It's about 10.30am, a weekday, the calm after the rush hour storm. I'm on the District line from Paddington, approaching Earl's Court and on my way to Wimbledon.
Earl's Court is tricky for the uninitiated as the District line goes in about 5 different directions.
At the stop before, a man gets on who's talking on his phone. Mid-late 20s. He's tall, slim and good-looking. Fair-haired. Flustered.
The person he's talking to is clearly some sort of employer, to whom he's apologising for being late. He explains his predicament in broken English, that he got the wrong train, but is on his way now. He seems concerted and more intelligent than his English is letting on.
I forget about him once he's off the phone, but he jolts back into my attention after we've gone through Earl's Court.
Just as the doors are closing at West Brompton he rather tragically realises that he's yet again on the wrong branch. It's a moment too late though as the doors touch closed. He claws at the join somewhat, in the vain hope they'll open again before the next stop. He's so hopeful that it's only when the train starts moving that he truly gives into the despair of his situation. The next few minutes are agonising for the poor fellow as he travels further still from where he needs to be.
I feel the guy's pain. The short journey to Fulham Broadway seems like hours.
Eventually he alights and heads to the opposite platform for another crack at Earl's Court's puzzling tentacles.