coming to an abrupt halt on a new platform, confused and lost, with yellow signs practically surrounding me. A packed train stands, waiting, doors open in mocking invitation. I have no choice: there's no District Line train due for another five minutes, and at this rate five minutes isn't really time I can afford. I groan but shuffle forwards anyway into the dense, sweaty carriage. A man in a suit almost leans on me as he reaches through the crowd of bodies to grasp a handrail, and I try to squirm my way into a gap.

There's a group of teenagers to my left. They're standing in the space between carriages, crammed up against each other on that rotating plate that joins each can of tinned commuters together. As the train sets off, someone in the middle of their huddle stumbles, falling into a tall, serious-looking businessman. The girl in question stands herself up, apologising profusely—much to the amusement of her gaggle of friends whose laughter fills what little space the rest of us had left in the carriage and I can almost feel my body trying to contract in on itself.

Eventually their laughter stops, but they're chatting now and the omnipresent background noise continues to press in. The carriage and I both sway in a disjointed and off-beat dance that wouldn't have been out of place at a primary school disco. I'm trying to hold myself still enough that I at least don't bump into my neighbours, but the man behind me in the grey suit doesn't seem to be having quite the same considerations for his fellow passengers.

I glance up at the map, straining my neck to look over the crowd and trying to count stations as quickly as I can. We just left Victoria, so it's onetwothreefoursixseven... No, wait, onetwothreefivesix... I shake my head and discreetly start counting on my fingers: James' – thumb; 'Minster – index; Embank' – middle; Temple – ring; 'Friars – pinkie (okay, new hand); wait, Mansion House is a station? – thumb; Cannon – index; and Monument – middle. Right, that's eight more stops... seven, since we've just

this is a circle line train via embankment and tower hill

pulled into St. James's Park. Oh, thank Christ, people are getting off—the teens too? I almost feel like I can breathe again.

I spend a moment or two collecting my thoughts, as the doors slide shut with their mechanical stage whisper that is somehow more obnoxious than the alarm they play to drown it out. I've certainly suffered worse fates than half an hour on the Circle Line—a week living in Paris was more than enough to convince me of that—and it can't possibly be too hard to just stand here and focus for seven more stops, could it?

Could it?

There isn't any space, now: for every person who left at St. James's Park it seems like five have tried to fit in their place. I feel the crowd pressing up around me, and I'm taking a deep breath to calm myself when I feel the soft, unmistakable squeeze of a hand against the back of my skirt.

Fear. The hand's only there for a moment, but I'm already panicking.

I'm glancing around. It's just suits, suits everywhere. Their faces are blank, everybody avoiding everyone else's eyes. And I have to get off. I can't stay on this train any longer. I can change at Westminster and take the Jubilee Line to London Bridge and switch onto the Northern Line there and hopefully I won't be too late for work but I can't stay on this train any longer, I just can't.

this is a circle line train

The moment I see the lights of the station through the windows, via embankment I start to push my way through the crowd towards the door and tower hill. I don't even care if I'm being rude, now, because I just need to get off this train: the mechanical stage-whisper beckons me into a sprint, and I run as fast as I can, trying to keep one eye on the silvery signs that point to my destination as I weave through the crowded tunnels. Almost as quickly as I had bolted from the train, I find myself