I scribbled this in my notepad last night. Don’t know why, exactly, it’s not useful, but it is accurate. This was me, last night.
“It’s a fine evening on the Northern Line. I alight at Warren Street and push through the late-night crowds I have followed from Leicester Square. Most of them are foreign – I pick French, mostly, from the clamouring air about me. I smile, feeling like I could be anywhere. The black and white tiles at this station make me think of the Metro and I realise – Underground, we can be anywhere. Moorgate feels American, like New York, and for now Warren Street is France. I’m connected. Down on the Victoria Line platform, a breeze picks at my hair. After the swelter of the passages, it lifts my already lofty spirits higher. Paris on a spring night. London. Home. The train is here. Off we go.”