The system itself is an awesome piece of Victorian engineering and was, I believe, the blueprint for a great many more Underground railways around the world, including those of New York and Paris. Both those cities' systems have their problems too, of course, but at least NYC's is 24-hour (sort of) and Paris' runs later and generally seems more reliable. And neither are as expensive.

But the Tube system, of course, is a great place to observe people, British people, in repose, doing what they do best. Waiting and complaining.

Airports, of course. Airport waiting lounges where people drape themselves over buff-coloured couches and make important phone calls on their cellphones before the 'plane shuts them up. Airports, with all their points of connection and disconnection; becoming airborne and becoming someone else, someone who isn't rooted anymore in the place he or she just left.

Can't wait! And neither can Abadzis fans, who are about to be knocked sideways by this extraordinary new project of his, a true labor of love. Sorry: I meant to say a labour of love. More to come, more to come!

Here's Nick, whose massive research for LAIKA took him -- surprise! -- to Moscow.

Richmond Station tube platform, London, 9th October 2005. A mother says to her child, who is holding a single flower, "If you keep smelling it, it'll be ruined." It occurs to me that a flower has a finite source of perfume. But how quickly can it be used up by a child's sense of smell? The little girl in question looks disappointed.

"Don't you think Felicity breathes really loudly?" one of them ventured.

There was agreement, and laughter from both. They got off the bus at the next stop. All I could think was, "Poor Felicity. She might have asthma."

Waiting rooms. Doctors' waiting rooms, official business waiting rooms, any sort of waiting room. As you'll probably have gathered if you've been following my contributions to this blog, waiting is something that I feel is a national pastime for British people. Therefore, they excel at putting together waiting rooms. I don't feel particularly British - indeed, in many ways, I'm not - and therefore have to distract myself from the business of waiting, which can really be terribly boring. Fortunately, I keep about my person my trusty sketchbook so I can record the body language and expressions of deadly, creeping ennui that cross the faces of my various companions-in-waiting.

Actually, these drawings were made in my Doctor's waiting room, and it's really rather pleasant - light and airy with toys to keep the babies happy and a water cooler for thirsty ill people. They never keep anyone waiting for long so it seems churlish not to point that out.

I was traveling into town on the District line, trying to work out a scene for the second draft of Laika. It's a scene that I'd been thinking about and thumbnailing various versions of for days and I just couldn't get it right. The dialogue seemed overblown and just, well, wrong, so I thought I'd think about it while on the move. This, in my experience, makes one less creatively constipated because there's just so much to meditate upon and enjoy. The Universe usually presents you with the answer in something that you see. It can be quite accommodating, like that.

But it still wasn't really happening, so I drew the two old ladies sitting opposite. Then I got distracted by a very cute, big black girl who got on wearing a grey and white mohair sweater and matching hat. You can tell I got distracted, because the second granny's face is totally missing apart from her eye sockets. Works rather well though, for some reason.

Shortly thereafter, the dialogue for the scene just cohered. I'm telling you, it was that girl in the mohair jumper that jumpstarted it. The Universe does these things for you, if you let it. The deal is, you have to pass the secret on. So that's what I'm doing.

I had the 'flu and with it came a weird hallucinogenic fever. I have really, really bad nightmares when I'm ill like this and things of deep horror visit me, things that creep up grinning from my lower mind. I made these drawings in the middle of the night after I'd woken from one of these dreams, although they're not pictures of the things I was dreaming about necessarily. They just recall some of the weird feeling of that nightmare.

Put your feet up, go on! That's right, there, on the cushion.

Perfect. Now stay still, 'cause I'm drawing you...

Just a couple of very quick sketches.

My friend Paul fell asleep on the train. He can sleep sitting upright. I showed him this when he woke up. I don't think he liked it much, thinking maybe that I caught him at an unflattering angle. Sorry, mate — couldn't resist. You normally don't sit still long enough for me to draw you.

So, the car decides to break down in a supermarket car park and I can't find anything wrong with it. While I wait for the repair man to arrive, I do a few sketches to pass the time. I wouldn't mind so much, but the car was serviced yesterday. This puts me in a poor humor. What strikes me as I wait is how miserable everyone looks as they come out of the supermarket: hurried, anxious, gloomy and generally not of a sunny disposition (just like me). It's as if the supermarket has deadened the mood of everyone who passes through its doors. On the evidence of this lot, their bags stuffed with readymeals, buying food with the thought of lovingly preparing the evening's dinner seems to be a national pastime that's on the slide. Instead, food shopping has become reduced to a simple act of consumerism, another inconvenience to be busily dealt with as fast as possible. Eventually, the car repair bloke arrives. I greet him with genuine relief and a bright, friendly smile. I'm soon out of there.

Another quick portrait, of a friend of a friend. The color I added later, messing around in Photoshop.

This is a sketch of my brother Alex in the garage that he owns, which specializes in servicing and repairing French cars. To American readers, that might seem a little strange, but in Europe, even in the UK, it's a realistic and very viable specialization. It also indulges my brother's love of France. The whole place is a little shrine to the French motor industry, with memorabilia everywhere. There are old posters of Citroëns, little die-cast metal model Renaults, Peugeots and Citroëns and friendly Michelin Men figurines everywhere. For years, I had old French cars that my bro found for me - especially a beloved 2CV that saw me through some hard times - and I felt a bit disloyal buying a German auto a few years back.

Alex once built a six-wheeled Citro¨n 2CV, with a back like a pick-up truck. He took it to a motor rally in France where somebody fell in love with it and offered to buy it from him. I was sorry to see it go, as it was quite a car. But he gets bored with them, and sells them on so he can buy and refurbish or customize something new. A couple of years ago, he took time out from his garage to work on Tim Burton's Willy Wonka movie, putting together a workshop of people to turn some old Russian cars into working props for the film. Each car had to be stripped and rebuilt to the production designer's briefs so they didn't look like any recognizable make. My brother loves cars like I love comics.

Doodles loosely based on people I saw on the way home or in the pub.
Yes, including the robot.

My friend Steve orders a pint in one of his locals, The New Hope in South London.

Or "mobiles" as we call them in the UK. They are a menace on public transport. This guy was shouting into his on a tube at about 6pm. He was an estate agent, a realtor. I think he'd had a few pints, but that's really no excuse. He wouldn't shut up and was leering at everyone in sight, trying to draw them into his sweaty world. For some reason, the name 'Simon Truesong' jumped into my mind...

The Missus, on a train, engrossed in a book one cold day last winter.

I forget where I did these drawings, only that the subject was a particularly beautiful and elegant woman. I do remember beginning and abandoning the first one knowing I just hadn't caught her. The second time, I did.

This character appears in the forthcoming graphic novel Laika. The character is unnamed in the story, but I think of him as Charon. He's actually a life saver rather than a ferryman to the realm of the dead, but he does play a similar sort of role. In the promo artwork I drew for the book (top), I wanted to make him wise but he ended up looking too friendly. For the final sequence, he's been re-designed. Here are a few versions I played with - you only ever get to see his head, as he's driving a truck the whole time, so I concentrated on his face. The two pencil sketches at the bottom are closest to how he appears in the finished book.

This kid was about 9 or 10 years old. He was relaxed, happy-seeming, making funny little observations to himself in the way that kids do. I thought the woman sitting next to him was his mother, but then she got off a stop before him. I realized then he'd just been happily talking to himself.

This old Ford Anglia sits on the forecourt of my brother's garage. His friend Nick, a car bodywork master craftsman, is refurbishing it. Nick can make any car look like it was built yesterday. Ford Anglias, with their strange, swept-back rear windows remind me of my uncle Michael, who had one of these for years. It was a bit of a heap, but he loved it. He'd turn up at our house in it and then he and my dad would go into the kitchen and speak Greek and smoke for hours. Seems funny that my uncle's dodgy old motor has become a classic car.

Strange-looking character drawn on a train. Looked like he might be a spy, or a scientist working on a top-secret government project. You should never judge a book by it's cover... but sometimes it's a laugh to speculate. And anyway, I can't help it — I make up stories for a living. Maybe he's actually far more boring than he looked.

There's no story to this picture, other than I liked the look of the woman. She was engrossed in her book and wore a great jacket, with little epaulettes. She was very stylish in a quiet, unfussy way.

The day ends, the working week finishes and people wait for their connections at bus stops. There's just time to put these down before my own bus arrives.

Just for a change, here's a sketch of someone on the New York subway instead of the London tube. This is my friend Steve who was dozing on a long journey out to Brooklyn.

I just discovered this drawing again recently. This was done on a transatlantic flight from NYC to London a couple of years ago. This guy was a fellow passenger; I use the term 'fellow' loosely as there wasn't a hint of fellowship about him. He made the in-flight attendants' lives hell. He pretended he didn't speak a word of English (unless it suited him); at various times in the flight he pretended to be ill; he threw fits when the attendants refused to serve him alcohol; he refused to stow his table on take-off and landing which led to further confrontations with the cabin crew; he moaned about everything and generally behaved like a three-year old. Except most three-year olds are better behaved.

At the end of the flight the dude stood up forgetting that he'd unbuckled his pants while napping and they fell straight down around his ankles. Not a pretty sight, but everyone just erupted laughing. He was so pissed off with himself.