2.57pm on a Northern Line tube heading towards Morden, I sat at the edge of the seats staring straight at a row of advertisements. A city for all seasons? Greece. Desperate in hunting for job? London Graduate Summer Fair. Suffered from any allergy or asthma? Nasal Spray. The variation there is as wide as the passengers’. Working-class men with brand new suits plus leather cases, talented artists with skinny jeans and worn-off Converses, muscly plumbers splashed in white paints all over their shirt, wrinkly and white-haired grandmas who still got their nails done like no other. Blending in the same carriage, yet what is heard is nothing but silence. Little deep world of theirs are too extraordinary to even be spoken. Half-read books, unfinished sudoku puzzles, tunes in iPods that have been looping for the billionth time.
I was no exception. Dance, Dance, Dance, an engaging Murakami book, was waiting on my lap to be read. I was about to pick up where I’d left off when some noises altered my mind to the ‘real world’:
“F**kin hell! Mind your own, mate!”
Peeking from the see-through glass partition on my right, there standing this young drunken lad. His head was almost bald despite there was few brown hair grown over. Black shirt covered in stains, trainers full of holes, his denim jeans were tangled all over. How did he smell? Fantastic. But my eyes were initially caught in his wooden guitar he was carrying. It looked soo much sober than him. For God’s sake, there was no holes, it was as stains-free as it could ever be, with shiny strings attached, the sign it’s been well taken-care of. The guitar was not drunk. The guitar smelled nice. The guitar didn’t yell and swear at random people on the tube, instead it sings you good rhythm.
“There’s always one in every family.”
That’s what the wrinkly grandma said.