I’m travelling with a family. They have a young boy, 5 or 6 years old. I have an old Super 8 camera that I give to him. I don’t know if it works. There’s a battery in it, so when you press the button you can hear the clicking, but I don’t have any film for it. It’s hard to find film for these things nowadays.
On the number 12 bendy bus heading up to town a gang of ticket inspectors backed by police get on at Trafalgar Square. One of them scans my Oyster card, which seems okay – I assume he can tell whether or not I swiped it on this bus, which on this occasion I did. (The other day, coming home when the bus was packed and I had to stand among people eating fast food and shouting into mobiles, I decided not to fight my way past them just to swipe 80p off my card.) Someone on the back seat doesn’t have a ticket. He says he’s homeless. You’d better get off the bus then, says the inspector. He says he’s homeless, he tells the policeman waiting outside. They have about three people out there. One is struggling. They put hand cuffs on him.
The next station is Clapham Junction. It’s 17th June 2006. The Venusians have gone for a while. People speak German. Two women. A man eats something that smells, rustling paper. We are now approaching Clapham Junction. Please mind the gap between the platform and the train.