I went to an exhibition in London today, an hour-and-a-half journey on the train. It was packed with commuters, as you’d expect at this time of day, great for non-intrusive people watching; wondering, imagining and reflecting on society and myself.
Living in ‘the sticks’ usually guarantees me and my fellow passengers a seat, what with us being the second stop from the start of the journey. The regular crowds at the platform make orderly queues to where they think the train doors will meet them and, by force of regularity, the train parks almost exactly where they wait.
I hang back enjoying my freshly brewed coffee; why queue? There are plenty of seats. On the train there are a few clicks of keyboards, taps of phones and the occasional polite word when someone needs to get on or off. Precious little conversation takes place – it’s quite early… and apparently it’s not the done thing. (Why would we talk to each other?!). I caught one person’s eye and smiled… they smiled back. Have a good day!
The majority of passengers are reading today’s Metro or are plugged in to one device or another watching their latest box-set or listening to music. Someone’s volume is turned up a little more than is probably good for them and you can hear the tempo; I decided it would be a triple-espresso if it was a beverage.
The next few platforms welcome a variety of people. One lady in her twenties looks amazing yet opens three (yes, three!) makeup bags comprising of a variety of brushes, pads, a full vanity mirror and a number of coloured powders that all revolve around a beige spectrum; she promptly gets to work on her masterpiece.
Then we have the collection of ‘sniffers’ who seem like they’re responding to each others nasal orchestra in the same language. Coughs, sneezes and the occasional gut-wrenching snort that make you feel like you shouldn’t touch anything and ‘I must book my flu jab’. OK, it is a bit fresh outside on an October morning, so why not bring some tissues?
The next platform was busy and my people watching eyes were beginning to get spoilt for choice. A lady wearing a bright, fuchsia-pink coat with matching shoes, was a welcome and refreshing change to the grey, blue and black sea around her. When did commuting become so drab. I salute your individuality Miss Pink, and wish I’d told her.
A man hops on board with a spring in his step (someone’s had a good night!) and passes me in pursuit of a seat. He’s well dressed and fashionable, although the smell of his jacket holds the secrets to last night’s dinner and was presumably hung in the kitchen when it was being prepared.
Two stops to go. The seat next to me is now taken by a tired-looking lady who must be late for work if her demeanour is anything to go by. She reeks of disorganisation as she takes out her Windows Surface and aggressively beats the keys to, presumably, complete the work that should have been put-to-bed last night, if it wasn’t for that quick drink that ended in three. She glances enviously at the makeup-artist, who is still working on her invisible imperfections (or insecurities).
More people disembark at the penultimate stop than seem to board. A younger man joins the train with ripped jeans, a hoodie, tattoos and multiple piercings. Miss Pink clutches her bag on his arrival and she crosses her legs in the opposite direction as her body language displays the same feeling we all had when we saw him. He then turns back to the platform and helps an older gentleman (and apparent stranger) onto the train and sits him down in the seat he had chosen for himself. Miss Pink and I flush at our assumptive judgement as book and cover spring to mind. First impressions count, but they’re not always accurate.
Finally I arrive at my destination.
Dave Rose Blogs 