Graffiti covered carriages, packed full of passengers rattle loudly as they speed over the points, and race through the dark winding tunnels. Only exposed to light when briefly stopped at platforms for the seasoned travellers to change. Travellers packed in so tightly often likened to sardines in tins. The air is stuffy and tainted with dust and stale odours.
Commuters, they’re dressed according to the geographical map, pinstripe and briefcases to the East, designer and fashion to the west. Artistic and creative minds pondering ideas and concepts, appearing preoccupied and oblivious to the immediate surroundings. Shoppers, eager to snag that last bargain jostle near the doors, desperate to be first off and up to the barriers and beyond. Barristers are standing, effortlessly balanced near the handrail, reading case files, taking notes and talking at one hundred and fifty words per minute into a battered and tired looking dictaphone.
Stale air wafts through the station and the carriages like a curling mass, carried on the rising thermals created by so many sweaty bodies, carrying scents and smells of all the competitors in the daily commuter race.