Commuting Irritates Me

As anyone who has lived with me will no doubt testify, I only ever get irritated by the little things. Anything significant will just bounce off - no heating for months in the middle of window, no running water for weeks, things like that. But should you dare to not wash up my collander, I will be angered, and most likely sulk and whine for weeks.

So the fact that I spend 14 hours a week on trains doesn't bother me, nor does starting my day with a 20 minute walk to the station in the rain. Not even getting the tube at 6pm with a my face in someone's armpit and a stranger's briefcase relentlessly delivering crippling blows to my nuts, although I would certainly be a lot happier if some of them used deodorant, or put their bags on the floor.

Of course though, there are many little things that frustrate me about my commute, like people who walk at me in the middle of the path and force me into the road. Or people who stand in the middle of escalators and make me miss my tube train. The people in the quiet carriage who sit right behind me talking loudly about the Debenhams managers meeting they are going to, and how it was such a good idea to get this train because it only makes them 10 minutes late and saves them so much money because Debenhams always takes months to repay expenses don't you know, and how important it is to keep somebody on the front door at all times because it really has an effect on shoplifting, especially in the evening. The man sitting behind me with the "Always look on the bright side of life" ring tune on his mobile. No she can't hear you, we're in a fucking tunnel.

But for some inexplicable reason, these things all pale in comparison to the ticket barriers at Paddington.

I always buy an off-peak day travelcard, which is valid for this return train as long as you're going past Swindon. Which I am. Needless to say though, this fact doesn't seem to matter to the machines, which unapologetically instruct me to seek assistance, and I have to fight my way backwards through the crowd, who exclaim and tut and bussle and smell. I only tried this the first two times.

I now stand next to the man at the gate and wait for the platform to flash up on the board. I then go up to the man at the gate. He gives me a dirty look, takes my card, and in the slowest possible fashion - perhaps in an attempt to instruct and educate this incompetent passenger who dares to bother him - he swipes it through the machine. "It doesn't work", I explain. He looks confused as it fails. That's why I came to you in the first place.

He tries it in the machine again, as the masses from the platform swarm through the barriers to take all the good seats. You don't even need the good seats, you're getting off at Reading.

When the ticket fails for the third time, the man will then have a look at it and notice that it says at the top, in big bold letters, that it's an off-peak day travelcard. "Oh, this isn't valid". Every time. "Yes it is," I sigh, "I'm going to Cheltenham." He looks confused. "See? Cheltenham. Which is further than Swindon. Which means my ticket is valid. Please let me through."

It's not that I mind them checking my ticket. I understand that should they fail to enforce the rules, they may lose out on my critical £32.75 that they depend on to maintain their excellent service that is only cancelled two or three times a month, and that has managed to arrive on time at least once in the past 3 months.

No, what I mind is that it's almost always the same guard. I know he must see a lot of people pass by him each day, but I know he recognises me. It's the way he smiles when I park myself next to him. We spend about half an hour each week standing next to each other, furtively staring each other down like shy outlaws in a wild-west duel, with a stray thelondonpaper blows between us like tumbleweed.

Perhaps he'd like me more if I bought him a bag of percy pigs? I wonder how many lives would have been saved if M&S had opened a branch in 19th century Texas.

And with the dulcet tones of the nokia theme tune ringing through the carriage, I must pack up, for I am nearly home. Another day completed; time for bed.

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