The Queen's speech

On the day: 
23/12/2012 

On the way: 
The Queen is back, the Kipper Williams cartoon version that is - Jean spotted her this time, patrolling the patch past the bus stop. 
Up the pavement she goes, disguised in civvies, seeing how the other 96 per cent live, no doubt, wrapped in a voluminous brown faux fur coat reaching to her ankles, her feet in two-tone trainers, a canary yellow headscarf offering pale shelter from the rain. Up the pavement and down again.
And if she mumbles to herself as she goes - and I'm not saying she does because she's the Queen and you've got to show a little respect, even when she's in mufti - maybe that's because she's busy rehearsing her speech for Tuesday.
Or maybe she's saying, "Where are one's bothersome corgis? That's the last time one lets Phillip go walking them on his own. Init."

On the pod: 

Only good for conversation - Rodriguez 

On the front page: Mitchell: Police destroyed me (The Times)  

Well are you getting it?

On the day: 
21/12/2012 

On the way: 
The buses are running, most of them, the trains are on track, even the aeroplanes are still taking off. Are travellers satisfied? No. Satisfied is what they are not.
Well, fair number of them may be, but not the would-be interstellar commuters who gathered in a French village counting on an appearance by aliens to airlift them away from the impending apocalypse.
And as for the picture of the grumpy-looking cat with the caption 'Still here, worst apocalyse ever'... typical. People always reckon the current apocalypse is the worst ever. 'Oh apocalypses aren't what they were in my day. They knew how to stage an apocalypse when I was a kid.' 
Come on, people. Past apocalypses have been every bit as rubbish - the turn of the millennium was hardly the conflagration we had come to expect. If any one of the previous ones had done what they said on the tin (aisle 12 - they're on special, three for the price of two), people wouldn't be standing around whinging about it today. 
Can't we just accept our lot and embrace today's apocalypse for it's own unique qualities? I think Sister Christina of Aguilera put it best: It is beautiful, no matter what they say, words can't bring it down. 

On the pod: 
Fairytale Of New York -The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl 

On the front page: 
Mitchell blasts Met chief (The Times)

Wednesday, gonna fall off

On the day: 
19/12/2012 

On the way: 
London Bridge is not falling down. It's steady and sturdy and all those things that have nothing to do with falling down. But that's not the experience of the balding man in the black City coat who is hanging precariously from his umbrella in the gently falling rain. 
The air is still and the pavement broad and flat but still he seems to be drawn by forces to which he alone is subject, inexorably towards the road. Then, on the verge of disaster, the tar mac beckoning, he veers back on course, just barely staying on the safe side of the kerb. 
The refreshtive season - this time of year, every night's a Friday for somebody. 

On the pod: 
Two Princes - Spin Doctors 

On the front page: 
We've ad it up to here, Instagram! (Metro)

Thin pins

On the day: 
19/12/2012 

On the way: 
Those are skinny legs, them, stretching from blocky black brothelcreepers with thick soles and two-tone leopard-print uppers,  all the way up to jeans torn off at the crotch. It's a mercy that the wind isn't blowing too hard this evening or they might snap. 
But no, it's just cold. And wet. Cold and wet. So black stockings, a thigh-length black coat, and a black beanie worn tall like the hat on an eighth dwarf or on Dappy out of N-Dubz (which is pretty-much the same fing, yeh), have their work cut out for them. 
It's a carefully constructed look - all poppy-eyes with Amy Winehouse eyeliner, long, straight blonde hair and chipped coral fingernails - and one that is sure to grab the attention of pallid twilit youths, Tim Burton toon . 
Or Gollum. 

On the pod: 
Torch - Soft Cell 

On the front page: 
'Dark side' of Savile known at BBC (London Evening Standard)

Suspicious minds

On the day: 
14/12/2012 

On the way: 
Why does he look at me that way - distrustful from under heavy lids? 
I've seen him before - his frizzy bush of hair, his fleshy face, hands and fingers with pointy little nails. He's sitting in his customary seat at the back left of the lower deck, mumbling occasionally and a blue plastic bag hangs down between substantial thighs in green khaki trousers. And there are the dark brown loafers that will carry him off at the hospital or the shopping centre or something ... But that look? 
What's that about? Does he imagine I'm writing something about him on my phone? 
That's it. He's planning to come over and grab it. Or worse. 
He's shifting. He's about to stand up. And his hand is in the pocket of his navy fleece. What's he got in there? A knife? A gun? 
Yikes, I'm getting off the bus right here. 
Wow. What a weirdo. Could he be more paranoid?  

On the pod: 
America - Simon and Garfunkel 

On the front page: 
Winehouse's ex in anonymity plea as he is cleared of rape (Metro)

Mo problems

On the day: 
14/12/2012 

On the way: 
Hey you. Yes you in the burgundy quilted Armani windcheater and the Ralph Lauren beanie pulled over your eyebrows. 
I don't wish to interrupt your top-secret, sotto voce, in-ear mobile phone conversation, but I had to draw your attention that barely perceptible, carefully mown, futile strip of yellow lip lawn you have? I mean, you are aware November is over? 

On the pod: 
Loch Lomond (live) - Runrig 

On the front page: 
Disgraced editor gets £11million handshake (Metro)

Make mine Marple

On the day: 
12/12/2012  

On the way: 
Her frame is slight and slightly bent under her calf-length woollen coat that protects old bones against the. December cold. Her gloved hands are settled on the red check wheelie bag in front of her - practical but, one suspects, not essential. 
Because beneath the circular, evenly sloping brim of her chocolate brown hat, sharp blue eyes peer out, not missing a single thing. 
It looks like something's afoot and Miss Marple is on the case. 

On the pod: 
Say You'll Be There - The Spice Girls 

On the front page: 
Gays are left at the altar (Metro)

Hey Jude

On the day:
11/12/2012

On the way:
Almost it never ever happens.

You run for a bus you have no chance of catching, panting a prayer to Saint Jude, steam puffed and blown like incense smoke into the icy morning air. And just as your stride slows in defeat, you realise a second bus is on patrol directly behind it - like police officers, someone must have been waiting a long time for one -  tapping you on the shoulder and saying "'Allo, 'allo, 'allo. Whered'you think you're going?"
Then, "Oh, Lewisham station. Well come on, then." Which is less scary.
And the race is on, the buses taking on and overtaking  at stops. Who needs Formula 1? This competition runs five days a week, all year round.
Just a few stops to go, and we're holding on to the lead...

On the pod:The Fallen - Franz Ferdinand

On the front page:
Winehouse ex 'raped friend twice' (Metro)

So what's worse... (1)

On the day: 
07/12/2012 

On the way: 
So what's worse... 
You board the train to see there's only one seat free in the carriage, so you take it with relief, and it's only when you stand up and step out into the zero-degree night that you realise the seat of your trousers is wet and you have a 20-minute walk home... 
Or...? [feel free to jump in here] 

On the pod: 
Waltzing Along - James 

On the front page: 
Nurse who took Kate prank call found dead (London Evening Standard)

Dead weight

On the day: 
06/12/2012 

On the way: 
Now, you may be wearing a well-worn a paisley silk cravat and reading the latest issue of the New Scientist. You may even have a noble, aquiline nose, soulful Morten Harket eyes in dark blue and a mature but well-groomed beard. And a bald patch at the centre of your silvering mane. 
But if you're sitting there in a flat-brimmed leather hat and a long black coat that reaches more than half way down your black jeans. And wearing a black waistcoat with a fob-watch chain hanging out of its pocket, over your deep burgundy shirt. 
And more to the point, if you're carrying a heavy, studded wooden box about three feet long and one foot deep, with edges scuffed and surfaces scraped - in the shape of a coffin.
Well, you're going to raise some suspicion. 

On the pod: 
Slight Return - The Bluetones 

On the front page: 
Disabled hit back over benefits cut (The Times)

On the subject: http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/homeward-bound.html

Homeward bound

On the day: 
05/12/2012 

On the way: 
If you've got a flat-brimmed leather hat and a long black coat that reaches more than half way down your black jeans. If you're wearing a black waistcoat with a fob-watch chain hanging out of its pocket, over your deep burgundy shirt. 
And if you have a well-worn a paisley silk cravat and you're reading the latest issue of the New Scientist. And if you're carrying a studded wooden box about three feet long and one foot deep in the shape of a coffin with edges scuffed and surfaces scraped from years of service to music. 
And of course it helps if you have a noble aquiline nose, soulful Morten Harket eyes in dark blue and a mature but well-groomed beard. 
Well, then, no one is going to worry about the bald patch at the centre of your silvering mane.
Now where can I get me summa dat? 

On the pod: 
High - Stabbing Westward 

On the front page: 
Better than carbon neutral (New Scientist)

On the subject: http://andhisthoughtsarefullofstrangers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/dead-weight.html

Still fizz

On the day: 
03/12/2012 

On the way: 
'Ja ameen. Ah can say wha' ah wanna say bu' ah can make it concise,' says the young man in the white fluffy jumper with the Christmassy embroidered bits at the bottom as he boards the train, mobile phone clamped to his ear. The final 's' fizzes with a satisfied sibillance. 
He's still fizzing when he gets off four stops later. 
For all I know he's fizzing still. 

On the pod: 
Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright 

On the front page: 
Kate expectations (Metro)

A bus in time

On the day: 
02/12/2012 

On the way: 
So he caught the bus - by the look of him it would seem on some rural road in the first half of last century - and he's placidly seated at the back. 
Under his houndstooth flat cap - reddish brown and dark brown checks on a tan base - his close cropped white hair can be seen above and behind proud ears. His mild gaze is heavy-lidded with the weight of pastoral contentment and his head melts into a sturdy stem contained by the collar of his houndstooth jacket - chocolate brown and grey-blue on tan. 
And over his houndstooth-print shirt - simple blue-grey (it is different, okay?) - a cream cardie, presumably knitted with wool from the sheep on his farm, which he left what seems like a lifetime ago to catch the omnibus into town, hoping to purchase a new butter churn for his wife for Christmas. 
Maybe it was a lifetime ago (the buses today, tsk), or maybe Southeastern Rail has finally got the long-awaited temporal warp service up and running at Chelsfield. 
Either way, he's in for a shock when he gets off Lewisham market. 

On the pod: 
Equality (live) - Howard Jones 

On the front page: 
Brawl on M1 as two die in 140mph 'race' (London Evening Standard)

Fit for heaven

On the day: 
30/11/2011 

On the way: 
"Last chance," they threaten, the two guerilla gymhadists, ambushing innocent passers-by outside the station. "Join Fitness First now. It's your LAST CHANCE." 
Last chance? What? It's going to stop recruiting new adherents? Is that a threat or a promise?
And if I join, how many virgins will I get once I have ascended to the Cardio Theatre? And what if I take the platinum membership? How many virgins do I get then? And if I don't, what then? Will the god of squat thrusts and spinning throw me into the eternal flames of damnation? Feel the burn.
Ah, to hell with it. I think I'll take my chances with an infidel doughnut and hot chocolate. With extra whipped cream.

On the pod: 

Left My Heart In Tokyo - Mini Viva 

On the front page: 

Prince hails Standard's 'inspirational leadership' as he becomes patron of our apprentice appeal (London Evening Standard - of course)

Music, man

On the day: 
30/11/2012 

On the way: 
It's not about the mat of dark brown hair hanging stiffly down the back of his head and swiped sideways from behind his left temple low across his forehead. (Although... is that a hint of burgundy colouring picked up by the icy morning sun?) 
It's not about the valiant attempt at a beard that scraggles across his narrow chin and clings to the strip between his thin lips and the point of his nose. 
It's not about the grungey black and white checked jacket or the fruit pastille purple jeans. (It's no big. Doesn't everyone wear fruit pastille purple jeans?) 
It's not even about the old-school headphones, padded to exclude extraneous sound and attached by a thick, curly cord to, what? A pocket record player with original Seventies vinyl? It has a warmer sound, you know. (Well, maybe it's a bit about all that.) 
But no. It's about the music. 
Man. 

On the pod: 
This Side Of The Morning - Del Amitri 

On the front page: 
Cameron spikes Press law (The Times)

In pursuit of justification

On the day: 
29/11/2012 

On the way: 
Oh exciting. Three police officers - one woman two men - board the bus, uniforms and Custodian helmets and ladies' bowler and everything. 
And they remove their headgear and stand there chatting for a few stops, and then the one bloke helmets up and steps off to make inquiries of a couple of sidewalk entrepreneurs with a couple of great big square bags of wares a few metres up the pavement, while the other two stay on for a few more stops and... 
And you can't help feeling a little disappointment that there wasn't just a little more action - if not an actual shootout or drug bust, at least enough to justify writing a whole goshdarned blog posting about it. 

On the pod: 
Tomorrow's Just Another Day - Madness 

On the front page: 
As Leveson reports, owner of Independent seeks help

The early bird

On the day: 
28/11/2012 

On the way: 
He hops off the bottom step into the lower deck. His skinny legs strut stiffly in their blue jeans, but his body is round, bobbing up and down in its blue and white checked coat. His shiny bald head darts back and forth and side to side, beady black eyes keeping a lookout for, what? Cats? 

On the pod: 
Harder To Breathe - Maroon 5 

On the front page: 
Airport city on Thames (inspired by India) (London Evening Standard)

Dark matter

On the day: 
27/11/2012 

On the way: 
The dull grey sky smothers the morning light and only two figures can be discerned in the corner shadow of the bus shelter. 
One sits, her coat a formless shape against the murk, and beyond her is the face of another woman her clothing fading into the gloom. 
A flutter of black in the blackness, where the standing woman's shoulder should be, as though a stiff gust has lifted a scarf, or dislodged a flap of existence. Shards of dark material flicker in moments of matt and gloss then manifest ... a bird stands on the pavement. His eyes glitter, marquisite set in sockets of dark matter, a defiant instant. ruffles his feathers and takes flight. 
Towards Ravensbourne. 

On the pod: 
Daddy's Gone - Glasvegas 

On the front page: 
Chancellor banks on top outsider to save economy (The Times)

In the sniffstream

On the day: 
23/11/2012 

On the way: 
A grey November morning on the public transport system brightens when a slim man in a thigh-length, padded and hooded, light khaki rain jacket over a thin, iron-grey cable-knit jersey gently shoulders his way through the throng in the aisle of the bus, holding a gold key in his right hand, a wallet and a travelcard in his right, and wearing a slightly apologetic, slightly bemused, but delightful  smile on his face. 
And in his wake, a slipstream of good feeling. 
It follows him to the back of the bus, where he drapes himself over one and a half seats, his right leg swinging from the knee to reveal pinky-purple socks between the hem of his cheap khaki trousers and his worn black Reebok trainers. 
And then starts the sniffing... 

On the pod: 
Overflowing: The Usual 

On the front page: 
Drink drivers may face a lifetime ban (Metro)

Leaft to rot

On the day: 
22/11/2012 

On the way: 
At the end of a day of delays and cancellations, the train inches forward in the darkness, its wheels growling for traction on the slick and slushy line. 
The leaves are doing their work. 

On the pod: 
Antarctica - Sound of Guns 

On the front page: 
New BBC chief is named amid payouts storm (London Evening Standard)

An inspector calls

On the day: 
21/11/2012 

On the way: 
When the words come from over my shoulder, my stomach drops and my blood runs cold. 
Spoken softly, almost whispered, without threat, they still hold menace. "Tickets please." 
It's just one man - "We could take 'im," springs unhelpfully to mind - dressed inconspicuously in a dark hoodie. And his face is young, pleasant, unmemorable, wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Even if I'd been facing the doors as he boarded the bus this morning, I wouldn't have picked him as a ticket inspector. It's a tactic. Stealth checks. Those underhanded transport authorities, sending their spies to sneak in and snoop around... 
Wait a minute, what am I saying? I've paid my way. I couldn't have got much further than the bus driver without tapping my Oyster card on the electronic reader. I'm in the clear. I'm all right, Jack. 
Check me, sir. Check me. 
And now, check him, the big guy skulking in the corner back seat. I bet he hasn't paid, you can catch him.
Freeloaders, pfeh. Who do they think they are? Feeding off our taxes, stealing from the state... 

On the pod: 
17 Hills - Thomas Dolby 

On the front page: 
Church faces crisis after veto on women bishops (The Times)

An old leaf

On the day: 
20/11/2012 

On the way: 
The rubbish cart is moored outside the station. It's an impressive vessel - a blue plastic hull with a lidded hold fore and an open one aft, and outboard rigging to hold brooms, rakes and the like. And around it huddles its crew, in their reflective yellow waistcoats, consulting, drinking coffee and skilfully exploding the maritime metaphor. 
There's the tall chap leaning forward conspiratorially, his back to the entrance. We'll call him Darth Beech. 
Then there's the one with the flatcap, slightly shorter, slightly sturdier, leaning back a bit with a grip on the handles at the back of the cart, Darth Oak. 
And finally the short chap, peering over the far side of the cart from under a slumped navy blue beanie, his freckles showing through the dark skin of his cheeks, a bit like a mini Morgan Freeman. Darth Minimorg.
Hey, who ever promised consistency of naming conventions in this blog? 
And the cart's cargo? Autumn leaves painstakingly swept from the streets so you the pedestrian doesn't have to suffer the embarrassment of walking into the office with dead foliage stuck to the sole of your shoe or speared by your stiletto. 
What kind of leaves, you may ask.
The wrong kind of leaves, of course, just the kind that can be deployed on a railway line near you. 

On the pod: 
Stand By Me - Oasis 

On the front page: 
British use of drones at heart of 'secret war' (The Times)

Brothers beyond

On the day: 
19/11/2012 

On the way: 
Just the two of them today, talking each other through a series of dance steps in hushed tones. 
Darth Bling and Darth Adonis they may be, but  urban disruption is not their bag. When they stop the traffic, it's not with jackhammers and graders.
Both are in skinny black jeans, black jackets and matching gold chains with links as thick as a child's finger. 
They're one, but they're not the same. The taller, by an inch or two of height and a couple more of lavender quiff, has white-soled slip-on plimsolls with a slavering rottweiler design on the uppers and a black leather jacket over a BOY vest. 
The other, with the turquoise do, has shiny silver trainers with thick white soles and busily embroidered silky black jacket - along with the standard wriggling Eastern dragons, the names of United States ships down the left sleeve, Oriental ports down the right, and an Asia by Asia-style serpent lashing the sea as it rises on the back, surrounded by imperial naval flags of questionable historic origin. But what would I know of such things? 
What a pity, though, if that jacket were to upstage the borrowed from Brother Beyond routine they are  rehearsing on the platform. 

On the pod: 
Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies - Biffy Clyro 

On the front page: 
Secrecy bid over sex claims (The Times)

Man in the mirror

On the day: 
19/11/2012 

On the way: 
Blue jeans, black sweatshirt, beard and a Tottenham Hotspur beanie pulled over his forehead. 
Is his hair thinning underneath? Is he waiting for the 208? Or is it just that there's a full-length mirror on the side of the bus stop. 
No, of course not. What would I be doing with a baby buggy? 
Or wearing white trainers? 

On the pod: 
Bedshaped - Keane 

On the front page: 
West warns against land invasion after bloodiest day (The Times)

Putting the dockers on

On the day: 
15/11/2012 

On the way: 
Rolled-up beanie, weatherproof jacket, jeans and sturdy workboots - and that's just part of it. 
It's also the big build, the broadly drawn, heavy face and the determined set of his mouth - he belongs on a New York dockside among the high-vaulted warehouses and imposing cargo containers. How many times have I seen his kind, armed with a lead pipe or crowbar, in a futile battle with hero for hire Luke Cage or your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. 
Mebbe he thinks he'll take less of a battering on public transport in South London. 
Mebbe he's got another think coming. 

On the pod: 
Shine Like Stars - Glasvegas 

On the front page: 
Guard faces prison over drunk girl's rail tragedy (Metro)

Estudiante Espanol

On the day: 
14/11/2012 

On the way: 
Slim, primary colours of red fading to yellow and back to red, simple illustrations, that's a children's book he's reading, mouthing the words quietly to himself as he sits in the back of the bus. 
He's a gentle-looking man with a warm chocolate complexion and inquiring eyes; and while the hair is thinning off the top of his head, retreating from a generous forehead, a thin beard has emerged on his cheeks and chin. 
He sensibly snug in a brown jersey with narrow, orange, horizontal stripes and jeans, and between his feet, in brown trainers with velcro straps, is the stationer's bag that contained the book. 
The book lifted for a moment, its Spanish Phrases for Kids. It's all making sense now. 
Anyone know the the Spanish for, "Good on you, mate"?

On the pod: 
Record Collection - Mark Ronson and the Business International 

On the front page: 
A place at Eton for the poor (Metro)

Step to the right

On the day: 
14/11/2012 

On the way: 
"... more than a hundred years old," he's leaning to his left, getting a better view as he regales the wide-eyed young lady one step down from him on the escalator, "and it's been handed down through the generations..." 
And speaking of traditions, pal, here's a more recent one: round these parts we stand to the right so people in a hurry can pass on the left. No matter how much we want to bask in the impressed upward gaze of the girl we're trying to impress with our encyclopaedic knowledge of whatever. 

On the pod: 
Runaways - The Killers 

On the front page: 
Cold, hungry and abandoned on the border of catastrophe (The Times)

Men of colours

On the day: 
12/11/2012 

On the way: 
They are three. Let's call them Darth Candy, Darth Bling and Darth Adonis. Three but not a luminous orange overall between them. 
There's the one in the houndstooth coat, with hair buzzed close to his scalp, just a candyfloss pink puff standing, maybe slouching a little, in a cool, careless way, on top of his head. 
Then there's the one with a black leather jacket, quilted across the shoulders where the strap of his shiny gold manbag lies, short hair in turquoise with a quiff at the front. 
And finally, the one with backswept violet hair, a light reddish tan faux leather satchel peppered with a logo  (either so exclusive or so cheap that it is not readily recogniseable) and a Union Jack-esque design on the back with big square silver studs, a glittery gold quilted jacket and, best of all, gold shoes with wings flapping out off the uppers. 
Evidently, fabulous things also come in threes. 

On the pod: 
Give Me The Wonder - Johnny Clegg 

On the front page: 
BBC row: A plea for the real victims (Metro)

Lost and found

On the day: 
09/11/2012 

On the way: 
There are no grounds for suspicion when he boards, the open-faced young man in the white sweatshirt, navy quilted bodywarmer and faded blue jeans. Nor when he disappears up the stairs to the upper deck, nor even when he comes down again almost immediately - although it can't be that all the seats up there are taken. 
But when he proceeds quickly up the aisle to the back of the bus, takes a cursory look at the mostly empty row of back seats, settling his eyes for an extra instant on the left corner, then hurries back upstairs. What was that about? What is he looking for? 
Jupiter Jones might have an idea, Sherlock Holmes a better one. Could it be a drug drop? A sign from an extremist cell? Intelligence from an undercover agency? 
It's only later that the lady in the opposite corner stands up and leaves, that the folded up piece of paper she was sitting on becomes evident. 
I scan the faces of my fellow passengers. I see mainly backs but for the sandy blonde woman with the John Byrne facial structure who is staring distractedly out through the window to her right and the bloated ebony man with the pockmarked cheeks and the small eyes who has done nothing since dropping onto his seat and hauling off his beanie but but stare vacantly forward. 
No, no one's looking. This may be my only chance. 
I stretch swiftly across the neighbouring seat and slide the paper back into the back pocket of my trousers. Now it's safely in my possession, there's no sense in taking chances; it'll stay there until I get a moment to look at it in private... 

On the pod: 
Back To California - The Wallflowers 

On the front page: 
New archbishop to pour oil on troubled waters (The Times)

What's a meta for?

On the day: 
08/11/2012 

On the way: 
Two gold balloons carrying a moneylender's logo, tied together with a piece of string, drift into the road, skipping and bouncing carelessly in the breeze of the busy bus stop lane (a third remains on the pavement). 
Commuters stand in the shelter, waiting for the metaphor. 

On the pod: 
Ballad - Sons Of Trout 

On the front page: 
Wall St alarm as Obama faces gridlock (The Times)

Upwardly mobile

On the day: 
07/11/2012 

On the way: 
The elevator arrives, a great equaliser. 
Together they have stood, together they have waited, whatever the surface world may hold - a long walk or a Lexus; a rent or a residence; a family or a flop-house - they're all at the mercy of the illuminated arrow and its progress up and down the display panel. Oh, let it point at me. Please let it point at me. 
So the lift lands and the loose tangle of people tightens into a knot around the doors as its load disperses out of its other side of the steel box. 
Finally it is empty and the doors open up but the knot holds firm as it drags its constituent bodies shuffling into the steel box - five, ten, twenty, maybe thirty as one, unified in a common understanding: we are all human beings together and by the force of our fellow-feeling we will achieve our purpose, to rise to the surface where we belong. 
When from the tunnel bursts a figure, the first fresh off the incoming Tube, legs pumping, black coat flapping, left arm flailing, right hanging onto a bouncing, brown leather bag, racing to reach the lift before its doors close. 
He's there, he's made it, he stops, he sees the human cordon at the very edge of capacity. It's a line of oblivious backs - there's a green coat, a couple of black ones - and one face, the girl in the cream jacket with the flicked out golden bob, standing side-on and looking out over her bag shoulder. He smiles to himself, the smile of a man who knows he's beaten but he's competed well. 
She sees... nothing. 
The doors close, separating the upwardly mobile from the moribund, the elevated and the overlooked, and the lift disappears up the shaft, a great divider. 

On the pod: 
Rain On The Scarecrow - John Mellencamp 

On the front page: 
America decides (The Times)

Chicken tracks

On the day: 
07/11/2012 

On the way: 
Orange-robed DUD agents sighted to the north, two crouched, examining a rail, one on the lookout for incoming trains. 
That's three. Just saying. 
Three Sith lords. Two tracks. One train southbound. One train northbound. 
Now that's what I call a game of chicken. 
This could get interesting. 

On the pod: 
For America - Jackson Browne 

On the front page: 
Four more years (The Guardian)