Picture this;
My usual commute. A tube carriage not too full of people. I'm sat on a seat reading my
free copy of NME with both elbows occupying about a third of each arm rest
either side of me.
A guy gets on a couple of stops after and sits down in the seat next to me. He proceeds to open his copy of the Metro and do the same as I. As soon as he opens that paper, I know what’s going to happen. The usual battle of the arm rest which normally results in both parties silently and coolly planting roots into that bit of cushioned plastic, not even scratching that itch on the end of your nose to risk giving your opposition a mere millimetre more of your rightful space.
This time, it’s different. At first we go through the motions, both
standing ground for a part of that arm rest. He knows I know what he's doing
and I know he knows what I’m doing. He tries, pushing my elbow off, huffing
like he's sitting on a bed of nails trying to get comfortable. I, playing cool
as a cucumber, continue to read about the best festivals of 2017 in NME's
opinion.
A few stops go by, my elbow is now being pinched between the arm rest
and his arm. He pushing my arm further with every unnecessary turn of the page,
not reading any of the content. Finally, he makes his last effort and my elbow
falls off the arm rest. He, clearly delighted with his efforts, straightens
himself out and carries on with his so-called reading.
At this point I let him have it; 'Oh I'm sorry, (using my best sarcasm
of course) are you comfortable now? Are you happy? Let me stand up. Please,
take my seat too. Maybe you'd like a footrest? Shall I crouch on all fours for
you? Pop your shit loafers on my back. Go on. I'm not worthy. My elbow is not
worthy of a teeny tiny bit of elbow space on a public train. You’re reading the
Metro mate. It’s not a fucking Broadsheet. You don’t need all that air space
you’re trying to claim as your own. I spied you, catching up on Harry Styles
new single release in those middle pages. Scanning the Rush Hour Crush for
someone professing their undying love for a male matching your description. You’re
not reading the Financial Times. You’re not travelling to work in the City. You’re
wearing chinos and probably a polyester jumper from Primark. I don’t know who you are, but you certainly AREN’T better than me and neither
is your elbow!’
Cue a slow clap resulting in a standing ovation from the entire tube
carriage. I take in this rapturous applause, resume my position on both arm
rests and go back to the pages of NME.
Of course, all this happens in my head. In reality, I let this man push
my elbow off the arm rest, and only manage the following;
I turn to look at him and say in my most northern accent 'Are you ‘avin'
a laff?!' With a look of understanding that doesn't quite reach his mouth, he
mutters so as not to cause a scene in his very best Queens English, 'Excuse
me?' At which point, I, obviously seething that the acumination of a Mexican standoff
over an arm rest has resulted in me shaking with anger but pretending to laugh
off this giant pricks behaviour.
I then spend the rest of my commute turned away going over all
the things I should have said in my head. That was the moment I realised I have gone to the dark side. I've become one of them. I'm a Londoner.
Tal x
Tal x
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