BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN In the airless confines of the tube, the world outside felt distant. I sat still, encased in the metal canister, time stretching like a taut string, ready to snap. I had been sat there since Moorgate. Nearby, a Salafi with a bulky backpack glared at us kufrs, his ankle socks a giveaway, disdain etched upon his face, his dishdasha an oddity for … Continue reading Circle Line