I have to confess something: when I moved from Bristol to London in the late ’90s, I was like a kid with an oversized train set. The London Underground fascinated me. I never quite understood why my colleagues would arrive at work every morning with a chorus of complaints — the wails, the grunts, the exasperated sighs.

Sure, the Tube wasn’t always pleasant. Especially on a scorching day between Brixton and Vauxhall, crammed into an overcrowded carriage, waiting endlessly for the lights to change and listening to those unintelligible announcements from the driver.

Still, I found solace in slipping on my headphones and watching the underground world unfold around me. It was like its own secret society, governed by an unwritten set of rules enforced with iron discipline:

• Don’t acknowledge anyone else.
• Pretend you’re reading something important.
• Do not disturb.
• Avoid all physical contact.
• Ignore others’ misdemeanours.
• Master the art of pivoting and balancing against gravity.
• Occasionally, gaze at your own reflection.
• Rush hour? Be a complete and utter tosser.

Back then, social distancing was an art form. After a while, you might nod briefly at a familiar face — a small, silent greeting in the chaos.

During my first week working at Lambeth Council, I was still swimming through a sea of new names and faces. Boarding the Tube at Brixton one morning, I spotted one of my new colleagues at the far end of a fairly full carriage. I caught his eye and gave him a firm nod. Nothing. He looked away.

A few moments later, he glanced my way again. I smiled and nodded once more. Still no response — just the uncomfortable shuffle behind a fellow passenger, who acted as a human shield. His reflected gaze in the window met mine again. I returned the stare.

Feeling a bit miffed, I thought, Well, fuck it, you miserable sod.

As the train pulled into Stockwell, I noticed him glance again through the window’s reflection. I looked away, annoyed. Doors closing, next stop Vauxhall. Suddenly, he leapt off the train, leaving me behind.

He stood tall on the platform, locking eyes with me as the train pulled away. His gaze screamed, “Who the hell are you?”

It was only then I realised that my silent, unresponsive Tube companion was none other than Mick Jones — guitarist from The Clash.

And just like that, our paths never crossed again.