This is a rant, purely and simply...inspired by my first day in a new job for which I am unfortunately forced to use the London Underground. 

OK, so I’m at the starting point, now I need to find out where the hell I’ve got to go.  You’d think it would be easy; after all, there are friendly-looking, colourful maps situated as far as the eye can see (certainly friendlier looking than the station staff in any case).  I’m having a bit of trouble with the exact route so I politely ask someone at the station to help me.  In response I get a defeated shrug and am told to ask someone at the enquiries window, at which the queue stretches all the way back to Essex.  Oh well, I’ll just have to work it out for myself.

I descend the stairs and try to find my platform.  I know which line I need now, but am I going Eastbound or Westbound?  I’m trying to keep my focus on the map whilst being jostled, pushed and shoved from all directions by reams of pin-striped suits, tourists with enormous backpacks and/or suitcases and students with pink hair carrying huge plastic art folders which bang into my arms.  I could be writhing in agony on the floor, gasping for breath in the throes of a fatal heart-attack, yet all I will ever be to these people is an irritating obstacle, in the way of their effort to get to work on time to put their feet up on their desks with a mug of weak Gold Blend and the daily rag.  I’m tempted to throw my head back and scream at the top of my voice, simply to see if I can elicit any kind of a reaction from these people.  I think I’ll do it one day; I’m genuinely curious.

After finally having identified my route I go and wait patiently at my stop.  It is there that the reality of the journey sets in as I look around at the people standing with me; it’s as if we’re all awaiting transportation to the guillotine.  Nobody speaks and all I can hear is the occasional rustle of a newspaper, or some impatient drumming of fingers on briefcases interspersed with mild tutting (the closest we Brits come to any form of meaningful protest) at the announcement of a delay.  It seems to be an unspoken rule of the Underground that you’re not allowed to actually look at anyone; people’s eyes are firmly fixed on the floor or on the electronic bulletin board as though it were a fascinating art installation.  Anywhere or anything, as long as you avoid the eyes of a fellow passenger and perhaps – gasp! – be drawn into a conversation.

Mind you, I can sort of see why they don’t bother really.  After all, it’s impossible to be attracted to anybody you encounter on the Underground.  They could be the most beautiful person on the planet, yet something about the lifeless Underground culture drains them of all personality, the glimmer of yellow artificial lighting gives their skin an intense pallid hue, and the stale surrounding smell of sewers, body odour, last night’s takeaways and stale air that has already been breathed in and back out again by about a million other people will forever remind you of altogether more depressing times.  Overall, it renders the environment completely unacceptable for a speed-dating event - organisers please take note.

Finally the train rumbles and clatters into view.  I catch a glimpse of the driver as the train goes past and muse momentarily on whether he is the sort of person I could trust at the controls of a metal tube hurtling me underground through the districts of London.  I’m not sure exactly what I was looking for, although I do manage to conclude from his heavy build, tattoos and angry expression that he’d be quite handy in a fight.

The train’s arrival animates the waiting many who are now urgently picking up their belongings and shuffling forwards as if getting on this particular train is their sole objective in life (it probably is).  In the background I can hear a muffled voice asking people to “let passengers off the train first”, yet somehow I just know any hope of this is futile. 

After Herculean levels of effort, I am finally on the train.  Expecting a seat is too much; as a modern woman I know that if I ever require proof of a gentleman-free society, all I have to do is attempt to take the last remaining seat on any form of public transport.  Sure enough, a man bearing a passing resemblance to Wayne Rooney, wearing paint-spattered jeans and carrying a dishevelled rucksack barges past me to the one remaining seat.  I raise my eyebrow at him in disapproval; obliviously he gets out his copy of ‘The Sun’, turns straight to Page Three and makes himself comfortable.

And so the journey begins.  Impassive faces stare vacantly ahead through their reflections in the smudged windows (again, the only “safe” place to look) as I swing and sway to the rhythm of the train’s movements, grasping the handrail and trying to remove from my mind the fact that research has proven the handrails on the Tube to carry more germs than your average public toilet.  Always a pleasing thought, but no more so than first thing in the morning just before breakfast.

I look around the train, taking in the neglected newspapers rustling in the stale breeze that’s hitting me from the open window, messing up my tidy first-day-in-a-new-job hair.  I have a quick look at the advertisements on the train’s walls, telling me to ‘consider other people when you are eating’.  Someone has obviously taken this notice literally, judging by the abandoned partially eaten burger and half-empty kebab container left by the end seat.  Call me picky, but I don’t really fancy a congealed doner at this time of the morning, thanks.  Maybe later…

I am suddenly brought back to reality by a man wearing a suit that fits in a way which indicates complete denial to the onset of middle-age spread, banging his briefcase hard against my leg as he gets up to alight the train.  I wait for an apology and am disappointed; he doesn’t meet my steely gaze.  I wish for him to tread in a huge pile of dog’s muck on his way to work and I send him a silent curse to this effect.  This cheers me up ever-so-slightly, until the train lurches suddenly and I am thrown forwards into the waiting B.O.-ridden armpit of another middle-aged man holding the handrail in front.  I apologise, although I’m not quite sure what for.  He doesn’t acknowledge me.
 
In the background there is a bored, unanimated silence, broken by the sound of second-hand (second-heard?) music from i-Pods and mobile phones (I may be getting old, but I seriously can’t understand what makes people want to listen to bangin’ house at ungodly times of the morning), the rattling from the train and the listless disembodied voice of the driver announcing various locations, to which people stand up and try their best to get through the crowds of standing passengers who will not move an inch.  Watching the way they prepare themselves for their exit makes me think that this experience could be adapted into a credible assault course for British Army conscripts.

My heart sinks as the train clatters into my station and I realise I’m going to have to do this myself.  I shove and push people out of the way in a desperate attempt to exit the train (polite “Excuse me”s having no effect whatsoever); this is behaviour I’m not given to at all and I feel awful.  I don’t want to become immune to all this, yet one look around me suggests that I’m going to have to.  Nobody moves, and people are tutting as I push past them as if I could simply have chosen the option to float effortlessly above them all.  Silly me.

As I struggle out of the station in despair, nearly flattened by oncoming passengers, my heart warms at the simple thought that at least I’ll be able to take a breath of real, fresh (ish) air.  I do so, just as the person walking in front of me lights up a cigarette and I get hit in the face with a fresh puff of nicotine. 

My day is only just beginning.