I'm at Surbiton station, the border of zone 6, looking out into the wasteland beyond. I'm making my way back to the inner sanctum of zone 2. It's dark, about 8pm; the train pulls into the platform. Through the window I see one of those wax jacket hipsters, doesn't leave Old Street much, looks like he should be carrying a shotgun and a pheasant stuffed with MDMA.
He has his back to me and is facing the wrong set of doors. As the train pulls to a stop I lose sight of him and assume he has realised where the platform is in relation to the train, but when the doors open he is still stood there like a muppet.
He's wearing sunglasses and obviously can't see for shit.
It appears he is not used to being at stations that aren't fully lit, and I sort of respect him for that. This is the last carriage of the train, the platform that serves it is dim and open to the elements. Finally he twigs what's going on, lifting his glasses in an agitated manner that suggests his impractical fashion choices are not the root cause of his woes.
"This would not have happened on a bus in East London," he thinks, "because they only have doors on one side."
Anyway, he successfully disembarks his transport and away into the night he goes, his disdain for suburbia apparent. Poor bastard.