I’m currently working one day a week in central London, doing my latest film production job.
When I get on the train to London, in the morning, and when I get on the train back home, in the evening, I’m focused on one thing… getting a seat around a proper table. I mean a table for four, two people facing two others. Not one of those crappy pull-down tables built into the seat in front of you, like you get on aeroplanes (economy class).
I’m like Ben Elton, in the routine he did on Saturday Live in the eighties…. Got to get a double seat… got to get a double seat… chanted to the rhythmic sound of train wheels passing along rails and over sleepers.
I just feel… life will be better if I get a seat around a table for four, on the train. It’ll be more like flying business class. I’ll have room to stretch out with my things… most importantly my laptop. I’ll get some proper work done. The people opposite might even be quite interesting-looking.
Notice I say interesting-looking. Not interesting-sounding. I want the people opposite me to sit in monastic silence, while I tap tap tap away on my laptop digitally scribbling down whatever profound meditations have popped into my head today.
There’s a massive flaw in this plan, of course. If you sit down – with three empty seats around you – there’s a chance those seats might be filled with people who know each other. And who’ll want to talk to each other.
Last week, I had a particularly bad case of this. I sat opposite a gentlemanly old fellow in half-moon specs (or at least who looked like he should have been wearing half-moon specs), who was doing his crossword. We nodded at each other respectfully and wordlessly, happy to know one wouldn’t ruin the other’s quiet time. But then… woe is me… a mother and her teenaged daughter sat in the seats next to us, whilst the mother’s other child (a boy) languished a couple of rows away down the aisle. ‘Would your son like my seat?’ the kindly, quiet gentleman opposite me offered the mother. ‘Don’t go!’ I wanted to shriek at him. But he did go. And for the next hour and a half I had to listen to the three family members loudly discuss Baz Luhrmann’s Elvis.
That was bad, but this week’s train journey is worse. So much worse.
In fact, it’s just a solitary person who sits opposite me, on the other side of the train table. A round-faced, dark-haired young man. He might be by himself… but he’s drunk… and he wants to talk. Aggressively so.
He starts by talking to the people across the aisle, who are wearing face-masks (as I am) despite the fact we’re now supposedly living in post-Covid times.
‘Do you mind me asking,’ he asks the poor people, across the aisle, ‘why you’re wearing face masks? I mean… isn’t Covid kind of done?’
He’s well-spoken (is he a student at Oxford, I wonder, which is coming up in a few stops). But his tone is hectoring, like a soon-to-be-disgraced Tory politician who won’t take no for an answer.
‘Why won’t you answer me?’ he asks the people across the aisle, as they shake their heads and try to pretend this isn’t happening. ‘I’m just interested, that’s all. Why are you wearing masks?’
‘I mean,’ he adds, ‘I haven’t even had a vaccine! So I don’t get it.’
On and on he goes. What’s with the masks? One of the people wearing a mask mutters something about it being up to them… but it doesn’t stop this oaf. He keeps on needling away at them. His tone isn’t exactly spiteful… just drunkenly, relentlessly enquiring… like he really wants to know.
Even though he hasn’t aimed his volley of questions at me – although I’m also wearing a mask – I feel like I’m under attack by association.
As he continues asking his question, I feel a mounting ire grow within me. Finally, I crack.
‘Listen!’ I whisper harshly at this nincompoop, pulling my mask down from my mouth dramatically at the same time. ‘Do you want to know why I’m wearing a mask? It’s because my wife has cancer! And I don’t want to give her Covid! Do you GET IT?’
The drunk looks at me, stunned, as well he might.
‘So stop harassing these people! You don’t know why they’re wearing masks! They’ll have their own reasons! And it’s none of your business!’ I continue.
‘I’m not harassing them,’ the well-spoken young drunk replies, slightly plaintively.
‘Yes you are, you’re harassing them!’ I growl back, my whisper sliding into a bark. ‘So STOP IT!’ I snap back my mask over my mouth, for emphasis.
The young drunk finally shuts up… and I expect the people in masks across the aisle to break out into spontaneous applause. Our hero… you’ve saved us! But they don’t. They just shift uneasily in their seats, probably thinking I’m as nutty as the fellow opposite me. Maybe more so.
A cold feeling of dread suddenly descends upon me. Why did I just tell this stranger my wife has cancer? It was just so inappropriate! Has writing this journal made me so over-use to over-sharing, that I’ll just blurt out anything to any old person I meet?
Will I now ‘weaponise’ Lizzie’s illness, and use it as emotional ammunition, in any situation at all? What’s happened to me? Has the last year totally fucked me up? Or was I already fucked up… and this is just the latest symptom of it?
What I said wasn’t even true! Lizzie hasn’t got cancer, anymore! Sure, she’s in remission, but that’s not the same. And we’re not even married! (Have I mentioned that yet, in this journal? I should probably talk about it at some point).
Have I completely lost my mind? I can’t help but ask myself, in conclusion. Please God let no one be filming this.
‘I’m sorry your wife has cancer,’ the drunken guy now says. ‘I didn’t know. And I wasn’t actually talking to you,’ he adds, matter-of-factly.
No, there’s NO WAY this a-hole is going to come across as being reasonable now… and the one with the moral upper hand. NO WAY!
I shrug and ignore him. I can’t think of anything else to do.
Fortunately (?), the drunken blob doesn’t come across as being reasonable after his brief moment of sentience… and continues to harangue the people in masks across the aisle.
‘What country are you from?!’ he hollers at them, clocking they all have some kind of European accent. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’ Eventually, the mask-wearers slump off the train, weary but relieved.
The drunk guy turns his attention back to me.
‘Do you support Arsenal?’ he asks randomly.
I don’t answer. I just continue tapping on my computer (an email, rather than what you’re reading at the moment), trying to block him out.
‘Are you a copywriter… or writing a book?’ the pissed blob now asks. How does he know I’m writing a book? I can’t help but wonder. But I still don’t reply.
‘Will you look after my mobile phone while I go to the loo?’ he suddenly requests.
‘Sure,’ I say with a noncommittal shrug, finally feeling I have to say something. But why can’t this guy take his phone to the toilet? Is he worried he’ll accidentally film himself taking a whiz or something?
He goes… and I’m left thinking this guy is clearly just desperate to talk to someone. And I allowed myself to be drawn in… in the most mad way imaginable.
Don’t they say never make eye contact with a bull… or is it a dog with rabies… or some other aggressive animal?
And DEFINITELY don’t shout your wife has cancer at them! Gotta start putting the old filter back on what I say, that’s for sure, I think.
Eventually, the drunk returns, picks up his phone, says ‘sorry about your wife’ again, then goes and sits further down the carriage… and has a chat with someone who actually appears to be up for talking with him.
Couldn’t he have sat there in the first place? I think to myself, ruefully.
Note to self: stop sitting at the table seats on trains.
P. D. Clifton 
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