Surfing around on the underground on a Friday evening before seven and the spectrum of disinterest follows you as people flee to avoid even a casual glance.
There is something unnatural in the close confines that draws this behaviour, happily exacerbated by the frequent travellers.
Londoners have mastered the art of individuality in motion, to be the island in a sea of familiarity. There is hostile element lurking in the attitude. One could call it a brio of aggression tailored with just the right essence of disregard.
The observer might feel this to be the aura of the disinfranchised, the spectrum of unengaged in a learned defenisive stance. I, however, feel this response is an act, a show or display, like a badly fashioned peacock with an alcohol issue. Londoners preening themselves to the call of the distanced, the unresponsive and the indignant, a badge of honour with a million closely confined standard bearers.
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