Some might say

There’s nothing quite like being the proud owner of a well-rehearsed journey to make travel at other times and to other places seem slow and cumbersome. Let me explain. I know at exactly which minute past the hour I need to leave my house in order to execute a carefully choreographed arrival at the station (through the gates with season ticket at the ready, into the Runaway and out again with cup of tea) before slipping in through the train doors. But give me the task of getting to London at a more godly hour on a weekend, and I’ll feel the need to allow a good fifteen minutes to spare (and use some of that dithering about which route to take to the station).

To subvert an analogy, if I may: in my commuting persona, I’m a fish in water. I’m humanity at its slickest. And I expect humanity around me to aim for, and reach, those same high levels of efficiency. Novice travellers – or even worse, tourists – are quite simply undesirable.

So I admit that in my own small, inconsequential way – and in a controlled environment where I can cause no harm – I may have exhibited something approaching an arrogance you wouldn’t expect from me. But put me back in my natural, non-commuting habitat and I’m the kind of human you’d much rather know – unfocused, ungainly, and as much of a novice as the next person. Like a fish out of water, some might say.

Definitely forgiven

I like to think that the air in Lewes is in a different league to that of London. Admittedly, at the point of comparison my judgement has no doubt been tainted by prolonged and close proximity to my fellow passengers, and London is nothing more than a distant memory, but – still – there’s something cleansing about taking that first breath as I hit solid ground. Never mind that I’m alighting at a busy station, negotiating the four-wheel drives in what must be one of the largest car parks in town, and that I’m about to stand my ground on the unforgiving pavements of Station Street – I insist on giving Lewes the benefit of the doubt.

For what air hasn’t been improved by its backdrop? With the first sights of Lewes before me (Harvey’s Depot still proudly supporting its name if not its purpose, the elegant yet unshowy backs of Friars Walk, the chalk cliffs bringing to mind the sea), the whole thing is bound to feel good.

And this is a good time of year to be reflecting on such things. I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t been glad to see the back of GMT and the arrival of ‘plus one’, but there can’t be many better placed advocates than we Lewes commuters. At a stroke, the charms of Lewes become even more acute.

So the pleasure is all ours as we alight from the train. And who wouldn’t rather step down from the train and into a crevice of the Downs than into Croydon? The earlier starts, the longer journeys, the later finishes than our suburban counterparts – there are so many things that at times seem to sit so heavily on our shoulders. But, right now, with a couple of lungfuls of our native oxygen inside me, all is most definitely forgiven.

Cushy number

There’s something about the word ‘commute’ that induces immediate feelings of pity in the listener. In fact, hardly will I have uttered the words ‘Lewes’ and ‘London’ in the same sentence than my companion will be imagining me crushed up against a thousand others and demanding to know my vital door-to-door statistics. I’m pleased to say that my one-hour-and-forty-minute average is just enough to elicit a respectable dose of sympathy.

But let me stand up, at this point, for Southern. For it’s rare that I’m left standing. And, unseemly as it may be, I’m often in possession of a double seat right up until the hordes come on board at Haywards Heath, allowing me all the elbow room I need to eat my toast and drink my tea in peace.

As a way of spending an hour or so first thing, then, surely this isn’t quite so pitiable after all. I have a comfortable seat, more leg room than if I were flying economy (a good comparison to keep in mind), and, if my fellow commuters have any sense of decency, silence. Compare that to getting a small boy fed, watered, dressed and out the door – the task that falls to my non-commuting husband – and those over-eager sympathisers might begin to see why I’m the one with the cushy number.