Four Foot Eight

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.

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.