CHAPTER ONE Page Two

The platform was getting ever more crowded and there was a busker, but that didn’t bother Danny. In some ways, he approved. One person, one guitar, singing whatever he wanted because he wanted to and without regard for anything else. Acton Town in the rush hour when there was definitely something wrong with the service wasn’t quite the time or place, by that was by the by. This was how good things started, and not just in music. One person with an ambition and the determination to succeed. Fantastic.

But, on the other hand, let’s not kid ourselves. Most buskers were shit and this one was no exception. Out of tune and out of time, both in terms of metre and fashion. Some rubbish from the sixties or seventies. Bob Dylan. John Denver. The Streets of London. And not to be too cynical about it, was this busker an original artist suffering for his art in front of an uncaring, if rapidly and worryingly swelling public? Or was he cynically exploiting what he supposed was his audience’s desire to hear a few old favourites? It didn’t matter to Danny because the outcome was the same either way.

Not that the busker was making much money, but Danny doubted if he declared the income he did make to the Inland Revenue. A cash business. Not that Danny would criticise him for that. But he was probably on benefits as well. The sort who would go on a peace march and smash his guitar over the head of anyone who got in his way, and not even see the irony.

So Danny didn’t feel too bad when he hit shuffle on the iPod and cranked up the volume. If the people standing near Danny, and there were more and more of them, were offended or irritated, they knew what to do. You certainly can’t beat us, thought Danny, so you know what to do.
An iPod reclaims your personal space. A stranger’s head might be in Danny’s armpit but if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he was anywhere he wanted to be. A desert island. Hotel overlooking the mountains. Wherever. Not here.

Two songs. Three songs. More and more crowded. Where were all these people coming from? More importantly, where was the train? Ealing Broadway trains were usually fairly regular. Something definitely wrong. Danny knew he couldn’t do anything about it, so he relaxed. There were thousands ofsongs on that iPod. He’d happily listen to all of them if he had to.

He could understand if trains were arriving at Acton Town , terminating there for some reason and spilling their contents onto the platform. But no trains had arrived at all since Danny got off that Heathrow-bound Piccadilly to switch to the Ealing Broadway train.

The busker was having trouble finding enough room to play his guitar. People kept brushing against the strings, dampening them, ruining the song. Not that he gave up. An entrepreneur at heart, Danny thought, even if he didn’t know it himself. Taking advantage of a captive audience. Never mind that it’s so close to be uncomfortable for everyone. The crowd had boosted his earning capacity and that was all that mattered. A bit like one of those supergroups who play at venues so large they people at the back can’t see. Quality, irrelevant. A money-maker and a hypocrite as well. Danny loved it.

They made an announcement. An incident in Southall. What did that have to do with the westbound platform at Acton Town? Southall wasn’t even on the tube network so Danny didn’t see why whatever had happened there should have an effect on him here. Never mind. Don’t let it worry you. Unlike the others on the platform. They just didn’t get it. If you can’t do anything about it, what good does worrying do? Only means you’ll be a few minutes late home. Doesn’t mean much, over the course of a life. If the worst came to the worst, he could walk home from here. Take about an hour. Good exercise. He didn’t bother, because the crowds didn’t worry him. But if he wanted to, he could.
Thousands of songs on that iPod. Crank it up a bit higher.

 

By Mark Jolly © 2009