I walk along the dank and winding passageways only acutely aware of those slumped against the walls. Colourful grafitti
hangs scrawled above them, the once-bright paint now fading, just like the rest of this station. The sound of a busker
's guitar hangs stagnant in the air, and as I listen, I become aware of others building up a chorus; a choir of amature melodies meandering through the darkness.
Somehow I manage to resist the pleading urge to toss a coin into the ragged hat that sits upon the urine-soaked floor. I move onwards, still watching from the corner of my eye as the man finds a new target. I am vaguely aware of my compatriots - businessmen, sightseers, the occasional member of staff - all battling their own way through the gauntlet of beggars, all as reluctant to spare change as I am. I approach the stairs and immediately begin my descent, gratefully escaping the beggars. Somehow, this doesn't bother me as much as it
I take a look at my surroundings properly for the first time and am amazed by the myriad of features unique to this place alone (in this station, at least). Stale water follows me down the iron stairs making a horrid, metallic drip, resonating around me.
Always the same sound. The brickwork surrounding me shows the effect this has upon it : with every drip more calcium was deposited, a network of encrustations growing across the walls in a spider-like manner. Their tendrils spread in an attempt to corrupt the entire room, like a disease infesting the bricks. I tear myself away from this sight to complete my descent, banishing everything back into the heavy recesses of my memory.
Despite all its faults - the ancient trains, the woefully optimistic timetables, to name but two - I still like the Tube. Every time I use it, another thing fascinates me (Quite why eludes me to this day). On this particular journey, it was those same decaying trains. Some were old, some were new, but they all held one thing in common: each was packed far, far past capacity like some sardine can of commuters.
I board the train, quickly leaping into what very well could be the sole remaining seat left on the vehicle. The last space in the can. Despite this, I am not the last to board. Soon I am followed by a gaggle of others all vying for the nonexistant places. Like mosquitoes 'round a lamp after dark. Some, frustrated, leave the collective prison. Others, unafraid of standing, grab hold and prepare for the ride.
With a jolt the train starts, and begins its journey. Elsewhere along the line, this process is beginning again. With this thought we leave the station, leaving my thoughts behind.