I. The train is packed. Properly packed. I am resigned to the possibility that I will have to stand in the aisle for an hour. I clutch the handle on the back of the seat next to me for balance. There is a handle for clutching for balance, because people standing for an hour happens all the time: discomfort is built in to the design.
I am hungry. Properly hungry. I’m going to Brighton for dinner, but in anticipation of not being able to last that long, have purchased a packet of Doritos at London Bridge. Cool Original flavour. Cool Original flavour is my secret shame.
I had pictured myself kicking back in a train seat with my packet of Doritos, crunching lightly to avoid annoying other passengers. My fantasy has not materialised. And now, after half an hour on my feet, I decide I’m going to eat the Doritos standing up. Even though that’s pretty disgusting. Offensively disgusting.
But here is what I think: I will probably never see any of the people on this train again.
And I also think: It is unlikely that any of them is my soulmate, on the cusp of falling in love with me, and will be put off by the sight of me awkwardly eating a packet of Doritos, Cool Original flavour, while standing up in the aisle of this train.
I break out the Doritos. I crunch them, as lightly as possible. I leave the packet in my handbag, concealing the bag, in the hopes that renders the situation highly undignified, instead of highly highly undignified. The Cool Original flavour is delicious.
I have almost finished the packet when the train judders. I lose my balance. I stumble gently to the right and my arm extends, involuntarily, and then the tips of my fingers, dusted with Cool Original flavour dust, brush the top of the head of the innocent female passenger sitting in the seat next to where I am standing. The woman doesn’t move. Does she feel it? It all happened so fast. I definitely felt the smoothness of her hair. Hair that is now lightly dusted with Cool Original flavour. I am horrified. I am digusted (at myself). I am hopeful that the woman will not punch me. Sorry, I say, in a mumble. Sorry. She does not respond.
I can’t tell if she’s just being extremely British.
II. The train is nearly empty, and it is late, and for a few minutes I fall in to an awkward sleep of the train-based sort, until I am roused by shouting. The guy sitting behind me is on the phone, and he is agitated. I can’t explain it, he slurs. I got on the train to London Bridge and now I am on the train to London Bridge. I can’t explain it. I can’t explain it!
This is the train to London Bridge, I think. That explains it.
But I don’t say anything.
I peek through the gap between the seats. He has a dark grey suit and Boris Johnson hair. He looks about 25. I think he is drunk. If he is not drunk, then it is a really sad circumstance and I should probably offer help. Wouldn’t anyone, hearing someone this confused and disoriented about the train they are on? Unless they were drunk.
I can’t explain it, he says again. I really can’t explain it.
And then a horrible smell fills the carriage. The man seems to have soiled himself.
I don’t say anything. Neither does the man across the aisle. We just sit, looking forward, waiting for the train to arrive in London Bridge. We are just being extremely British.
