Piccadilly Line - 1965

Down where the sun never shows the wind never blows the rain never goes, where patent air pumped clean and fresh slowly circulates. In the blue-green neon light a lone Jamaican, sad for the sun, swish-swishes with a bristle-tufted broom down the long bright corridors of tiles. Gone are Betjeman's bronze electroliers, gone like the trolleybus and EMBANKMENT tram; gone are the sepia prints of Rayners Lane. Sixty feet below Green Park shop-girl, businessman and clerk are swallowed whole by silver glow-worm trains that burrow through the city in the dark.