At Hammersmith station the Piccadilly and District lines run on adjacent platforms. It's a popular place for District-liners to swap onto the Piccadilly line, and what with the infrequency of our beleaguered green friend, people tend to be in quite the hurry when they dart the few metres across the platform.
The other day was no different. A cold November morning when both trains pulled into the platform at about the same time.
I noticed a rather well-to-do woman disembark the District line and march purposefully towards the Piccadilly line - her momentum carrying her ahead of all the people waiting to board. She's in her 50s I reckon, grey hair, slim, well dressed.
I have recently started travelling into central London during rush hour. People moan about it - it's busy, everyone's in their own world, and the perception is that people have very little patience... to which there is a bit of truth. I don't mind it so much because as I have recently discovered, these people are pros. They know where they're going, and they get there quickly. They fit together like a jigsaw and they shift around with the grace of starlings in flight. To the uninitiated the tube is just perpetually busy, but it takes a subtle eye to recognise the chasm that actually exists. Rush hour is Premier League. Off peak are Sunday League - playing out of position, clumsy, holding back The Team.
It all seemed a little grim at first - the people don't give much away. Which is a little trying when you're a person who's attempting to write a blog about them. But what I have come to appreciate is the unwritten rules that they all silently abide by. It's like a hive mind. A thing of beauty.
At rush hour there is also a uniformity among its passengers. Most people are of working age and generally able-bodied. As such, the only time anyone relinquishes the prized commodity of a seat, is usually to a woman with a TFL "Baby On Board" badge - and rightly so.
So. This woman. 50s, maybe even late 50s. She seems pretty sharp and nimble. She's definitely got a bit of pace about her. Which made it all the more surprising to see her walk up to a woman, mid-20s, reading a Dan Brown novel, sitting in the seat nearest the double doors (designated for elderly, disabled or pregnant people) and excruciatingly explain to her why she should no longer be the occupant of the seat.
I don't hear what's said but it's laboured. Standing Woman might well need the seat but she doesn't seem to have presented a particularly convincing argument. Sitting Woman is confused and firmly polite. Being a young rush hour traveller she might not have any grasp whatsoever of the sign that's behind her head. She says something slightly defensive in reply and remains sitting down. Standing Woman fires another volley from her playbook of unconvincing arguments.
I like to think that Standing Woman took umbrage with the Dan Brown novel, insisting that the comfort provided by a seat was entirely at odds with the meagre difficulty of reading its words. Perhaps she's suggesting that the world would be a little more in-balance if Sitting Woman were reading the book atop a unicycle that's balanced on the tusk of a rampaging elephant. Or just reading a better book.
Anyway. Sitting Woman eventually concedes. You can tell she still doesn't really understand why she's standing up, but she's doing it anyway. It's sort of a polite, confused stalemate. Very British.
Seconds later it's like the whole thing never happened. There's no emotion on display. That's because she's a tube pro. Like a great tennis player she's moved on from the last point and is concentrating on the next one.