Friday, 4 March 2011

The dance of the commuters

They leave their homes one or two at a time, joining others already on the move, converging at stations, stops, lights, to spread again, in a string of rushing self importance.
Smokers hungrily sucking down their morning cigarette while waiting for the bus. Leaving their half-finished butt on the ground NEXT to the bin.
(I just don't understand. Are they leaving it for the bums to pick up? Which is unlikely due to the frequency of street sweepers.)
The cars racing to the next set of traffic lights.
Cyclists in their fluorescent yellow, reflective-wear, lights flashing, squeezing through gaps and running red lights.
Motorbikes collecting at the lights, like noisy bugs hitting a glass window.
Pedestrians streaming across the road, oblivious to the changing lights and their perilous position.
People squeezing through the tunnels to catch trains, closer to each other than they would be with many of their family members, moving at a slow walk, pushing so that they can be first to stand still on an escalator.
All of them racing to wait.

1 comment:

  1. Sometimes, when I'm particularly outraged by it, and feeling particularly snarky, I pick up those cigarette butts (sometimes as they still smoulder), and chase after their throwers. I stick a look of false concern on my face as if I'd just found a wallet or set of keys and say "I think you dropped this!"

    They never quite know how to react.