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Stories from Central London - Little Observationist
I’d nearly forgotten the silence of the rush hour commute. I’d forgotten the gentle sway of hundreds of thousands of black-clad bodies trying to maintain a sense of personal space as trains rush them to their destination through the bowels of the city. There are blank stares, eyes lost in another world that plays out on the small screens of iPhones and ink-smeared fingers paging mindlessly through the stories in the free newspapers that are later left on the seat for another reader. Almost everyone is plugged into headphones. There are faces of all colours, from all religious backgrounds, from a multitude of countries. There’s evidence of class and profession: Chanel bags and perfectly manicured hands; Paul Smith suits and perfectly manicured beards; paint-covered builder’s jeans and urban dirt caked beneath neglected fingernails; fake eyelashes carelessly applied and worn-through secondhand ballet flats. Last week, I travelled into the city each day to attend Advertising Week Europe. The daily commute routine came back to me: the gridlocked traffic that turns a 45 minute bus ride into an hour and a half, the flow of people down escalators all minding their manners and standing on the right. I’ve felt so disconnected from …