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...
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."
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.
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.
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.