Concrete and Clay

All waiting. But for what? A station.

A carriage of heads hung, dipped like thermometers into the day's freshly painted ink. Kids, noseringed and suited deep inside universes of their own, miniature sound systems pumping out muted decibels from earlobe speakers. No eye contact.

55 separate worlds a hundred million miles apart, moving through a tunnel.

Tottenham Court Road. A balding pinstriped man gets off and is playfully slapped on the scalp by a blond woman carrying a newspaper walking behind him, his age or a little younger, wearing glasses. It makes a loud slapping sound that echoes along the platform. Purple and incensed the man turns around,

"What did you do that for?"

The woman seems taken aback and confused. Pupils swim awkwardly behind prescription lenses. He stands livid above her shouting about respect.

55 dipped thermometers twitch into life, craning their necks, connected for one moment by the rising heat of the drama.

Please mind the doors.

Turning round at the end of the platform as this train is about to depart and he's still seething. It's a universal law- never slap a balding man on the head.