I had never longed so much for a week to end but thankfully, finally, Friday evening was here. I didn’t care that it was dark, wet and windy. I didn’t care that the tube station was full to bursting. I didn’t care that I actually had to miss two trains simply because they were too full to get in. I was in no rush to join the hot, sweaty people unwillingly jammed up against one another so I hung back to wait for a train with a bit of space. I was just glad to be out of the office and on my way home to my cosy little flat in Shepherds Bush, content in the knowledge that I could pad around in my pyjamas all weekend if I wanted to. The wind rushing down the underground platform was my cue to step forward in the hope that this time, I could board without being inadvertently groped or find myself pressed up against someone with bad halitosis. I was at the front of the throng as the screeching of brakes heralded the arrival of the train and I positioned myself in front of the sliding doors as any seasoned tube traveller would.
