A traveller's tales: a train reaction

The worst thing about my daily commute isn’t the London Tube. In fact, it’s not even the 6am start or 7pm finish. No, it’s much more macabre than that.

So far, in the seven days (including my day trip to London on Saturday, pictures of which you can see below) that I’ve been travelling to work, three people have been hit by trains. Three fucking people.

Now, this strikes me as an inordinate number of folk being pummelled by the full force of an Intercity 125 rushing from the slumber of suburbia to crawling, be-suited anthill of central London.

Surely this sort of serendipitous scorecard totting must trigger a sniff of an inquiry in one of the Metropolitan Police Service’s many out-houses, where officers have little else to do but pick up bladder-pickled street urinators?

But, no, this is just one more inconvenience to jostle the patience of daily commuters. And the worst of it is, all you care about is getting home. Or not getting home. Or just being late getting home.

Someone might have died. A family might have lost its only child. A child might have lost its only family. And the only thing that crosses your mind is, ‘Shit, I can’t believe I’m going to miss the football.’

It’s inevitable really. You don’t see the accident, only the repercussions. So it’s not a real person that’s had his cranium smashed to smithereens, it's just another traffic report that's causing you a disruption.

And that’s my biggest irk with commuting: there’s no compassion. Life revolves around getting from A to B. Anything that falls inbetween - from the old lady who stops right in front of you at the station to the guy who’s had enough of life and chucked himself on a track - is a hindrance.

So as I sit here on the 6.30pm London Liverpool Street train to Colchester, trying to take stock of what it means to be a commuter, I should really count my blessings. This isn’t the worst predicament. I mean, I have a cushioned seat, a nice view and the opportunity to wind down from a long day at work. What more could a boy need, right?

Yes, it seems life is good. Even if it's currently running 20 minutes late.

London loves...

Well, it's almost been a week. Yep, that's right, seven whole days have passed since I moved from my safe, homely Edinburgh town to the big bad world of England. And, y'know what, it's not that bad. Well, it's not dreadful, let's put it that way.

Living in Colchester and working in London is far from ideal. The daily commute is a drag. Realising you've sat next to the same person on the same train twice in one week is foreboding. And dealing with the pressure of having to fathom out an alternative shirt/tie combo every day is darn right debilitating at 6am in the morning.

In truth, I'm a little homesick. But, I'm not quite sure what for. How much of Edinburgh I'd trade for Essex/London is impossible to say. The homeliness of Auld Reekie probably has a lot to do with it. The fact I lived there for almost 12 years is probably even more significant.

Yet, London is not without its charms. Firstly, the people I work with are exceptional. Not just in a 'wow they're great people, I can't wait to know them better' kind of way, but in a way that makes you sit up, take stock and admire their purpose. So far, it's been impossible not to sponge up.

Secondly, the city is mental for boozing. I mean, really properly mental. These people may be garbed in tailormade D&G suits, but they'll happily guzzle a few snifters of piss-pale ale by the side of Monument as the wind away the stresses of another full throttle day.

And, full throttle it is. These people, these places do not stop. Our work canteen is open from 8am - 9pm. That's breakfast through to supper. Here 9-5 isn't the way to make a living. It's much much more than that. Thank heavens no one works on overtime - the country would be bust.

So, it's exhausting. And a bit galling. Yet, it sucks you in. The place is alive: The traffic. The people. The buildings. Even the smog. This is a city that breathes energy; that seeps gusto. You can't, in all honesty, help yourself from being swept along. I'm trying desperately hard to go with the flow.