Underground

Down and down they go. Down escalators and stairs. Little ants marching along brightly lit tunnels. Posters and advertisements accompany them every step of the way. They spill out onto the congested platform. Toes tapping. They glance at watches every other second. A disembodied voice shrieks over the Tannoy. The impatient throng murmurs. Everyone is late. Everyone is always late. The tracks rattle. Celestial lights shoot out from the darkness. The crowd pushes dangerously behind the thick yellow line. Mind the Gap. Mind the Gap. Mind the bloody Gap. The enclosed cave fills with a thunderous roar. A gust of chilly air hits them smack in the face. The train grinds to a screeching halt. Whoosh. The doors open. Passengers fall out on top of the waiting queues. They shove back in return. They elbow. They squeeze themselves in, filling every last available space. An orgy of intertwined contortionists. The doors close. Bang. They open again. “Please keep clear from the doors. Keep clear from the doors please. ” Closed. An over packed suitcase bursting at the zipper. The horizontal rocket shoots off into the all-consuming shadows. A chorus of newspapers rustle. The Evening Standard. The Metro. The Guardian. Books, phones, iPods are pulled out from jacket pockets. Minds disengaged from bodies that loll from side to side. The salesman next to the Sheikh. The chic yuppie back-to-back with the Sports Direct clad yob. A deranged metallic clanging cries out from beneath them. Eyes peer covertly from behind books to peruse rainbow coloured maps. If eyes meet, they are averted at cosmic speeds. That is the rule. Coughs. Sneezes. Yawns. They inhale a cocktail of distilled germs. The depleting air is suffused with the aromas of a thousand take-away lunches. Greggs. McDonald’s. Nando’s. Wok-in-a-Box. M&S and Pret A Manger for the more refined. Franchise coffee is on the breath of everyone. No one dare breathe. No one can escape the monstrous melting pot moving en masse.