This might be why I’m no longer welcome on public transport

Now I will freely admit that I am not the world’s best driver. I have scant regard for speed limits, I park by reversing until I hear a crunch, and I have a very volatile relationship with the Highway Code.

So why do I drive? Well due to circumstances beyond my control which may or may not be related to these incidents, I have spent some time on the train lately and that question was answered forever.

 Edited highlights of my adventures include: 

 – Explaining to a bemused fellow passenger why I was pretty sure that the Pope was hoarding all the flying monkeys and refusing to share. The man has a gold embroidered cap and shiny, red slippers, what more clue do you need?

 – Finding myself crushed between an overly familiar folding bike with proctology aspirations, three trolls in suits and someone determinedly trying to nasally rape everyone in a three metre radius using a copy of the metro; I decided it would be unreasonable to try to get my book out to read. I did not however think it unreasonable to insist that those that did have such a literary luxury should be made to read out loud to everyone else. Perhaps insisting that they start their book from the beginning and do all the voices properly may have turned the tide against me 

 – Following this situation, the next time I got on the train I immediately locked onto the holy grail of London bound commuter trains; an empty seat right in my eyeline. Focussing on this to the exclusion of all external stimuli, like a homing pigeon for weary backsides, I vaulted the aisle and threw myself onto that fuzzy felted beacon of comfort in the style of a rugby World Cup winning try scorer. Admittedly this was somewhat to the alarm of the lady who had sat in the seat next to my hard won prize, but I figured anyone would have done the same right? Basking in glory and smugness I glanced up to discover that the previous train had been delayed and had only left moments before mine taking many of the usual passengers for my train with it. This meant that the usually bursting with seething, wrath filled humanity carriage was in fact empty. Except for me. And a now terrified woman. So that was awkward. 

 – Possibly not quite so awkward however, as the day when I was trying to clamber out of my seat to get off a completely packed train whilst not putting to much weight through yet another ankle sprain. This meant doing an uncomfortable shimmy across the legs of a stern looking besuited man who was determinedly trying to look like he was doing important type things on his iPad but was blatantly just playing candy crush.  Climbing out involved a strange combination of hops, gyrations and what probably appeared very much like twerking (which I believe is that dance move that sort of replicates the shuffle dogs do across the carpet when they have worms only in this case, into the face of an elderly tourist who just wanted to go and see Buckingham Palace). Eventually suit man grew weary of my evident discomfort and swung his legs aside to let me pass. Unfortunately he manged to catch me behind one knee which meant that I ended up sprawled astride his lap with his face pressed firmly into my cleavage and all thoughts of confectionary destruction driven from his mind. Due to not being able to put weight through the injured ankle, I had to basically do a kind of sideways belly flop into the aisle which being full of commuter, resulted in a sort of crowd surf effect only using briefcases and horrified revulsion rather than the upstretched arms of adoring fans. Not so much rock and roll as crash and burn really. And I laddered my tights.

I may have to find a job closer to home

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