*Bing-Bong*
“The next station is Bromley South,” and so the cheerful disembodied voice continues in perfect BBC English “this is the train to (takes a moment to think about it) Ramsgate and Dover Priory. The train will divide at (again momentary pause) Faversham....this is coach number 5 of 8.”
Really? And there’s me thinking I was home already. It isn’t enough that I live routine and rote when I’m awake; it seems the daily commute is now invading my sub-conscious and wilfully pissing me off. The last thing I want to be reminded of is my routine travel to and from London on the ninky-nonk train. I would have liked my grey matter to have dreamt up something a little more adventurous than mediocrity – instead I’m rewarded a dull REM trip into the realms of British Transport.
The trip to London isn’t so bad – travel off peak and you’re rewarded with a seat that will ensure your osteopath is funded for his next exotic holiday to the Seychelles; the usual exorbitant fare is only slightly less painful on the wallet, something akin to a dull toothache that comes and goes, and your fellow commuters look slightly less feral than the rush hour variety. And so you take your place in amongst the inane monkey chatter that goes on into mobile phones, the exacerbating crap music blaring out of somebody’s iPod and the odd passenger with the persistent need to visit the bog of eternal stench and failing to find the toilet paper – one of whom (upon exiting said bog) leans towards me conspiratorially and informs me:
“Hello love just to let you know, there’s no toilet paper.” Do I look like the loo roll replenisher? Remind me not to sit anywhere near the toilets again.
So, I read my book and usually have an uneventful trip into the London metropolis. I have achy bones and sore muscles but that’s just old age creeping in - a bit of a stretch, touch my toes, bend from side to side and ignore the amused looks from other passengers. Obviously not seasoned commuters like myself. You people live my life for a month and tell me you won’t try to yoga your way off the train next time!
RUSH HOUR:
This is an experience worthy of a television show. “It’s a knockout” comes to mind when I think about the obstacle course most of us embark upon during the rush hours when all and sundry want to get home and don’t care who they push, shove and elbow out of the way to do so. If I could inject myself with a good dose of serotonin this would be the time. I so want the happy hormone to bliss me out of this chaos as the sea of people heaves before me and the battle ensues. Have I ever expressed how I feel about the Circle Line? Tourettes usually goes hand in hand with that expression. To say I know what fish must feel when they’re corralled into those huge fisherman’s seine nets, is close to what the Circle Line is like during rush hour. Having your nose pressed up against the glass doors and having some one’s unwashed arm-pit in your face is not my idea of fun. Why the hell does the damn thing always stop in between High St Ken and Gloucester Rd? Please spare me the extra 10 minutes under the stinking arm-pits and the dumb-fuck tourist rucksacks shoved in my face.
Once you’ve exited the tube and launched yourself into a sprint to get out of there as fast as your legs can carry you just to breathe some fresh, polluted city air (infinitely preferable to arm-pits) there is the next obstacle. On the National Rail platforms you will encounter the urban Serengeti. The feral commuters are congregated here staring absently at the indicator boards. They start off looking passive, meek and mild-mannered - these are the Wildebeest, unfortunate lottery failures who cannot afford to live in London, and condemned to make exhausting trips in-and-out of London on a daily basis - but the stampede is imminent. This is a Darwinian experiment about to be enacted.
The platform is announced and the Wildebeest run for their lives. A lady in clippety-clop high heels pigeon steps quickly towards the train. How can anyone have normal ankles wearing a pair of those? Inevitably like a reed she sways from side-to side and almost loses balance. The evil part of me smirks in derision – ‘serves you right for wearing stupid, impractical shoes’. Mr overweight storms past, arms swinging like a Baboon, intent on securing his double seat (not that he’s paid for two). And here is where the darker-side of my character surfaces.
I’m impatient, inconsiderate and insulting. Right now I hate these people! They’re all turnips who couldn’t care less about anyone else. They push and shove and evil-eye you and try to mow you down. Survival of the fittest! Hell I’m in a war here and they’re the enemy. No forgiveness, no sympathy. This is the jungle!
Once the stampede has died down and people have found their habitual seats and their standing positions by the train doors I have no choice but to sit next to the Baboon. He resentfully allows me half a seat as his legs (spread-wide) cannot possibly tuck in any further. What is it with some men and their sitting with legs wide open like their testicles really are so large they need the extra space? Please don’t get me started on that one!
“This is the Ramsgate/Dover Priory train...”
The metallic caterpillar pushes its way out of the station taking all of us knackered, grumpy and selfish commuters home. To my left Joe Bloggs begins his nasal concerto and begins leaning sideways, drooling in the process. He’s in la-la land and as I look around me I note all the tired, listless, worn unhappy faces of all the people sharing my carriage. Given the opportunity most of them would give up this life at a moment’s notice. The rat race has never looked so appalling to me. That our lives could come to this sad indictment of what modern times mean for a lot of human-beings. I get a migraine just thinking about it. And we’re the lucky ones....
I notice the Gatwick Express to my right and longingly wish I was on that train instead. I close my eyes and dream what I should be dreaming about: a beach holiday with plenty of sunshine. Perhaps my dreams tonight will be a little more interesting – if not, a shrink may be in order.
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