Tales from the tube

The tube in rush hour: crammed into the train like sardines in a can, everyone trying to pretend they’re oblivious to anyone else’s presence. Being short means that my face always ends up against someone’s armpit (why, oh why, does it always seem to be the sweatiest person on the train?). It’s a relief to arrive at my destination but getting off is akin to being in a rugby scrum (which possibly would be the more pleasant experience) – forcing my way off, I emerge feeling bruised and battered but relieved to be able to breathe fresh air and move again!