the legs and feet of the people waiting to head into town.

Sometimes lots of people wait here. But more importantly, sometimes they leave things behind them which he can pick up and make use of. It's always warm down here. It never rains, but there's an everpresent puddle of water a short walk away in the tunnels that provides for his needs. He's rarely bothered by anyone else, though it can be dangerous if you're not careful where you walk.

His ears fill with the hissing and thundering which announces imminent danger, and he scurries back to the dark corner where the rest of his family wait nervously. Once the danger has passed, he sticks his nose back out into the open and twitches his whiskers at the newly empty platform.

Colliers Wood

Got up with a terrible hangover, which is very odd as I don't remember actually drinking very much at all last night. Must just be the result of a very long day. Molly giving out about bringing strange men into the house and asking why I didn't introduce them. Thought she was asleep when I got back, I explained. Little memory of yesterday except for bar of now somewhat gooey soap left in pocket. Also lost button on trousers somehow, plus potato seems somewhat bruised if not a little mashed. Mysterious yet oddly familiar stain on shirt. Cat seems strangely distant this morning.

Tube station very busy. Almost got pushed off platform in front of train. Driver blew his whistle at me. Young man with a stick grabbed my arm and helped me get my balance back, so the loss of one of advertising's greatest minds was fortunately averted.

Tooting Broadway

A man hangs around outside the station, weighed down by an enormous rucksack. He seems to be deep in thought.

So, this is it, he thinks. I've done this journey twice a day for the last five years. Into the City in packed, standing-room only cars. Work all day in those bloody stifling offices. Back out of the City in packed, standing-room only cars. Microwave, television, beer, sleep. But this is the last time. Maybe the last time ever I'll walk through these gates. Never coming back. Too late to change my mind now, of course. A leap in the dark. Wonder what I'll be doing in five years? Oh well. Only one way to find out. Best be getting a move on. No time to hang around. Here goes...

He walks through the station gates, buys a single to Heathrow, takes a last look behind him and heads off down the escalator.

Tooting Bec

"Bec? What the hell's a Bec?"
"Not what, who. The station was named after a famous musician."
"A musician?"
"Yeah. Brass musician by the name of Rebecca Stone. She was the first trumpeter in the world to play non-stop for over twelve hours. Earned a place in the Guinness Book of Records at the time, but of course modern instruments and breath control techniques have improved upon that many times since, y'know?"
"But why the name?"
"Well, she used to practice near here. She'd spend a half hour or more every morning busking outside the station before getting the train into town for her day job. Of course, it all ended in tragedy. While attempting to break her own record, she had a heart attack and dropped dead. And that was the end of Tooting Bec, as the locals used to call her."
"Gods. What a sad story. Is that really what happened?"
"No, not really, you dimwit. Had you going there, though."

Balham

Author's Note: As it is often difficult to work out what (may be) really being said in conversations of this nature, a translation in useful italics has been provided to aid the reader, not to mention the characters...

A young man sits on a bench, embedded determinedly in a paperback book.
A young woman walks up to him. She doesn't speak for a few moments.

"Hi! How's it going?" (Hey! You! Can't you see me here?)
"Oh, hello! Didn't see you there, sorry." (Damn. She's noticed me.)
"Lost in your book, eh?" (You're supposed to be looking at me instead, dumbo.)
"Yeah, kind of. How have you been, anyway?" (I've been trying to avoid you.)
"Fine, fine.. keeping busy, y'know how it is." (Have you been avoiding me?)
"Me too. Work's been non-stop recently. Completely mad." (God, I adore you.)
"Tube's terrible at the moment, isn't it?" (Are you going to ask me out, then?)
"Awful, yeah. I've been waiting at least half an hour." (Umm...)
"Bloody stupid. I'm supposed to be in town in ten minutes." (Oh well, see if I care.)
"I hear one train got stuck in a tunnel outside Bank for two hours recently." (I want to kiss you and hold you in my arms forever.)
"Yeah, it was a couple of months back." (I want to hold you in my arms and kiss you forever.)
"Hey, a train! Wonders will never cease.." (Phew. I don't have to humiliate myself this time, then.)
"It's for the wrong branch, of course, but it's a start.." (You're going to get into another carriage, aren't you?)
"Ah, well, see you soon. Bye!" (Saved! Saved from inevitable rejection, at least this time..)
"Yup. Seeya!" (Oh well..)

Clapham South

The platform is packed, with the departure boards showing no trains on the way. People are getting hot and bothered and generally irritable, sufficiently impatient with the situation that for once they'd rather be in the office than where they are now. They mutter and grumble and rustle their newspapers as the station staff make an announcement in an attempt to alleviate the situation.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We apologise for the delay to your journeys this morning. The service is currently suspended due to passenger action at the next station, Clapham Common, where the police are in attendance following an incident. We hope to get the all clear shortly. Once again, our apologies for the delay."

Clapham Common

At half past nine in the morning a man in a crumpled grey suit who obviously stayed out far, far too late last night stumbles onto the platform and slumps onto a bench. His head lolls forward as his will to stay awake dissolves in the fatigue washing over his body.

As he dozes a small, odd-looking man with pointy ears seems to appear out of nowhere, creeping up to the sleeper and peering at his clothes. He pulls a slightly battered flower out of his pocket and squeezes a couple of drops of a gooey substance out of the end, using a finger to dab it gently onto the sleeper's eyelids. He wipes his fingers on his trousers, mutters something under his breath and retires to the far end of the platform.

A few minutes later a station assistant notices the man sleeping on the bench and walks over, gently shaking his shoulder to wake him with a "Sir?". An ecstatic smile spreads across his face as he looks up at her...

Clapham North

An elderly woman is waiting alone on the platform, on her way into the city to do a little shopping. This is noticed by the young man in a black jacket who looks around, sees nobody else on the platform, and quickly strolls up to her.

"Afternoon. Nice day outside, eh?"
"Why, yes, I suppose it is. Not the day to be down here, really, is it?
She looks down to notice that the young man has pulled a knife out of his coat and is waving it at her in a threatening, if rather unsteady, manner.
"Definitely not the day to be down here. So, how's about you staying nice and quiet, and just handing me your purse and.. yes, and those two rings?"
"I beg your pardon? I think I'd prefer not to, really."
He leans a little closer to her. "I don't give a shit what you think. Now give me the stuff, before I start to get annoyed."
Hmm, she thinks, yes, he appears to be serious -- can't think of many satisfactory outcomes to this situation. Ah well.

Out in the corridor, a staff member who's spotted the situation unfolding on the security cameras hears a couple of yells followed by a thud and a muffled whimper before the noise is drowned out by an arriving train. He rushes onto the platform to see an elderly lady waving cheerfully at him as she gets on the train, and a rather distressed young man doubled over and moaning softly as he clutches at his groin.

Stockwell

In the afternoon quiet a man approaches the ticket window. Strange looking pale guy, thinks the clerk - is he singlehandedly spearheading some retro fashion thing or something? Weird hat, long coat.. very odd. Still, you get all sorts of people through here, and he's seen stranger than this.

"Can I help you?"
"Good afternoon to you. I understand this is the departure point for the new underground train to the City?"
"Well, yes.. we're on the Northern Line, if that's what you mean."
"Ah, excellent. Well, a friend and I have a small wager, which I intend to win. One ticket to King William Street, if you will."
"King William.. don't know it. Whereabouts is it?"
"Why, in the City, of course. Adjacent to the Bank."
"That'll be Bank station, then. Two pounds twenty, mate."

The man's eyes widen in surprise. "Sir, I intend to travel on your railway, not purchase it outright! I certainly cannot burn such an amount on a simple wager. I must say I fear for the future of the City and South London Railway Company if you consider such an amount a reasonable fare. Good day!"

The puzzled clerk shivers as the man turns and walks away, shaking his head. The room suddenly seems warmer.

Oval

The group of police at the station are getting ready for action in the late afternoon after receiving word from control. There's been an upset in the match, and they're bracing themselves for the worst that a hard core of violent cricket hooligans can throw at them. Reinforcements of officers in riot gear wait nervously in vans just around the corner.

Soon the fans start to arrive at the station, and the police immediately notice that something's afoot. Usually in these cases the groups of fans are easy to identify. The victorious fans will be in party mood, whereas the defeated team's fans will be more despondent and downcast. But this time it's not like that. Both sets of fans are quietly trooping into the station and down the escalators looking stunned. Very few people are speaking at all, let alone looking likely to start a riot.

An officer collars a passing England supporter to ask what's up.
"We, uh, won..." he explains. "This can't be happening... it never happens..."

He can't get a word out of any of the West Indies supporters.

Kennington

A grey-haired gentleman wearing a regimental tie strides towards the lifts, taking a good look at the blue-uniformed staff member in attendance at the barrier as he passes. Shabby, he thinks. A disgrace to his unit. Cap on askew. Shoes that haven't seen brush or polish in weeks. That stubble's definitely not regulation. Should be drummed right back out onto Civvy Street.

And this floor. Unswept. Discarded tickets and mucky patches everywhere. If this was my command, I'd have that shower of idle layabouts out scrubbing this place with toothbrushes until it shone. And this lift! Doors squeaking, no good. Need to get the sappers out. No place for squeaking doors. Give position away to the enemy, battle lost for want of a dab of grease. Can't be having that.

He steps onto the platform. More shabbiness! Muck between the rails. Should be polished until he can see his face in them, get men with brushes and dusters down there every night. Bit of spit and polish never hurt anyone. Bit of military-style discipline needed here. Spruce things up a bit. Make trains run on time. Not rocket science running a railway. Officers and men all need a rocket up the behind. Just teach them a little efficiency and discipline. Oh yes, he thinks, if they put him in charge of this place for six months it'd be running like clockwork.

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."

Tufnell Park

It's a quiet afternoon at the station when two people, a man and a woman, race through the gates and up to the ticket window. The man slams a ten pound note down as they grab two singles to zone 1 and run for the lift without waiting for their change. The ticket clerk shrugs and puts the change on one side. They'll be back for it once they realise they've forgotten it.

As the lift doors shut, brakes squeal from the road outside. A crowd of policemen sprint through the station gates and down the emergency stairs two at a time. After a couple of minutes, the lift ascends containing the unfortunate couple and a number of accompanying police officers who frogmarch them back out of the station and into a the waiting van. A sergeant walks over to the ticket window. "Sorry about that, Sir - between you and me, I think they could have chosen a better escape route than the Underground. Maybe not the brightest of lightbulbs, those two."

Archway

A man sits peacefully on a bench with his eyes shut. He has somewhere to go but is in no real hurry to get there, so he sits on the empty platform and listens. He hears the distant hum of fans circulating air and mysterious mechanical sounds from deep within the tunnels. He hears footsteps echo as two other passengers join him on the platform and a vague chattering as they walk past him, one in soft soled trainers, one in clicking heels. A gentle gust of warm air on the left side of his face is the first sign of a train approaching. He strains to hear the first hollow rumblings from the tunnel as the rails start to sing and oscillate.

The rumbling turns into thundering and the gentle breeze turns into a gale as the train breaks out of the tunnel into the platform, wheels bang-banging across joins in the rails as it decelerates. A couple of seconds of silence follow before the sweep of the opening doors tells him it's time to open his eyes and get on the train.

Highgate

Daisy and Steve walked into the station and stopped to look at the big map on the wall. "I told you he wasn't there", said Daisy. "You've got the wrong place, I swear."

"Daze, I'm sure that's the place. Highgate's a big famous cemetery, right?Remember when that mate of Joe's was in Europe? He said he went there."
"Europe is a big place. Don't forget he also said he spent most of the time either pissed out of his head or floating about a foot off the ground. The guy thought he went to the famous Oktoberfest in Amsterdam, ferchrissakes."
"Yeah, but he swore he saw it. He said everyone went there and it was a really, y'know, spiritual experience."

A couple of minutes later, as they disappeared towards the platforms bickering loudly, the ticket office clerk turned to his colleague. "You won't believe this. I just had a couple of Aussies ask me where in Highgate Jim Morrison was buried."

East Finchley

On the station roof a pair of eyes open slowly. The owner of the eyes peers around with no obvious recognition of where he is. How strange, he thinks. Just a few seconds ago I was out in the forest looking for something to eat, and now I'm.. where?

It's all very odd. I can't move my arms. They're stuck out in front of me, holding my bow. It's a good hunting bow, that one. Hang on, I can't move anything at all. Just my eyes. Something's not quite right here. He looks around as far as his eyes will let him. This isn't the forest.

There are.. strange things everywhere, and many shiny metal rails down below him, half of which descend suddenly into darkness. He blinks to try and get the fine black dust out of his eyes. What circle of hell has he landed in? Huddled figures pass by underneath, paying him no heed. He tries to call out, but they don't hear. A gust of wind swirls the dust around his feet, and the Archer drifts off back to sleep.

Finchley Central

There is no small amount of drama in the late afternoon as a Situation develops at the ticket barriers. Arms are waved, threats are made, positions are stated and restated, insults are hurled, but the protector of the ticket barrier stands his ground, parrying verbal blows, shrugging off the angry looks that would wound him, standing like a rock until his would-be assailants are reduced to begging and pleading for mercy and kindness.

Eventually, the crowd of teenagers finally accept that one child rate Travelcard isn't enough for all twelve of them and beat a surly retreat to the ticket machine as the warden of the gates howls in triumph and beats his chest - well, rolls his eyes and wonders why they even bother trying that one.

Mill Hill East

A train meanders along the single line to terminate at the station's one platform. After a few seconds a woman who had previously been stuck behind an Evening Standard looks around and realises there's nobody else there. Oh, she thinks, are we there already?

She unplugs her headphones, stuffs her paper into her bag and walks out onto the platform, only to stop short looking confused. It takes her a few seconds to spot the platform sign - MILL HILL EAST - and work out that ah, that train she had to run for at Camden wasn't going to High Barnet after all.

West Finchley

At 0802 a middle-aged man running for the train slips on the stairs to the platform and falls. As he tumbles down he grabs instinctively at anything solid-looking, including the legs of two other passengers who follow him down the stairs. A snowball effect results in a pile of dazed bodies on the platform who pick themselves up, apologise to each other a lot, reclaim their briefcases and try to recover their dignity. It's only then that someone notices the man at the bottom of the scrum isn't moving.

The station manager calls an ambulance. When they arrive, they find him still breathing - just - but only half alive. Looks like a heart attack, says the paramedic as they wheel the stretcher away. The other passengers continue with their journey, maybe a little bruised but otherwise fine, as the station manager frets about lawsuits. He's been asking for someone to fix that loose step for weeks.

Woodside Park

"Great night last night, wasn't it?"
Marian James looks across at her husband. "It was?"
"Absolutely!", says David. "I had a fabulous time. Good beer, good friends. Can't really ask for more."
"And that's your memory of it? Does your memory extend beyond the sixth pint?"
"Of course it does. We sat in the pub and talked to those nice people from.. oh, where was it? Stockholm?"
"Stuttgart. You don't remember doing anything other than talking?"
"Course not. Charming people."
"You don't remember whispering lecherous nothings to that poor girl while I was at the bar? It's just as well her English wasn't too good - some of that vocabulary you employed was very, well, specialised."
"Uh.. what?"
"Oh, come on! You invited her back to the house for a threesome. That by itself is bad enough, but her boyfriend seemed quite keen on the idea."

David's face turns slowly into a mask of hung over horror. He really wants the train to come right now, so he can change the subject. Or maybe throw himself in front of it.

Totteridge & Whetstone

Of course it's near Buckingham Palace, the travel agent in Baltimore had said. Just a subway ride away. The hotel's in Greater London, you know - must mean it's in the middle, otherwise it would be in Lesser London or something. Bill Redfern smiles ruefully at his wife. The centre of London sure seems to go a long way out, but at least the hotel's nice. Only ten minutes in a cab to the subway, too.

They're catching a late show in the West End tonight - the ticket agency said it wouldn't finish until gone midnight. They're looking forward to getting a meal somewhere after the show, then maybe having a couple of drinks and soaking up that famous London nightlife. Hell, Bill thinks, it's gonna be at least two o'clock before they even think about heading to the subway to come home to the hotel. All part of the London experience, isn't it?

High Barnet

The terminal platforms are quiet after the morning rush hour peak. They don't stay quiet for long - a noise like a riot in progress erupts from the ticket barriers as fifty primary school children are herded onto the platform by four worried-looking and slightly hung over teachers. The kids colonize the platform, investigating every corner and pushing all the buttons in sight (including the ones labelled for Staff Use Only) as the teachers look on resignedly.

It's the annual Year 4 trip to the British Museum. The teachers feel like they've done a full day's work just getting them all here in one piece, but the worst is, they know, yet to come. Still, one step at a time - with sufficient shouting and cajoling they finally herd everyone onto the waiting train and end up with the same headcount they started out with. For the kids, it's going to be a day of fun, discovery and boring old statues. For the teachers, it'll be a day of lost packed lunches, glares of official disapproval from museum attendants, and temper tantrums.

Chalk Farm

As the lift grinds slowly down towards the platform Cecilia Williams eyeballs the youth leaning against one wall and frowns at the tinnitus of white noise hissing from his Walkman. This is the worst part of public transport, she thinks. Having to share confined spaces with all kinds of riffraff, pickpockets, junkies muggers, and god knows what. That one over there's obviously up to no good. I bet he's a junkie. I bet he's just waiting for his moment to bash me over the head and steal my purse, leave me bleeding and unconscious to travel up and down in this lift until someone notices. He's got that vacant, stoned look in his eyes.

On the other side of the lift, Carl Hornchurch blinks hazily and looks around. Almost dropped off there, he thinks. Can't wait to get home - these extra night shifts really knock you out, but I've got to keep going - we really need the overtime for the deposit now we've got to move sooner then we'd planned. Once the baby arrives, the flat just won't be big enough for all of us.

Belsize Park

Frank Turner, aged 88, intends to take the Tube to visit a friend in Clapham. It's the first time he's been out for a while - it was always Alison who was the travelling type, and with her gone there's little call to venture further than the shops. He's always been happy pottering about minding his own business - the house isn't much, but it's paid for, unlike those on either side. Nearly two hundred thousand pounds each they went for a few years ago. Frank wonders how the young folk these days can manage to make ends meet with the amounts of mortgage and rent they have to pay.

He wasn't going to go anywhere today, but the phone call last night changed his plans - an old mate from the ARP isn't well, and it's possible he might not last long. Nearly everyone's gone now, Frank thinks, and soon it'll be just me, left behind in a world that's changed beyond recognition.

He approaches the ticket office but it's closed, so he has to brave the wall of humming ticket machines that stare blankly back at him, impassive, like every other face in his world.

Hampstead

"But of course, the 1975 production at Stratford just knocked spots off that modern version they did at the National last year. You know - the one with all the nudity and the swearing."
"Ah, but surely the swearing was valid, wasn't it? I mean, the piece is full of energy and passion, and for most people it would be perfectly natural to swear in some of the positions those characters are put in. Besides, I think Baum's original vision was obviously to make more of the sexual tensions inherent in the main group of protagonists. It was only prudish self-censorship that led to the storyline being neutered."
"Yes, maybe.. now that I think of it, it's clear that the two characters who are artificially created are, being sans genitalia, a reference to castration, symbolic of the malaise of the male condition as a whole in a post-feminist world."

A young man who hasn't been able to help overhearing this dialogue rounds on them. "Oh, for god's sake! It's just the Wizard of sodding Oz! Will you people get a grip?"

Golders Green

The supposedly respectable-looking man slouched in a seat on a northbound train that's just terminated here doesn't want to move. The station assistant trying to convince him that the train's not going any further and he'll have to change to get to Colindale bravely weathers the storm of expletives and abuse aimed at herself, at London Underground, at Ken Livingstone, at the railway unions and at the world in general, only wincing slightly every so often as the man's rancid, alcohol-sodden breath hits her face in warm blasts with every new outburst.

After some time the man is persuaded to leave the train, but only after making a particularly lewd suggestion. Once he has stumbled onto the next Edgware train the station assistant takes the opportunity for a quick break. Her payslip has arrived, and as she looks at the depressingly small number in the bottom right-hand corner she considers taking up a less stressful career.

Brent Cross

A tired-looking woman gets off the train and yawns. She's still not quite sure why she's here, but Head Office were very keen on someone calling in at the flagship stores to, well.. to do what? Something was said about "jollying the staff along", and something about "emphasising the commitment of Happybuy Holdings Ltd to a 'listening management' policy".
Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me, she says to herself. Maybe there's a bit of worry among the worker bees at all this talk of aggressive takeovers from Japan, but it's nothing we won't be able to handle. And why does this meeting have to be at 8 o'clock? She rarely leaves for work before 9:30, and resents being dragged out two hours earlier than usual.

I'll tell them, she thinks. Oh yes, I'll jolly them along, the lazy overpaid scuzzbags. It's time this company made it perfectly clear just what the position of the shop floor workers is as far as the board and shareholders are concerned.

Hendon Central

A loud man in a suit is lined up on the platform waiting for a train south to the City. His phone rings. Loudly.
"HELLO? YES? AH, HI! I'm just waiting for the train! No, THE TRAIN!"
"I'LL BE THERE SHORTLY! In about half an hour! No, HALF AN HOUR!"
"WHAT? Oh! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Yeah! Good one!"

Suddenly he stops and stares as a huge circular spaceship appears overhead, blotting out the sun and emitting a low, throbbing sound. A round hatch opens in the bottom as a lime green beam of energy spears the hapless phone user, dragging him kicking and screaming up through the air and through the hatchway before as quickly as the ship appeared, it is gone.

Colindale

Susan Cartwright, waiting for her trip to the bright lights of Kennington, faces a dilemma. She's not sure whether the plan of action forming in her head would be wise. They might find out, she thinks. These people are professionals. They'd see through her right away, she'd never be able to bluff it. She closes her eyes and tries to think of the abuse, accusations and recriminations that would inevitably follow. It's a crime even to be thinking of it. She'd be punished for eternity, deprived of all the good things he holds so dear.

Oh, you're only young once. To hell with the diet mafia, she thinks, and drops 50p into the chocolate machine.

Burnt Oak

Flying down the platform stairs, arms waving madly in an attempt to be noticed, a man in his thirties finally gets to the train as the doors sweep shut in front of him. He bangs his fist on the closed door as the train pulls away, leaving him behind. "Bugger!", he exclaims to the world at large, and sits on a bench to wait for the next one.

He picks at his jeans in frustration, pulling thread out of an unravelling seam. A shy-looking woman next to him remarks, "Bad idea, that. You don't want your trousers falling off in public, do you?". He looks at her in surprise and attempts to find a witty comeback, but the words suddenly aren't there.

Eleven months later they are married. Her parents don't approve.

Edgware

The platform is strangely still and quiet as Simon Jefferson, trailing a briefcase and a Daily Mail, arrives to catch the first train. He nods to the small cluster of people already there and sticks his hands in his overcoat pockets against the cold. Laura doesn't like him getting up this early -- she says the bed is too cold by the time she gets up two hours later -- but he doesn't have the choice. Have to start early, get yourself ahead of the competition. Avoid the crowds.

Banking's a cutthroat business, he thinks to himself as his breath condenses in the cold morning air. Other guys all after my job and my bonuses. Get in early, get them before they can get you.

He tries not to think of his dangerously overextended mortgage as the bright interior of the empty train bangs and rattles into the platform to begin its own workday.