Everyone knows the rules. London invented trains that run underground as well as the protocol that makes the system bearable. A London Tube passenger enjoys the same prerogatives as an evil tyrant in a fairy tale. Do not stare. Do not approach. Do not distract him in any way. Respect the cocoon of solitude that protects him from the surrounding hubbub. But this simple covenant is not universally observed. Since I moved to London in 1973, I have twice been bothered by chatterboxes on the Tube. Twice, yes. It may sound like a minor annoyance to an outsider but residents of London will recognise the agony I have suffered.

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The first intrusion occurred in 1991 as I sat on the District line at Earl’s Court. A fat drunkard elbowed my arm and asked me where the train was heading. I didn’t appreciate his physical approach and I smiled blithely at him. ‘I don’t know. No one knows where it’s going.’ This backfired instantly. ‘What’s that mean?’ he snarled in a coarse Ulster accent. ‘No one knows? What do you mean by that?’ An older passenger took a step forward and pacified my rowdy inquisitor with a word of warning. The drunkard got up and stumped off the train,........

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