Hellish

It all seemed like a good idea at the time. A nice trip home to see my old mum, check out the commute to see if I can bear to do it while I try and buy somewhere to live, get out of the house. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, not much in the big scheme of things, but I'm certainly not getting the best of this train route. Firstly, the West Ham fans up for their Wembley play-off today appear to have 'started early'. In their generosity, they must have responded to the parched look of the train floor and altruistically offered it quite a lot of beer. The floor, however, is clearly teetotal, and has refused to soak up any of the offered alcohol, which is now adorning the surface with a sticky and nasally offensive sheen. 

But I regret complaining about the beer, since I can no longer smell it. Not just because as I get out to the greenbelt my hay-fever is getting worse, but because Shenfield has supplied the latest in anti-beer smell air-fresheners by loading a tramp onto my carriage.  He's sitting in the next set of seats, and I can honestly say that I miss the smell of stale West Ham beer.

In commuting terms I suppose he's unlikely to be able to afford the peak fares, and city types - for all their flaws - probably don't crack open the Tennant's lager at 7:30 in the morning. But it's not cheering me up about the possibility of having a 100 minute commute to work not only in the middle of the bloody Olympics, but through the middle of the bloody Olympics - Stratford every morning. If I don't come up with plan B I'm looking at a hellish time in July.

But at least I'm better off than my carriage mate. All things in perspective.

(Hurray! He's getting off!)