Just 8 days later

My morning commute could only be described as muffled, this morning. Perhaps, I thought, it was the deadening of the expected snow, but that looks like it might be a ways off from here. Perhaps my ears are bunged up, having taken over from my sinuses. Perhaps the New Year’s back-to-work malaise has spread to the whole world; this seems most likely.

The usual lull of Londoners not wishing to converse was all in order today, perhaps more so; broken only occasionally by the shrill harping of a can-you-move-down-the-carriage-please out-of-towner. Looks were exchanged; faces glanced up. Nobody moved, and the woman squeezed on regardless. Myself, I was sat down, head in Brautigan, not wishing to know.

At Holborn, the mood had not improved. Silence reigned supreme as face after face looked up at the deathly Jacob’s Ladders which lead to another 52 weeks of work. Not a sound or a breath was heard bar the clanking of uncomfortable-looking boots and the sniffles of yet more manflu. In fact, when the rumble of a train was heard in the background, an audible sigh of relief arose as the commuters, sensing but not understanding the tension of the moment, breathed out.

The escalators that crunch and hum in tune with the lofty air vents were the soundtrack to the escape into the wilds of the Kingsway, and off: past sinister looking men in dark coats, past more uncomfortable, yet seemingly de rigeur boots, past tottering builders to the office, where… there was no one, nor has there been all day.

Silence reigns in London today.


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