Presence of mind

On the day: 
23/04/2012 


On the way: 
He's huge. 
His presence is felt throughout the carriage the moment he steps on board. It must be. His head bows as he steps through the door and inside he occupies his space substantially, cascading from ceiling to floor, towering from floor to ceiling. 
No one looks up. No one needs to. No one dares. He's Samuel L Jackson, Michael Clark Duncan, Darth Vader. But there's nothing malevolent about him. At that scale you would know. 
His black coat falls long and elegant. His right hand hangs relaxed, his fist must be the size of a child's head, it could crush a rottweiler's skull, but there's no menace in it. The other carries a briefcase fingers lightly curled round the handle. Whatever  the load - gold ingots, printers' plates, depleted uranium - whatever the weight - bloodguilt, lemon pavlova - that hand can carry, must  have carried, far greater. 
He turns, he passes, that massive bulk in the narrow aisle without brushing, without sound, towards the dead end of the carriage. That never happens. There's always a nudge, a glance, a bump, an apology,  a stumble as the carriage jolts, a wan smile, some form of unwelcome contact. But nothing. No one turns. No one looks up. Why would they? There's no call for question, no challenge to make. 
But there's curiosity. Surely there's curiosity? It grows as stations slip by. Just another glimpse at this man panther, this other Atlas. I glance over my shoulder, then turn and linger a moment more. 
A small woman with curly grey hair wearing a buttoned up coat and carrying a floral knapsack. A girl, jet black, a hint of purple in her dead-straight fringe. A big guy with a black hair bristling from every opening in his short sleeved, blue and white striped cotton shirt, bright threads twisted into a shaggy bracelet on his left wrist. A pair of chatty Asian chaps in suits, city shirts and shoes and ostentatious watches. A sallow lass with loosely tied-up mousy hair wearing tassled moccasin-style booties and a rumpled rain coat. A lofty fellow with a scimitar nose, cropped  hair and beard, and combat trousers, sweatshirt and satchel that, for all their variation in shade, could all be described as olive green. 
But a giant of a man, an imposing presence, a benevolent titan, a tower of strength?
 You saw him, didn't you. Didn't you?


On the pod: 
Fire Woman - The Cult 


On the front page: 
Sarkozy faces defeat (The Times)