You might know I got a new job recently and that, despite having got a new car recently justified (in part) by the importance of being comfortable when driving 50 odd miles a day, I’ll be getting the train to work from now on.
It’s okay, actually.
The walk to the station doesn’t kill me as much as I’d anticipated having being used to driving door to door, and apparently being quite the lazy bones (especially as I wear my really cool commuter trainers regardless of whether I’m in a dress, which I more than often am). In case of an emergency (it’s raining and you don’t want to look shit when you go for a quick drink after work that turns into a lot of quick drinks and a hangover) there’s a car park near the station and my wife is good enough to put extra parking on so I can walk and get it the next morning. What can I say? She’s a keeper.
So my first commute was an experience.I’d had, by this point, 3 test runs. Having been a bit of a stranger to public transport for over 7 years, I was a bit nervous.
It went like this.
I got hot and bothered getting ready but felt a million dollars uniformed in black (jacket, dress, tights right down to my knickers and bra) until my feet (I was of course wearing my clompy, purple trainers). The walk, which I estimated to be 10 minutes, was 18 and I was sweaty by the station. I told Mrs Wife that by Christmas I want to shave it down to under 15, but she doesn’t think that’s possible. I kissed her goodbye and she made sure I got onto the right train and I enjoyed a forward facing, table seat without neighbours, until Rochdale.
Then a frizzy haired young lady who sniffed too much and picked at a scab on her arm (and made me feel queasy) joined me. I continued to read The Danish Girl and wondered if she was aware of my uncomfortable shifting and disapproving thoughts as she sniffed and dabbed at snot in her nose before wiping her finger onto her skull patterned bag presuming that no one had seen her.
On disembarking I managed (somehow) to drop my empty canvas tote bag, reserved for when I removed my trainers upon arrival and caused a bit of a kerfuffle. I brushed over it and headed to Pret where I enjoyed the world’s most expensive porridge and cup of tea. I was only the 75 minutes early, shaving off a whole 65 from when I interviewed. By the time I was due to start my hair wasn’t neat and my make up felt none existent (and will forever be documented in my ID pass photo).
I was here, I’d made it. I was a fully fledged commuter.