Oystercard

"Who are you?"
Who am I?
"Are you allowed to be here?"
Am I allowed to be here?

One of the biggest tests of sanity and strength of character in London is the lack of recognition on anyone's face, even in places you go to every day. The whole system is set up so you have to constantly remember who you are and why you are there - because no one else is going to help you.

On arriving at the train station the Oystercard reader doesn't recognise you, even though you pass through at least twice a day. Each day it interrogates you.

You have to be totally sure of yourself as you slap the card on the reader - I am me, I am going about my daily business, I am a fully paid up member of the oyster card fraternity and I am allowed to be here.

As you frantically scramble in your bag or pocket for the Oystercard, you can't for a moment lose your sense of purpose or direction. The people behind you would tut and shuffle you out of the way, and you'd be left, no longer the person you thought you were, along with all the other directionless wanderers who you step over or around in the queue for the barriers each day.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if, just once, there would be no need for the sweaty doubt - did I leave my Oystercard at home, on the train, in my other jacket pocket? If, just once, the barriers would sense your arrival, recognise you and open up before you, to welcome you in, or out? A modern day parting of the waves.