Just Ahead Of Me The seasons have changed. The mornings are dark and the light is almost at parity with the night. Everybody on the underground is either sneezing, coughing or sniffling or generally being gross. I am literally lathering myself in antibacterial gel. There's a person under a train somewhere, the Paralympics are in full swing, it's peak hour and the train is packed. Impatient passengers forcibly hold doors open while we stare and implore with our eyes that this train is full, get the next one. No matter. I've got a seat. Time to watch everyone read their trash and pick their nose.

I found a tube staff member today who was willing to explain to me the east/west bound train service on the circle line. Which for ythe most part makes a circle. Granted its got a tail but, and here is the confusing part, it is an enclosed loop, a circle if you will. Turns out, there's a ground zero station. All trains departing this station are either eastbound or westbound. It's all so simple now. And that station is Tower Hill. I wonder if this is a fact that all Londoners just know or something you have to learn. Like the fact that Alan Partridge isn't a real journalist. Or that Bank and Monument are for all intensive purposes, the same station. And that pressing the doors open button on the tube reveals you for the tourist that you are.

She stayed awake as long as she could. She knew that when she fell asleep, that morning would quickly follow and he would have to leave. She tried. Her legs wrapped around his, and her head on his shoulder, his arms squeezing her tight. He normally didn't fall asleep this way and she felt lucky. His breathing grew louder, his eyes rested closed and he was asleep. She dare not move, not wanting to risk waking him, save losing her blessed position. Her eyes blinked slow, she relaxed and slipped away. Blissfully happy, teeth uncleaned and utterly exhausted, she falls asleep to rhythmic sounds of his gentle and enchanting snore. Come morning, he shall return to his wife.