While making my way across Paddington station this evening I seem to have found myself in “people watching” mode. As an aside, does stating that I was operating in a “mode” mean that my slide towards total and utter geekdom is nearing completion?
The Circle and Bakerloo underground trains both stop on a platform at Paddington that only has one set of stairs. Stop to think about that for a moment. The platform has two sides. Two trains, each carrying several hundred people can arrive at once.
Sigmund Freud would have written books about the behaviour of the sea of people departing those trains, and making their way up a single staircase. You can get a really good insight into the nature of “people”. I say “people” because I don’t want to single out any particular social group, race, or creed. I also have to fight against the temptation to start damning people, and their behaviour.
So - we have several hundred people sat or stood on the train as it decelerates towards the station platform. The lady next to me gets up and stands by the door - carefully picking her way past people to get nearer to the exit in readiness to leave. A lady several people away from the now vacant seat now starts her dive for the vacant seat, and is stopped by a much smaller woman holding a handrail in her path.
“Can you let me past please?”
“Yes, but not until the train stops - I’m not going to let got of the handrail”. Completely fair, and reasonable. Standing on a moving train in the dark is very difficult at the best of times. You have no frame of reference to keep your balance at all.
The seat poaching lady looks disgruntled, but she doesn’t answer back.
Here’s the bit I don’t understand. We are approaching one of the major stations in London - it stands to reason that perhaps eight of each ten people on the train are going to leave it here - and yet this particular lady pushes straight past her obstacle at the very moment the train rolls to a stop - pushing her hand from the handrail. The “pushed aside” woman shakes her head in anger but says nothing.
At the very moment the seat poaching lady sits down, everybody around her stands up - vacating all the seats. Justice. I momentarily wonder if she feels any guilt as I make my way off the train.
The scene on the platform is comical. Perhaps a hundred people running from various doors along the train, trying to make it to the single staircase first. You might think of this initial hundred as the “first wave”.
They meet a small group of people who moments before were calmly making their way down the stairs, minding their own business. They now have a tide of shoulder barging lunatics climbing towards them, with no quarter given. Their arms are lifted in the air as they attempt to survive the surge of bodies.
One man in a suit takes the lead, and sprints to the top of the stairs first - followed by another man wearing denim jeans. A station staff member stops anybody else trying to walk down the stairs. He doesn’t shake his head at the scene unfolding before him - it happens every fifteen minutes, every day, every week for him. It has become normal.
By the time I reach the crowd at the foot of the staircase it is perhaps fifteen people deep. I slowly inch forwards as more room becomes available, and am aware that although I am not touching the people in front of me, I am being pressed from both the sides and the back. I nearly lose my balance once, and stagger - although I cannot fall because there is nowhere to fall.
As we approach the foot of the steps two businessmen push their outstretched hands between me and the gentleman next to me, and part us as a small child might while pretending to be a ship.
Suddenly we are on the stairs and I amuse myself watching the ship impersonators hunting for gaps which they might exploit. They reach the top of the stairs after winning a further imaginary battle, and stride purposely around the corner.
The obviously didn’t know that within 20 feet of the corner lie turnstiles. Turnstiles that you cannot pass without either a train ticket, or an Oyster card (for those reading this elsewhere in the world, Oyster cards are effectively debit cards for the London travel network). The ship impersonators obviously have no ticket. Another small victory for well mannered people takes place as they are swallowed up by the Oyster card brandishing second wave from the stairs.
I clear the turnstiles and the crowd has dissipated. A gentle walk follows along the length of the main line platforms of Paddington Station, and an amble to the Evening Advertiser stall, where I exchange the news of the day for a fifty pence coin.
While flicking through the pages - with half an eye on the time - waves of people leave trains from various corners of the station and flood across the concourse. I notice a line of smokers stood along the non-smoking side of the bollards denoting the end of the station, and annoyance flashes through my mind. I do not approach them and point out their mistake, because it is not a mistake. They know it, and everybody else knows it.
On July 1st smoking will be banned in all enclosed or partially enclosed public places in England. I wonder how they will react - will they still stand their ground?
Finally I begin the wander along platform 10 towards the stationary train that will change it’s display board to “Bourne End” within a minute or two. The Oxford Train is due to leave imminently, and is parked behind it on the same platform. As I pick my way through those already waiting to get on my train, others are running - trying to make it to the Oxford Train in time.
A final blast of the guard’s whistle and a roar of diesel engines denotes the end of the hopes of the Oxford travellers - only some people still run past, oblivious to the auditory story happening in front of them. They coast from their running to a dejected trudge, shaking their head and complaining to the nearby station staff that the train has left on time.
Moments later the train carriage I have camped next to flickers into life, and the doors slide open. I find a seat, take off my coat, slip the Macbook from my bag, and make myself comfortable for the journey home.