It’s unusual to find a pair of empty seats in the morning. I thought it might have something to do with what looked like the outcome of a bomb in a newsagents. Trashy celebrity magazines, empty crisp packets, assorted sweet wrappers and a half-consumed cup of something lay strewn across the seats. On the floor lay a carrier full of uneaten food and more crappy mags. The train’s arrival at a station clearly caught the previous occupants by surprise. Or some poor WH Smiths rep had spontaneously exploded.
I had just settled when I felt the carriage lurch. At the far end, a woman, wide enough to block out the sun, was sashaying down the aisle. She wasn’t swaying about for effect, no, she had to manoeuvre one hip into a gap and then swing the rest round to follow. It was like watching a wardrobe squeeze itself around a series of too narrow corners. And carrying armfuls of provisions from the onboard shop. I knew immediately where she was heading. My seat. Her seat. She’d obviously gone to restock, just in case her meagre supplies didn’t last the entire 50 minutes to London or there was nuclear war.
I weighed up the options, heavily illustrated with mental imagery. And moved.
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