I'm on the Piccadilly line at about 11pm, Saturday night, heading west from central London. I'm stood at the end of the carriage next to the emergency exit.
Directly in front of me in the nearest seat is a man in his late 20s, quite tall. He's so deep in sleep that he's leaning sideways over the armrest. The next seat is vacant, thankfully.
I've had a couple of drinks but I'm of sound mind. I'm reading a book on my phone. A few stops whizz by. We're in the Knightsbridge / South Ken area.
I don't notice the guy wake up, but I soon find out what has prised him from his slumber. He's hunched forward, his hand over his mouth, vomit dribbling through his fingers. His cheeks are swelling up like he's engaged in a real-life homage to Hungry Hippos.
He turns and looks up at me, presumably to see if anyone has noticed the predicament he's in. Yes mate. I have.
He turns back to face the floor, apparently unperturbed. His composure is quite impressive in a way, but I'm worried that eventually he's going to eject all over the floor. And over me.
I think about handing him a tissue but the reality is that it will do him no good.
At last we get to the next station. The last minute or so has felt like an eternity. The doors open.
He just sits there. Eventually he glances at the exit but at no point gives the impression that he's going to use it.
I've been in the same situation myself so I know that any responsible person would simply exit the train, spew on the platform, wait for the next train and carry on with their journey. I don't know what's wrong with this guy. His salvation is staring him in the face.
The doors shut and off we go to the next stop.
He looks up at the map. Judging by which part of it he's looking at, he doesn't live close, and I'm getting the distinct impression that he's contemplating keeping the puke in his cheeks all the way home.
This next part of the journey is even longer than an eternity. I'm not sure what the word is for that but we need to think of one. 'Eternity extra', like those massive Twix bars. 'Eternity chunky'. I don't know.
Anyway I'm quite worried about my new trainers, I don't even want my own puke on them let alone this guy's. We get to South Kensington and after a moment's hesitation he reluctantly decides to get off. I really do not understand how it is possible to just keep it in your mouth. You have to respect it in a way. I had a quick look to see if he had altered his puke management strategy now that he was off the train, but he was out of sight. I hope that relief came quickly.
From that point on I had the pleasure of staring at the inconspicuous film of bile that he'd left on the floor. There's no smell. Someone gets on and despite there being lots of seats to choose from, manages to sit in the same seat. He is slouched sideways though so his feet avoid the substance.
To me it tells a story that spans the entirety of a Saturday night in London. It's not difficult to imagine what the bloke might have gotten up to. But to the new occupant it is unnoticeable. Invisible. Insignificant. The ebb and flow of The Tube is intriguing to me.