Before Your Very Eyes. Alex George

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       FOUR

      Ah, Mondays.

      Mondays mean different things to different people, but one thing that you can generally be sure of is that, whatever that meaning is, it is bound to be bad.

      For Simon Teller, Mondays meant, amongst other bad things, long queues at the tube station. There was an almost tangible excitement on Monday mornings at Highbury and Islington station as the crowds of commuters waited in line for their weekly travel passes. Frustration and impatience simmered beneath the surface of their bland, just awake faces. One day somebody was going to crack, pull out a semi-automatic machine gun, and mow down the queues of waiting people. It was just a matter of time. In order to add a little spice to proceedings, on Monday mornings London Underground made sure to employ only their slowest and most unhelpful ticket sellers. The atmosphere of chaotic inefficiency contributed richly to the start of everyone’s week.

      Simon arrived at the station at the usual time. He had not had a good start to the day. With his right hand bandaged up, he had had to shave with his left hand, and the operation had not been a success. When he had finished there were still several tufty outposts sprouting from peculiar places around his jaw, and his face was dappled 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: