Commuting Woes
I'd forgotton the misery of commuting.
I thought it would have been burned indelibly into my mind, but time does appear to heal.
We will ignore the accident last night on the Tube last night, between Barbican and Farringdon where ten (oh yes, ten!) trains managed to crash one after the other into a metal bracket that was protruding from the tunnel wall, breaking windows and buckling carriages.
We will ignore the people who throw themselves under the Central Line - actually maybe if we didn't ignore them, they wouldn't feel driven to do that.
We will ignore the recent report that says that trains are crowded, but not overcrowded.
None of that happens. There haven't been several alerts at Liverpool Street this week - the prerecorded message "Will Inspector Sams please report to station reception" played every thirty seconds is just a call for a very lazy member of staff. The sirens and groups of station staff congregating are just mere conincidence.
My train yesterday wasn't fifteen minutes late, nor was it a short formation of four lucky if you can breathe carriages instead of the eight can just about hold on to a rail carriages.
Lets focus on the really good stuff:
The commuters with deplorable personal hygiene. The worst thing about being short is that you all too frequently end up with your face in someone's armpit. And fate always decrees that that person has issues of some kind with deoderant; the majority of those issues being that it isn't manly to wear it.
The gum chewers. Mouth open, fillings for all the world to admire (and we apparently have some quite creative dentists here in the UK) and plenty of gnashing, amplified by the silence caused by the train having been motionless for the last fifteen minutes.
The tourists. Individuals with nowhere to go and bugger all idea where they are. Backpacks larger than the average sumo wrestler and a map that could redecorate a large wall. And for some reason, their favourite place to study their map is right in front of the ticket barrier.
The irate commuter, guaranteed to cause a scene. The practised commuter (and although not frequent, I count myself in here) knows where the train will stop and so waits for the door. Laptop at the ready to barge onto the very limited space available. Knows the rules abut not making eyecontact or eating smelly food at rush hour. The irate commuter isn't au fait with all this and is one of the last to try to get on. No bloody chance!
But sees what she (and it is always a woman in my experience) thinks is a vast oasis of space further down the carriage. The reason no-one is there, is because there is nothing to hold onto.
So irate commuter begins:
"Can you all please move down the carriage. People want to get on"
No-one moves an inch. Someone usually pipes up that there is no room at all. That is like waving a red flag to a bull.
"I can see there is room. Move down the fucking carriage! People want to get on!"
Around this time, the people blocking the doors turn their backs, forming an inpenetrable wall of flesh, but that doesn't stop irate commuter trying to squeeze into the carriage. The doors start to close about now, and irate commuter is unceremoniously pushed back to the platform with a "sorry love" and the train departs, with the carriage united in its insults for irate commuter.
You have to play the game.
posted by DMouse007 @ 2/12/2004 05:26:00 PM
<< Home