I walk an instance to the nearest transit room and touch in. White walls, clinical calm. In some places the transit rooms look like doctors’ surgeries; in others like magical stagecoaches. It’s the old debate of style and substance, minimalism and embellishment. I don’t find it exciting. A transit room gets you somewhere. It connects you. It’s a misnomer because nothing is really moved in space or time: it should be called an entanglement room. Hundreds of thousands of years down the line from our monkey ancestors, though, the subjective experience of closing your eyes in one place and opening them somewhere else still means movement to us, so there we are. A transit room is a little slice of liminal existence, I suppose, and probably quite profound, but in the real world it’s not much more exciting than a drain cover. Yes, I know: you can learn the history of industry and urbanisation from drain covers. I don’t care.