Rush hour. Bodies pressed together against their own will. The air thick with pheromones and perfume, aftershave mingling with sweat. Bad breath, minty fresh, the plastic stench of McDonalds infiltrating nostrils, hedged by acrid coffee.
The tallest among the commuters unfold their papers, held at awkward angles, above a sea of multicoloured heads. The smallest burrow deep within thick and thin bodies, wedging themselves into hidden corners and hunch over kindles or small paperbacks. Ears plugged, music seeping into their souls. Oblivious to the stops, the opening and closing of doors, they instinctively emerge at the correct station.
An anomalous feature breaks the crushing press of bodies. A buggy, unapologetic in its stance. Taking up more space than anyone else would dare to. Bags bunching out on either side, a small child within. Looking, saucer-eyed at the mass of humanity looming over on either side. A small whimper becomes a shrill cry, uncertain at the unfeeling environment surrounding what is usually a safe cocoon.
The combined sigh of annoyance vibrates through the air as the harassed mother attempts to soothe her baby. Panic rising, breath shortening, her temperature skyrockets under duress bringing heat to her face and making her fingers all thumbs. She fumbles and drops the soother. It bounces and tumbles through a forest of feet, quickly disappearing from view. Wails deepen in intent and volume and the muttering begins.
One person from the multitude reaches down and finds the prize. With gentle smile and gesture of solidarity, the working mum passes a lifeline to the stay at home mum who risked a trip to the big city.
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