Tower Hill Station. The building with long, fast paced trains zooming across high voltage train tracks underground, packed up with passengers. Some dressed up elegantly in fresh suits, industrious with places to go; some dressed casually in an average t-shirt and jeans not in any rush, just waiting to go on a journey. In daylight - a busy place surrounded by happy families, strolling in the sun, hand in hand, wanting to view the magnificent sight of London, the smallest one jumping around excited for things such as ice cream; he longed for the snow white, vanilla swirls on top of a crunchy biscuit cone, the chocolate flake neatly sticking out of the side. Grinning, he showed off the toothless gap in his mouth; he was happy to be out of the station. However, at night, a train station reeking of piss and surrounded by smelly tramps and spinning drunkards staggering about the place, their words slurring and making no sense at all. You could argue you'd be happy to be on the train, but sometimes it's worse. As soon as the doors close you realise they've followed you in and there's no way of getting rid of the stench they've brought in. No matter how much you struggle to get to the ventilation window just to get a decent breath of air, your arm never manages to get through the crowd . . .
