Four Foot Eight

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.