So close and yet no talking. Trapped inside a closed cosmopolitan space, a tropically humid world where no one is conversing. How can one gauge the character of the people around them?

Once a Brazilian was killed wearing a puffer jacket in a season Brits consider warm. It wasn’t as a direct consequence of his clothing, but it was presented in court as a contributing factor. Shot to shit by panicked men carrying guns, equipped with intelligence that had been compromised by a Police Officer who needed a piss. The victim was left on the floor bleeding out in front of a thin morning commuter crowd. At first he was labeled a terrorist, duplicitously denounced as a danger to society. It was later acknowledged that he was an electrician. A mind, a face and brain, left in pieces on a train floor. Judged and executed by an agency who knew nothing about him.

Clothing, particularly shoes, offer reliable and immediate information in these ruthless times. Flip-flops are a risky statement. Regardless of the jungle atmosphere, you’re in a tunnel underneath London. Gnarly feet put on show without request, resented by the bijou. K Swiss has gone from the tube line cat walk. Big brand trainers turn up with the same IT consultant wearing them. They may have three different characters online, but in the giant warren of the underground they become one person. Every eerie day the same distant loner wearing athletic shoes, needlessly, on their commute work. Late for whatever reason. Late because a minute spent away from their office computer is somehow a steal. Their own time. No matter how they waste it.

Loafers are another brand. Casual, even in the workplace. Especially when the sun is out. They are usually lucky enough to work in an office near a park. They dress chilled like the scores of park loungers; relishing the rare occasions when they get to take their lunch break. Walking long straight paths, envious of those around them. Trying to soak up the rustle of trees, the wide open green and naked flesh before getting back to work. Ready to emulate the few who have enough free time to take advantage of every fresh burst of sunlight.

So much going on, yet nothing in the Metro. Nothing but pictures of whales, the ugliest dog in the world who died at seventeen years old. Animals dying out in continents the world over. A space filled by killers in Cumbria. An irrational fear of the Mosque, of right and true faith. Reading about paedophiles, glancing over the stagnant grey of heavily recycled paper to find the people you share the train with. Examining the strangers around you by what they wear. The ethnically dressed, familiar with the phrase ‘Randomly Selected for Additional Screening.’ The Caucasians who are inexplicably nervous. Scanning them as they grip an over head handrail, secretly wishing they had the time this morning to shower properly and put on deodorant. Watching for abandoned papers, desperate to alleviate the tedium.

Here’s a story: Right from the mouth of the rampant soul in question. A man dealt a very awkward moment as he drove around Trafalgar Square, wearing a rubber suit with the word CUNT written above his rear end. Suffice to say, he meant it. Anyone that bold would have to mean it. After a loud clunk and a sound like mechanical vomiting, his car died. He lit a cigarette and began pondering his available options. A mile from home in a clapped out Renault 5, wearing dangerously controversial attire. Trying to walk might prove fatal, at least to his pride.

Eventually rescued by a police patrol, a number of Silk Cuts later, who kindly towed him to the local station. The traffic congestion was cleared, leaving him to spend the next couple of hours drinking tea in a metropolitan intake centre. Wearing his rubber suit. Hiding out until the early morning traffic started. Safe and protected, surrounded by the busted, glad he was at liberty to go home at all.

You can quickly understand a lot about a man who goes to parties wearing a rubber suit with the word CUNT written above his backside. But there’s no understanding a man in a Top Man suit wearing River Island shoes. A hollow, off-the-rack mannequin swaying back and forth while trapped in the rush hour. Where are you going in that polyester uniform? Black shoes matching the charcoal pin stripe... Who will be won over by that ensemble? Recruitment folk, simply. Gel slicked money hunters, spitting their spiel down a telephone.

Murder in the eyes of people wearing all manner of disguises. People in strange shoes, mute except for the tinny clatter of headphones. Groups of Englishmen silenced by the exhausted wail of Victorian geo-technicals. The rattle of carelessly laid sleepers. The G-shift, the NASA inertia, of a train that can’t lean. A modern train carriage, pulling a curve at a restricted speed, stretching the capacity of hot rolled steel to its limit. A vehicle traveling too slow for the people in it, but dangerously fast for the subterranean workers who keep the whole system running.

Men in luminous jackets finishing a shift at Queensway station are met with two lifts. Both built by an out-sourced American lift manufacturer. One glides majestically above ground, after the Queen’s English actress tells everyone to move away from the light curtain. The second lift is cordoned off. The company who installed it lack the money, wisdom or the local employees to repair it before August. Months pass and the clog of tourists forces you to hit the stairs, no matter how used to stairs you are. Disregarding whether you can scale stairs at all.

Hard working people queuing for half of the transport they expected to get. Passing through the infra red sensors that ensure no one gets crushed by pneumatic doors. Patiently waiting for the received pronunciation voice to cease, so they can get above ground and head home. Union men, fighting to hold onto a pension after years of laying track. People who expect ten to twenty years of complete liberty.  A time in the latter stage of our lives when the shoes you wear mean nothing at all, except the comfort they afford the wearer.