I am thankful that there is a train that takes me to work. I really am. But does it have to be like this? People were crammed into this dirty space with such little understanding of where they were that they had to ask others what station the train was at.
I was tempted to say ‘Paris’ but even my sense of humour has recognised the wearing nature of the pathetic bleat at most stops on the line, most days, most carriages. “Please move down – I need to get this one!” or the unanswerable logic, “can you move down there please – if you’re reading your phone you can make more room!” Or the argument that rumbled on this morning for a couple of stops which everyone hoped wouldn’t result in physical violence – mainly because that would make us all late.
Roughly 43o hours of this per annum – that’s over a month of 12-hour days standing or sitting with some of the most astonishing bad breath (just caught some now) and other effluvium to enjoy.
It could be worse, but it could be better too.
Do everything without murmuring or complaining, says the Good Book. OK.