View from the Wedges

Columnist Sanam Peshimam rants about Blood, Sweat and Shoes on the London Underground...

Yet another shitty day, and yet another shitty commute. I’m jammed up next to what Feels like seven million people on the same train back home after a tedious day at work. Someone sneezes, everyone shuffles and a woman squarely steps on my toe. She raises her eyebrows to apologize; I forgive her with a subtle nod of the head. No words are exchanged, that would be blasphemy! We are on the London Underground after all. Lon­doners are notoriously straitlaced about such matters you see. Nobody talks to anybody on the tube except for narcissists: who insist on parlaying their woes at loud volume, maniacs: of whom there are several, or tour­ists, who can and usually do fit under both categories. Forget speech, even looking at another individual for more than the mandatory three seconds for the London once-over is considered passive aggressive.

In such situations I often find myself wondering where to place my eyes safely during the hour long ride home. I avoid advertisements, since I’m on a detox from subliminal spending; the tube upholstery is dull as dishwater, and as for other individuals in the compartment: shaky ground I tell thee! Where can one look that is not a direct provocation? The face is a no-go area, as previously stated, and after finding myself mistakenly staring at an el­derly gentleman’s crotch for much longer than necessary, I’ve stopped looking anywhere short of the neck and above the knee. That people-watching on the tube is one of my favourite activities all has to do with the one area I have decided is definitely OK to examine for as long as I wish.

Shoes! Oh the hundreds of pairs of shoes every Londoner subconsciously looks at every single day...When I realised I was always staring at people’s feet in the carriage, I began to really look. Shoes can tell you millions of whispered stories if you’re attentive. Indie converses, practical loafers, tie-up Gucci brogues, falling apart ballerina flats, impractical spindly stilettos they all reveal more about that person sharing your oxygen space than the three second look in their eyes. I’ve made a hobby out of examining people’s shoes on my ride home and trying to figure out what makes them tick. You’ll discover a whole new world playing this game of “if the shoe fits...” But be warned! As a seasoned shoe-watcher, I have developed many prejudices. Crocs, Uggs or any form of furry/plastic footwear immediately relegates the wearer to idiot status. Talk about judging a book by its shoes? Perhaps, but sometimes if you look carefully enough, the shoes tell you things much more interesting than this hour’s copy of The London Paper.