The Commute

Today wasn't a good day for commuting. Band practice days always make commuting that little bit more painful. And now I have a laptop to carry around as well, so things were never going to go well.

So I set off: a rather heavy bass guitar on one shoulder and a rather heavy laptop on the other, concealed inconspicuously in a large rucksack with the laptop's name embezzled on it. (I found out it had a rain sheet the other day which I thought might help - but no, that also had the laptop's name, this time in horizontal stripes, all over it. I bought a rucksack so that it would be a little less like 'HELLO I'M CARRYING A LAPTOP' but I don't think its done the job. Well, at least the rain sheet isn't bright orange, and yes, I do own one that is).

Now's the time to break you rather harshly into another part of my world, and another one of my foibles.

I sweat. Apparently, horses sweat, men perspire and women glow. Well, not with me. I don't like being compared to a horse but there it is.

For as long as I can remember, clothes have been purchased to hide or combat this problem. Grey marl? I don't think so. Long sleeved tops? Ah no. (Don't even think about grey marl long sleeved tops, let's just say its not pretty). I've broken the latter rule this morning, but over my long sleeved top I've got a tshirt in, praying that while my sweat glands will make light work of one top, they might struggle a little with two.

I am currently going through the process of buying a bridesmaid's dress for a very close friend of mine's wedding who knows my problem and has agreed that I will wear absolutely anything as long as I won't sweat in it (oh and I also put the rule of tartan and velour on the list as well but other than that she has free reign).

Satin is laughable. Lycra is dangerous. You may remember I mentioned previously that I had to wear a turquoise catsuit aged 15 for a rather humiliating dance routine. Well, thank god it had a sequined bolero to go over it (I never thought I'd be saying those words) otherwise it wouldn't have been pretty.

Most materials, in fact, if developed to cling to my underarm, are approached with caution and often trialed in the safety of my own home where a wardrobe of alternatives and old favourite staples are there to back me up if all goes wrong. My sweat glands lay in wait, grinning 'bring it on'. I really didn't think my own body would want to rebel against me but from puberty its stood there, on the defensive, ready to humiliate at the slightest raise of blood pressure, the smallest movement above sitting still, the tiniest raise in temperature.

So going from walking in the bitter cold to the tube, kitted up with hat, gloves and scarf plus rather uncomfortable, and awkwardly sized, expensive items of equipment strapped to my back, things weren't going well on the old sweat front. Sure I felt bitterly cold, but everywhere else on my body thought it was time to party. A line of droplets were forming under my hat. My clothes, pressed to my back by my laptop and guitar, weren't exactly bone dry. So then what happens? I start going underground.

I've never got this balance right - dealing with the temperature changes experienced on a commute through London. There is invariably a point at which I am too hot or too cold, often both several times on one journey. I have tried a variety of methods to keep my body temperature regulated but have failed. After a year and a half I'm starting to believe I'm fighting a losing battle.

So then I had the issue of trying to balance said laptop bag on my lap which, awkwardly, did't fit across the width of a seat but jutted into the next allocated seat (which the person next to me didn't seem best pleased about but by this point I didn't care). I also had to hold said guitar between my legs but as my laptop bag took up most of the length of my thigh, I had to grip my guitar with my knees, which meant holding it with one hand as well to steady it. And, because I took up more than my allocated leg space, I was not flavour of the month with my neighbouring commuters.

I refused to be detracted from my usual tubing activities, the things that get me through the journey. I balanced the paper on top of my bag precariously until I'd digested anything vaguely of interest in the Metro, then managed, in a rather ungainly manner, to put it on the shelf behind me and get my book out of my bag.

So then I emerged into the harsh world of London the other side, into car fumes, cigarette smoke and other various smells of the city. And I trudged, sulkily, to work.

The building is largely insanely hot so once again my body decided that it was party time, until I managed to strip off my various layers and make myself a cup of tea.

I am now feeling rather unclean.

And I have to go through this every day.