I descend the stairs of Hackney Tube Station. The further down I get the less the stench of urine effects my senses. Up on the top steps I was in danger of choking. The world is growing so dark I want to grasp for the handrail. Stop myself in the knowledge of all the undesirables of Lundune, holding that handrail before, which have coughed into their hands or touched up someone just as foul as themselves. I push my hands into my blazer pockets; damn forgot to change. I take off my blazer and turn it inside out before putting it back on. A Kensington Palace student would be treated unpleasantly amongst the dregs of Lundune.
Old tube tracks crunch beneath my feet. I try to envision what a train would look like speeding along these tracks, through tunnels, taking people where they
