style="font-size:15px;"> 17 Insert money. When nothing happens, after another lengthy consultation with your travelling companion, go back to Step 2.18 Finally secure your ticket. Stand aside whilst your travelling companion begins at Step 1.
After twenty minutes or so, Simon finally got to the front of the queue. He had the exact change ready, and moved off smoothly after a few seconds, ticket in hand, half hoping for an appreciative round of applause from the passengers behind him. None came.
His journey down to the platform was less smooth, however. Simon had never attempted to use public transport on crutches before, and the ticket barriers, escalators and sheer weight of people all conspired to make it a dispiriting experience. As he hobbled forwards, he was aware that the usual flow of humanity was being hampered by his lumbering progress. To his humiliation he heard a chorus of sighs start up behind him, as ominous to him as a tribe of African huntsmen ululating before a kill. Simon’s face reddened with shame. He tried to move a little faster, and in doing so almost scythed down an old lady who was going even more slowly than he was.
Simon reached the platform just as a train was pulling out. He watched it go with mounting despair. The platform was still full of people, and the next train, announced the electric notice board, was not due to arrive for another six minutes. Simon looked worriedly at his watch. He was going to be late.
By the time the next train arrived, the platform was dangerously full. As the train doors opened, the waiting crowd shuffled forwards, poised for action. When the thin line of disembarking passengers had trickled dry, there was a sudden flurry of movement as everyone tried to climb on board at once. Simon was caught somewhere near the back of the throng, but with some judicious prodding with the ends of his crutches he managed to cajole the people immediately in front of him further into the carriage, leaving him just enough room to push himself in before the doors closed behind him.
Simon stood with his face pressed into a man’s back. His left cheek rubbed uncomfortably against the fabric of the man’s suit. The crutches poked painfully into his armpits. He twisted his neck as best he could and looked around. Next to him stood a man wearing dark glasses, who wore an over-sized pair of headphones and was nodding vigorously. It sounded as if he was linked up to a particularly noisy fax machine. In the nearest available seat sat a tired-looking woman dressed in washed-out leggings and a shrunken T-shirt which advertised her well-advanced pregnancy. The words ‘I’m with this Prat’ were emblazoned over her chest above a large arrow which pointed at her neighbour, a gumless old woman who was clinging on to a wicker shopping trolley, which she moved occasionally so that its corners prodded into the buttocks of the unfortunate commuters standing immediately in front of her, keeping them at bay.
At King’s Cross, a lot of people got out. Simon’s immobility made it difficult for him to avoid the oncoming rush of passengers as they poured off the train, and he nearly went down like a skittle under the onslaught.
When the train finally reached Victoria twenty minutes later, Simon positioned himself near the doors, and when they opened he allowed himself to be swept along in the maelstrom of human movement which surged towards the exit. He was jostled and shoved along the platform, prodded and pushed up the escalator, and was only finally left alone once he had struggled through the automatic ticket barrier, where he collapsed on to his crutches, exhausted. The other passengers streamed past him, up the stairs and into the new London morning.
After a few minutes a man in a guard’s uniform approached him.
‘You can’t stop there,’ said the guard.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Simon. ‘I’m just getting my breath back.’
‘All the same,’ said the guard, ‘you can’t stop there.’
Simon looked up at the man, breathing heavily as he did so. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ he said. He gestured towards his crutches. ‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble with these things.’
The guard looked at the crutches, unimpressed. ‘I dare say,’ he replied. ‘But you can’t stop there.’
Simon looked at the guard in irritation. ‘Why on earth not?’ he asked.
‘You’re blocking the thoroughfare, see,’ answered the guard. ‘Interrupting the flow of passengers.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Simon, ‘can’t you see I’m on crutches? Give me a break.’
‘Whatever,’ observed the guard philosophically. ‘You’re still going to have to move.’
‘Anyway,’ said Simon, ‘what flow of passengers? I’m well out of the way.’ He gestured towards the seething mass of grim-faced commuters who were swarming through the ticket machines. Simon had positioned himself to one side of the stampede.
‘Look,’ said the guard. ‘Rules are rules. You’re technically blocking a potential thoroughfare for passengers, right? And if you don’t move, pronto, I’ll have you arrested.’
‘Arrested?’ cried Simon. ‘What for? Being a cripple?’
‘Being a cripple in a potential thoroughfare for passengers,’ elaborated the guard.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Simon, and swivelled on his heel to go, just before remembering that his foot was bandaged up and therefore not best equipped for swivelling.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the guard a few moments later, as he bent down to help Simon up.
‘Fine, thanks,’ muttered Simon. He grabbed his crutches. ‘Right. I’ll go. Thanks so much for all your help.’ He glared at the guard.
‘Quite all right,’ said the guard. ‘Mind how you go on those things.’ The guard nodded casually at Simon’s crutches before sauntering off into the melee of human bodies. Just before he was lost from view, he turned and called, ‘And if you’re still there in two minutes, I’ll call the Transport Police, OK?’ and gave a big thumbs-up sign.
Seething with self-righteous indignation, Simon arranged himself carefully on his crutches, and headed for the station stairs and the waiting summer sunshine.
As Simon made his faltering way towards the shop, a man leaned against a wall, watching him approach. When Simon came level with him, the man whipped a magazine out from behind his back.
‘Big Issue, sir?’ asked the man gruffly.
‘Do me a favour, Bob,’ said Simon. ‘Not today, all right? I’m late.’
‘Aw, come on, Simon,’ said the man. ‘I can always rely on you. And things have been slow over the weekend.’
Simon sighed. ‘God. All right. Hang on.’ He leaned his crutches against the wall, and, balancing on his good foot, delved into his pocket with his good hand.
‘What happened to you, then?’ asked the man as he watched.
‘Don’t ask,’ replied Simon. ‘I got farted at, as a result of which I fell over and hurt myself.’ He handed over a pound coin.
‘That’s disgusting,’ said the man, giving Simon a copy of the Big Issue. ‘You should sue. You have rights.’
‘What, the right not
