The grey overcoat has gone, and I’ve shuffled into its place, preferable because I can now reach the handrail, and because I no longer have a stranger’s DNA on my neck.
‘Use the whole carriage!’ comes the announcement. At Tower Hill the carriage spits out a dozen commuters and swallows two dozen more, all hell-bent on getting home for the weekend. As the train judders around a corner I’m held upright by the weight of people surrounding me, one unwilling hand against the grey overcoat for temporary support.
It feels as if it hasn’t stopped raining since the start of November, and a light steam rises from the hot bodies jammed against each other. I move my feet forward an inch and press myself into a grey overcoat that smells of wet dog. The man behind me is standing close enough to moisten the skin on my neck with his breath.
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