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I've been working as an economist in the city of London for the past couple of years. It's a good job and I get to mix with pretty influential people, but the downside is that there's a lot of work involved. It's not unusual for me to be in the office until after 9pm. Still, I enjoy it and that's the most important thing.

One Wednesday in July I'd been at it 'till 8 with a couple of my colleagues. As it was such a nice night - one of those English summer nights where the temperature is perfect for sitting out - we decided to make the most of it by popping down the pub for a couple of drinks in the beer garden. All in all it had been a good day: I had made good progress with my latest report and it looked like the BBC were interested in covering it when it was finished. Now, sitting in the beer garden, enjoying the late evening sun and a cold beer, I felt pretty relaxed and generally content with life.

As the sun started to set, however, the other two started making noises about leaving. I'd only had a couple of drinks, but I was feeling pleasantly tipsy and wasn't really in the mood for going home to an empty flat. I certainly wasn't in the mood for heading down to the dark, hot pit of hell that is the London underground for my 45-minute journey home, quietly suffocating in the stifling air. But as they were determined to go I didn't have much choice.

I stood on the platform waiting for the tube to arrive. One thing about ...

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