The story of my, and every other commuter's, life.....

I reach Clapham Junction just in time – I surely can make it to the 8 05 on platform 2! So begins my dash through the subway. Dodging briefcases and elbows, my rucksack thumping my back, I trundle along weaving my way through the multitudes that descend into the netherworld each day. Out of breath and gasping, my knees unsteady with fatigue, my muscles burning from, ‘anaerobic respiration’, (that’s the scientific term for the fire that rises up your muscles when you drive them beyond their capacity!) I trudge up the final flight of steps; waves of joy ripple through the region of my heart – I’ve made it! I rush blindly to the nearest door – only to find the train packed and bursting with passengers............ no doubt from having had the previous train cancelled of course. You might think I am cynical – but then you don’t travel on the on the Silverlink-turned-Overground; do you?

Just two minutes before the doors close – and I am running up and down the platform – in the hope of seeing a reasonably sympathetic face that would say: O you poor one ....you can get in here.

Morning commuters, however, are already at the end of their tether – they’ve probably had a tough morning and there is no guarantee that the rest of day is going to be any better. They have no sympathy for anyone – leave alone me – a woman in hijab. There isn’t a single kind face at any door.

That's it. I‘ve decided. I have to be firm. I close my mind and eyes to all the discouraging faces. I place one foot firmly on the edge of the entrance, hold on to the bar on the side, and raise a cry: Can you move down into the carriage please?!

No one budges – there is no place to move. I am not concerned: my decision’s been made clear. Everyone knows now that I am here to stay and will not dislodge myself from the carriage door – no frown or sneers will move me. Everyone’s resigned and I get comfortable.

There’s one more hurdle though – the doors are yet to close. I take my rucksack off ( I don’t want it to get trapped in the doors) turn my back on the indifferent faces and get ready. The tooting starts and I brace up. The doors close; we are all packed in: as tight as sardines – if you would over look the cliché – nothing can describe it better. I am squashed on all sides. My nose is stuck to door, steaming the glass and reducing visibility. I can see nothing. I cannot move a muscle.

But I am happy. I will make it to school on time today!

Afshan