I stand alone upon the platform drowning in a sea of bodies as we await the next train to London. The freshness of the morning air is made stale by the crush, packed tightly onto the platform without concern for one another. More than ever before, I am alone, the pressing contact of the others doing nothing more than to amplify this.

Speech is forgotten art form. Muttering, instead, fills the air, complaining at the lateness of the train. The crowd. The pointless programmes of the night before.

A voice on the tannoy: but it doesn't work properly, is muffled, and merely repeats incoherence again and again. Hypnotic. Finally able to decipher the message, I seem to be the only one who is able to absorb the rhythmic chant of "Jump, jump, jump".

The train is slowly drawing in. Almost too good an opportunity to miss. I could be knocked by any one of my fellow passengers.   The pin stripes on the platform. They'd be blamed. One of them. All of them. No differences with such cloned personalities, and vacant, mocking expressions.  

I feel I have no choice now, and edge to the front of the platform, my feet shuffling, not wanting to leave the ground, my heart pumping, faster. The train is in slow motion, and I have my opportunity before it eases itself to a standstill at the platform. I push my way forward in my bid for freedom. The crowd cheers at the sight of the train but then, a sudden panic, and screams. I am still living and this surprises them.

The child fell quickly. He seemed young, perhaps only nine or ten, out for the day with his mother. She holds an empty glove. Frozen.

My relief was sudden and profuse; "It could have been me," I think to myself.

Amended 1 May 2005