Portes de Paris

Strolling through the bustling shopping district of Le Marais when I noticed that many of the doors of the private buildings are very ornate and decorative. I began photographing them…

Camions de Paris

Winter Wonderland

Last Stop

Living at the end of the Northern Line means that I have the pleasure of always, without fail, getting a seat. Not just any old seat, oh no, second carriage from the end, last seat on the left, next to the pane of glass. My seat.

Although comfortably seated, the downside of living at the end of the line is that my journey lasts longer than most.

But then there’s also the benefit that I can fall asleep on the way home without missing my stop. I may be vulnerable to being laughed at, robbed, sexually assaulted, having my shoelaces tied together etc., but at least I can feel safe in the knowledge that if I fall asleep I won't miss my stop.

That’s because there’s always a fellow passenger who is more than eager to nudge a stranger awake. Just a little tap of the knee is all it takes to save an individual the hassle of finding their way home from the opposite side of London in the middle of the night. A gentle little tap o’ the knee, that works well. A short, sharp prod into the rib cage isn’t so good.

I’ve seen these people in action. Over the years, during the countless hours of pulling into Morden Station that I’ve endured, I’ve had a chance to study these curious individuals and put together somewhat of a ‘case study’. I shan’t bore you with that now but I will take this opportunity to note some general observations.

They begin ‘Operation Wake Up’ innocently enough, clocking their target, their personal little Sleeping Beauty, from across the carriage. Then they deftly maneuver themselves into the optimum position, choosing the exit that will take them directly past their target. With a quick little tap and a sympathetic smile, they soothingly pronounce the words ‘last stop’.

Unfortunately, the "thank you" that they so desperately yearn for, the "Oh, wayfaring stranger, how kind of you to wake me up, how unlike most other inhabitants of this sprawling metropolis you are. Come, let us dine together and it will be the beginning of a fruitful and decade-spanning friendship between kindred spirits!", that reaction seldom comes.

Instead the reaction is quite the opposite, the awoken traveler is more likely to "tut" with annoyance than to show any sort of gratitude. For the first few seconds of waking up on the tube are disorientating to say the least and there are questions that demand answering, like "where am I? And why the fuck did that pervert just touch my leg!"

Nutters

At any given moment, on any given carriage, there is a nutter on the Underground. It's said that in London you’re never more than five metres away from a rat. Well the same applies to nutters on the Underground.

Now, when that person is not immediately apparent and everyone seems relatively normal, I wonder whether on this particular carriage, at this particular moment, am I the nutter?

Do people look at me and question my sanity the same way I look at them and question theirs?

Perhaps they are wondering if being enclosed with me in a space fifty-metres below the ground requires an immediate rethink? Am I prone to spontaneously lashing out at innocent passengers? Or will I take a shit in an empty McDonalds bag before flinging it around the carriage? Maybe I’m one of those rare monsters that try to hold eye contact for longer than a split second before smiling in an all too innocent way.

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