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.
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