The small waiting room on platform 2 is full of a non-specific stink – kind of stale smelling, and a little bit toiletly. On an orange plastic chair that is screwed into the dirty, brown-tiled floor I wait for the 15:26 train to Liverpool Street, which is fifteen minutes away. The door opens and while a man with a walking stick hobbles in I try to fill my lungs with some fresh air before the door swings shut again, sealing me back in with the stench. The man with the stick sits down directly opposite me.

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