The Metropolitan Line

Metropolitan
The Metropolitan Line smells like an old shaggy dog, damp fur and decades in its breath.

Northern
The Northern tastes of salt and lipstick, kebab grease and stale perfume. Its tiles echo laughter and the plucking of high heels - click, click, mind the gap.

Piccadilly
Piccadilly drags its suitcase wheels, flips its guidebook pages, speaks in tongues. A babel of languages and cameras clicking at the gap between the train and the platform, documenting the space where London warns you not to fall.

Waterloo & City
Waterloo & City gleams like cufflinks, smells of leather and the Financial Times. It slips beneath the Thames without stopping for breath - a silver vein for the City’s blood.

Bakerloo
The Bakerloo carries the whiff of a good Sherlock Holmes mystery. Its tired seat covers wear a century of bums on seats. It looks like it hasn’t had a lick of paint since Arthur Conan Doyle first descended from the street to its platforms, chasing inspiration through the fog.

Central
Central smells of iron and blood, a mainline - the kind that runs straight to the heart. An artery through the organism of London, pumping life east and west, relentless and red.

Victoria
Victoria smells of instant coffee and ironed cotton. Listen: the synchronized sigh of closing doors. This is the future as imagined in 1968 - clean, efficient, punctual. Tomorrow, delivered on time.

Jubilee
Jubilee is the future as imagined in 1979, all chrome and hope, the decade’s last breath buried deep beneath the river.