Love Quotes: An Interpretation of the Underground

“As the fine denizens of London town know, each tube line has a distinct personality and range of mood swings.  The Victoria Line for example, breezy and reliable.  The Jubilee Line, the young disappointment of the family, branching out to the suburbs, eternally having extensions planned, twisting round to Greenwich and back under the river out east somewhere.  The District and Circle Lines, well, even Death would rather fork out for a taxi if he’s in a hurry.  Crammed with commuters for King’s Cross or Paddington, and crammed with museum-bound tourists who don’t know the craftier short-cuts, it’s as bad as I imagine Tokyo.  Docklands Light Railway, the nouveau riche neighbour, with its Prince Regent, West India Quay and its Galleons Reach and its Royal Albert.  Stentorian Piccadilly wouldn’t approve of such artyfartyness, and nor would its twin uncle, Bakerloo.  Central, the middle-aged cousin, matter-of-fact, direct, no forking off or going the long way round.  That’s about it for the main lines, except the metropolitan which is too boring to mention, except that it’s a nice fuchsia colour and you take it to visit the dying.  Then you have the oddball lines, like Shakespeare’s oddball plays.  Pericles Hammersmith and City, East Verona Line, Titus of Waterloo.  The Northern Line is black on the maps.  It’s the deepest.  It has the most suicides, you’re most likely to get mugged on it, and its art students are most likely to be future Bond Girls.  There’s something doom laden about the Northern Line.  Its station names: Morden, Brent Cross, Goodge Street, Archway, Elephant and Castle, the resurrected Mornington Crescent.  It was closed for years, I remember imagining I was on a probe peering into the Titanic as the train passed through.  Yep, the Northern Line is the psycho of the family.  Those bare-walled stations south of the Thames that can’t attract advertisers.  Not even the stair-lift manufactures will advertise in Kennington tube station.  London is a language.  I guess all places are.”  Ghostwritten.  David Mitchell.