I Am A Commuter

Every weekday morning at 6.48 you can find me shivering on the platform, waiting for a train that will always be four minutes late, until the day I am too, when it will run on time.

Four minutes is a long time when you're freezing to death. The railway staff cheer us up by distributing hot chocolate and staging impromptu fire-eating competitions. Last week one over-enthusiastic passenger accidently set herself alight and, in her panic, stumbled into the path of the fast train to Dover. I bet she regrets paying for an annual season ticket now.

Onboard we crawl through the Kent countryside at the speed of a Victorian bicycle, but in less style. Tinned sardines have more space (and benefit from being soaked in a tasty tomato sauce, the lucky devils).  

Just outside Sittingbourne there's a bump that sometimes causes passengers to spill their coffee or tumble into a stranger's lap. I've written to the train company requesting they make the bump big enough to fling us all out of the windows.
 
If they agree they'll probably make it the subject of one of their Infinite Pointless Automated Announcements. 'This is carriage four of 12'; 'Please mind the gap between the train and the platform'; 'Would passengers sitting in the rear four carriages please be aware that you will shortly be flung out of the window'; 'Please remember to take all of your personal possessions with you when you leave the train'.