Smoker On The Underground

One time in two thousand and something I waited for a tube train which, when it arrived, poured forth billowing cigarette smoke with the opening of its doors. The carriage was packed full and yet a man sat sprawled on the bench, his long, lanky legs cut across the aisle taking up precious space, he held his head, hanging low, in one hand, that arm resting on his knee. He was unkempt but clean, dressed as a geography teacher of the seventies might, sporting a wool tie and wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He looked profoundly sad and dragged heavily on a cigarette, beneath his feet was the ash and butts of half a dozen others.

Of course, smoking on public transport attracts complaints but everyone on the carriage was too polite and sensitive to show anger in case the man might burst into tears.