Recently, I've written a lot about how my life has changed a lot for the better, in no small part due to the wonderful influence of a certain, undeniably beautiful Miss Morgan Shaw (yep, let's begin with an entrée of mozzarella - start as you mean to continue, and all that). However, it's not all been plain sailing through the comfortably still waters of Lake Wonderful, there are certain parts of our day to day life that certainly have introduced new forms of discomfort, awkwardness and general loathing.
The British Transport System is a wondrous thing. Nowhere else in the world could you force 1000 people into a carriage designed for 100, cancel or delay trains because of wind, rain and other decidedly 'British' weather patterns, hike up the prices on an annual basis with no improvement to service (in fact, those very same hikes usually coincide, curiously, with staff cuts, service cuts and a general dip in service - I'm beginning to suspect we're all being lied to), and then report record profits with a straight face. Anywhere else, that face would promptly have several million fists thrust square through the teeth. Well, alright, only one other place gets away with it - British Energy Companies.
Regardless, I've found myself joining the daily commute to London, be that just to Vauxhall, or sometimes all the way to Kings Cross. Sometimes, when I'm feeling especially brave or self-destructive, I even spend a day in London on the 'Tube'. This has led to several observations which I'll address in turn.
Firstly, I have become fully aware how a sardine would feel being stuffed into a tin if, you know, they weren't dead before they went in. It sucks. I enjoy my personal space, I'm a creature that finds it quite uncomfortable when someone decides to sit next to me at the cinema or on a bus, and that's my friends. In honesty, the only person I want that close is Morgan. To have a bunch of strangers forcing their armpit into my eyes is deeply disturbing. I had to suffer the ignonimity of some random persons hand on my arse. I nearly lost my balance after someone trying to force their way onto the train decided my foot was in their way, and just pushed on through uncaring of which direction such an appendage is designed to bend. I nearly had my bag ripped from my shoulders by others crushing on or off the train so desperately that they were willing to erode away anything not smooth enough to allow them passage.
That brings me neatly to my next observation. As far as 90% of Londoners appear to be concerned, there are no other trains besides the one in front of them. It's like some strange disease infecting the city, gnawing away at their minds and giving them a strange kind of specialised tunnel vision. This train, right here, is the only one I can get on. I must get on this train, no matter the difficulty. I cannot wait for the train in 2 minutes that the platform sign states is waiting just outside the station because that screen is clearly lying! THERE ARE NO OTHER TRAINS!
So it is that these people press on through the doorway like refugees boarding the last train out of a city targeted by a tactical nuke. It doesn't matter that everyone on the carriage is already getting to know everyone around them entirely too well, dammit, they will make room if I push hard enough. It's like watching a child with one of those block games, adamant that the circular block will fit the triangular hole if they just push hard enough. Somehow, worryingly, it works. People just seem to accept it as a part of London life.
I also came to realise that, quite possibly, Morgan and I are the only two people who actually talk on the train. Upon realising this, I felt as though I was possibly breaking some decorum, some kind of unwritten code of conduct. We're not the only couple on these journeys, yet everyone else seems to stand in abject, oppressive silence. I can't quite come up with a proper answer as to why this may be. Maybe it's just me, but talking to my better half seems to be the perfect way of distracting myself from the horror of some unknown other standing behind me with their sweaty hand resting upon my buttocks. Certainly holding her close adds another two legs worth of stability when I get caught up in the tide of disembarkation, and only my firm grip on a handrail (or on Morgan if she's the one holding the rail) is keeping me from being swept away at entirely the wrong stop.
I just don't understand it. It kind of infuriates me that train companies just expect us all to put up with this, and charge us an extortionate fare for the privilege. We were on the Victoria Line of the London Underground a few days ago when two women on the other side of the carriage began to argue. A murmur of discontent from one of them caused further irritation in the other, tensions rose and that ember erupted into a full blown inferno of screaming, swearing and, eventually, one of the women flung herself at the other before two guys stepped in and pulled it apart. I wish I had a video camera on me.
This is rush hour in London. As one of the women pointed out, "Yes, it's rush hour, but that doesn't mean you have to be rude." In spite of the pathetic violence she was about to unleash in front of a carriage full of unsuspecting commuters, she had a fair point.
What is it that caused us all to throw each other aside so? At what point did we each start to push in front of each other at the ticket barriers so that we could get to a packed train twelve seconds faster? When did it become a crime punishable my death-glare for someone who's never visited London before to stand on the left of an escalator (and why can't we just ask them politely to observe the notices?). Genuinely, I don't understand it. I mean, I can get pretty angry myself, pretty uptight and irritated on the morning commute. I put this down to being half awake and having to deal with the air of sheer shit that surrounds the entire affair of it. Maybe it's because we're all so utterly fucked off with the train companies dipping their greedy mitts deep into the bottom of our already rattling-empty pockets for the privilege of this abuse.
This past week alone, the list of excuses as to why the trains were delayed. Oh, yeah, every train this week was delayed. Every train. Seriously. Morgan and I have taken to photographing every departure board as we wait for our trains. We've had every excuse in the Train Operators Guide To Bullshitting The Public. Leaves on the track. Strong winds. Icy rails and a fire outside Wimbledon. Signal failures (really, you'd think they'd have invented better signals by now, considering how often they roll that one out). My personal favourite, the "this train is delayed due to a delay on the previous service". So why was that one delayed?
As for these weather based excuses? Well, forgive me getting a little annoyed with them. I guess it's totally unrealistic for me to expect a British Rail Company to be capable of dealing with typical British weather. How rude of me. Perhaps I should charge them for the privilege of the abuse?
I got off at the other end of the platform so had to walk (for me) a long way to get to the escalators. By the time I'd reached the queue at the bottom of the stairs, the next lot of commuters were getting off their train and were joining me. Slightly pointless comment, but I guess it does prove that ramming yourself onto the first train and forcing yourself to endure someone's sweaty armpit is completely pointless if you can just bear to wait a whole minute for the next train.
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