Who cares?

Climbing into the carriage is tricky. There are up to six pairs of polished, black, lace-up shoes to avoid. Partially open, limp umbrellas are parked between the shoes. The owners are silent. Most are reading; some are sleeping. They will all be dead before the invention of the iPhone breaks the silence, but it is raining so hard nobody cares.

The train jerks as it pulls out and I stand on a foot. The foot doesn’t care so I say nothing.

I find a seat between two more pairs of shoes. The shoes shuffle to make room, but it is still a squash, and I can feel flesh through layers of damp raincoat as I push my way in. We travel for twenty minutes.

I need the toilet.

Toilets on trains are still a rarity, and this is a single compartment with four walls: two with windows and doors, and two with mirrors and pictures of Kentish castles and beaches.

I will have to get out at the next stop, wait half-an-hour for the next London train, and be late for work.

Or.

I contemplate the alternative.

The carriage smells of men that wear the same suit every day. Condensation has glazed the windows and pooled on the wooden frames. The floor is soaked from the dripping umbrellas and sodden shoes. It’s a place meant for pissing.

So, still seated, silently I let go. After all, who cares?

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