Since my hesitant plunge into the world of full-time work, I undergo a daily mini-commute consisting of a 15-minute train journey. I realise that to some of you 15 minutes sounds like an indulgent luxury, but to me it’s 15 minutes of being sneezed on, coughed at, barged past by little boys with cricket bats sticking out of their bags and generally irritated by the fact that people these days seem to treat trains as their own personal office spaces, or kitchens. Sometimes I am able to let it all glide over me and I sit there in wry amusement, as I am forced to eavesdrop on people’s extremely dull conversations about the most mundane things all to the background accompaniment of the tap, tap, tapping of laptop buttons and urgent-sounding text messaging.
Sometimes I sit back, watch the scenery go by, relax and enjoy a good old nosy listen. Other times, I am simply affronted by the sheer arrogance of the man that can sit down opposite someone who is quietly reading a book, and proceed to have a very protracted, boring and exceedingly loud conversation, while sitting two feet away from the quiet, minding-their-own-business-and-reading person. At least the unfortunate soul on the other end of the phone has a choice – they can hang up. But we, the poor prisoners of the 8.04 to Charing Cross, have to endure whatever our fellow commuter throws at us. And after all, we’re only trying to get to bloody work.
I've been commuting to work on the train for ten months now, and already I realise I have become a creature of habit. I've learned as I've gone along that if you travel at the same time as thousands of school children, it pays to be careful which part of the train you get on. And I've also learned that other commuters have their travelling habits too. The rowdy little school boys, some with alarmingly high-pitched voices, who spend their journey screwing the free newspapers into balls and throwing them at each other, and have absolutely no awareness of other people, tend to travel in the middle and last few carriages. The quieter teenagers (probably quiet as they are not fully awake yet) travel nearer the front of the train and sometimes have the sort of conversations that indicate that they, too, are unaware of the other people on the train.
And it's not just all the kids who are in their own private train-world. There's Gerry, or is it Terry, (he once wore some kind of conference pass with his name on) who likes to sit in exactly the same window seat every day and will hover on other seats until his seat looks like it might become free. As soon as the other person's buttocks begin to rise out of the seat Gerry/Terry will mow anyone down who tries to get there before him. If you happen to be the unfortunate person sitting opposite this special seat Terry/Gerry will think nothing of barging your knees out of the way with his, flapping his newspaper open noisily and spreading it out so it invades the tiny space you thought you could call your own, all the while avoiding eye contact at all costs. There is the smiling woman on the platform, who for ages I assumed was smiling at me but turns out to have some kind of permanent smiling disorder. And the ginger woman on my way home, who has to stand at the same door of the same carriage, in order to get out near the station stairs and exit without being mown down by hoards of excitable children going home...actually that's not a bad ploy and one I've taken up myself recently.
So, yes, I admit it. I have formed certain commuting habits and most of them spring from wishing to avoid other people's habits. I've been keeping my eye on the other commuters, studying the politics and etiquette, or lack of it, but until now it hadn't occured to me that I, too, might be under scrutiny.
Following a weekend where 6thFormGirl had been to her first actual music festival to see, among others, Bob Dylan play live - she’s 16 for god’s sake, and I’m 45 and I’ve never seen Bob Dylan- (though I have seen BB King, Amy Winehouse and Dr John, though obviously not all at the same time) she set off on Monday morning for the start of her work experience week at a top law firm. Well, we actually set off together as she needed to get the same train as me for the start of her journey.
6FG: Mum, why do you cross the road here, instead of at the zebra crossing near the station?
Me: Er... I don't know. Um..I just do.
6FG: It means you have to cross more roads. (Not actually true, but never mind)
Me: I just like crossing here.
6FG: Mmm...
Looking like an elegant and very young little lawyer, wearing the dress and shoes we shopped for, her unruly long, curly hair tied in a neat bun, carrying a jacket and a neat handbag that UniGirl had lent her, 6thFormGirl got off after one stop to change trains. As my train pulled away I saw her utterly dignified figure standing on the platform and my heart curled at the edges. How did we get here? My actual child was not really still a child. Oh my God, she was off to London in probably quite uncomfortable shoes, feet held together with plasters, with a Google map I’d printed off at work marking her route from station to office door. Would she find it? Would the trains run smoothly? Would she get there on time?
Yes, yes and yes. She was fine. And, eventually, later than anyone else in the family, she came home positively aglow with satisfaction.
She'd had a great day. She'd read important sounding documents, been treated to a two-hour lunch in Pizza Express and promised a day in court later in the week. The relief at having got through the day without mishap was shining through.
When we arrive at the station on the second day I carry on walking to the further end of the platform as I usually do, away from the noisy school boys. 6thFormGirl raises an eyebrow.
6FG: Nice spot you've got here, Mum.
No comments:
Post a Comment