Tube Travels

Catching up with friends last night, discussion turned to London's beloved Tube. As the world's oldest underground transport system (services began on 10 January 1863) responsible for an average of 3 million commuters each and every day, the Tube is the life force of our fair city.

But as with all things that nourish and protect us (think, your parents) we love to whinge and complain when they don't always meet our expectations. There have only been a handful of mornings where I have had to wait more than five minutes for a train, and even less times when I have had to wait for the next service because my train was too full. Usually, when this happens, travellers patiently bide their time until the next one, but if that train is likewise packed, that's when the shoving starts. And boy, do we Londoners know how to shove!

With the underground tunnels being in some parts over 140 years old they aren't exactly spacious, and modern trains have had to keep within their tiny dimensions. Thus, as passengers we have learnt to contort our bodies and jam ourselves into the smallest of spaces, often times rubbing more than just shoulders with the other random people on board. And here we come to the crux of last night's conversation... smelly Londoners.

Maybe it's the unusually close proximity. Maybe people smell similarly bad on New York and Sydney trains and I've just never been pushed up under their armpits to know it. But in London you're very likely to find out exactly what someone has eaten for breakfast/lunch/dinner, simply because you'll find your nose within an inch of their face for a good ten minutes of your Tube journey. Bad breath is one thing, but sweaty-pits are the worst. Last night one darling friend regaled a story of throwing up after being thrust into the hairy, wet armpit of a man at a rock concert. Tragic, I know. But while her story didn't occur on the London underground, the rest of our party agreed they had found themselves equally close to puking when Tube-travelling.

And then there are those passengers who like to take the opportunity to cop-a-feel. I find it interesting that a country not known for overt public displays of affection or physical contact, has commuters who readily cram themselves into already packed trains. It's not uncommon to find yourself spooning some businessman, and having his briefcase wedged in between your legs, because the automatic train doors closed just as you scrambled on board. But occasionally some Jockey decides he'll take a sticky situation and run with it. Said-friends acknowledged more than a few incidents of pelvic twists they weren't quite fond of, and yet at no time did they ever address their molester. It seems that we're more than happy for our bodies to squish if it means not having to wait for the next train, but it's too much to formally address a person we don't know, even if they are taking liberties with our breasts and bum!

That just wouldn't be proper.