I sit in the window enjoying breakfast at my leisure,
Taking in the traffic on the pavement outside.
It is cold out there and
The anonymous scurriers are
Wrapped up against the biting December wind.
They have been up early to get there
Though I am now just sitting down to start the day.
Full English, tea and toast and then
I leave the warmth of the hotel and venture forth
Looking for my destination,
Unsure of my options.
Heading for Victoria Station I swim against the flow of office fodder,
Miserable looking people subjected daily to discomforts of the commute,
Crushed into compartments,
Standing within sweat smell of strangers
Trapped on the treadmill of the city.
Trapped.
I take the taxi option.
It is the only one available
As the voluntary queue for compression
On the Underground looks longer than the taxi rank.
A good meeting and later I do take the tube
For a lunchtime get together.
Plenty of time to people-watch.
A mother speaks Spanish to two young girls
Who reply in both Spanish and English
As they see fit, lucky girls.
Otherwise few speak.
A busker enters the compartment
Complete with bedroll and survival gear.
Tattooed, with shorts and worn leather gaiters
He entertains poorly with a penny whistle.
The carriage ignores him with a practised survival instinct.
But I give him a pound as I leave at the next stop
Poor pickings, and all he got.
Homeward bound
On the train a phone sings out “swing low sweet chariot”
And a voice answers “hello?”
Others doze or are sucked into their laptops,
There is little talk as the chosen ones
Head home after a long day at their machines.