Most days, my commuting moments pile up one upon the other, each moment coming to rest neatly upon its predecessor – which is just how it should be. I’m not looking for excitement or stimulation in this part of my life.But yesterday my moments broke the mould. I was coming to London Bridge from a – for me – unusual direction. And it dawned on me that there was no way I was going to catch my train. My comfort zone these days has expanded to the point where I can cut it fine and enjoy the challenge, but this was knife-edge fine, and I was in another zone completely. And so I relaxed: far better to miss the train by five solid minutes than actually see it pulling out.
But then – just when I didn’t require it – the must-catch-that-train instinct clicked in. And back came the adrenaline rush. I legged it through the convolutions of the London Bridge tube/train interchange, seamlessly inserted my season ticket into the slot and out again, got my body through the barrier and arrived at the train doors... And, yes, I did get on that train, slithering through the closing doors in a way that I wouldn’t repeat, wouldn’t recommend and haven’t relived – until now.
I basked in the glow of having made it. But it wasn’t just the pleasure of having caught the train that did it for me, but also the pleasure of not having to live through the dark despair of being left on the platform. There would have been a despondent, frustrated me to contend with – and thoughts of just how good life would have been if only I’d been on that train (as indeed it was for the real me already on its way to Lewes), of how all life’s problems would have melted away (as indeed they had, for now at least). And no doubt I would have cursed the punctuality of the service. Oh for a train that you could rely on to give you the courtesy of a minute or two’s grace.
