Commuting is a serious ball-ache. I have had my commute extended by 10 minutes given that my wife and I have recently bought a house in Streatham and now I have to catch a train from Streatham Common whereas before I hopped on at Clapham Junction and was in Victoria in 7 odd minutes if everything went to plan.
You might say – what are you complaining about? It’s 17 whole minutes; my retort: it’s 10 more minutes that I have to be physically closer to my fellow man (or woman) than I am comfortable with. Feeling the coffee breath of a complete stranger on my freshly moisturised cheek first thing is not in my top 10. Okay if she was hot…but does that ever happen? Uh no; more chance of the Donald becoming El Presidente over the pond (okay President; the Donald is not a massive fan of the Mexicans), “making America great again” and plunging us all into a nuclear holocaust. (Oh shit there actually is a chance of that!)
Below is a case in point.
So I arrive one morning on the platform of my “home” station. It’s a real mixed bag at the time of the morning and it’s bedlam. Half of Eastern Europe is on its way to build flats in Nine Elms for Wang and Chan; the school run is in full flight with Mom or Dad trying to persuade Johnny that this train is nothing like the train set at home and that crying about not being able to touch the tracks will get him nowhere; dogs are everywhere because the Battersea Dogs Home is en route (and the dog carers or wardens or keepers or whatever they are called sometimes take the dogs home); City suits and skirts jostle and scowl and then there is me – grimacing and inwardly hating everyone in equal measure.
And then the train crawls into the station. Literally. I think the drivers do it on purpose. Doors open and it’s as if a huge magnet kicks into gear because all of a sudden about 200 commuters are stuck to the train doors; including me. And then the great reshuffle starts as the carriage reorganises itself to accommodate the new intake.
I board. Shuffle, shuffle, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, “get the f$%^ out my way” (speech bubble!) and I manage to manoeuvre myself into the passageway between the seats where at least I am not pinned up against Walus from Krakow.
Door closes, commuters breathe out over each other and the train trundles out of the station. No great pace mind; it’s not like Southern Trains has any interest in actually arriving anywhere on time but hey ho at least it’s travelling in the right direction.
And then we pull into Balham and the next great reshuffle begins. Half the carriage empties out; Shuffle, Shuffle, Pardon, Excuse me, Sorry, “get the f$%^ out my way” (speech bubble!) and so it goes. Now I have done a fairly decent job of avoiding about a hundred of my fellow travellers short of actually disappearing into a puff of smoke, when I am confronted by a fellow suit and the words: “You will need to take a step back”.
Now bearing in mind a step back would entail me falling out of the train and as it is I have managed to contort myself such that half my body is hanging over a table and the other half is in the baggage rack and yet still I am being TOLD to step back. Last thing I looked he was not a bodyguard and I was not some pesky pimply teen trying to grab a selfie with Justin Bieber! And the tone, I tell you! – disdainful, down-your-nose type, slightly superior – the sort who if he noticed a spot of Pret sandwich on your tie, would point it out. And not even a hint of a pardon, excuse me, sorry – just me kissing his ass!
Obviously I told him to sod off – in my head; but he had already cut a swath past me before I could utter a put down of my own. Well at least I got a seat out of it which is saying something I suppose; small mercies!
The beauty of that is that at the next station I had to let the person next to me out which necessitated another grand reshuffle. Shuffle, Shuffle, Pardon, Excuse me, Sorry, “get the f$%^ out my way” (speech bubble!)and so on. I found myself reversing back up the carriage to let my fellow commuter out only for my seat to get snapped up by some other opportunist in a suit. Of course he made eye contact, smirked, mouthed “Amateur” in my direction, before disappearing behind “The Metro”. I made up the Amateur part but I know that’s what he was thinking!
And there’s the thing; commuting is all about suffering. Unless you are travelling in from the Outer Hebrides and can therefore pretty much guarantee your allotted seat every morning, you roll the dice and hope that you are squeezed up against Daisy, the American exchange student from Iowa, as opposed to Walus, who no doubt is a nice guy, but it’s just not the same thing!
Out.