PICCADILLY LINE:
The Ratman grins, catching my elbow as I weave along the platform,
looks me in the eye like I know him. Starts a conversation about the
weather, toes in perfection against the yellow line, impish. For a
second I think I recognise a rearranged face whose lips part,
revealing unfamiliar teeth. They dance a rhythm that makes me recoil,
walk away, glancing back, to make sure I’m not being followed, scared.
The Ratwoman stops me at the other end of the platform, dressed in
chamois leather yellow, off the shoulder, two-piece smiles. Wind blows
up the line carrying her perfume, not good, not bad, reminds me of a
building I used to know.
A crowd waits for something to happen. Another slow train.
Another long cold night on the rails.
Listening to Sir Shina Peters & his International Stars
(K)
Lagos Jumping
Whistle
Shaped*
You need one of those
Push me Pull you things
that you power yourself
You could whizz by all the platforms
People would stand speechless
Each not knowing if the other had seen you!
My old line for many years when I lived in suburban Southgate. The Victoria for me and submarine Tottenham Hale, all change.