Commute don't fail me now...

How is it Monday morning again I wonder whilst waiting, or rather swaying in disarray, for my South West sweetheart to swoop me up. Urrrgh the first of five blurry eyed commutes this week. Shitting hell routine is a killer!
The joys of the over ground: the comfort, impecable timetable, endless banter and cheer shared amongst London folk. Nope not a smidge, what a surly lot we are!

Those who smile, mouth lyrics fed via their ipod and slurp lattes, this chipper lot are the freakish. First off: it is below freezing, oh until the onslaught of bodies, woollens, mittens and (bane of my life) Brompton bikes pile into one sweaty mass that is. Second: there is no room to manoeuvre let alone turn the guilty pleasures pages of the metro. And then there’s the third: fate has it that every Tom, Dick and HAIRY who prop themselves next to or up against me have a tendency to pick their nose. And by pick I mean forage repeatedly. Hideous reaches VILE point when, after detection, the happy digger continues to suck finger tips and then in one dude’s case- smooth down the ways and strays of his wiry tash.

 And that's all before 8 am. Before the outpouring onto the platform, before darting around those silly sausages who just can't remove themselves from a novel, newspaper or apple device. Around the happy couples and their morning routine of kiss and linger... "No you go, no you go!'' Then through the ticket machine and I’m off, my James Bond moment, target in sight I race through Waterloo station. Route mapped out and only interchanging for buggies, crutches, luggage on wheels and out of nowhere brollies. I’m fast, fearless and I’m ruthless.

Down the stairs, avoiding the routine bottle neck on the escalator, and through the next ticket swipe. I get to the tube platform, it's five people deep and eight minutes until the next northbound train. Arrrrgghh! At least the station attendant's cockney chant is bound to rise a few smiles! Nope, not a dimple.

Now for the shuffling down the aisles of the carriage, the mistake of clutching the sticky yellow hand rail, someone's crotch, a ponytail, treading on toes, dusty shoulders, judgy glances at my foundation line or wet hair or chipped nail varnish (all of the above) and the sea of bobbing heads. Some days I'll game play: Would I rather? Is he gay, married, famous? Fake Louis real Louis? Who would have the best food supplies in a break down underground situ?

Then I scour the novels on display, a library of choice. Some to my taste (Caitlin Moran...GIRL CRUSH, GIRL CRUSH) others not so. I did see a very unlikely character reading Anna Karenina last week, never again shall I judge a gent by his cover! On the mornings I can't face with optimism I gaze into hairline of by neighbour and will on Warren Street. Those who get up in my grate are the pushing Toms who barge past me to near the doors on a MOVING TRAIN. Seriously... ‘I’m also getting off here'... you ARSE! Why don't I just dangle or Sir, you might erm...swivel?

There are of course a million other traumatic, nauseating scenarios far better and far worse that taunt a commuter’s world. Nature of the beast baby, so like it or lump it. If the career at the destination is worth it then that's why we do it.

Glimpses of humanity (giving up seats, dishing out tissues, lending of phones and free publications of the Stylist) do crop up so let those moments outweigh the rage days. Oh and a TOP, TOP source of mine (haveyouheardthelatest.wordpress.com) has sparked an amendment to this post by revealing the following: http://tubecrush.net/ and yes ladies it's for real. I am yet to meet ANY such specimen on my travels, funny that, but rest assured that on such a sighting I will take back all the bitching and moaning...AMEN!

I draft these blog posts during my daily commute using the 'memo' app on my android, so for this entry the material was right there up close and personal- the whole truth in real time! And I really have just been elbowed in the side of the head. That's it lil old lady, you and me outside...