A copy of Socialist Worker lies folded, abandoned, on the seat of a Northern Line train as it enters Angel station. A young woman, a girl really; can't be more than sixteen, boards and takes a seat next to the discarded paper, glances at it, tentatively picks it up. She begins to read, in the way that any commuter will when faced with a tube journey and no carry-on entertainment. She reads the front page, which contends that Blair is in a panic over fading support for war on Iraq. She turns the pages, keeps reading, as if this often mocked radical rag is as mainstream as any 20p tabloid.

Minutes later, her time on this train ending at Bank, she carefully closes the paper and rolls it tightly to take away. She alights and disappears into the platform crowd. It would seem that there is more to be read.

Perhaps she is already a militant socialist, although the presence of shiny new Nikes and fashionable boot-cut jeans suggest otherwise. Perhaps she has more travelling to do and needs something, anything, to occupy the time. Perhaps the words she has read are a sudden inspiration. And perhaps this is a very subtle new way of spreading any propaganda one might want to transmit.

Who is to say how this story might end?