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I recently began following India Drummond on Twitter, checked out her blog, and got pretty excited about the Writing Adventure Group (WAG) she runs from time to time.

Once upon a time, I used to really enjoy writing-I still do, but have been pretty crap at keeping it up for the last few years. I figure this will be a nice way to ease my way back into it until I can motivate myself to write stories again.

For WAG, India picks a theme and anyone who likes can write a short piece about it. Click here for details and rules. Here’s the theme for this week:

“WAG #19: Pick a Pocket” Let’s do some stalking people-watching for this one! Pick someone out of a crowd and describe what (you imagine) is in their pockets (Unless you want to be brave and ask them!) Give us both meaning and physical details, and don’t forget to let yourself be surprised. (This week’s topic inspired by my son Bear.)

So, without further ado, here is my piece (apologies in advance if none of this makes sense!).

Here I am on the Circle Line, stuck somewhere between Embankment and where I need to be. I reach into my bag and notice that I’ve forgotten my book at home, which leaves me the choice of either grabbing a free newspaper from the seat next to mine, staring blankly into space, or quietly observing my neighbors-one of my secret, only child pleasures.

Take care fellow passengers, for I will judge you based on the book you are reading, the language you are speaking, and the shopping bags you carry. Fewer things give me as great satisfaction as being able to correctly determine to which country you belong. If you alight before providing adequate evidence, I will assume that I was right.

A woman jumps on board, moments before the doors close (for this train is about to depart), wearing a white blouse, capri length khaki trousers, white trainers, and white socks. She carries a backpack and has short, spiky hair. I’ve never been good at guessing ages, but I’d wager she’s roughly 45. She chooses to stand for two or three stops, continuously looking at the map. We make eye contact briefly, but I do not suspect she knows that I am analyzing her every move. Finally she sits, then stands, sticks her head out the doors, and sits again.

Where is she trying to go? I imagine that in her backpack she has a camera, a London guidebook, and a list of important contact information. Clearly she is somewhat confused as to her whereabouts and is trying to meet someone, perhaps the someone who arranged the trip. She is not used to traveling, especially not on her own. By the clothes I’d say she could be American, but no-she’d have asked me where she was by now, and no American would have that hair. German or Dutch is the answer, I’d almost guarantee it.

The train pulls up to my stop. Turns out she’s getting off too. I take another glance and notice that she’s pulled out an Oyster card, which is shielded by a unique little case. Only someone who used the Tube on a regular basis, or someone willing to spend money on anything, would own such a thing. Was I wrong? Or is she staying with a friend who loaned it to her? I watch her walk towards the escalator and it is here that I must inwardly say goodbye. Although I do not particularly care if she is late to her destination, I feel attached to her and am almost disappointed that I will never see her again.

As I wait for my next train (which will arrive in approximately 7 minutes), I find my eyes searching for the next subject to study.