She felt decidedly woozy as she rode the escalator down to the tube, one-too-many double vodka redbulls she thought. It had been a good night, dancing away in her favourite nightclub, but work tomorrow had ensured an early night, she hated that Thursdays were cheap night. High heels were not the best thing to walk in after a few drinks, but they made her calf muscles look more defined, and as he mother had always said ‘beauty is an art my dear, there must always be sacrifice’. Try telling that to my feet she mused. She tried her best to avoid the cracks that had formed in the well warn concrete, and after taking several seconds longer than is should have to read the sign, she turned left to her platform. It was quiet, just a few others that had joined her for the last train home that night. She would have got a taxi like normal, but with the recession, every penny counts, and if she wanted to afford her make up next month, then her oyster card would have to get more use than she would have liked. Anyway, it wasn’t a long ride. There was a man struggling to tie his shoelaces, he had dirty shoes, a tramp probably she assumed, great, she thought, he better not smell like piss. Other than that it was a very uneventful few minutes until the tell tail wind crept in, and the train pulled up to the platform. She took baby steps, her heels slapping loudly against the floor, she didn’t want the embarrassment of tripping over the slight step up. After successfully negotiating the only obstacle between her and the train, she lowered herself onto the soft, brightly patterned cushion, instantly feeling the pressure of relief flow from her feet.