The Underground

A flock of people -clones of each other- move as one organism to the underground. No colours; No smiles; just the same beings miming the unimaginative lyrics to the same twenty songs on repeat. They cling to the metal branches above and beside them; like apes in the rain forest. I am so close to these strangers. Close enough to feel their breath on my sweaty cheeks; close enough to pick the bugs out of their unwashed hair with my fingertips. They talk to each other without saying words, just competing to prove who can make the loudest noise- and that's all they are: noises. They shout over the drums, the pounding drums.

 I am part of a multicultural society- a jungle full of different species all with their own ways of communicating. Chinese, Indian, Spanish, Scandinavian, American. They are Macaques; Tamarins and Capuchin. Some stand, relying on nothing but their own inconsistent balance, like the drunk, low life scum of Soho after midnight . Others sit with their legs tightly shut, tense within centimetres of each other. Yet the fabrics our parka coats and leather jackets don't touch, through the nations fear of contamination. 

Jane stands there in the centre clinging to her Tarzan. She is confident in herself- wearing heels to demonstrate her power; red lipstick with chipped nails and a whole in her pocket. With him there is an invisibility she never knew existed. Although only five foot three, she is untouchable. A blanket of Amazon heat suffocates all of us. It is raining outside- November chills. But in here it still feels like the Sahara. 
Just as Tarzan is to Jane I feel a peculiar sense of safety- being part of this Bakerloo line to elephant and Castle. I think back to World War Two- the Blitz. How horrific would it be, to sit hidden underground with explosives destroying everything you ever knew? It's like being inside a caravan in the midst of a storm- such a blissful terror. When I was much younger, I used to sit by my window and hide myself, with the rose coloured curtains. I would watch the lightening throw its glitter over my village, like electric confetti. I was in awe of the thunder, invading the silence of the night, with vengeance. But I was safe. I was warm. I was dry.                                                           The vibrations of the train pass through the seven carriages and end at my veins. For a second I am caught between the bombs detonating in my daydreams and the lady in front of me; her head back, mouth open- snoring. As the stops pass she doesn't wake. I contemplate waking her from this slumber. Maybe she hasn't slept in days. Maybe she doesn't even have her own bed – making a journey from one friend’s sofa in Brixton to a blow up bed in Croydon. Maybe she's scared of her husband, so she sleeps with one eye open. Maybe she's drunk on anxiety medication. Or maybe she's just been walking most of the day. I do hope she hasn't missed her stop.

The tracks make an odd sound like a metallic lullaby- it’s consistency the only thing keeping me sane in this chaotic city. The windows are cold. With my touch I look at my own hands in my reflection. The darkness shows my face amongst the flickering lights on the train.                                                                                                                          I think about all the energy it takes to run an operation like this one. I contemplate staying on this train until it terminates. Getting off and getting the next until that one terminates as well. And carry on that way, until I find myself in a country that I’ve never heard of. It would be simple. Wouldn’t it? The metallic melody of the tracks continues, like a never ending musical. 

I am lucky that I do not suffer from claustrophobia. Some people do. I hear the automated message as we stop at Kensal Green: “Please, if you feel nauseous, do not get on board the carriage. You will receive more help from the platform”. The rainforest is not for everybody.    I stroke the fibres on the seat. It feels like brittle carpet. The hideous colours match the poles of the carriage. The paint is chipped, just like Jane’s nails, although i notice she has disappeared with her Tarzan; gone to travel through the trees and skyscrapers. I hope he keeps her safe.

The woman on the tannoy system calls my stop. A toucan calling amongst the trees. I stand up, unstable. My thighs are sweaty and I want to take my scarf off but I'm too afraid of losing it down the gap. I think off all the things that must have fallen down there; a gold mine of phones and designer sunglasses. Scarves, just like mine from Covent Garden, possibly a child's right shoe or a sorrowful, lonely teddy bear. I think about the child who cannot sleep without it. I think about the smile she would give me, if I was to turn up at her doorstop with it in my fingers.

I follow the ‘way out’ signs, illuminated above my head. I am in such a strange place, one I have not been to before, yet I am not anxious, because of these signs. They are for blonde bimbos like me, who are no good with geography; Or foreign Chinese tourists.                                                                                                                                          I walk with a similar flock to the first. No one looks at me. They walk with the heads to the pavement. I can almost hear them counting down the seconds until they get home- to their insane families in Putney or lonely studio apartments in Bloomsbury. It doesn't matter where they sleep; they watch the same programmes, on the same televisions, eating the same microwave meals from their local supermarkets. Or they work nights. Then they are unfortunate. I am not fond of the London nights. Britain is drunk. It is drunk on capitalism and alcoholism, and it makes me both confident and afraid.