MILE END - EMBANKMENT
White female, 25 - 40 yrs. She is a slim woman, southern European, her hair, which is still wet, falls on her shoulders in determined, oil-black curls. She has popsocks on under serious work trousers. She fiddles with her mp3 player. There is mud on her shoes. She puts on make-up to emphasise her eyes, which are already most of a face which tapers sharply from cheekbone to chin. She is pretty enough, even featured, though the overall effect is a little cameline. Her blouse is an unfortunate desert beige.
Thursday, 14 August 2008
Friday, 8 August 2008
They call it "The Asylum Line" down towards Upton Park, because of the number of asylum seekers (or, more accurately, people who might be superficially taken for asylum seekers) who live on that stretch of the network. I don't see them, and in fact they're something of a myth. The East End has experienced an influx of immigration over the last five years but it has come from the democracies of the Baltic states, rather than from wild despotic outposts further afield. The people who have sat opposite me this week have been as unexotic as a sandy-haired Polish carpenter. Less exotic, in truth, as they have, in the main, been native English speakers. I'm disappointed. There has also been a dearth of really hot girls for me to describe in minute, discomfiting detail (I'm doubly disappointed) but that's largely a function of this exercise. My self-imposed rules insist that I can't choose who sits opposite me. And under normal circumstances, I'd sit opposite the hot girl, if there is one available. I'm happily married, and not on the prowl for any kind of extra-mural shenanigans, but given the choice I'd always sit opposite the hot girl. I consider it an aesthetic duty to do so, but of course I'll always give up that seat to the elderly, infirm or pregnant, because basic morality trumps aesthetic duty.
Only just.
There's a grey area, of course - women who might simply be fat in an odd way, or consider themselves in "late middle age" - and my technique here, generally, is to stand and look away from the person to whom I wish to bequeath my seat. It's up to them. Opportunists will occasionally sneak into the seat before the borderline decrepit/knocked up/fat in an odd way woman can get to it. But that's on their conscience, the opportunist that is, not mine.
The train this morning is empty. It's Friday, early August. People go in late on Fridays and half of London is on holiday. The seat opposite me remains vacant, like a non-specific accusation until Blackfriars.
BLACKFRIARS - VICTORIA
White male, 45-60 yrs, short-sleeved shirt, no tie, (does anyone wear a tie anymore?) and rather daring trousers. Or rather trousers from a rather daring suit. Daring is a relative term. He is sit-com dad and the suit is a bold check, but still blue on blue. They aren't clown trousers or anything. He's a big fellow, his hair is greying in a dynamic, non-emasculating way. He has a Grande coffee and a twinkle in his eye. He is another anonymous businessman, but I like him. He shuffles sideways to accommodate...
VICTORIA - SOUTH KENSINGTON
White female, 25 - 40 yrs, Slavic, possibly Baltic, kinked hair (I'm sure there's a proper name for it) weird cowgirl get-up, boots and clothing with senseless embroidery, long bony fingers and eye shadow in the nastiest shade of pink imaginable. East European cowgirls. This is London.
Only just.
There's a grey area, of course - women who might simply be fat in an odd way, or consider themselves in "late middle age" - and my technique here, generally, is to stand and look away from the person to whom I wish to bequeath my seat. It's up to them. Opportunists will occasionally sneak into the seat before the borderline decrepit/knocked up/fat in an odd way woman can get to it. But that's on their conscience, the opportunist that is, not mine.
The train this morning is empty. It's Friday, early August. People go in late on Fridays and half of London is on holiday. The seat opposite me remains vacant, like a non-specific accusation until Blackfriars.
BLACKFRIARS - VICTORIA
White male, 45-60 yrs, short-sleeved shirt, no tie, (does anyone wear a tie anymore?) and rather daring trousers. Or rather trousers from a rather daring suit. Daring is a relative term. He is sit-com dad and the suit is a bold check, but still blue on blue. They aren't clown trousers or anything. He's a big fellow, his hair is greying in a dynamic, non-emasculating way. He has a Grande coffee and a twinkle in his eye. He is another anonymous businessman, but I like him. He shuffles sideways to accommodate...
VICTORIA - SOUTH KENSINGTON
White female, 25 - 40 yrs, Slavic, possibly Baltic, kinked hair (I'm sure there's a proper name for it) weird cowgirl get-up, boots and clothing with senseless embroidery, long bony fingers and eye shadow in the nastiest shade of pink imaginable. East European cowgirls. This is London.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
MILE END - EMBANKMENT
Black male, 35-50 years, he has whiskers greying at the tips and soft yellow eyes. He doesn't look at me once throughout the journey. His shoes are scuffed on just one toe. He is carrying a fleece jacket in apparent defiance of the weather forecast. A black rucksack is parked between his feet. I realise that I cannot generalise about him, can't imagine his life situation. I have no idea where he's going. He's neutral, in a sense, like me. Unguessable. He seems self-contained, untroubled. He tries to snooze but can't.
EMBANKMENT - SOUTH KENSINGTON
White male, 50-65 years, a giant balding man whose presence in enforced not just by his size but also by a puissance of personality, a radiant paranoia which surrounds him. The previous opposite person didn't even notice me but this guy's obsessed, staring at me repeatedly, sizing me up. He is expensively dressed, his loafers are a mystery, grey suede at the sides and black on the tongue. His socks are silk and his trousers (woollen, with turn-ups) are tapered to suit his irregular frame. He looks like he should be haranguing Arabs at the UN, or undermining World Leaders at the G8. He keeps staring at me, the bald fuck. I reckon I could take him, I'm younger and quicker, and I have a lot less to lose.
Black male, 35-50 years, he has whiskers greying at the tips and soft yellow eyes. He doesn't look at me once throughout the journey. His shoes are scuffed on just one toe. He is carrying a fleece jacket in apparent defiance of the weather forecast. A black rucksack is parked between his feet. I realise that I cannot generalise about him, can't imagine his life situation. I have no idea where he's going. He's neutral, in a sense, like me. Unguessable. He seems self-contained, untroubled. He tries to snooze but can't.
EMBANKMENT - SOUTH KENSINGTON
White male, 50-65 years, a giant balding man whose presence in enforced not just by his size but also by a puissance of personality, a radiant paranoia which surrounds him. The previous opposite person didn't even notice me but this guy's obsessed, staring at me repeatedly, sizing me up. He is expensively dressed, his loafers are a mystery, grey suede at the sides and black on the tongue. His socks are silk and his trousers (woollen, with turn-ups) are tapered to suit his irregular frame. He looks like he should be haranguing Arabs at the UN, or undermining World Leaders at the G8. He keeps staring at me, the bald fuck. I reckon I could take him, I'm younger and quicker, and I have a lot less to lose.
Tuesday, 5 August 2008
MILE END - WHITECHAPEL
Female, White, English, 16 - 20yrs, possibly pregnant, pasty, tired-looking. She is broad through the upper thighs and hips. Her clothes are cheap and oddly combined, as if they were all she had clean. She is wearing a lot of jewellery, heavy gold earrings and a long chain around her neck. A letter "C" is attached to the chain, with a textured surface, like a file of some sort. There's also a ring around the chain, an engagement ring perhaps, a token of some dead relative. Nana, perhaps.
Her hair is dirty blonde, beyond that, filthy blonde even. Her face is fixed in a burdened, embittered pout. Her legs are a blotchy pink. Her shoes are brand new. She gets off at Whitechapel, off to the hospital, I assume.
TOWER HILL - SOUTH KENSINGTON
Male, White, English 35 - 45yrs. He is tall, with red hair, which has been poorly cut, by his wife, I'd guess. He's not wearing a ring. Perhaps his mother cuts his hair. Shapeless body, frameless spectacles, bald chest. He looks like a man who has bumped his head on the ceiling of life. He plays some mindless game on his mobile phone. He has a magnificent double chin, a great soft neckerchief of fat.
He is boredom in effigy. I like him, because he's me but he's not me. I leave him at South Kensington.
Female, White, English, 16 - 20yrs, possibly pregnant, pasty, tired-looking. She is broad through the upper thighs and hips. Her clothes are cheap and oddly combined, as if they were all she had clean. She is wearing a lot of jewellery, heavy gold earrings and a long chain around her neck. A letter "C" is attached to the chain, with a textured surface, like a file of some sort. There's also a ring around the chain, an engagement ring perhaps, a token of some dead relative. Nana, perhaps.
Her hair is dirty blonde, beyond that, filthy blonde even. Her face is fixed in a burdened, embittered pout. Her legs are a blotchy pink. Her shoes are brand new. She gets off at Whitechapel, off to the hospital, I assume.
TOWER HILL - SOUTH KENSINGTON
Male, White, English 35 - 45yrs. He is tall, with red hair, which has been poorly cut, by his wife, I'd guess. He's not wearing a ring. Perhaps his mother cuts his hair. Shapeless body, frameless spectacles, bald chest. He looks like a man who has bumped his head on the ceiling of life. He plays some mindless game on his mobile phone. He has a magnificent double chin, a great soft neckerchief of fat.
He is boredom in effigy. I like him, because he's me but he's not me. I leave him at South Kensington.
Underground Overture
Six days a week, forty-odd weeks a year, I travel on the underground from my home in Stratford, East London, to my place of work in Chelsea. I take an overground train, the 7.54 usually, from Maryland Station one stop to Stratford, where I change on to the Central Line. I travel one stop further west to Mile End, where I change again. These first two trains are generally very crowded, and it is not always possible to get on. But generally I'm able to plead or bully my way to Mile End by about 8.05 each morning. The District Line, which I change on to here, runs along the river, skirting the southern periphery of the city and the West End. It's a marginal line, busy only between Embankment station and South Kensington, where I disembark. A westbound train will gather commuters from Estuarial Essex, at Tower Hill (close to Fenchurch Street); from Kent, at Monument and Embankment (serving London Bridge and Charing Cross Stations, respectively) and from everywhere else at Victoria, gateway to Sussex and the rest of the world, via Gatwick Airport.
The carriages are bigger than on most of the Underground network and the service is frequent. It's usually possible to get a seat, if not at Mile End, then at Whitechapel where many commuters disembark for the Royal London Hospital and, once it reopens, for the East London Line.
London is the most ethnically and socially diverse city on Earth. I thought it might be interesting, instructive even to pay attention to exactly whom I'm travelling with on a daily basis. No-one wants to be interviewed on their way into work, before they've had their morning coffee, no-one wants to be shaken from a post-coital reverie by a fool with a dictaphone. And there might be fifty people even on a relatively empty tube carriage. So I've decided to restrict my study (a grand name for a little thing) to physical observation of the person sitting exactly opposite me. This morning I began to scribble in the Moleskine.
The carriages are bigger than on most of the Underground network and the service is frequent. It's usually possible to get a seat, if not at Mile End, then at Whitechapel where many commuters disembark for the Royal London Hospital and, once it reopens, for the East London Line.
London is the most ethnically and socially diverse city on Earth. I thought it might be interesting, instructive even to pay attention to exactly whom I'm travelling with on a daily basis. No-one wants to be interviewed on their way into work, before they've had their morning coffee, no-one wants to be shaken from a post-coital reverie by a fool with a dictaphone. And there might be fifty people even on a relatively empty tube carriage. So I've decided to restrict my study (a grand name for a little thing) to physical observation of the person sitting exactly opposite me. This morning I began to scribble in the Moleskine.
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