How far are we to take the unwritten London Commandment, Thou shalt ignore thine fellow tube passengers?

One station before I’m due to get off the train yesterday a girl of roughly the same age as me boards and sits beside me, mobile clamped to ear. As the train bounces along, the quiet normality of the ride is punctured by a loud sob, followed up with several more. I’ve never seen anyone cry on the train or the tube, and at first I wonder if she’s laughing – sitting pretty much with her back to me and hunched over, I can’t see her face.

But no, she is definitely crying. And crying deep, anguished sobs, of the kind you let out when something seriously awful is taking place. Into her phone she says, “I’m on the train now, I’m on my way to the hospital now”, as if to confirm to us all that no, this is no spat with a boyfriend.

I don’t know what to do. I’m reminded of a time when the roles were reversed, years ago when I was walking, quietly crying, through a cold London park. I was away from home for Christmas and more importantly, someone I love was having troubles in Auckland and I was as useful as a cabbage sitting on the other side of the world. A middle aged man passing by looked at me in concern, mumbled a quiet “you okay?”, and I tilted my head down and kept walking. I felt bad afterwards, because I think he was just acting out of concern. But the instinct to ignore had overpowered me. Well, lets face it: middle aged man, trench-coat, deserted park.

So this is the dilemma that’s running through my head, ridiculous as it seems. Another human being is sitting next to me clearly in great difficulty, and I’m wondering what the hell to do. I look out the window, thinking that she probably doesn’t want the white girl she doesn’t know to give her a hug. Thankfully she’s on the phone, because my brain is struggling to think of something to say – “are you ok” is such a ridiculous phrase when someone clearly isn’t.

But I can’t keep looking out the window, as if pretending that nothing’s happening. Around us in this part of the train are only men, a particularly grubby specimen opposite reading the Sun. If anyone’s going to do anything, it’s got to be me. Finally I put my hand on her shoulder and rub across her back. It seems strange to touch another passenger like this, where normally people do their best to even avoid eye contact.

She sobs even harder, but doesn’t move the phone from her ear. As the brakes slam on for the station ahead I stand up and walk to the door, feeling sad for her and worse that I hesitated, but glad to have done something all the same.

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