Before Your Very Eyes. Alex George
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with dark red pinpricks of blood. As a result, his face was now festooned with small squares of damp tissue.
His foot had also been itching terribly, and when he tried to get dressed (itself a complicated process with only one hand available) he discovered that the trousers he had worn the previous day were the only ones he owned which could accommodate his newly enlarged foot. The trousers were, however, unwearable: the remnants of Arabella’s moussaka and Sophy’s disastrous milk trick had dried into a brittle crust. Five minutes’ scrubbing established only that scrubbing was not going to help, and created an ominous dark patch over Simon’s groin. Trying not to think about it too much, Simon had pulled them on anyway and set off cautiously for the station.
The line for the ticket machine seemed even longer than usual. Simon shifted uncomfortably on his crutches. After a few moments, when there appeared to be no movement in the queue, he peered to see what was going on.
His heart sank. The queue was full of Novice Tubists.
Uninitiated users of the London Underground system were the bane of every Londoner’s life. Everything they did seemed designed to irritate their fellow passengers as much as possible. They stood on the left hand side of the escalators rather than on the right, creating chaos and congestion behind them. Coming up behind these people on the escalators, of course, Londoners never said anything. Instead they would just begin to sigh loudly. The second loudest noise on the Underground system after the sound of the trains shuttling in and out of stations was the sound of disgruntled Londoners sighing at people on escalators.
There was also a painful routine which every Novice Tubist would follow when they stood in front of the automatic ticket machine:
1 Look at ticket machine for several moments as if it is quite unlike anything you have ever seen before.
2 Scan the machine desperately for a clue as to where to begin. Above all, avoid eye contact with the small digital display which is patiently suggesting that first of all you should select your ticket type.
3 Finally decide, after about a minute and a half, to select your ticket type.
4 Engage in lengthy conversation about what sort of ticket type you require with your travelling companion.
5 Press ticket type you require.
6 Wait patiently in front of machine. Ignore sighs coming from the growing queue behind you.
7 Realize that you must then select destination. Look at machine in confusion, before realizing that the names are conveniently listed in alphabetical order.
8 Engage in lengthy conversation about what destination you require with your travelling companion.
9 Press appropriate destination button.
10 Realize that, as this is a commercial transaction, money must be tendered before the required ticket will be issued. Peer at screen and read how much is needed.
11 Frown.
12 Point at screen and ask your travelling companion whether that figure can possibly be right.
13 Assured that it is indeed correct, begin to look for purse or wallet, shaking head and muttering quietly to yourself.
14 Spend several minutes locating your purse/wallet.
15 Finally extract purse/wallet, during which time the machine has got bored of waiting and has reverted to ‘Select Ticket type’ position.
16 Fail to realize this.
17 Insert money. When nothing happens, after another lengthy consultation with your travelling companion, go back to Step 2.
18 Finally secure your ticket. Stand aside whilst your travelling companion begins at Step 1.
After twenty minutes or so, Simon finally got to the front of the queue. He had the exact change ready, and moved off smoothly after a few seconds, ticket in hand, half hoping for an appreciative round of applause from the passengers behind him. None came.
His journey down to the platform was less smooth, however. Simon had never attempted to use public transport on crutches before, and the ticket barriers, escalators and sheer weight of people all conspired to make it a dispiriting experience. As he hobbled forwards, he was aware that the usual flow of humanity was being hampered by his lumbering progress. To his humiliation he heard a chorus of sighs start up behind him, as ominous to him as a tribe of African huntsmen ululating before a kill. Simon’s face reddened with shame. He tried to move a little faster, and in doing so almost scythed down an old lady who was going even more slowly than he was.
Simon reached the platform just as a train was pulling out. He watched it go with mounting despair. The platform was still full of people, and the next train, announced the electric notice board, was not due to arrive for another six minutes. Simon looked worriedly at his watch. He was going to be late.
By the time the next train arrived, the platform was dangerously full. As the train doors opened, the waiting crowd shuffled forwards, poised for action. When the thin line of disembarking passengers had trickled dry, there was a sudden flurry of movement as everyone tried to climb on board at once. Simon was caught somewhere near the back of the throng, but with some judicious prodding with the ends of his crutches he managed to cajole the people immediately in front of him further into the carriage, leaving him just enough room to push himself in before the doors closed behind him.
Simon stood with his face pressed into a man’s back. His left cheek rubbed uncomfortably against the fabric of the man’s suit. The crutches poked painfully into his armpits. He twisted his neck as best he could and looked around. Next to him stood a man wearing dark glasses, who wore an over-sized pair of headphones and was nodding vigorously. It sounded as if he was linked up to a particularly noisy fax machine. In the nearest available seat sat a tired-looking woman dressed in washed-out leggings and a shrunken T-shirt which advertised her well-advanced pregnancy. The words ‘I’m with this Prat’ were emblazoned over her chest above a large arrow which pointed at her neighbour, a gumless old woman who was clinging on to a wicker shopping trolley, which she moved occasionally so that its corners prodded into the buttocks of the unfortunate commuters standing immediately in front of her, keeping them at bay.
At King’s Cross, a lot of people got out. Simon’s immobility made it difficult for him to avoid the oncoming rush of passengers as they poured off the train, and he nearly went down like a skittle under the onslaught.
When the train finally reached Victoria twenty minutes later, Simon positioned himself near the doors, and when they opened he allowed himself to be swept along in the maelstrom of human movement which surged towards the exit. He was jostled and shoved along the platform, prodded and pushed up the escalator, and was only finally left alone once he had struggled through the automatic ticket barrier, where he collapsed on to his crutches, exhausted. The other passengers streamed past him, up the stairs and into the new London morning.
After a few minutes a man in a guard’s uniform approached him.
‘You can’t stop there,’ said the guard.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Simon. ‘I’m just getting my breath back.’
‘All the same,’ said the guard, ‘you can’t stop there.’
Simon looked up at the man, breathing heavily as he did so. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ he said. He gestured towards his crutches. ‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble with these things.’
The guard looked at the crutches, unimpressed. ‘I dare say,’ he replied. ‘But you can’t stop there.’
Simon looked at the guard in irritation. ‘Why on earth not?’ he asked.
‘You’re blocking the thoroughfare, see,’ answered the guard. ‘Interrupting the flow of passengers.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Simon, ‘can’t you see I’m on crutches? Give me a break.’
‘Whatever,’ observed the guard philosophically. ‘You’re still going to have to move.’
‘Anyway,’