This morning 0834hrs:
I board the train through the same doors on the same carriage as I do every morning on the way to work. The bloke who reads the Daily Telegraph sports section nods and smiles knowingly like he does every morning. It’s simply a nodding friendship as we have never spoken, and probably never will unless the train crashes.
I spot a seat about halfway back, my usual place, in between two women I’ve never seen before. The usual excuse me and quickstep and I sit down.
This morning is different because the passenger to my right refuses to budge up and leaves her elbow dug into my ribs. I turn awkwardly and ask her to excuse me again, conscious that I’m invading her space. She ignores me and stares at her Maeve Binchy novel through piggy eyes, pretending to read.
I stare at her waiting for some sort of reaction, my eyes drilling into the side of her soapy, sagging white face. Grey hair is set into a hideous 80,s parting and it’s dressed in those 50+ clothes that only people of that age know where to buy.
Thoughts start charging through my head as I begin to fume. Shall I bring my own elbow up and smash it into the pasty, mealy mouth? Or shall I scream at it about this being my fucking carriage, the one that I use every bastard morning.
Neither, I get up and walk away. I look down at its Sunday Express special offer shoes (£29.99 + P&P) and try to tread on them, but miss.