I’m getting off the Overground at Whitechapel, on my way to work. It’s dark on the platform, the paving smeary grey, the walls dull brown. There’s not a lot to see here. Shadows mill along the platform, shuffle down a ramp, siphon through the mouth of a tunnel.
I unfold my cane and walk along the edge of the platform, the bubbles of the tactile pavement hard under my boots. A shadow comes towards me. It nears, slows, looms, says:
‘Hey, you OK?’
I alter my path, don’t look up, reply automatically ‘I’m fine, fine, thank you.’
But the shadow mirrors me, blocks my path, says ‘No, Joe! It’s me, Nico,’ and I realise it’s my friend, and suddenly the commute is not so dull.