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.
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.
