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.
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)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 ...
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.."
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.
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.