It occurred to me this morning as I sat wedged between a particularly loud, smelly commuter with no concept of personal space and a grimy train window, that commuting, by public transport at least, is not a practice that has been designed with pleasure in mind.
Not so much stuck between a rock and a hard place as a…oh dear no that sounds wrong.
After a particularly loud and public slagging match over the ethics of using more seats than one has paid for (it wasn’t like she was large or anything, just rude). I was forced to endure a tirade in some kind of foreign language as she relayed the whole argument again to whomever was on the other end of her phone.*
For this privilege I paid five pounds and thirty pence. Still I suppose some people pay a lot more for that kind of abuse. People with special interests and wipe clean clothing.
I think I’ll cycle tomorrow.
*Mobiles: they’re funny things, a mobile device for talking to people over vast distances without raising your voice and what’s the first thing people do when they answer the things…
Sounds just like my journey too. I don’t get why people thnk everyone else wants to hear their conversation anyway.
Yes it’s a bit odd. And having made my return journey I must confess to being confused by ladies of a certain age who adopt a chemical warfare approach to perfume.