An open letter to the cow who stood in the rear doorway of the front District Line carriage at Mile End station last night
Hello. You don't know me, but we took the same train home yesterday evening. In fact you wouldn't know me if you saw me, because I was the bloke standing behind you. But that's my point.
We were both stood on the platform at Mile End station around quarter to eight last night. I was leaning against the tiled pillar reading my newspaper when you waltzed off the Central line train behind me. You were lucky, the next District Line train was just pulling into the platform, whereas I'd been waiting five minutes and I'd nearly run out of stuff to read. I don't know whether your Tuesday had been as hectic and hassle-filled as mine - somehow I doubt it. Twelve hours earlier I'd been standing on the opposite platform, yawning, on my journey into the office. There I endured a day of patronising emails, pointless admin, seven-hour meetings, marketing doublespeak and corporate backstabbing, before finally stumbling homeward ready for a quiet evening to recuperate. And then I met you.
There were scores of people standing on the platform, so we were both towards the rear of the crowd as the next train arrived. You were wearing one of those Persil-white anoraks with the big furry hood, more Girls Aloud than trainspotter, with some kind of boyfriend in tow. You seemed engrossed tapping something important into your flash electronic handset, a shiny metal pointer gripped between your ruby-tipped fingers. Then, as the train doors opened, you walked slowly forward like a blinkered automaton to join the other commuters crammed arm-to-elbow inside the carriage. Just one narrow space remained in the doorway - occupied by your big black rucksack - and just one person remained on the platform - me.
You never noticed me behind you. You didn't think to move slightly further inside the carriage in case anyone else might be queueing up behind. You didn't hear me thinking "surely she's going to move slightly forward out of the way and let me on board, isn't she?". You didn't spot me staring at you in mounting disbelief as the train prepared to depart. You didn't flinch whan I stepped up nimbly from the platform behind the imminently-closing door. You didn't feel me squeeze deftly into the remaining few centimetres of borderline floorspace. You didn't spot me spreadeagled flat against the glass as the train jolted out of the station. You didn't feel the vibrations when your rucksack bashed into my ribcage on one, two, three... eleven, twelve separate occasions. You didn't share the eyebrows-raised glances that I swapped with the woman standing beside you, equally gobsmacked by your oblivious impertinence. You didn't once realise that your unyielding self-centredness had extended your own personal space whilst violating my own. And when I nipped out of the carriage with relief at the next station to start my walk home, you never even noticed that I'd gone.
Sorry, I should have had the guts to tell you all of this face to face. Except I never saw your face, only your backside and your rucksack. Especially your rucksack. I should have told you that people with good manners sometimes think to look behind them because they consider others as well as themselves. I should have told you that you were a thoughtless bastard. But I didn't. So pray you don't pull the same trick tonight because, after the day I'm expecting to have, I may just punch you in the face this time. Or dodge in front of you so that your ego gets squashed in the closing door or, even better, left behind on the platform. But somehow I doubt you'd even notice. Cow.
An open letter to the cow who stood in the rear doorway of the front District Line carriage at Mile End station last night
