Piccadilly line

  • And Sons

    Whenever I put up tiles now, I think of George from the potworks. George with his thick white beard. George with his big spiky eyebrows. I’m looking at the tiling in Caledonian Road station and thinking of George. I can’t get over the craftsmanship. The “Way Out” and “No Exit” signs. The arrow flourish after…

  • Leaving Home

    The warm breeze plays xylophone along his exposed ribcage. He stretches, finally able to roll his back in one long motion, sinuous without sinew, the vertebrae clicking to the tip of his tail. Ahead, the neon glow of the tube station and London’s boulevards beckon. Behind, the grand Victorian façade of the museum he has…

  • Prick

    It was the first time Katy was going to Florian’s place and he had promised to cook dinner. The ominous third date. They’d bantered by text about steak tartar and snails. Frogs legs too. Forced jokes and eager, over-worked replies. She thought he was charming. Katy felt giddy as she ascended the escalator, then nervous…

  • The Tenor of Love

    When Giuseppe first sang to Elisaveta, her enchanting hazel eyes beguiled him. His heart beat in triple time. Don’t fall in love with your co-star, he thought. Her singing shimmered with emotion, but off-stage Elisaveta froze him out. Other cast members shared champagne in her dressing room, bedecked with camellias delivered under her superdiva contract….

  • Cockatrice

    I have wings and a beaky face and perch on the roof of the station to watch the trains come in. I’m a little like an insect – I suck nectar out of the faces of all the pretty flowers that give me life. I crack up when I see my venom go in. I…

  • Sleepwalkers

    Lenny, you’re a deft circle. Lenny, you’re a square. Lenny, do you know how the pavement shifts when you walk along it towards me? Lenny, don’t you see that the way ahead – if not impossible, impassable – is more than a little obstructed with soup cartons, green-handled knives from Monoprix, high street play mats…

  • ‘Only Connect’

    Alighting at Russell Square for his appointment at Faber & Faber, Tom saw the advert for a new exhibit at the British Museum and changed course. An hour remained before his editor arrived, full of circumspect praise. Intersecting the square on the diagonal, he strode toward the scarabs, sphinxes and papyrus awaiting him, free for…

  • Storms Ahead

    When I arrive there are crowds of early risers waiting out the countdown to cancellations of service in mute pockets of steam from polymer cups. The young guy behind the counter of Pret-a-Manger rubs his eye with the heel of his hand and asks me if I want a bag. My tongue is morning numb…

  • Greening the Blue

    The north end of the Piccadilly line sounds so bucolic – Wood Green, followed in short succession by Bounds Green, Arnos Grove, Oakwood. So perhaps it was just a transformation waiting to happen. A surreal end to a no-longer-normal working day. I blame the international flights at the other end of the line – something…

  • All his Worldly Goods

    You turn my key; a rough edge scrapes my mother-of-pearl escutcheon.  You run your index finger over the small abrasion. The spoon slips into the dark curled leaves, wrinkled and dry with the faint aroma of bergamot.  They will not come alive without the scalding water from the kettle.  It hums and purrs, poised to…