Jack, lost, alone on a street full of people. As he watched them turn the corner the last connection dropped. Nothing now to tie him to this place, this time. Jack winced as he turned back to the station, retracing the blurred instructions given to the lump on the sofa as his friend had left for work - 'See you at lunchtime'.

The crowds were preoccupied, no room for the lost, the mildly broken. Jack kept to the gutter, only fighting the press when an oncoming bus was the other option. The circle appeared ahead, red and white, the mark of the Tube. Below the sign two doors spewed and sucked at the pavement, streams of people flowing in and down, up and out, faces an endless loop of shock, disgust, resigned acceptance. This was the other London, full of people living and working, no tourist station. The hangover coloured everything grey. Everything was grey, winter attire - 'smart' charcoal coats and scarves; clouds lowering, unnoticed, just brushing mediocre skyscrapers. Jack walked on, it didn't hurt so much.

Last night had been different, scores of unknown friends -Dave had brought a few but Jack had found the rest- a usual crowd, not too slow for a Monday. They'd started local, waiting for a couple of mates, the southern drinks and southern accents slipping down easy. Then some stopgap, and on to the Wellington- loud, large and loaded. Jack had liked the place immediately. Young crowd, happy, as full of Stella as Jack and crew were shortly to be. Not bad scenery either, the short blonde by the pillar, the leggy vision in purple over by the door; a whole group of silver clad fashionistas sparkling prettily with pre-gin white wines and wag laughs. Jack had hit the bar.

Now, on this dreary damp-cardboard afternoon, the bar was hitting back. Not much lunch was washing with the obligatory lunchtime lager - because you had to, right? All around were people, as uncaring as Dave's lunchmates had been impressed by his morning-after bravado.

What to do?
Where to go?
What came next?

The gulf deepened, all the thoughts the beer had held at bay, and this was it, the yang to last night's yin. Or nothing so spiritual, there was nothing spiritual about last night, apart from the shooters. This was last night's manic's depressive, closing down the music, shutting the doors and turning the party people out on the flyer coated grey of a rainy pavement.

It really was getting grey now. Jack looked around, the buildings lower but the clouds still brushing the rooftops. The light had all the lustre of a shark's eye, sucking warmth from the walls, the floor, leaving slate shades that sucked life from limb. In the depths of the low clouds a speckling threat of snow added a dun brown to the palette.

Looking ahead, electric light shone from gloss black. Proportioned windows and familiar doors drew him in, afternoon clientele slow with the cold, even liquid lunchers less than animate. Here people would understand, warmth from the cold sold in glasses to fit the hand. He ordered a drink and sat.

She had been lovely, dark hair touching soft against his face as she leant forward, shouting her name across the piped pop. Jill? I'm Jack! The warmth of a smile tying them together, a prelude to the elaborate dance of stance and gesture. Jack's raised eyebrow and sudden direct stare. Jill's dropped gaze, demure and doe-like. The dance wove back and forward, around the group, breaking for chats with others, whirling back for a tongue in cheek. Deliberate toilet breaks and the desperate desire to hide frantic eyes until they fell on each other again. Would you like a drink? Lets talk. The stories get longer, the listening shorter, like the drinks. Small, evil, sticky.

The drink in front of Jack now seemed huge. Had he drunk any at all? His empty guts wanted to be emptier, each rumble signed the early warning of liver failure, colon cancer, no: stomach ulcers, yes, that was it. Jack manfully accepted his impending doom, dead by 30, killed by lifestyle. Another can't make it any worse. All around the signs of youthful decay, posters for dub step and comedy nights, culture with more self-destruction, 5 rooms of pounding death and a bar in each. It all seemed so futile. Friday night - it wasn't even Tuesday night yet. The lead up full of varying themes of music with which to drink oneself to death.

The drink was gone; the man that can cope with stomach ulcers can cope with the pints that cause them. The street outside was darker now, but warmer, shops spilling light from doorways, a few early finishers walking with a different step, lighter, despite the same trudge of Tube, this time the other way, to sofa and TV. Jack walked, flotsam on a quickening tide of bodies, emboldened as the beer crept up the saturation scale, turning on the lights as it made its way back into the body it had deserted earlier, looking for long butts in ashtrays and shouting for a cold one from the fridge.

What to do?
Where to go?
What comes next?

Tube. The tide swept Jack in through the open door, past turnstiles he Oystered with a beep. South, the beginnings of a plan, and food to calm the worm gnawing at the ulcerated remains of his insides. Choose a line, ride the moving stairs, past the posters suggesting normal things that normal people did. Assume the face, the Tube face, the front that gets you through the journey. Jack has a plan, a purpose, only half broken, fixing himself. 6 stops, and into the full press of London free of the first day of work after the weekend. The plan keeps Jack moving. Timetable, ticket, food, warm, the smell of hot bread burning through his sinuses and straight to the base of his guts, luring the bad out. The plan was working, five minutes to spare, time to pick up a couple of beers, just to make sure the last didn't get lonely on the long journey south.

Barrier, platform, three minutes, choose a carriage, two minutes, find a table seat, the plan still holding, carrying Jack on. The insistent beep of doors as he sits down, three mouthfuls of glorious food as the train creeps forward into the dark. Three mouthfuls dry in his throat, as he reaches for the cans, opens one, and Jack is swept away again.

John Burton earns his money flying yellow submarines in the South China Sea. During breaks he manages to travel, write, and not play enough saxophone.