A tale of the Underground

The train pulls onto the platform whilst a dishevelled, agitated and belligerent me pushes my way to the front of the rush hour scramble. I have mastered the art of ‘sway-dominance’ – the ability to refrain from touching anything or anyone in the sardine run. Sadly, the vertical challenge of not being tall enough to reach up high has led to me fitting snug underneath the armpit of the one person who missed the shower that day. Whilst the heat stifles my ability to breathe, it is the strong stench of body odour that smothers my words. He takes up the space beside me. As natural as it is inherent, I sniff myself, subtly at first to engage my senses and one stop shy of manic as the fragrant notes of urine filter through my nostrils, provoking a reaction that is now plastered across my scowling face.

As if to hide the obvious, I manage an uneasy smile but exposed I am. I cannot bathe in the potency of this pollution any longer and discreetly pull my scarf over my nose. Ah! The inhalation of the Chanel I sprayed this morning and every spare minute since. The beads of sweat rapidly forming on my upper lip and running down the nape of my back has made me conscious that I too must be emitting some lethal whiffs into the atmosphere. Paranoia sets in and as I seek relief from this mosh pit of pong I forget to balance and fall face first into him. I apologise profusely, urging my body away from this awkward hug, he smiles (his breath, a nauseating taste in my mouth) and I steady myself once again. I stare at him with such intent that it unnerves me– far from his urinal fragrance and fervent breath, he is clothed in splendor, his shoes gleaming, his hair immaculate and not a strand out of place. An isolated flint of dust lies resident on his shoulder but I resist the urge to dust it off fearful that he if he speaks, my disgust will answer and his stench will try to be my friend.

Londoners live in what seems like a modern adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel rendered helpless when someone turns the page. My London Minute romance leaves me in desperate need of some disinfectant. I am comforted by his exit off the carriage but before I start mocking the sleep-dipper seated in front of me, I reach for my last spray of Chanel. As if probed by fate, I turn my gaze to the window and outside stands the suited man smirking as he flashes my purse in one hand and my Chanel in the other. If anyone asks, I am the girl who carried a stench home to Cockfosters that night.