Waves and waves of people with long, disgruntled faces, with sad or indifferent faces. Each one of them a miracle, the child of the explosion of a star long long ago, the result of the most improbable chain of events. But maybe not this morning, when most of them stare blankly into space and warily cast side glances at each other, jealous of the minimal personal space conquered, or burying their faces into the free morning tabloid full of lurid but insubstantial stories and of a vague, distorted approximation to the news of the day. This morning I am one of them. There is somebody I know in the carriage and it is very clear that they must have seen me but do not want contact or to be spoken to.
I only have to do this once a week. I suppose I am rather lucky.