Train Rage

When I started working in London a few months ago, many people told me that they wouldn’t like to commute because of the train journey. But I have to say, out of all the commuters I am probably one of the luckiest ones. Living 2 Minutes from Westcliff station and working 10 Minutes from Fenchurch Street Station my journey can hardly be described as hard work.

Of course it would be nice if could sleep an hour longer in the morning and be home just after 5 in the evening, but because my train goes trough Chalkwell and Leigh I have the lovely view of the boats and the seafront. And at this time of year I can see the sunrise on my way to work and the sunset on my way back home, which is really quite spectacular, even when it’s cloudy.

Of course I am aware that for some people commuting must be hell, especially those who are not as fortunate as me to be in the capable hands of C2C. Sometimes I hear opinions on how bad the public transport is in the UK and I have to say, compared to what I hear I think the Shoebury – Fenchurch Street line is really well maintained.

But there is something that does annoy me. A Lot. It’s the people on the trains. Honestly! It was all right in the beginning, I didn’t know which wagon would be the best one to get in and where to stand on the platform to get a good seat. After I while I settled for one of the wagon at the end of the train and I fond the perfect spot to wait, exactly where the doors of the train would be when it stopped.

Every morning I would wait at that spot and just a minute or two before the train arrived I would be joined by pink tie. Pink tie is about my age and wears dark suits whit pastel coloured shirts and matching ties – quite often pink. He would usually arrive at the platform at the same time as I cold spot the train approaching in the distance. We would wait for the train to stop; he would press the button that opens the door and make a gesture with his hand for me to get in first. I’d get in and take a seat to the right of the door and he’d get in behind me, sitting to the left of the door. We became friends. Not real friends, but as friendly as you can become when standing next to the same person every day. We went from ignoring each other to acknowledging each other with a slight nod and in the end we even half-smiled (move only one corner of your mouth up, only a little bit,. Don’t break into a proper smile – that would be intimidating for the English commuter community).

Or little friendship was going ever so well until one day, out of the blue, greasy hair appeared. Greasy hair has longish and, as you may suspect, very greasy hair. Despite his suits he always looks scruffy and he does smell rather intense. Not in a good way. He started to turn up just in time for the doors to open and instead of waiting next to me and pink tie he just pushed between us and started to wait in front of us, at one point fiscally pushing pink tie away when he wanted to press the door-open-button. The three of us kept repeating our little morning ritual for a few weeks but after some time pink tie must have gotten tired – he now has moved on the front wagons.

Not meeting pink tie in the morning is sad enough, but having to put up with old smelly guy who wears leather trousers and jackets on Fridays really is not the best start of a new day. I started to adapt to him a little bit, no longer waiting exactly where the doors of the train are but just slightly to the right, so that at least he doesn’t have to push me aside when he arrives. And with time I got used to him, of course still silently sending him the evils every morning when he arrives.

But now a funny thing is happening – white coat joined our little “team”. She is even worse the greasy hair! Unbelievable! If she doesn’t push hard enough to be the first one the train she still manages to push you out of her way when you are already inside the train, thinking that you are safe! And, I kid you not, I started to feel a bit as if greasy hair was my ally – and I think he feels the same way because the other day he got on the train and stood in the door in such manner that I could climb in but white coat couldn’t get past him. And, even more surprisingly, he smiled at me – proper smile! I was so taken aback that I forgot to smile back. We are now basically us against her. (They probably have a name for me too, like old-fashioned-handbag or ginger-frizz-head).

Now while I’m sitting here with nothing better to do I was just wondering if there could possibly be a person rude enough to make greasy hair and ginger frizz feel more charitable towards white coat in order to have another ally to fight the newbie rudie.