Let me start by offering my most sincere and humble apologies for the recent neglect of dearest blog. You see, I have recently started a new job in London town. Thus, I am now very busy all of the time.
Said new job involves partaking in this sport they call commuting. Commuting is an interesting business I must say. Amuses me it does. Let me tell you why.
In the morning I get on train to Liverpool Street. I do this really early so I am always not quite awake yet when this part of the journey occurs. I presume this is the case for my fellow commuters also, as around 50% tend to fall asleep mid-journey… in a packed train carriage surrounded by strangers, mouth wide open, dribble spilling everywhere. They must feel very comfortable with this arrangement. I don’t know how.
Before boarding the train all commuters must wait a little while on the platform. This is great. Possibly the best part of my day.
The commuting people have worked out exactly where the train doors will be when the train arrives. I presume they do this through some sort of honed commuter superpower. I expect I’ll get it soon. Give me time.
Anyway, what happens is, I arrive and the people who know where the train doors open have already marked their spot. They stand in little groups along the platform. Each group has a leader who stands in the centre, furiously determined that they shall be first to board the train when it arrives. I don’t know where the train doors will appear yet so I pick a person who looks like they are one of those who know and stand beside them. This enrages them.. their faces twitch in fury. They need to board the train first. I might board the train first though. I am right next to them. They can’t allow this to happen.
When train arrives I usually manage to board the train first. I enjoy annoying people early in the morning. I also enjoy getting a seat.
The fun and games do not end there, though…Oh no! Interesting things happen whilst on the train, too.
No matter how busy a train is, some people feel that their little backpack, handbag, carrier bag or packet of tissues requires a seat all of its own. This means that they expect the other human beings to stand on the train for the duration of their journey, in order that their bag be transported in comfort. This is probably five star travel for a bag.
Ask them to move their bag, and oh.. you shall be looked at like you are absolute filth.. How dare you ask their bag to move! You may as well have just urinated on their cat.. this is how they look at you. I take their furious look and exchange a smiley look of my own, for I’ve learnt that this seems to infuriate them further, and I can never get enough fury in my morning.
Then I plonk myself down in the seat that belongs to their bag and quietly have a rage blackout. Why do people do this? Why don’t you just move your bloody bag? The train is FULL OF PEOPLE. YOUR BAG DOES NOT REQUIRE A SEAT.
It usually takes me about 30 minutes to calm down after this charade occurs. It really does. I can’t understand it.
Once I’ve arrived at Liverpool Street, usually with considerably higher blood pressure, I embark on the next part of my journey…the London Underground.
The London Underground is a wonderful thing, it truly is. It takes you all sorts of places and you never need to know how to read a map. This means I am able to move myself about without getting lost, which is quite a luxury for someone born with no sense of direction such as myself. It’s a disability, I swear it is.
My dearest tube network does not come without its little problems, though, I must admit.
First there is that bloody woman who keeps banging on about the bloody gap. Has anyone ever fallen down the gap? I don’t think they have. The gap’s not that big. You’d have to be quite thin to fall down the gap.
Secondly, the tube is incredibly hazardous during the summertime, due to an issue of fumes. On every tube carriage there will be one person who smells unpleasant. I’m not sure if this person is always blissfully unaware of the smog emanating from their person, or just gets some sort of sick, twisted pleasure from gassing those around them, but this person will always be the person who chooses to stand mid-carriage, arms up in the air, armpits out for all to see. As they raise their arms in gay abandon the horror on their fellow passengers faces is evident, as scent starts wafting about the carriage. I usually take this opportunity to stare at said armpit waving passenger in the desperate hope that they will take the hint and wash. The hint is probably not so obvious though, I expect they just think that I’m the token nutcase instead (n.b. all London Underground carriages have one of these in residence). I am looking forward to winter time. People sweat less in winter, I think.
After all of this is done I walk to work and get enraged by tourists, and taxis and cyclists. Especially cyclists. Then I have a coffee and forget about it all till home time, when the rage resurfaces…