Tube Etiquette - part thingy
"Can you move down, please?"
Picture the scene. It's rush hour. You're running late. It's snowing outside, but down in the underground network, it's steaming like a builder's armpit. You and a coupla' hundred of your fellow city dwellers are rammed, elbow-to-elbow, toe-to-toe, groin-to-groin, in an antiquated District Line train carriage. Everyone is hellishly bandaged in winter coats, scarves, gloves, laden with baggage, grimly clutching onto rolled up newspapers that there's no room to read. You're so close you can see every pore, smell what your neighbour had for lunch. Hell, stick out your tongue and you could probably taste it. Passengers stare down, up, blankly into space, anywhere but at each other. As the carriage sways, people lose balance, unable to move their feet to accommodate the shift. Again and again, the weight of bodies exploding against the doors causes the engine to cut and the to train to bang to a halt, nearly toppling suited commuters as their restricted arms flap like seal flippers, searching in vein for something to grab onto.
The train pitches into St James Park station. The doors squeal open. A few people shuffle out mumbling excuse me, a few more wait to shuffle on. And a fearsome Aussie woman with ghastly orange lipstick rams herself into the miserable throng, bellowing in a mightily pissed-off voice: "Can you move down, please?"
Lady.
(a) Don't get on the train
(b) Ditch the damn backpack
(c) Lose some goddamn weight
(c) Get the hell back to Australia
Picture the scene. It's rush hour. You're running late. It's snowing outside, but down in the underground network, it's steaming like a builder's armpit. You and a coupla' hundred of your fellow city dwellers are rammed, elbow-to-elbow, toe-to-toe, groin-to-groin, in an antiquated District Line train carriage. Everyone is hellishly bandaged in winter coats, scarves, gloves, laden with baggage, grimly clutching onto rolled up newspapers that there's no room to read. You're so close you can see every pore, smell what your neighbour had for lunch. Hell, stick out your tongue and you could probably taste it. Passengers stare down, up, blankly into space, anywhere but at each other. As the carriage sways, people lose balance, unable to move their feet to accommodate the shift. Again and again, the weight of bodies exploding against the doors causes the engine to cut and the to train to bang to a halt, nearly toppling suited commuters as their restricted arms flap like seal flippers, searching in vein for something to grab onto.
The train pitches into St James Park station. The doors squeal open. A few people shuffle out mumbling excuse me, a few more wait to shuffle on. And a fearsome Aussie woman with ghastly orange lipstick rams herself into the miserable throng, bellowing in a mightily pissed-off voice: "Can you move down, please?"
Lady.
(a) Don't get on the train
(b) Ditch the damn backpack
(c) Lose some goddamn weight
(c) Get the hell back to Australia
posted by Elizabeth at 2:37 PM
2 Comments:
Well said.
Aye, if I hear anyone else say "Can you move down please?" when it's blatantly obvious that the carriage is already completely packed, I'm gonna scream. I would punch 'em but I always get a seat (there are advantages to getting on the train at the end of the line) and it's impossible to get out until Waterloo!
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