Beware, Weary Traveller

I’ve learned to be suspicious when there’s an empty seat on a packed train. Unfortunately, I learned the hard way.

It was a Monday morning, and I am not a morning person. Befuddled from sleep, and desperate for a bit more rest, I was chuffed when I boarded the Victoria Line and spotted a spare seat.

I slipped into it triumphantly.

My joy was short-lived, however, when I noticed the smell. So strong—rancid, meaty, curdling the air around it—that I thought I might puke. I looked around for the source of it, then realised, with some horror, that it came from my neighbour.

And then, he rested his head on my shoulder.

This was not good. I’m quite socially awkward at the best of times and I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know. So, I had a stranger’s head on my shoulder, so close I could smell his hair. I was feeling a little faint. Surely, there had to be a good reason for him to be doing this? Ah, he had his hand in his pocket. He was having trouble reaching into his pocket, so he’d stretched himself out and that’s why his head was on my shoulder. Perhaps.

But he was spending quite a long time reaching into his pocket. And his head was still on my shoulder. And his hand was moving pretty rhythmically in his pocket. And… oh… oh god…

Yes, he was cuddled up to me while he had a wank on a crowded train.

So, what did I do? Did I shout at him? Did I leap up and move carriages? Did I hit him with my bag?

No. No, I did not. I did none of those things.

Instead, I sat where I was and pretended that this thing wasn’t happening. Because I am very good at pretending that unpleasant things aren’t happening.

And, besides, I had a seat.