Tube Strike

Ah. I just had to blog about this. So here I am, stuck on a bus. I have
been sitting in the same spot looking at a landmark that normally only
takes me seconds to pass on a normal day. Its like walking, except I am
sitting down and am trapped beside a bunch of people coping in
different ways with this state of affairs.

The business man beside me is bag of nerves. His bag balanced evenly on his legs, perfectly immobile. His hands however, are going into overdrive. At first they
just casually stroked the side of his bag but now they are in his
mouth wrapped around his body, rubbing his fingers, running his hand
through his hair, checking his phone, checking his nails, checking his
phone and his nails at the same time in the quick abrupt gestures of a
seasoned and guilty nail biter. He manages to stop biting is nails by
jamming one hand between his body and the side of the bus and using
the other hand to hold his phone but i feel the slow, quick kick of
shuffling feet. He is late and he doesn't like it or he is as agitated
by I am by the flippant backbackers with hair that they have dyed and
cut themselves. In some places uneven in some places the colour too
harsh. People who would care but can't afford to. People with no
meetings and only the stress of making their pack of cigarettes last
as long as possible and looking vibrant while seemingly casual enough
to keep their partner interested. Making sure he catches the glances
of strangers and talking just loudly enough to make people look. They
ignore the rowdy students who pepper every couple of sentences with
the words "yeah" "weed" and innit. Often repeating what the last
person has said in the distinctive meledy of accents that make up the
innercity accent. Boys who prostitute their identity to aspects of
American culture while trying to be british as possible. Their
multiple pencils and rucksacks awkwardly packed with more books than
they will need for the week remind me of boys in my school. Their
smooth hands and skin appeal to me they are on their way to becoming
men but aspects of the cuteness of their babyhood still lingers.
Making me feel slightly protective of them even as they
inconsiderately push their bodies and overburdened bags into my face
and limbs. The suit bedside me snacks away on his nails still.
Shuffling feet avoid mine then bite again. Every time he takes his
hand out his mouth i get kicked. Now he starts vibrating his legs. I
feel guilty writing him this way as he sits beside me. He doesn't
want to be written about. He wants to get to work. I look past him
out the window. We are in angel, breathtakingly close to my place of
work. I dare not check the time. I had 15 mins to get to work. I am
sure longer than that has passed. Everyone else sits quietly listening
to music, texting, reading, more people biting nails, others still
and silent Trying not to be annoyed. Then there is me