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…

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