The journey to work

Every morning I struggle to get out from under my synthetic duvet because I couldn’t live with the thought that somewhere out there are a load of geese freezing to death in winter on account of my sleeping preferences. Suppressing the phantom cackling in my head, I shuffle towards the bathroom. Hardened by 36 years of experience, I tone down my shriek at seeing myself to a squeak that bounces off the tiles.

After I had washed all traces of the night from my flabby alabaster body and courageously steeled myself to meet my fate and stare another workday in the face, I set about making myself fit for human company. (Note to self: My body boasts a degree of absorbability that could revolutionise household chores. I need to get it patented: a kitchen towel that soaks up everything, aside from dropping the odd cynical comment.) I don’t wish to scare anyone off, at least not with my exterior. My personality takes care of that.

I make my (not so) merry way to the station. Wishing to reduce the yacking of my fellow human beings to a minimum, I travel 1st class. But my eyes are confronted by a picture of horror: I have to share a 4-person compartment! I was unaware that the price of a ticket included body contact. Next time I must read the small print. Grudgingly, I choose a seat, trying as far as possible to avoid body and eye contact. I can’t help wondering if everyone here really can afford a 1st class ticket. If that is the case, I can only conclude that standards must have dropped dramatically and apparently anybody can afford such a “privilege”. This shakes my beliefs to the very core: A class system with no distinctions!

When I finally reach the station, I have to stop shaking my head in horror if I wish to avoid a concussion. I set off on the second part of my journey: the tram ride!

Having battled my way through a tide of people going to the station, I’m washed like a dead fish onto the packed tram stop along with the masses. It’s snowing. Squashed like sardines in a tin, they relentlessly squeeze themselves under the sparse roofing in search of cover. I regret not having paid more attention during gym lessons. An artistic flair would certainly be preferable to an autistic bent.

As soon as the tram pulls in, the hordes clamber on in the hope of grabbing one of the rare free seats. Swept along with the pack, I feel as though my insides are bursting. Just like my glasses, I get all steamed up as I pass through the door to join the throbbing mob.

I defend my few square centimetres of space to the blood. Boiling blood that sprays angry glances as soon as a rucksack, padded elbow or wildly tramping foot attempts to lay claim to my bastion of steadfastness. I ask myself what the winter jackets are lined with. Hunger pangs begin to make themselves felt. I wonder what’s for lunch. Incarcerated in purgatory, I stoically endure the classless ride to hell.

How I wish I could wrap myself in a cocoon as a shield against the other commuters. I would envisage them as feathered birds – geese, for example. Global warming would ensure they no longer freeze in future. As I walk the final metres of my journey to the office, I keep my eyes peeled for some grilled chicken.