My Bag Is on the Seat for a Reason

East Croydon.

The bane of my entire life.

The place where dread and anxiety begins to creep into my veins and intoxicate my blood.

Where a un-polite shiver can so easily make it's way down my spine as my eyes dart around the platform eyeing up every single passenger threatening to board the train.

How many people are in my carriage? Are there any spare seats for people to sit?

Will I have to move my bag from the seat next to me?

The anxiety is at an all time high. Do people not understand the stress of having to sit next to a stranger all bundled up together like sardines in a hot and sweaty train? Also, what the hell am I supposed to do with my bag? It's HUGE. As always, I didn't pack light for my trip home and here we are now in this predicament where i'm either going to have to try and get it on the top shelf or barge my way past everyone once they've got on the train to put it on the luggage rack that by that time, is more than likely full.

The familiar beeping of the opening doors sweeps over my ears and the cold breeze from the outside begins to swiftly make it's way down the isle. My eyeballs frantically scan the space around me, weighing it up as the panic heightens and the brazen commuters begin to make their decisions.

Please don't sit next to me, please don't sit next to me, please don't sit next to me.

No single file lines here, just a free for all. They seem to have taken the "you snooze you lose" motto and after a mad dash to the unoccupied seats, the last person to grab a going cushion is a lady in her mid 40s. Dressed from head to toe in black, her smart fitted blazer is hung over her right arm complete with a faux leather briefcase in tow. She looked like the kind of woman who you definitely wouldn't want to mess with. Someone who's had a tough morning of getting the kids to school whilst trying to answer emails from Rod, the head of marketing, who actually has no idea what he's doing.

The urge to avoid meeting her intense gaze that was cutting through me like glass was unexplainable but soon enough the pressure deemed all to much and before I knew it the fake smile I knew so well began to make it's way across my lips. She motioned her hand towards the suitcase i'd ever so tactfully placed on the seat beside me.

"Excuse me, could I please sit here?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why? Why cannot you just stand for the 15 minute journey into central?

I refused to let out the grown that sat so desperately on the edge of my tongue and with nothing more than a strained ease I assured her it was fine and began to attempt the stuffing of my bag under the seat. Feeling all eyes and the judgement of 20 hypocritical strangers now on me, the anxiety began to turn into anger.

You would have done the exact same.

I think the funniest thing about this is that I am also that hypocrite. When I board a busy train and I see someone with their bag on the seat next to them, I inwardly curse the hell out of them. How dare you use a perfectly good seat for your bag and not let me be comfortable? It seems to be that it's only every important when it's me at a pickle.