I leant back to avoid the doors catching my hair (or nose) as they closed on a crowded train. “Nearly got a haircut there,” I said looking sideways at a tall man, about 30, standing to the side in a thick speckled sweater with short stubble. Going anywhere interesting? I asked. “Home,” he said. Is it an interesting home? I asked, smiling. “It’s a fine home yes,” he said laughing.  He’d been at work, I guess at some creative kind of thing judging by his trendy, casual attire. “Quite a long day so… go home, have a couple of beers and play some Pro Evolution soccer.”

We talked briefly about London, comparing it to other places we’d lived. I was only going two stops, so after we’d moved with the crowd into the middle of the carriage, holding onto the overhead rails, I asked him to give me his one recommendation for London before I got off. “If you’re looking for a stroll with a camera,” he said, nodding at the one on my shoulder, “I’d recommend Highgate cemetery. Karl Marx is buried there. And walk round Highgate village, you can take a few pictures there. Go to a few underground bars in Dalston.” I’d heard a lot about Dalston, I told him.

“Try the Pale Blue Door for a night out.” The Pale Blue Door? “Yeah it’s really good, it’s a really good laugh.” Not too pretentious? “No, no it’s incredibly pretentious! You pay 30 quid and you get like a bottle of wine, a bit of dinner, it’s like an art installation with like, a drag queen show.” Sounds interesting! I said, promising to pitch it to my girlfriend. “It’s an artist called Tony Hornecker who does installations and theatre productions for parties, just like trinkets and loads of different stuff, it’s just crackers.” I thanked him, brushing my way out of the train.