I clamber into a rush hour Tube. It is, as ever, packed and stoically silent. I must stand and cling to a strap. Blank-eyed passengers shut out the world with the usual devices. A middle-aged woman waves at me and wonders very nicely if I’d like her seat. I’m not best pleased.
“No, no, thank you.”
She’s getting up. Am I so conspicuously a pensioner?
“No, no, it’s all right, thanks.”
I’m looking pretty sprightly this morning. Spruce, scrubbed, shaved, even moisturised. A rather fetching Trilby trumps the thinning locks. This is about as good as I get. Surely I can’t be mistaken for a senior citizen? Am I so conspicuously sclerotic? Apparently so. The woman is quietly insistent. I’d like a seat, but my vanity is still irked. The woman has now stood up and I seem to be sitting down.
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