The Archangel of Westminster

She entered "the tube" and sat across from me on the District Line – the London Underground route marked in green on the map. She was young, dressed in black from head to toe and a walking pin cushion – five rings in each ear, three through her left eyebrow, two through her right nostril, another two through her upper lip and who knows how many others or where. "I'm back in London," I thought to myself. I never expected to see her once I left the train. I was wrong. But then I never expected to interview an angel either.

Turnham Green, Stamford Brook, Ravenscourt Park, Hammersmith; station after station passed, the platforms crowded with people determined to reach their destination and fulfil their purpose – except possibly her. She seemed completely out of place, evidencing no sense of purpose or destination. Why would any woman wear black army boots? I guess I am showing my age.

My eye wandered around the carriage. Those standing by the doors on the train rocked back and forth holding onto whatever was available. Suddenly, the daylight disappeared as we passed into an underground tunnel. The noise of the train doubled. At the next station the doors again opened with a hydraulic psssshhhh. A bored voice announced, "Mind the gap," reminding travellers not to misstep and fall onto the track. People hurried through the doors. One bumped into another, "Sorry." The batteries underneath the carriage whined as they recharged. "Mind the doors, please, mind the doors," preceded another hydraulic psssshhhh and the doors closed.

"She could be a very attractive young lady if she wanted to be," I thought. My eye had again settled back into its natural place looking forward. "To each his own... or her own, I guess."

I looked up at the advertisements posted along the inside of this underground python. Cigarettes and success, houses and hotels, lagers, bitters, ales, and stout; each commanding your eye "look at me." My hungry eye flitted from one to another until it was saturated with colours, words, and shapes. Their power to hold my attention waned and again I looked back at the young woman and wondered about her life. "What do you do all day? Is it worthwhile? Is it even interesting? Why? Where are you going?"

My destination, like many of the people seated in my carriage was Victoria Station. As things turned out, it was hers, too.

Only those inexperienced with the underground look around. The regulars don't. They don't need to. They step out through the sliding doors onto the platform, turn and walk to the "Way Out." Tourists and other novices like me stick out. I minded the gap, stepped onto the platform and stopped, looking for the "Way Out" sign. Ten people walked past me, all of them moving from left to right. Twice I was in the way of someone and got bumped.

"Sorry."

"Excuse me," I responded, as any misplaced American tourist would.

I finally noticed the "Way Out" sign pointing in the direction everyone was moving, to the right, so I finally fell in step and proceeded to the end of the platform, down a corridor and out into an open area with signs and arrows: "Victoria Line North, Victoria Line South, Victoria Station, Way Out." Again I stopped and looked while everyone hurried past me.