The Snowman of the District Line

I am currently enduring the night shift rotation, that strange twilight realm where the District Line slips into a deep metallic slumber. Very little usually happens. Last night, however, offered a spectacular study in the art of overreaction.

I arrived to find a fresh-faced colleague of mine in a complete state of paralysis because a woman casually walked into a gate.

Now, she was entirely unharmed. She dusted herself off, carried on walking, and presumably forgot the incident existed about three seconds later.

I listened to his "horror story", turned to him, and offered the ultimate veteran advice:

“Don’t worry. Go home.”

Did he go home?

Reader, he did not.

Instead, he insisted on reviewing the footage like a man analysing the Zapruder film. He then proceeded to write War and Peace in the station logbook, adding an extra hour of unpaid panic to his shift. A minor tragedy in several paragraphs.

It made me reflect on my twenty-five years Underground. My old team used to call me “The Snowman” at work. I always assumed it was because I keep the office air-conditioning at a medically concerning Arctic temperature.

Last night, though, it dawned on me.

Perhaps it’s because after a quarter of a century witnessing the glorious shenanigans of the travelling public, I simply refuse to melt under pressure.

The Verdict: If the gate is still standing and the passenger is still walking, it’s a good shift. Save the epic literature for Tumblr.