There is one thing I actually love about commuting. Yes, you did read that correctly. While everyone else is wrapped up in their own little bubble, I burst mine for 45 minutes to listen to people’s conversations and watch their weird behaviours.
It seems as though most people treat the train as an extension of their home time. I’m not innocent of this; I’m usually comatose on the train on the way into work as I try to scrape an extra forty winks. I do, however, know where to draw the line; whereas others seem to have skipped that workshop completely.
Exhibit A – on the train home the other evening, I look up to see a middle aged gent sat across from me, reading Barack Obama’s autobiography. ‘Ah, a fellow intellect!’ I think to myself. Sadly, my presumptions are proven wrong almost immediately as his index finger proceeds to gouge its way up his nose like a dog chasing a rabbit into it’s hole. As if that wasn’t delightful enough, he then removes the rabbit entrails for all to see, and starts rolling it about in his fingers before flicking it somewhere in the direction of the aisle. Unfortunately naïve as to where it landed, all I can do is pray it came nowhere bloody near me.
Exhibit B – get on the train home. Man, somewhat obese, sits sprawling over two seats asleep with his mouth gaping open and snoring loudly. Quite amusing, you might think, and it was. That was until I noticed his stomach trying to greet me as it fought its way out of the holes between the strained buttons. I’m all for being friendly to people on the train but I do have my limits. There is half a pork pie spilling out of it’s packet on the seat next to him – presumably he has already devoured the rest, although a suspicious looking piece of meat is nestled tenderly in the ridge between two rolls of chest fat. How cute. I don’t know whether it was my hysterical laughing (those of you who know my cackle wouldn’t be surprised if it was) but he awoke, and in his semi-conscious state and decided to eat the rest of his pie. Might as well finish what he started, but delays the process by picking up the wrong end of the packet, and watching the pie flop miserably onto the train floor. By all means, it wasn’t a new train; this floor has been trodden on by all kinds of miscreants, and I’ve never seen a train attendant with a mop or a Hoover, have you? I’d much rather sit swamped with my bags on my lap than put them on the train floor, so if I dropped my pasty it would damn well be staying there. Anyway, I’m not sure whether it was his hand or a blob of stomach that reached out to retrieve said produce, but after about ten seconds it was picked up. And promptly put into his mouth. Come on mate, if you really must eat it, at least follow the three second rule! Somewhat thankfully, the food lethargy must have kicked straight back in as he promptly passed back out.
All I have to do is think of that incident and I’ll inwardly chuckle to myself (as well as trying to repress the vomit). So next time you’re on the tube, or bus, or train, wishing you didn’t have to go further than the end of your road to work, take a look around you and see what gems of tales other commuters are just waiting to set up for you. Sometimes, they almost seem worth my extortionate train fare. Almost.
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