Returning from the airport, contrary to habit because of a large suitcase, I was travelling in the mezzanine vestibule of a crowded train to Richmond. There was the sound of an angry exchange of words from the lower deck, and a teenage boy came pounding up the couple of steps and squatted violently against the wall, his bag on his knees. I don’t think I have ever before seen anyone so visibly seething with anger. He kept it just under control, but his body was wracked with it and his face distorted and distressed.
Eventually the train pulled into Granville and he rose to his feet, lifted his bag above his head, and pitched it from the carriage doorway right across the platform, to land against the brick wall of the platform waiting-room, like a well-pitched netball pass. A woman preparing to enter the carriage looked startled and caught my eye.
It looked like pure chance that his bag hit no one, but perhaps that act of release was as much controlled as was his prior seething. He followed his bag, picked it up, and flounced out of sight. No clue emerged from the carriage as to the reason for his distressed fury.