My eyes are closed. I sit with my back warm against the padded seat There is almost no sound apart from a gentle background hum. A newspaper rustles, discreetly. Some distance away I hear a muffled cough. Around me I sense other people, still, withdrawn, wrapped in thoughts.
A hushed and expectant concert hall just before the arrival of a famous soloist? A sad gathering at a funeral waiting for the coffin? Clients at the door of a wealthy patron? Anxious patients in a dentist's waiting room?
No. Quieter and more resigned and without much hope, these are the passengers on a Metropolitan train this morning, stuck in a tunnel outside Baker Street and 40 minutes late.