Beasts

Monday morning, on the No. 209 to Hammersmith. The lady in front of me receives a WhatsApp message: "The beast did another poo in the living room. Right by where you sit."

Later, she types to someone else: "I've gone freelance. Don't have an agent anymore. I'm so relieved."

In the Piccadilly Tube, I spot her in one corner, glittering wedding ring, riffling through a free tabloid.

Crowds gather by the doors, the announcer urges calm on the platform. There are more trains arriving, he says; and there's been a serious incident at Mansion House.

“Move down!” a woman shouts.