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.