Finally, hours later, a train crawls into the station. Everyone sighs. You all pile on, smelling of stress and vending machine crisps. The journey is quiet, except for the occasional huff. We’re traumatized.
You get home. You collapse. And then you check Twitter to see fourteen pages of people complaining about Greater Anglia. You add your own: “Thanks for the free tour of your lovely delay, @GreaterAnglia. Really. 10/10 experience.”
Here’s the thing: it wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The person hit by the train is the real tragedy. But you, the commuter? You’re the collateral damage. The invisible, grumpy, coffee-starved casualty of circumstance. You matter too.
So, next time you see a “Minor Delays” sign? Don’t believe it. Pack a book. Bring snacks. And for the love of all that is holy, never trust a Tuesday. The trains are watching. And they are not your friends.
Anyway, I need another coffee. This one’s cold. Story of my life.
