commuting

Tiredness: Why I never make it through a whole film

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20140720_1248427am: Get up. Go downstairs. Turn off dishwasher, bathroom light and X-box that Leon left on last night. Throw yesterday evening’s chocolate crumbs in bin.

7.10am: Shower. Exfoliate anything and everything with vigour. Wash hair. Spend 10 minutes with each ear under shower to rinse out conditioner.

7.20am: Apply body lotion, facial wash, moisturiser, SPF, eye cream and mound of mascara. Rub at bits of mascara that escape in brow, eyelid and, inexplicably, forehead. Roll on deodorant and flap arms. Open wardrobe and stair into abyss.

7.30am: Sigh. Put on clothing selection. Look in mirror. Sigh again. Head downstairs.

7.35am: Make breakfast whilst also making lunch, emptying dishwasher and taking out recycling. Ignore what number of Pringles packets says about diet.

7.45am: Clean teeth whilst making bed.

7.48am: Wipe dripped toothpaste off duvet/clothes/carpet/fiancé.

7.49am: Gurgle with Listerine. Consider putting in eyes to make self feel more awake. Decide against.

7.50am: Apply make-up at speed. Hope ‘slapped’ look will die down. Do needless tidying that could definitely wait ’til later. Look at time. Gasp. Grab handbag.

8am: Run downstairs. Unplug iron, regardless of whether Leon has finished using it. Remind him for the 900th time to shut bathroom window and lock front door. Wish him a pleasant day and leave the house.

8.05am: Leg it to tube station. Curse self that what could be a nice leisurely walk always turns into panicked sweaty half run.

8.20am: Take deep breath, tense muscles and get on tube. Open newspaper. Pretend to be invisible.

8.50am: Push through carriage full of angry people. Get off tube. Tweet most irritating occurrence.

9am – 5.30pm: WORK.

Whilst working also think: What shall we have for dinner? Did I leave my straighteners on? Are there enough tops in the laundry to justify a colours wash? Whose birthday is it next? When was the last time we changed our electric toothbrush heads? Will he have remembered to shut the bathroom window? 

5.30pm: Travel home. Work out if have enough food in fridge to avoid going to supermarket.

6.15pm: Arrive at supermarket. Resist temptation to punch self-service screen and shout “I’LL GIVE YOU AN UNEXPECTED ITEM IN YOUR BAGGING AREA IF YOU DON’T PLAY BALL!”

 6.45pm: Get home. Remember immediately who left house last at sight of erect ironing board and shadow of the GODDAMN bathroom light.

6.50pm: Go upstairs. Change into comfortable ‘house clothes’. Look in mirror and promise to throw said ‘house trousers’ (old old old jogging trousers that have never experienced jogging – unless running to the sweets cupboard in the X-Factor advert break counts) away very soon.

7pm: Ring Leon’s mobile. Get no answer. Ring work mobile. Get no answer. Ring work landline. Get no answer. Assume he’s gone to gym/is listening to iPod/enjoying half an hour’s peace before returning to alleged domestic bliss.

7.05pm: Eat bowl of crisps.

7.08pm: Regret eating bowl of crisps.

7.10pm: Start cooking. Whilst cooking, put on load of washing, hang up clothes still in machine from last night, wipe table, open post, arrange post into ‘for shredding’, ‘for filing’ and ‘for some joker who hasn’t lived here for years but just can’t be arsed to change their address’, and shake out toaster.

7.30pm: Put Coronation Street on. Or if it’s not Monday, Wednesday or Friday put Eastenders on and wish that it was.

 7.45pm: Grate cheese. (I don’t know what I’m cooking in this scenario but it’s fair to assume cheese will be involved.)

 7.50pm: Eat large handful of cheese and have to grate more.

 8pm: Welcome Leon home from gym. Tell him not to sit anywhere or touch anything until he’s had a shower. Make witty comment about benefits of switching off electrical appliances before leaving for work, which he ignores.

8.15pm: Eat dinner. Share every detail of day, including BOGOF deal I managed to score on favourite tomato and red pepper relish.

9pm: Stand next to him as he loads dishwasher and point out what he’s doing wrong. Agree to retire to lounge when told to keep beak out. Watch secretly from sofa.

9.05pm: When joined in lounge, say with confidence I definitely can stay awake through a film if he puts one on.

9.10pm: Put sofa blanket over me and rest eyes while he chooses a DVD and turns off all lights (proving he does know where the switch is).

11.30pm: Wake up during credits.

Londoners: You won’t like us when we’re angry

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546All it takes is one bad commute to make you want to sell up, sack off the city and move to the countryside. Assuming The Archers is an accurate representation of real life; the people there are very friendly.

This week, I was called a STUPID BITCH by a person I asked – very politely – to move aside so that I could get off the train.

It hit me like a punch to the stomach, hot water to the throat, a kipper round the cheek. I was astounded, and likely to cry at any moment should anybody ask if I was ok. I’m not sure they’ve designed a hazard warning sign to say Floor slippery due to falling mascara yet but they should.

Speaking to strangers like that can only go on for so long. Call me a stupid bitch and all you’ll get is a flabbergasted look and a quivering jaw. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to respond with wit and expletives to make Malcolm Tucker proud, but I’m much more effective on paper. But say it to somebody feistier and I can imagine a hand sandwich may come your way. It’s a risk the shouty ones take.

And we’ve all met our fair share of them. The ones who just can’t contain their frustration with the world any longer and have to try and make our lives as bad as our existence is apparently making theirs.

But to these people I say this:

We’re all angry, sweetheart.

Nobody likes being cramped so tight in a train that a sardine would upgrade his property description to ‘Penthouse’ if he saw us.

Nobody enjoys queuing behind 35 people who don’t understand how a queue works just to buy a tray of sushi.

Nobody likes bad weather.

Nobody takes pleasure from an announcement to say the train which should have arrived ten minutes ago is running on time.

We’re all livid. Just writing the list makes my brain hurt.

But most of us keep it to ourselves. In the interests of perspective, maintaining a healthy heart and avoiding getting a punch in the chops, we keep the anger inside. Or at least wait until we get home and vent our frustrations on Twitter – the modern day equivalent of screaming into a pillow before a captive audience.

Because living here is our choice. We could go somewhere else if we liked. But there will still be people. Perhaps not eight million sweaty people all trying to get to north London by 9am, but people nonetheless, who will probably still manage to piss you off.

I am baffled every day as to why I have financially and emotionally invested in staying in a place where travelling through train station barriers at anything less than the speed of light is a crime punishable by sighing.

And I’m sure one day I will hang up my Oyster card, bid farewell to the underground, leave and not look back. I consider doing it every day.

But until then, all I want to do is keep my head down, read my book, and remember to get off at the right stop.

If you would just be so kind as to let me through, I’ll be on my way.