I went to get the Underground home after going to check out the ‘Occupy’ protest outside St Paul’s Cathedral, only to find the next tube scheduled for eight minutes time because of a “defective train.” The announcer reassured the crowded platform over the PA that there would be a train every minute afterwards, but these proved to be too full to make much impact. My companion left to walk to a District Line station, so I caught the eye of a friendly looking guy in a shirt standing next to me on the platform holding his suit jacket.
He told me he was an IT consultant from Blackburn who had just moved for work and we talked for a bit about the tube and how busy it was, a good entry subject. When train after train is going past packed full like that, you realise the sheer volume of people the tube system carries. I think it’s quite amazing but he clearly didn’t.
“The one thing I hate about London,” he said, despite only arriving in here a few days ago, “is the Underground. If I were a millionaire, I’d buy it and scrap it.” He had that manner of speaking where people raise their voice at the end of a sentence, like everything’s a question. What about the congestion? I asked. “I don’t care,” he said, “I’d sell it for scrap metal.”
As we got closer in the ‘queue’ to getting a cramped spot on a train, I told him I’d been at St Paul’s to have a look at the protest and asked what he thought about it. He said he didn’t think it was going to change anything, and contrasted it with the Arab Spring protests. We eventually squeezed on to a crowded train and talked to each other through a strange contortion of limbs, him looking at me sideways over his arm holding the rail above and while my arm holding my coat was trapped behind his back somehow.
“It’s the way the world is,” he said. But does it have to be? That’s the question. “I think while the real people don’t have the power to change it, they’re not going to change it. Money makes the world go round.” Maybe we can distribute it more evenly and change that, I said, leading him a little. “The only thing you can do is try to change things is from the inside.” Ah, but how many millionaires do you think are going to give their money up? “You’ve got to do it from the inside and expose them,” he said confidently enough for me to not consider following up what he meant.
People have commented on this blog that the people I approach must be aware of other people listening in on the conversations, which must make it weird. That’s really not the case, at least for me. Once I’m engaged with someone, I forget all about the other people around me, and it seems to be the same for them too. Maybe it’s because it’s a stranger and a slightly awkward situation, but it feels like it’s just the two of you, or maybe, particularly in this cramped and crowded situation, it’s because the other people aren’t talking and they seem almost cattle-like and unhearing.
Over someone’s shoulder, I saw a picture of Colonel Gaddafi, and asked what he thought of his capture and possible death. “I think it’s all about money,” he said, warming to his theme now, I felt. Libya as well? “Oil. Afghanistan’s about strategic positioning in the Middle East and Iraq’s about the oil. No matter what they say, It’s all about the money… It’s all about money.”
What about that scandal? The Liam Fox one? I wondered, seeing as we were sweeping the news. “Give the right person the right amount of money and they’ll do anything.” I’d like to think I wouldn’t I said, leading to a slightly awkward pause. There’s a fine balance in this kind of conversation between getting opinion, causing offence and keeping people interested, but our chat had been light hearted and we’d both chuckled along despite the subject matter.
So, I asked before I got off, what was his plan to become a millionaire then? “I think I’m gonna have to rob a bank” he said, quick as a flash. “They seem to be doing a lot better than we do. Either that or become a drug dealer.”
This time I went for a more direct approach. “Hi, how are you?” I said jovially as I flopped myself down next to a small and slight young Asian man holding a Blackberry. I’d decided to try and act like he was an acquaintance or friend of a friend, who it was perfectly natural for me to be talking to. He was OK he said very quietly, probably hoping I’d leave it at that. No, sorry.
I pulled out my ‘going anywhere interesting?’ line and he said he was on his way home, so I told him that I was looking for a flat and asked if he had any advice on where to live. He didn’t, he replied, he was quite new to London too. Well, not that new, it turned out; he had been here for a year studying medicine at Queen Mary University since moving from Delhi, India.
He was quite a quiet guy – I struggled to hear him over the shrieking and roaring of the tube – and clearly not at ease talking to a stranger. I think we only made eye contact once in about ten minutes, (although this is difficult when sitting next to someone on the bench of a cramped tube train) and the whole time we spoke, he repeatedly started to write a text message on his Blackberry, getting as far as something like ‘Yes that would be good,’ before deleting and recomposing it. But, like the first two, he loosened up a bit as we talked and I realised that it was more that he was shy than anything else and would not be much more talkative in any other situation.
How does London compare to Delhi? “It’s very different,” he said, his accent strong but his speech precise, “Life is faster here.” And greyer? “Yes, definitely.” Medicine was tough he said, and he hadn’t decided which area he wanted to go into yet. He still had another year to go before he would be seeing any patients. After he finished, he was planning to go back home to Delhi. Did he think it would be different being a doctor there to here? “Pretty much the same,” he said, surprisingly. I suppose the anatomy’s the same wherever you are.
This was certainly a lot less awkward than the last time, but I did most of the talking. I think I need to plan out some lines of questioning with a view to getting more out of people. In the end we found some mutual ground on student living. It must be expensive being one in London. “Yes,” he said, “transport is expensive. I’d advise you to live near to where you work.”
Ah, if only you knew, my friend, I’ll still have to catch it anyway!
London Talking 