A day in London, an argument and the distinct lack of a sandwich

(written 7pm, Monday 8th)

Oh and things were going so well. A smooth journey to work, arriving only looking mildly dishevelled and perspire trickled. A productive, lively and inspiring internal meeting. A productive, lively and almost exciting client meeting. A productive discussion with a new member of staff which was only marred by him suggesting something that was going to cause my team a mild issue that he refused to acknowledge and I refused to rationalise, which we eventually smoothed over, me with words of praise for his other achievements and apologies at my misunderstanding (that wasn’t actually a misunderstanding, but he was new and naturally I felt shamed and in the wrong for my slightly irrational outburst, in front of the entire development team no less, luckily who were buried in lines of code and hopefully didn’t pick up on the conversation).

An exit from work with a spring in my step, thinking of my boyfriend and Newfy and home.

As I walked towards the tube station, trying not to acknowledge the disturbing warmth and my ill-chosen overly warm attire, I could see clearly me a year ago, not so different, a lot more miserable, a lot more insecure, but me still, making my way home to our flat in London. Passed the welcoming pubs, the comforting odour of beer floating lazily into the evening, fond memories of fragments of that life. I could feel the steps up to my flat beneath my feet, my hand on the door, the warm air that greeted me, switching the lights on, sweat from the hike clinging to my every pore in desperation, the run of the bath, the turning on of the TV.

All so clear, if I just give a moment to it, I’m almost there.

Then, an arrival at the tube entrance as those dreaded iron gates were being pulled across and a frustrated crowd hung around them in confusion.

I turned then, I knew. I ran across roads, the anticipation of perspiration bubbling beneath my suffocated skin, through to the other tube station. Onto a tube that would take me to the Circle line in a few agonising stops. Time speeding, ticking along, buffering against the train.

At my destination I waited for the Circle line patiently. For all of approximately 30 seconds. In those seconds I felt empowered, I forced calmness through my veins. I would get there, only a few stops, I wouldn’t miss my train, I wouldn’t be stranded in Paddington for an hour, it was okay.

The thirty seconds expired along with my patience. As did the following ten minutes, eating through my sanity and munching hungrily on the dams holding my tears behind them. This wasn’t going to happen. But it was. I was going to miss my train.

This train, as if sensing my despair, fell along the tracks like a drunken man, one step forward, two steps back. Inching along, and then not at all. Sweat, from the heat, from the running, from the weight on my back as my laptop nestled its way uncomfortably into my skin. Crawling around my neck and over my forehead droplets drew lines across worried grooves.

I tried to force myself to relax. It was just one time. I had been lucky, all these times, getting my train, heading home. It was my turn for a poor journey. I was to accept it, and then next time things would be better. I needed to get this out of the way, to have my turn. It wasn’t so bad. I could get a sandwich, a Starbucks, blog the whole sorry event, and by the time I had expelled all of my grumpiness the hour would be passed and my train would be there.

But no no no no no. That wasn’t how I wanted it to work. I wanted to be home on time this time. Like always, though, like always.

After an ice age, after the thawing, after the evolution of man, the train arrived, the doors opened and I sprinted as fast as physically possible, my backpack providing a rhythm accompaniment through its repeated attempt at breaking my pelvic bone. I could see the platform. I was so close…

And then my ticket was rejected.

The train stood impatiently, huffing and puffing at my incompetence.

I addressed the nearest representative to me. The machine hadn’t recognised my ticket, could he please let me through.

He informed me, in no uncertain terms, that my ticket was not valid for that train and as such I would not be allowed through the barriers.

I informed him, in no uncertain terms, politely but forcefully and with the production of seat reservations to fight my corner, that it was, and my reservation was on that train. And I would be getting on that train.

No, he said. No, that ticket reservation wasn’t for that ticket and I would not be allowed on the train.

I then informed him, heatedly, frustration and anger seeping through my porous strength, that I regularly got on that train and that all the tickets were bought together, and were even numbered as such (1 of 4, for which I produced all 4 parts).

I was arguing with a member of staff about a train that was minutes away from pulling out of the station, and I was minutes away from being arrested for assault.

I rarely get confrontational with people. They are doing the job and I, I generally assume, if not directly in the wrong are probably to at least accept a proportion of the blame. As I am never sure how much that proportion may be, I usually assume the worst and that I’m not entirely sure what I’m talking about, and shut up.

Not on this occasion. I had not run and worried and sweated to be told I was not getting on my train.

The member of staff finally asked another colleague who told him that the ticket was indeed valid. The first bloke finally grudgingly unlocked the gate for me, I barged through angrily and ungratefully and, as I exited the gate to the platform, I turned around.

I can’t really remember how our subsequent argument started. I think it may have been an ill advised facial expression or comment from me. In hindsight, I am heavily tinged with a worry and remorse that only the inexperienced in such argumentative affairs suffer. But suddenly I was involved in an argument with two substantially proportioned black men. And I had little woman syndrome.

The first bloke, who by now was deeply out of favour with me, told me he would let me through this time. This fucking time. This fucking time for a ticket that was actually permitted for the train that I had boarded many times before. No, I don’t think so, no no no, you don’t get away with that. I told him (I am not sure of the order but as noone was really listening to anyone else it doesn’t really matter what order they ensued) that he should have apologised for accusing me of having an invalid ticket and not permitting me to board the train. Bloke #2, much bigger, with a much better grasp of the English language and a much more ‘I am just about to not let you board that train if you say one more word’ look about him than bloke #1 stepped in to assume the role of chief arguer. He told me to ‘come here’, beckoning me ferociously with his finger.

That made me lose it. I cannot abide people pointing to me or generally instructing me with their fingers. It is completely irrational but completely uncontrollable. He had flicked a switch. He had told me bloke #1 had not been sure so consulted #2 regarding the ticket and that I should not be so rude. I, rage bubbling inside me like moulten lava, desperately suppressing the sort of comment that would see me arrested or in a bloody mess on the platform watching with a sideways glance as my train pulled out of the station, argued and argued and argued, angrily, viciously, and with an amazingly posh voice I seemed to have developed.

I don’t know what made me pull away. I felt their eyes shoot daggers, their tongues spit venom behind me. I ran to my train, wanting to leave the sour words behind me on the platform, wanting to run out of the adrenalin induced anger and into my carriage.

I got to my seat, shaking, angry, once again sweating (or perhaps just re-heating and re-cycling), reading my ticket and my seat reservation over and over, justifying, convincing, I was right, I was right, ha, look, my seat, that’s my seat, my ticket.

An hour eased by in the conversation of yet another mid-fifties male commuter, another life story that I feed from, his family, his job, his history. Burying myself in another life, like an easy going audio book, the occasional question, they like to talk, they usually talk, about everything and nothing.

Then at Reading he departed and I was left to wallow in the bitter aftertaste of an argument. I decided to write it out, to get it out from beneath my skin, like the gentle coaxing of a splinter, leaving no scar. I don’t really understand why it spreads so deep and leaves such a lasting reminder for such a length of time. My SP, for one, would tell me I was an idiot for such prolonged worry and thought, and in the most part I believe I probably am. But arguments are an unpicking of the delicate seam holding together what my irrational mind has assumed makes a good person.

And then what if they are there next week, when I return? What if they won’t let me on then? What if they recognise me? What if my ticket causes the same problems? What if I am forced to remain on the platform forever? Perhaps the latter is a little ridiculous, but worry wriggles and niggles and my lack of sandwich, my train-home-treat, has left me feeling particularly grumpy with the sugar I have managed to derive from the food I have has set a rather overactive imagination to work.

Hopefully my brain exhalation has meant that when my boyfriend collects me I won’t be stress, grumpiness and anger personified and he will actually want to take me home rather than abandoning me in Exeter.