Journey One: Borough to Old Street (Northern Line) 

8:37 - 7 minutes

I’d got to Borough station early, having walked there purposefully and with a swagger of confidence. It was an exercise in improvisation and self-deception in many ways – I was being who I wanted to be, not necessarily who I am. Badass, an air of grace, determination. 

I walked down all 102 steps to the platform and stood there, in a sweat – my leather jacket clinging to my arms. I don’t admit it to myself, but I know deep inside the jacket is too small for me. Do not mention it if you ever see me wearing it. I’ve inherited the ‘O’Neil shoulders’ and it won’t zip up over my chest, but it’s my most prized possession so I usually overlook it. But not that morning, as it cloyed to my skin. Moist. 

When the train arrived, I clambered on, with (what felt like) hundreds of other commuters packed into the carriage. So tightly squeezed I could hear the man next to me breathe, the woman to my left listening to her music (Metallica?). Then came the necessary shuffle, the mandatory jig-about, as we arrived at London Bridge, passengers alighting the train, others pushing through the crowd to be as close as possible to the opening doors. The jigsaw puzzle finally solved itself, and we continued on our way, with only mumbling and the occasional ‘sorry’ accompanying the social contract of silence which we had all agreed upon when stepping over the yellow line. 

"Being on the tube, walking through town, sitting in a lecture hall is just like being in a library of unknown, unread books"

For the remainder of the journey, I was alone in my thoughts. Or maybe, ironically, I just felt lonely, in the overcrowded, oxygen-deprived tin can in which I was standing. 

When we got to Old Street, the right-hand escalator wasn’t working. I decided that it would likely be a quicker route. I managed to trip up the stairs, my new (super trendy, so Shoreditch) glasses fell off my head and I stamped on them. So much for badass, air of grace, determination. 

Instead, I was sweaty, lonely and spectacleless.  

Journey Two: Old Street to Park Royal (Northern Line, Piccadilly Line)

16:42 – 54 minutes (plus a coffee break)

As the office runner, one of my first jobs was to drop off a camera in a base in Park Royal. I expected an uninspiring journey. In fact, I had come to the conclusion that I would find this a miserable trip – with any sense of enjoyment derived from the potential visit to a Pret for a 99p filter coffee, and the fact I could go straight home after I’d dropped off the camera. 

The train journey was long, the carriage somewhat barren with just ten passengers. Room to breathe. I read for a while – The Girl on the Train, coincidentally. There was a little girl and her mum sitting opposite me. The mother looked tired, with this sad look in her eyes as if impatient with her busy five-year-old. She aggressively typed on her phone. At Gloucester Road, a beautiful woman entered the carriage. She was tall and slim, wearing skinny jeans, a shirt and a Gucci belt – badass, air of grace, determination. Everything I could never be. She wore sunglasses on the top of her head, big leather handbag placed over her left shoulder. 

It took me some time before realising that the handbag was, in fact, a designer dog carrier. She sat down next to the mother and child in a state of serenity, quite paradoxical to those sitting beside her. The woman unzipped her bag, placing the Bichon Frise puppy on her lap. The busy five year old, who I’m sure could sense her mum’s exasperation at being repeatedly asked ‘are we there yet?’, gave out a loud shriek and started petting the dog.  

"Look mummy! A dog! A dog… on the train!" The whole carriage seemed to smile with her.

Journey Three: Park Royal to Borough (Central Line, Northern Line)

18:17 – 1 hour 13 minutes

The carriage became increasingly populated as we made our way into central London. I wondered if being absolutely shattered counted as a legitimate excuse to sit on a priority seat. My moral compass told me ‘absolutely not, Martha’, and I quickly found myself standing once more, giving my seat to an old man wearing a Tom Baker Doctor Who scarf, EU badge displayed proudly on his blazer. 

I had felt a sense of unease all day, as if travelling for so long with but my book to read had made me forget what it was like to talk to another human. The old man reached inside his leather satchel and brought out a book of his own – Homo Deus by Yuval Noah Harari. I asked him about it, and we chatted for maybe twenty minutes, about how humans just, well, need to be nice to each other. We parted ways knowing we would never see each other again. But it didn’t matter – we had learned something from one another. 

By the time I’d reached Borough and climbed those 102 steps, it dawned on me that we are all protagonists of our own melodramas, tragedies, comedies, only appearing as guests or extras in the lives, the storybooks, of others. How can we know their story unless we ask to read them? 

I scanned my Oyster card and went through the ticket gate