Started With a Tube

Started With a Tube - Chapter 1

Started With a Tube - Chapter 1

One thing that I'll never understand is when an author publishes a new book, right on the cover they print something like, 'The brand-new, best-selling novel from the best, award-winning author.'

I don't get it.

What happens in a few years when they've released another three books? It's not brand-new anymore. And who is this 'award-winning' author, because I've never heard of them before. Who says they're the best? Not me, because I don't even know who they are.

And surely it must be a pain for the publishers and printers of the book, because as soon as the author's next book comes out, they'd have to stop printing the old cover and update it to a newer one. And how come you never see a book with a caption that says, 'It's not new, but rather this authors less impressive and boring book, which didn't sell as well as we all hoped. However, if you buy it, you're really helping him/her out!'

This string of questions runs through my mind as I sit in front of a large bookcase in Waterstones. I contemplate the thoughts, eyes glancing over the books before me, back leaning against a wall. I've found myself doing this a lot recently; sitting and thinking in a book shop. There's something about the smell of dust and fresh paper that sends my brain into overdrive. I do my best writing when I'm in a book shop.

My eyes flicker up to a large clock that hangs on the wall to my right, and it tells me it's past eight o'clock, signalling me to start heading home. I pick myself up from the floor, brush some invisible dust from my jeans, and gather up my things, which consist of my backpack, phone and jacket. I shrug on my jacket, swing my bag on to my shoulders and walk out of the shop, sending the shop assistant a small wave over my shoulder, stumbling over my own feet when I'm not looking where I'm going.

I step into the brisk October night, the cold of winter beginning to take hold of the air, chilling me slightly. I huddle into my jacket, pulling it tighter around my body. I walk down the pavement and try to avoid getting trampled by the increasing amount of people walking past me. That's probably the only thing I dislike about living in London: the population. There are always so many people, and you have to be really stealthy when walking down the street, or you'll get stood on.

It must be a pain to be really small.

I wind my way through the dwindling crowds of people and wing a left into the Underground. My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it, because I already know who it's from. My mum gets really annoyed if I'm late home, even though it's the October holidays and I'm almost seventeen. I make my way to the escalator and step on, placing my hand on the right-side handrail.

Sighing, I pull my phone from my pocket and reply to my mum, telling her I'm getting the tube now. There aren't many people about, so I take my time getting my travel card from my pocket, slipping it into the ticket reader. I make my way to the platform and wait for the next tube to arrive.

As I noticed before, there aren't many people about, only a couple of groups of tourists, some business men and a mother with a pram. I do what I usually do when I'm waiting for my train: people watch. Sometimes I stand and just watch people go about their day, as un-creepy as that can possibly be. I wonder about where they're going. If they're enjoying life. If they're in love. If they're going through their first heartbreak. Second. Third.

I think too much.

The train screeches up to the platform, and I walk up to the door, waiting for it to open. When it does, I step into one of the carriages that has a few people in it, because I hate being on my own in one. Or, even worse, it being only me and some creepy man. So, to avoid possible kidnappings, I tend to stay close to carriages which have a larger amount of people. This one, however, only has around five people, but I'm pretty sure I'll be fine.