Ready for another round

It’s raining, and the Southwark station is already packed at 8:15 am.

People are running inside, standing in the circular tickets’ hall away from the heavy rain. A few almost forget to close their umbrellas, many without one. Yellow signs are warning everyone to slow down. The queues are growing at the oysters’ readers, where the hands are quick to tap in, checked by the sleepy officer in his blue jacket.

The ticket office is in the hall’s centre, with barriers at each side and a cylinder breaking the ceiling into a glass canopy.

As soon as you pass the barriers, the dump air hits you with its warm touch.

Everyone is running and juggling as fast as they can to get on the first train. No one wants to wait two extra minutes until the next one.

The escalators are packed: suits chained to their phones standing on the right, heavy-duty tools cluttering the way, runners on the left, headphones tight to who is lost in another World and squeaking boots leading the way to an overpacked subterranean hall.

From here, you can see another ceiling with its triangular glasses, purely illuminating the station floor before descending in the artificial light of the platform.

Another set of stairs and the tunnel appears.

The tiles are meticulously square, ash grey, with a perfect symmetry to stick to. On the walls, the metal cover is shiny blue, as plain as possible, there to impress but soon to be forgotten.

Out of place, a messy frame appears, with torn remains from old paper posters and ready for the next cover-up. Polished wall benches only to be used while standing are organised to create harmony and balance but lie unused with the come and go of commuters.

On the opposite side, just by the rails, dancers watch you, with the “Prince of Egypt” advert catching a few eyes. The blue stickers on the floor ask to respect social distancing, but everyone forgets or ignores them. There is not enough space and not enough time to do it.

Hanging down like monkeys on the trees, CCTVs have eyes everywhere looking for trouble, trying to keep peace and order.

The TFL officer warns for the next train’s arrival, asking to let people out first. As soon as the train approaches, the first set of doors open, followed by the train’s one. A couple of passengers hop off, but it’s nothing compared to the pack of wolves waiting to get in. There is a mute order, a whistle that no one can hear but understand, and with no mercy, the attack starts. Few shy passengers stay back, waiting for the next one, while many choose to remain crammed against the doors.

“The train is ready to depart! Stand clear of the closing doors!”, shouts the TFL officer.

The doors won’t close. After a couple of tries, the train is on its way.

The pressure, people are coming, the mud on the floor, the wet coats pressed against each other, and the face masks chocking the air out.

Two minutes passed. We start another round of opening doors, pushing with some swearing, standing back, and waiting again for the next game.

A little girl moves along at her dad’s side, holding her book and carelessly reading in the chaos around her.

Another train is here. The little girl hops in, with no bother of looking, shoved in by the crowd.

We are ready for another round.