Circle Line
Liann Snow

On the London Underground, on a weekday afternoon. A game for three players.

First, the Gay man gives me a quick disappointed look as he sees that my slim hips, broad shoulders, loose gait and cropped head do not mean 'boy'.

Next, I seat myself where I can best see the long swinging nylon-clad legs of the nearly-young, dark-haired woman nearby. My glance wanders up and down her calves. I'm not a leg-woman really, but it's all that's on offer right now and a rare sight these days anyhow - all those jeans and joggers - nowhere near as affecting.

I get bored exploring her glossy slopes and look up at an ad for Scottish Highland holidays that's fixed above me on the curving grey steel roof of the tube. Those slopes look even chillier.

Beautiful though.

I look back, quickly, unexpectedly. Just quick enough to catch her flashing dark gaze as her lids slam shut over deep brown eyes and she turns her head away again.

She's disappointed too!

Oh what a walking disappointment I turn out to be. Not a boy, though promising to be one.

Sorry loves, I'm just a dyke in blue denim. A minority taste indeed.

(Three players, but no winners today.)

First published: May 2002