The only thing I like about boarding the train (fast, to Amersham) is being able to people watch. Creepy as it sounds, in the microcosm of the Metropolitan line, every one has a story. If they don't, I'll give them one.

The scruffy looking man with the piercings? He's a gentleman. He saw the way the middle aged woman carried her bags like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders and offered his seat to her.

The young couple? They probably don't speak much. He avoids saying anything by tucking a stray hair behind her ear and she accepts this simple sign of intimacy, batting her eyelids as she looks deep into his eyes and smiling in response.

The old woman with the tote that reads 'Granny.' Her eyes remind me of the sea I cruised over last summer in Turkey. They shine, but seem to be clouded with what I can only assume is the sorrow of many years. No ring on her finger. Maybe the one who made her smile is no longer with her.

The guy in the suit? He doesn't like his job but it pays well. His dream was to become a footballer or a sportsman of some kind. All you need to do is see the way he reverently turns to the sports section of the newspaper. His face becomes remarkably animated as he takes in the words and the images religiously.

Everyone has a story. All you need to do is read it. And mine? The fast train got me home in a record breaking twenty minutes. I will definitely be taking it next time.