So I walked onto the train at Liverpool Street, about to collapse from the heat, and spotted a seat right by the door. There was someone sitting in the seat closest to the aisle, but nothing on the window seat apart from a rather ridiculous purple snakeskin bag (very Posh Spice circa 1996).
Anyway, I was at zero tolerance due to being extremely hot and with ankles like bloody flooded paperbark treetrunks due to being in a reasonably advanced state of pregnancy. So I said to the bag’s owner, a youngish, sunglassed woman, presumably of southern European descent judging by her accent. ‘Do you mind moving over?’
‘I do actually,’ she said, and instead grabbed her vile bag and stayed where she was.
‘You do mind?’ I asked, squeezing past and collapsing beside her.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Well, it’s a public train.’
‘You’ve got your seat. Aren’t you happy?’
‘I am happy actually. Thank you so much,’ I replied in a sarcastic tone.
I mean, honestly.
I spent the rest of the journey reading a rather annoying, rambling novel that I may have to abandon and thinking of better comeback lines than ‘it’s a public train.’ Not one of my better ones.
Anyway, I just had to vent. I swear to God I had a brief moment of truly understanding how people go postal.