May 17, 2008.

Circle line, Edgware Road, 5.26pm.

A pretty woman with a baby asks for change. I refuse and feel guilty. I read a newspaper over someone's shoulder. They turn the pages too quickly. I never buy papers; when I do I don't bother reading them, nothing is more interesting than the news under someone else's control. Sort of a weak and accidental censorship. I have noticed that the most lingered-upon sections are the football pages. You'd think that this would inspire me to know something about football. It hasn't. The man with the newspaper notices my quiet theft and changes his seat. I want to apologize.

A woman and her husband sit across from me. They look benign and I sense a quiet middle-aged affection between them. They have nice clothes and nice hair cuts and are likely on their way somewhere, you know, nice. Nice food and nice wine and nice conversation. In another time and place they might be nice people that I know - parents of friends, inlaws, something like that. The woman has kind eyes that look like she's been crying. I fancy that this is because they've just been at the wedding of the children of some of their nice friends, she's the kind of person who gets choked up at the happiness of others. It's what nice people do.