Doncaster – Derby
Glen Wilson
I don’t do commuting. I am not a commuter. Ich bien not ein commuter. In fact I have done everything I can over my employment years to actively avoid having to participate in any kind of commuting ritual. Arduous, unsociable, tedious, soulless and relentlessly repetitively mind numbing; those are just some of the descriptions that can be given to the jobs I have worked in order to avoid becoming a commuter.
Despite my career-hampering avoidance of concentrated early morning travel I am on occasion forced to venture out into what is termed, with that worrying lack of irony, ‘rush hour’. So, as I boarded the 7:52 train today I was reminded of the absurdity of the commute, and most concerning the acceptance of these conditions by those undertaking it. Perhaps it is no co-incidence that commute and commune are just a letter apart. Stony faced, unemotional and silent acquiescence of the surrounding environment, it could be a monastery, albeit one with free wi-fi and over-priced coffee.
Crammed in the concertinaed vestibule, one foot in Coach C, the other in Coach D effectively surfing along the South Yorkshire Transport Network to my destination. And yet I am the only person who appears flustered. The dozen people crammed either side of me in this mobile airing cupboard just resolutely carry on, safe so long as they have enough room to read a copy of the Metro, and that they can breathe… always established in that order.
Beyond the person spending their journey being buffeted on alternate ears by the automatic sliding doors there’s a woman riding to work wedged on the luggage rack. Despite the fact that she’s paid a peak time fare to ride in a position more precarious than the suitcases and bags beneath her she has a folder wedged open with an elbow and is leafing through papers. She pauses only to apologise to a suit who wants to put his briefcase up there. Why? Why is she saying sorry? Her answer should of course be “Fuck you! You unchivalrous bastard. I’m sitting on a freaking luggage rack here! I can suggest an alternate place for your briefcase and I’ll be happy to help you lodge it there!”
Two stops down the line and I’ve managed to adapt to my ruthless surroundings and beat a middle-aged man to a seat. It wasn’t easy, but by charging into the carriage as if I was making an early morning drugs raid and then pushing the automatic door closed and nudging stray luggage behind me into his path like an escaping felon in a warehouse based chase scene tossing boxes and barrels in the way of pursuing officers, I have made the leap from commuter scorned to commuter envied. That’s right, I have a tray table now. I can multitask without having to wedge my coffee cup against the train wall with my ear.
However, on the table across the aisle I am being heroically outdone. At that table one woman is typing up emails on her laptop with one hand, toying with a Blackberry with the other, and all the time whilst talking into a Bluetooth headset. And she’s not even at work yet! Not even in the office yet and she’s surrounded herself with more keyboards and electronica than a Rick Wakeman gig. Presumable when she gets to the office she’ll continue these activities whilst holding a video conference and orchestrating a power point display as she goes about her day as the Director of Multiple Operations at the ACME Plate Spinning and Simultaneous Unicycling Corporation.
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