Late last night, Bakerloo Line from Charing Cross to Baker Street: an old man in a navy blue woollen hat, precariously chewing a Wispa Gold with his few good teeth, rodent-like, strands of caramel stretching from his white-stubbled chin to his blackened fingers. Opposite him, a tea-coloured boy of indeterminate age, eyes which have seen it all, want to see it all, or fear they'll see it all. Could be anything from 9 to 90, like Johnny Htoo. Italian man opposite me, hair the colour and texture of a well-worn welcome mat.

Jubilee Line from Baker Street to Kilburn: Stylish woman with Jane Norman shopping bag, a three-pack of Charmin white toilet rolls peeking out. Standing in front of me, a gorgeous black teen wearing Sean John baseball cap, Sean John sweatshirt, Sean John denim jacket, and with an arse so good it looks great even in Levis engineered jeans - no mean feat. Sitting next to me, a white student, all lank hair and glasses, writing on his PDA (blogging, perhaps?), the bumping of the train thwarting his efforts to write in the recognised Palm Pilot script. Opposite, an elderly woman, alone, her hair a hillock of frostbitten lank grass crowning the ploughed field that is her face, her nose a strangely unlined obelisk, her teeth a mossy stone circle.

Kilburn Station: Youth using the public phone and a mobile simultaneously, his hair in Snoop braids like thick twisted wool. Next to him, trying to avoid the curling smoke from his joint, a pale, rather drunk, gay skinhead at the BT MultiPhone, trying to write a blog entry about his journey back from the pop quiz. Which they lost.