Journey

London Underground offers the zenith of British passive aggression. Despite not having lived in Kentish Town for a decade, habit has me turning right to the northbound Northern Line platform as I wind my way through Embankment station. Turning to walk against the flow, I correct myself and head south, stepping on to a train where a woman with shiny, black cowboy boots and a brown handbag scowls at me. It is powerfully hot and stuffy in the carriage but a young woman with patchy fake tan insists upon reading her paperback – despite the crowded conditions – holding it at eye level, the pages just brushing my nose every time the train brakes as it enters each station. I consider asking her to move it but realise that if my breath ruffling the pages doesn’t impact upon her, then addressing her directly will only result in denial and confrontation. In my pre-menstrual state, that wouldn’t be fair on anyone, so instead, I join the party, allowing my full handbag to bump unapologetically into her knees with the motion of the train. It’s not big, it’s not clever, but it is British, and it is satisfying.