For about 15 minutes this morning I was wedged into my own little corner of the Northern line somewhere in a tunnel, somewhere outside Clapham North, waiting for the train to move following a “signal failure”. The unpleasantness of being stuck on a packed, hot, smelly train some distance underground was then compounded by the people who tried to get on to the clearly packed train at the next station (that is, when we finally reached it after we moved from our spot in the tunnel) by shouting “could you just move down a bit please?” (Ok mate, explain to me where, exactly, you would like me to move down to in this packed train? Perhaps I should stand on top of the person who is squashed in next to me for your benefit?)

Although I’ve been living in London for nearly 2 1/2 years now, I’ve only recently started commuting across town everyday. Sometimes, during my new journey, I look up from my paper or book and around at all the other people – especially, although not always, my suited companions on the Northern line, all glum faces and attitude, off to their high-flying city jobs – and wonder why we do it. I know it’s not the most original thought in the world, but I not sure I’ve worked out why. I mean, it can’t just be so we can have the means to fill our lives with more and more pointless crap – that bigger television, that new sofa, clothes you don’t need, CDs you’ll never listen to…

Sorry, it’s been a long day and I think I need a beer.
And some sleep.