An urban experiment

Isolation, that's one thing. Well, it's quite a big thing in a huge, anonymous city like London. So here, let's say, we have isolation: an enormous grey blob. A gloopy, depressed bag of gone-off tears. And on the other side, we have human connections: fizzing balls of electricity, sparking dangerously, like the circuits on a faulty switchboard.

Now for the experiment: let's put these two mutually antipathetic substances together. Watch out, you might need protective glasses for this bit. We find that, when placed side by side, the connections emit bright electric pulses, making the thick skin of the blob jiggle on one side, like a fat lady's thighs on a trampoline.

That's what happens each time two strangers on London streets (or in the tube or on buses) meet each others' eyes, share a grimace, a joke or even a few passing words. The bags of gelatinous goo quiver and ripple, feeling the vibrations of the spark for quite a few steps, or stops. Then slowly, the electric shock subsides and they return to sliding down the road, impassive molluscs once more.

Today I had a connection like that. Sitting on the top deck of the bus, in front of the steps, I was thinking of nothing much, or a lot of nothing. Whatever it was, I had retreated into my shell, antlers barely protruding. A man started walking down the steps in front of me. I registered his face and thought I recognised it. By the time I realised who he was, I wasn't looking at him anymore (he'd gone downstairs), I was staring at the face of the girl behind him. Of course! He was a daytime TV 'celebrity'. She saw the recognition dawn and smiled. We sparked, and then came the jelly-shaking reaction: we both nearly burst out laughing, and carried on our separate ways smiling - just a little - to ourselves. Not such a dangerous experiment after all then.