It’s 7:42am as I absentmindedly step off my train and peer down the platform towards the barriers, fumbling for my pass. I stop in my tracks (okay yes, pun intended). I’ve been transported back in time. It’s a horrible place! I’m in a 1960s Cold War railway station in the suburbs of Moscow; one exhibiting the worst excesses of relentlessly dour eastern bloc winter fashion.
Hundreds of bodies walk away from me in the murky half light, wearing the widest range of black, charcoal, dark grey, even darker grey, dark blue (almost black), dark brown (bordering on black) and dark dark garments I've ever seen in one stream of people. The only thing missing are the feared FSB special clothing conformation executive lining the platform to vet unorthodoxy and statues of the godfathers of iron curtain style, Lenin, Stalin and Brezhnev.
A few mavericks run low level risks of being singled out, sticking two fingers up with scarves comprising delicate stripes of slightly lighter blue, matt green, even a brown tinge daring to think itself a dull orange. Also in one case, black gloves wildly sporting lilac designer logos on the back.
The nearest I observe to a brazen all-out fart-in-the-face 'arrest me then son-bitches!' colour attack is a Nordic-like bobble hat 20 metres ahead of me, comprising a white base speckled with the brightest spectrum of rainbow colours and a red flopping, bouncing ball on the end of a thick white length of wool. What is Nordic hat wearing man thinking? No way is he conforming to the norm of bleak blandness to which the rest of us aspire. This rogue dresser is flagrantly drawing attention to himself, with a garment displaying Rio carnival-like exuberance and joy in a river of dark Leningradsky station misery.
The nearest I ever get to offering a hint of commuter colour is with my shirts but they are mostly M & S regulation issue, worn under one of my (I like to think) unique blue or grey shade suit jackets. Yes alright approaching black: Bloody boring!!
I have, though, witnessed another world. I’ve been fortunate enough to commute in Paris, Dusseldorf, Vienna and a few other european cities in winter months. Colour everywhere! Those crazy Europeans; just so wild and easy, with no shame whatsoever when it comes to both onboard and step off railway clothing!
Well maybe it’s time we broke out!
I have decided to lead a revolt on my regular trains against commuter outwear dullness. I ask you, my die-hard reader, to do the same on your regular trains. Let us bring an infusion of colour onto our platforms and station concourses. Be not fearful of colour but embrace it, nurture its growth and development on our railways, wrap ourselves in blankets of colour so that it may reflect our sunny commuter dispositions.
Underneath our reserved, controlled, garmentry blandness pulsates beating hearts of Havana-like rhythms, Latino loooove, Flamenco passion, all aching to burst out through exuberant fashion. We must step out and pose, walk our platforms in slow-mo, flicking our hair from side to side, pointing at no-one in particular knowingly with confidence and a glint in the eye, cutting a Cuban heel path to the barriers with an unapologetic swagger!
A smidge excessive? To a few fashion dinosaurs maybe. But I say, time to act! No longer must we commute into 60s Gulag Central station looking like commy party apologists. From now on it’s going to be dress-to-impress 1980s Crockett and Tubbs style ‘Miami Vice’ film set…station place and everyone is going to be a platform star!
