Reading Roars!

“Has the London commuter hit Reading?,” asks Evening Post columnist Allie White:

walking past the station the other day felt like stepping into Charing Cross at 8am on a rainy day. There were scores of solo commuters wearing grim expressions, jostling past each other. If you caught the eye of one of the workers, they would scowl at you before fixing their eyes squarely on the pavement again.

It was a dog-eat-dog world for slightly cheerier commuters if they dare cross the path of one of these people.

Having commuted in London in the past, I thought the Reading commuters seemed even more fed-up than their counterparts in the capital. Perhaps this could be down to Londoners being far more used to packed travel conditions and spending the first hour of their day pressed into an armpit or a sweaty passenger.

I think it’s down to Reading commuters spending the first 45 minutes of their day on a packed train before spending an additional 35 minutes pressed into an armpit or a sweaty passenger on the Tube.

Allie is right about the dog-eat-dog world. Out on the platform, it’s a game. It’s a game, I’m sorry to say, that I have seen no elderly, infirm or disabled person play. It’s about being in the right place at the right time. A handful of seats await those who scramble on board the train first. Get your calculations wrong and you may find yourself stuck in the carriage without a seat and without the possibility of turning back. You’re stuck in the aisle, which is the probably the worst place to be (though standing by the toilet can’t be fun).

I think it’s fair to say that not all commuters wear grim expressions, however. Some (what I call the ‘mustn’t grumble’ brigade) cope with the circumstances pretty well, cracking jokes and that. Others, such as myself, wear blank expressions, with or without iPods. I don’t think I scowl. Scowling is rude, isn’t it?