Morning of the commuting dead

On the day: 
30/05/2012


On the way:
The woman in the box: "We regret to announce..."

The platform populace: "Sigh."

The woman in the box (uncaring): "...that the next train will be non-stopping at this station..."

The platform populace: "Yeah, yeah."

The woman in the box (unperturbed): "...due to a zombie outbreak at Otford..."

The platform populace: "Hey, hey. Wait a minute..."

The woman in the box (unabated): "We ask that for your own safety..."

The platform populace: "No, wait. Due to a what the...!?"

The woman in the box (unrelenting): "...you stand behind the yellow line."

The stocky man in a charcoal suit and an almost pink tie steps back, habitually, rather than as a result of a carefully reasoned, rational decision based on a recognition that standing behind a grimy stripe of yellow paint on the platform will protect him against an attack by a trainload of slavering Kentish walking dead (or walking dead of Kent, depending on which side of the River Medway they were infected).

The train emerges from beneath the rust and gunmetal grey motley of the railway bridge to the south, and slows to standard non-stopping speed as it approaches the platform. But today its inhabitants are not the familiar study in indifference, gazing out vacantly, avoiding eye contact with the platform-bound plebs, or intent on their iPhones. They're up against the windows, skin sloughing off ravaged faces; staring eyeballs lolling out, no longer supported in their sockets; moans of wordless hunger escaping decaying mouths, slack-jawed that leave no mist on the glass; decomposing fists banging on the invisible barrier, uncomprehending, leaving gobbets of leprous flesh to slide down; crumbling bone protruding from open wounds. 

Maybe I'll take the bus.  


On the pod: 

Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine - The Killers 


On the front page: 

Cameron ex-aide Coulson held for perjury (Evening Standard)

It's just the way we feel

On the day: 
29/05/2012 


On the way: 
Fascinating. 
Spindly legs carry her down the platform, swinging from high waisted turquoise shorts. Not much of a neck to speak of. But it's what's on top of her head that... fascinates. 
Well, fascinate may be an overstatement but it's caught Jean's attention. 
It's not one of those that requires a degree in Eugenieering; just a straight bar, covered in black fabric of some kind. 'Like a rotor,' suggests Jean. 'In case the train is delayed.'
The woman in the box says, "We regret to announce..." 
The rest is lost as theme from Airwolf strikes up, the downdraft kicks up the dust from the concrete and flatten the grass on the verge, and spindly legs rise vertically from the platform. 
Da dada dadaa da dada da dada  da da da dada dadaa... 


On the pod: 
Boyfriend - Alphabeat 


On the front page: 
Osborne blows hot and cold on 'pasty' tax

Song of the wail

On the day: 
28/05/2012 


On the way: 
The bus pulls up. 
It's a wrong number. 
No one stirs, not the fading redhead sitting in the shelter, dry curls falling onto freckled shoulders. Not the indistinct entity behind the shelter. Not the chap in the navy blue corduroy cap standing in the slim shade of the telephone pole to protect his eyes from the sun. No move towards the welcoming open door. 
So it starts to close. 
And then the high-pitched ululation from the laundry, followed by a young man running for the bus: Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo. Not the kind of siren to stop traffic, it's soft and slowed-up, its batteries in the red. And maybe not running so much as trotting, on tiptoe, as if barefoot across warm (but not hot) sands, or through shallow water,  nothing more than a puddle but still his paper bags are held high as if to avoid splashing. 
Oo-oo-oo-oo. Whose attention does he expect to capture with that kind of ineffectual wail? 
But the driver, let's call him Hawkeye, spots him. The door opens again and the siren singer gradually hops on board and is passed with all the urgency of a sunny Monday morning yawn. 


On the pod: 
29 - Gin Blossoms 


On the front page: 
Football - it is a matter of life and death, says Sol (Metro)

Red, white, black and Greys

On the day:
25/05/2012

On the way:
He survived. Karev.
He survived the plane crash. He's sitting right here on the train, typically troubled but safe and sound.
He's wearing grey cargo trousers and a white Levis T-shirt - you know, the two-horse overalls. It would appear from the red, white and black diagram that two horses, each attached to different sides of America's toughest denims, being driven in opposite directions by men in cowboy hats wielding long switches, couldn't rip a pair in twain.
Granted, it's not as rigorous a testing procedure as being torn apart by wild horses. The beasts in the diagram are plainly domestic animals, heads hung low, accustomed to the yoke of servitude, literally, perhaps, as well as figuratively, their noble spirits broken. Still, tough jeans. Hats off to Mr Strauss.
But not as tough as Karev. Plainly.
He survived the plane crash. He's sitting right here on the train, typically troubled but safe and sound, with his phone out, talking... Polish?
Wait a minute...

On the pod:
Drunk In A Band - Del Amitri

On the front page:
Medics smash house to save 63st teen (The Sun)

Court in the act

On  the day:
24/05/2012


On the way:
They're outside the courthouse. Four of them, on the pavement, recording equipment at the
ready.
Waiting for a glimpse of the black tornado of justice, I shouldn't wonder.
A man with grey hair fading to distinguished white at the temples, wearing a sober grey suit walks past them.


On the pod:
The Arm - Islands


On the front page:
Markets slide amid fears over future of Greece (The Times)

A matter of perspective

On the day: 
23/05/2012 


On the way: 
The hand stretches up through the crowd, reaching for purchase on the orange pole, an adult hand, tanned but small and hairless. And grasps, firmly, secure against the rock and the roll of a crowded bus journey. 
It's a left hand with two rings on its middle finger - one little more than a bevelled circle of gold wire, the second smooth and a little bit more substantial - and a wide gold band on its ring finger.
The fingertips are obscured, curled around the curve of the cold bar, no knowing whether the nails are neatly clipped or roughly chewed, but surely the print pads are pale, pressed to the metal. 
The hand proceeds from a wrist with a few black hairs on it, emerging from from the black and grey striped sleeve of an arm stretching beyond the peripheral vision. 
See the city. Travel by bus. 


On the pod: 
Svegliarsi La  Mattina - Zero Assoluto 


On the front page: 
IMF tells Osborne: it's time for Plan B

Eyes cold

On the day: 
22/05/2012 


On the way: 
White-blonde eyebrows stand out, startling against a puffy, puce face, bright ice- blue eyes intense. 
It's not just her face that's puffed up - she"s not a fully fleshed-out two-seater, but easily one-and-a-quarter, her tiny tan- brown handbag perched on one side of her black tracksuited form, a name brand pouch for her personal stereo/mobile phone on the other. But those eyes... 
Thankfully they are trained on her pink fake crocodile skin-clad phone, not burning through my forehead like jets of liquid nitrogen. I keep a low profile. 
Not so two garrulous West African women hollering loudly in French over the heads of their children, one toddler boy, one kindergarten girl, across the width of the bus. The blonde head rises, eyes slowly look up -  the smell of ozone as the air sizzles - and return to their screen. Then a child raises its voice in indignation. 
It takes an instant. The boy's head disappears from its shoulders, his neck seared cold and clean, no mess, no fuss. It wasn't even him.
A mother claps her hand over her daughter's mouth. 
The rest is silence.  


On the pod: 
What You Want - Joe Jackson 


On the front page: 
Offer IVF to women over 40, NHS told

Draw back your bow

On the day: 
21/05/2012 


On the way: 
He's focused on his BlackBerry. She's looking out the window. 
He's greying early but with grace. It's impossible to tell with her cheerfully plummy colouring. 
He's wearing a navy suit and a pink shirt. Her cardie is a royal purple, regal maybe, and a a white shirt with an unrestrained floral pattern of pinks and reds. 
A folder lies flat on his lap beneath his large iPad, its screen dark and vacant, sombre. She has a large floppy canvas bag with dark leather corner patches, her smooth, little hands comfort each other, folded on top of it, a small ring on the middle finger of her right hand. 
His mouth slightly downturned, his face registers, what? Mild concern? Is this it? 
Her face much the same. A vague sense of discontent? Of something missing? 
Dude, five seats. Five empty seats. Dude. What? Are you blind, Cupid? 
It's a sitter, you can't miss. Get on the job. 


On the pod: 
I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You - Hootie and the Blowfish 


On the front page: 
Bee Gee Robin dies (The Sun)

Only love

On the day: 
19/05/2012 


On the way: 
On planes, trains, Tubes, buses and on ice-cream trucks he travelled the capital. Today, on the day of his birth, we remember and we mourn  Dr Mark Digby, a man of duty, dignity and deep, deep love. We miss you dad. 


On the pod: 
Only Love Can Break Your Heart - St Etienne 


On the front page: 
G8 Summit: adopt QE Cameron tells eurozone

In brightest day

On the day: 
18//05/2012 


On the way: 
The bus stops. 
Two passengers make their way to the exit, an elderly man wearing a dark beanie and a ragged, grey, white-flecked beard, a wide woman in a voluminous coat. 
The exit doors remain closed, so they turn and shuffle towards the front door, that one's working fine. (A few stops further on, the faulty bus will be evacuated entirely and its passengers moved en masse onto the next one, and the exit doors will choose that moment to co-operate, go figure.) 
Someone is sprinting up the pavement, bearded, balding, his black  suit jacket flapping after him, one in-ear phone flying out after that, a brown shoulder bag bouncing on his left hip.  He leaps onto the bus with a smile of relief, and is that a Green Lantern badge on his left lapel? 
Must be me. 


On the pod: 
London Still - The Waifs 


On the front page: 
Float puts $104bn tag on new era facebook (The Times)

Off and on

On the day: 
17/05/2012 


On the way: 
The bus stops. 
A desultory troop of travellers leaves the shelter and shuffles towards the front door. Nooo rush. 
A woman steps out of the bus, neatly dressed and comfortably - jeans, a khaki coat over a forest green fleecy top with some logo where the breast pocket might otherwise sit. She stops, turns and calls as you would to a child. They follow. Gradually. One. Two. Three. 
A hunched man in olive green corduroys on a deep red mobility scooter chugs up; will he require the ramp? No, he's off under his own steam, no further delay there. 
Another woman, curly black hair worn up, blue all-weather jacket, appears at the exit and ushers out her brood. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. She follows them, consults the first woman, then looks back up the stairs. More children. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine... As she turns a flash of green is visible at her collar. Sigh. It's a school outing.
 A youngster steps up onto the low wall of the parking lot of an onlooking apartment block, adjusts his baseball cap, places one oversized white trainer between the loops of fencing, and boosts himself over to the pavement, then walks to the open front door with a studied lethargy, denying any previous urgency. He reaches it as the last few children step off onto the pavement. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. 
He hauls himself wearily onto the bus and searches a pocket set at the calf of his too low-slung cargo trousers. He finally produces a  travel card - the world is his Oyster if he can overcome his affected ennui to claim it - and he sets off for a seat. 
The doors start to close. A trim, bearded fellow in a navy tracksuit runs up, and past, in the opposite direction. 
The bus pulls out and heads for the next stop, four or five blocks up the road. It pulls in and the doors open. 
A handful of heavies lift themselves from their communal bench and set out for the front of the bus. 
A hunched man in olive green corduroys on a deep red mobility scooter chugs up... 


On the pod: 
Speechless - Lady Gaga 


On the front page: 
Euro crisis hits mortgages (The Times)

Getting the wind up

On the day: 
16/05/2012 


On the way: 
He has grey hair fading to a distinguished white at his temples. His suit is sober grey, his pullover light grey, his shirt pale pink. So far so fade into the background. 
The document he is studying and carefully marking/ annotating has a legal look about it - numbered lines and regular mentions of Mr Justice ****** and no pictures. His black ticks join the scribbled words in red and in blue, the jabs and strokes drawing blood, leaving scars. And the second document is headed *****/***** dispute. Of course I can't say - it's sub judice or some such. 
So he'll be off in a couple of stops. He'll palely pass the multicoloured chaos of the market stalls, ghost through the underpass with its vivid mosaics, and up the road incognito to the imposing facade of the court buildings, and up to the third floor to his poky little office, more a booth than a chamber, almost unnoticed, a secret identity. 
Then burst forth, transformed, a tornado robed in black justice, a wind of change, the scourge of the corporate courtroom, striking fear into the hearts of those who dare flout fair trading, pay insufficient attention to competition legislation conduct their business unethically in his town. Corporate criminals are a superstitous lot, I will be... a stiff breeze. 
And at six o'clock he will return to his telephone booth and emerge the mild mannered commuter no one would suspect of leading this double-life. Unless they notice the papers on his lap. 


On the pod: 
Big Mistake - Natalie Imbruglia 


On the front page: 
Brooks pledges to fight 'unjust' hacking charges

Smoke and swagger

On the day:
15/05/2012


On the way:
She stands with a flabby kind of swagger, her cigarette smoking with vigour. 
Her black hoodie, which proclaims her allegiance to a C-list brand of trainer, is worn defiantly - not menacingly over the edge of the brow, not reclusively over the eyes, not practically onto her forehead, but defiantly halfway across the top of her head and pulled down taut. 
A bus stops and another girl jumps off, more compact, wearing close-fitting jeans rather than loose tracky bottoms, but cut from the same cloth. 
She barks a challenge. Pleasantries are exchanged in short words. Will fisticuffs be forthcoming? 
No, they're just chatting, catching up on the news, sharing fresh outrages, bobbing in a dance, revelling in the vivid threads of life's rich tapestry. 
The larger girl leans forward, towards the bin, balanced on one leg, the other rising behind, smoke billowing from exhalation, and spits, or more accurately lets fall, a satisfying gobbet of saliva, onto the pavement, and thus relieved, resumes her stance satisfied. All is well with the world. 


On the pod: 
Nth Degree - Morningwood 


On the front page: 
Diagnosed with being lovestruck died of TB (Metro)

Just passing by

On the day: 
14/05/2012 


On the way: 
There are only three people on the bus. 
Other than me. That's four people. 
And some people who went upstairs. But I can't see them so they may or may not exist any longer. Do people who you don't know and will never see again (or be aware that you're seeing again) continue to exist? Why should the harem of the court of King Caractacus and all its attendants, all its Guildensterns and Rosenkrantzes, carry on once it has performed its essential function of passing by? 
Once it has outlived its usefulness do its constituent atoms simply part company and return to the foundry where they can be formed into tomorrow's court? Do some courtiers, a lucky Rosenkrantz, a fortunate Guildenstern, get to wait on the upper deck to be recognised, perhaps acknowledged. Do their brief moments  on the memory maintain their form, assure them at least mortality? Until they are forgotten.
And then does their description on a virtual page earn them a few more precious minutes? Like the driver, an indistinct figure on the other side of a murky plastic pane who has a strange, slightly elongated head and little beady eyes, like a shoebill. 
Oh, the driver. That's five people. 


On the pod: 
Sleepwalker - The Wallflowers 


On the front page: 
Go to Britain for benefits says EU (Daily Telegraph)

Panic

On the day: 

10/05/2012 

On the way: 

The speaker splutters, like a disc crackling as the needle drops. 

The familiar morning DJ starts her companionable patter: "Welcome aboard this Southeast train to...Gillingham."

Habitually disinterested commuters surface with a start. 

She's got their attention now: "Calling at... Charlton, Woolwich Arsenal, Abbey Wood..." 

No, that's not right. 

She warms to its subject: "Greenhithe, Gravesend, Higham, Strood..." 

No no no. That's not where we're going. It's not what it said on the platform. I can't go there. I've got other places to go. I'll never get to work in time. I've got a meeting. What'll the boss say? Who'll open the shop? I'll lose my job. We'll lose the house. My wife will walk out. My husband hasn't worked in months. Who'll feed the kids? 

Implacable she forges ahead: "Rochester, Chatham, Gillingham..." 

Nooo, let me out, let me out, let me out. 

You can almost hear her rub her hands together, that sneering, smug, self-satisfied tone: "The next stop will be... Blackheath"

Wait a minute, that's where the train's come from.  She's just put the wrong record on, the cow.

Hang the DJ. 

On the pod: 

Rock and Roll - Led Zeppelin

On the front page: 

End of the line for hate preacher (Metro) 

A wet spell

On the day:
09/05/2012 


On the way: 
His sparse, white hair is cropped to within an inch of its life, and there's probably not an awful lot of life left in it. 
On top of head anyway. His white beard is permitted no purchase on his cheeks - a sartorial decision. - but its in good health above and below his mouth, giving it an illusion of length. 
But that's not the only thing that betrays him as an urban wizard. His wand is in his Waitrose carrier bag - cunningly disguised as an umbrella - to afford him some mastery over the inclement weather. His robe looks like a long, dark blue raincoat, but he's been rumbled, this sorceror of the streets, I know his secret now so he has no power over me. 
Not that he is to be feared - his eyes are benevolent, the kind that curve downward at the edges, upended apostrophes. 
And it's in his vibrant, spring green scarf tucked into his robe, he clearly revels in the forces of life. He tugs at it and it flops out in all its verdant glory of the season. See here good folk, I show my colours, you need fear naught from me. 
That's all very well, pal, but if you're this mighty mage, why are we still waiting for a bus after 15 minutes? 


On the pod: 
Have Some Rain - The Evinrudes 


On the front page: 
Bankers' bonuses blocked by judge (London Evening Standard)

The fru-it of the de-vill

On the day: 
08/05/2012 


On the way: 
Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. 
Quite aside from what may or may not have occurred on the train today to call to mind that thought, which I may or may not be at liberty to reveal pending legal proceedings, that's a lot of 'of's. 
Innit. 


On the pod: 
Madcow - Dorp 


On the front page: 
Fears grow for Greece as Europe enters a new dawn (The Times) 

Got cat style

On the day: 
07/05/2012 


On the way: 
Leaning against the bus shelter he is relaxed, poised like a big cat, he could strike at any moment. But he won't. There's no menace here.
His felt coat falls to his calves, followed by dark blue jeans and brown leather shoes, long years of service rewarded with the care of brush and polish. 
His moustache, running down either side of his mouth to his chin, is both salt and pepper, manly but not aggressive. The gentle is also in his eyes. Absent? Unquestioning? Unreadable? And on top of his head, a leather pork pie hat. 
He hops effortlessly onto the bus and curls into a seat. Did he turn a circle before settling? Then watches the morning streets pass. 
The bus halts and he uncoils, slips onto the street and he's off to prowl the concrete jungle. Of Catford. 


On the pod: 
Constant - Fetish 


On the front page: 
France turns left with revolt against austerity

Fare enough

On the day: 
04/05/2012 


On the way: 
Inspiration is not on this bus. 
He was down the pub last night, spending cash he didn't have on Newcastle Brown, depending on drinking mates for the last pint, the last couple of pints. 
They proclaimed him "a laugh" and got the next round in. Then, when the guv'nor had long since called last orders, they supported his spare frame from the pub and took him to his stop. There they waited with him, the milk stout of human kindness flowing in their veins, until his bus arrived. They even hoisted him in with his plastic carrier bag of, of some stuff, and negotiated his passage with the driver who was strangely resistant to the idea that because he was "skint" and "drenched" he should travel without paying a fare. What was the driver going to do, reasoned they, he couldn't leave the old boy at the side of the road. 
And somehow he teetered to a seat. Somehow he carried his bag and his sweet, sour stench to a seat, the sparse, yellowing strands that adhered to the top of his head looking more likely to remain upright than his turkey neck or the spindly legs in his flapping trousers. And somehow... somehow... But the thrum of the bus had lulled away the last lolling gobbets of consciousness... 
So no, inspiration is not on this bus this morning. 


On the pod: 
Failure - Laura Marling 


On the front page: 
Advantage Labour as voters punish coalition

Cattle and hum

On the day: 
03/15/2012 


On the way: 
There is a humming coming from behind me. 
Not like an electrical circuit threatening mischief from behind a panel in the blandly blue-grey carriage divider. 
Not like a cardboard box of bees, left on a train seat neatly wrapped in green paper covered in cartoon images of pink iced cakes, interspersed with ones of a trio of big-eyed cows, two friesland and one brown, wearing party hats, waving streamers and wielding ballons, dancing and singing, "Happy birthday". 
Not like that. More like a young woman, judging from the pitch, unconsciously replaying a snatch of tune, if you can even call it a tune, and no more than a snatch, that has taken up temporary residence like an inoffensive friend of a friend in a spare room who will vacate without demur but only when politely requested to because there is a more urgent need for the space. 
I invoke my inner Jessie J, Tom Jones, will.i.am,  the.other.bloke... And turn. 
A  compact Asian man is comfortably snuggled into his seat,  the collar of his brown windcheater pulled up high, staring vacantly through thick spectacles. 
I would not have picked that. 


On the pod: 4 Men 4 Women - The LED 


On the front page: 50 agents face DNA test over spy in the bag killing (Daily Mail)

Peering into darkness

On the day: 02/04/2012 


On the way: 'Na nyah nyah-nyah na.' 
It's not a taunt, it's singing, as though by someone who doesn't know what singing is, an imitation without awareness of melody, and spat out, like a nasty taste in the mouth. 
It's coming from behind the bus stop, where the kebab shop stands in darkness at this time of the morning, its greasy come-on quiet. Not so the man standing in front of it, as he gazes down the road in search of the impending bus. 
His mouth is set in a sneer, like peering into darkness, or licking aloe. His face is creased, his hair a woolly patch of black fading to grey around his ears, ears that reveal the source of his muse - little in-ear phones. Thick black eyebrows overline scrunched-up eyes. 
He steps forward towards the shelter, blue-grey windcheater rustling, and leans forward to ascertain the number of the approaching bus. He releases a conspicuous sigh, it would appear this number is not the one he was hoping for, but it sounds like it's yet another betrayal.
Muttering, he turns on his heel, clunky booted, one sole slightly built up, one toe slightly turned in, disappointment in his gait. Perhaps not so much disappointment at the number of the bus (he will board it regardless), perhaps more at the years spent peering into darkness. 


On the pod: Like You Madly - Just Jinger 


On the front page: MPs split on whether Murdoch is 'fit' to run his empire (The Times)

Bike off

On the day: 02/05/2012 


On the way: Cars rush by, motorbikes buzz around, buses muscle through, a train rumbles above, and bicycles...  
Two clash, wobble, one's down, limbs splay, a foot in the gutter a hand to a brick wall. An instant, one more, and the other's over, scudding across the pavement, pedestrians scatter. 
They rise, turn, face each other. Potential spikes. 
They shake. Whew. That's all right then. It's all over. Nothing to see here. 
A small lady, late middle age, dusts off the her trouser leg, rights her tartan bag on its wheels, straightens the hem of her faded orange coat and turns up towards the station entrance, favouring her left ankle.


On the pod: The Last One - Lithium 


On the front page: I want a Boris in every city - PM (London Evening Standard)

Don't look now

On  the day: 
01/05/2012 


On the way: 
It's Donald Sutherland. I'm sure it is. You know, the president out of The Hunger Games. 
He's at the end of my carriage. I'd recognise those droopy eyes anywhere. I can hear his voice rumbling when the train stops, talking to the woman next to him. 
But he seems distracted as we pull out of the station, looking out the window. 
At a little girl left on the platform, wearing a red raincoat. 


On the pod: 
Paper Cup - Heather Nova 


On the front page:
Householders hit as mortgage rates rise

Phrenology of the footwear

On the day: 
30/04/2012


On the way: 
The first you'd see of him coming round a corner, by a country mile (or more likely an urban mile) would be his shoes. 
Black slip-ons - (Do they indicate an innate impatience with unproductive pursuits such as tying shoelaces? An essential laziness in selecting footwear requiring minimal effort to deploy? An oiliness in that he's always prepared to slip 'em off or slip 'em on - can one rely on such a man?) in soft leather. 
And long, they extend far beyond the end of his feet. (Does the conspicuous consumption of such swaths of shoe leather reveal unbounded greed? Is the space they occcupy a territorial display of dominance? Or is it purely phallic?)  
But these are not that aggressively pointed species of shoe, evolved to pick unsuspecting winkles off rocks at low tide, if popular parlance is to be taken at face value, but today more commonly used by those who purpose to pick cash from the pockets of unsuspecting citizens seeking second-hand motorised transport or insurance for such a vehicle. 
No, there may even be a grace in their ebb and flow, the smooth slope down from the generous tongue, the ridges running either side to an geometric imaginary convergence far beyond the reality of the shoe, and before the end, the leisurely lift that betrays the excess, the unoccupied area that has never felt the downward pressure, the idle inch. What could it all mean? 
Probably not all that much. Not compared to the Marti Pellow twinkle in his eyes, the delight in his smile, the hiccups of laughter as he talks on his phone, a steady stream, a babbling brook of some south Asian language. A joyful noise, the sound of a man in whose shoes you would gladly walk a mile.


On the pod: 
Beautiful People - Pet Shop Boys 


On the front page:
Rift at the heart of Europe (The Times)