Sitting on the train this morning, a younger gentleman sat across from me. He was well kept, bulky but fairly in shape, early twenties, and he had an iPod shuffle on his lapel.

In his hands, he had an old book. The pages were very coloured with age, the cover was being held on manually as he read, and the first third of the book had come unbound and was being balanced in place with his fingers.

It was such an odd contrast, (the iPod and the old book) that it stood out to me. In the daily commute I see magazines, free lite papers, and all manner of pretentious bullshit and celebrity gossip. Ray Bradbury would, I think, consider himself a prophet if he commuted in modern London. The amount of fast-food-information is overpowering.

But today, the book burners were kept at bay. It made me happy to see a book that had either been kept for years, cherished, or it had been acquired in that state. Either way, it was a testament to the endurance of a human idea. It was a steak dinner, home cooked, right in the middle of the quickie-mall food court.

And it gave me hope.