Five O'Clock in London, and a crammed crush-hour underground on the tube.
The doors at each station open, the mass shift a touch sideways, each in tiny steps; and - yet another sardine leaps in. Curses under breath, shuffles almost kicks, dagger-stares, and sweat.
The heat, the constriction of space. The needless pressure of time, the will to be some place.
So what? Well - I was reminded of that inevitable squish by this chess puzzle, for fairly obvious reasons. It's composed by Grigory Popov, and white is to play and mate in eight. It was agony going through it . . . but afterwards, I saw the funny side.
(Previously.)
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