Commuter Blues

Perhaps there is something wrong with me that I am unable to ignore the hideous and disgusting habits of my fellow commuters. But once something catches the corner of my eye, I can't seem to leave it alone, even as I feel my blood pressure rising. There is a thirty-something man who has that quite wiry textured, curly short hair and seems to have a compulsion to gently stroke one of the curls at his temple between finger and thumb as he reads his book. For some reason this habit prevents me from reading mine. Now, really, I can see that he should be allowed to persist with this habit if he wants to, and perhaps he has no idea even that he is doing it. But, if I am unlucky enough to be sitting next to him, this gentle stroking (excessively gentle, actually) turns my stomach and has the effect on me of making me want to point out to him what he is doing, and ask him if he realises he can probably get treatment for his possible obsessive compulsive neurotic behaviour. Resisting this urge to give advice, while he carries on doing it, makes me want to actually scream. Perhaps it is I who needs the treatment.

Apart from the noisy schoolchildren and the intrusive sounds of other people's music, sometimes there are people who are, quite simply, utterly revolting. This morning, a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit and flip-flops (I know, I thought it was a very odd combination too) examined what she had just picked out of her ear, idly rolling it between her fingers for AGES, as with her other hand she scrolled her touch screen phone, before flicking whatever it was she cared not where. She then proceeded to get something from her nose and do the same. Presumably she thought she was being discreet, as she continued in this vein until, much to my relief, someone came and sat beside her blocking my view. I was then delighted to note that the someone who sat beside her was a woman who has irritated me in the past by loudly flicking the pages of her newspaper into my territory as she decides which one she actually wants to read.

Good, I thought. Let these two vile people irritate and disgust the hell out of each other.

It is always with relief that I stand by the doors ready to get out at my station. This morning, it was with more relief than usual. As I waited, I happened to glance into first class and suddenly understood why people would pay more to be allowed to travel that way. A smart man in a dapper suit sat, alone and uninterrupted, reading the paper quietly. He glanced up and smiled at me. I smiled back, while entertaining a small fantasy in which he would say, 'Do you by any chance work in the world of publishing? Because if you do, would you like to come and work for me?' and I would say 'As it happens, I do, and I would.' Naturally, I would omit to tell him about my present job as assistant picture editor and one half of the editorial team at an extremely old-fashioned publishers which actually makes calendars.....oh, and postcards.