It was about then that I started to think about planes and how they are metaphors for life. It's the 'so much time and so little to do' thing I suppose. But don't worry, I'm not going to subject you to much of that crap because the theory falls down almost immediately. Because a plane, you see, is taking us somewhere. Somewhere exciting even. Somewhere we want to go. Planes have a destination and that doesn't usually mean crashing and burning into the scorched earth below. Life, meanwhile, is more like a plane with its wings cut off sitting on the runway: boring as fuck and going nowhere.
At the same time, on the tube, you can do everything right and people will still fuck you over. Book? Check. Ipod? Check. Refreshing drink? Check and check. fifty sweaty people sans deoderant with exactly the same destination in mind as you? Er, check.
The most infuriating aspect of the entire operation is that there is no way to avoid it. If you need to get somewhere in London you pretty much need to catch the tube. Oh sure you can pussy around with buses and black cabs for a bit but that's just a cop out. A stop gap even. Sooner or later you'll be down in the tube, standing dutifully to the right of the escalator and wondering if you will enjoy a pleasantly seated 15 minute ride or an hour long death march.