The Harpy

So, as we look back on the early observations of the daily commute, you will recall we met the "Harpy" - the woman who launched a verbal attack of epic proportions on a man who had run over her sandalled foot with his suitcase in the rush to get to the train.
I asked the question: "who was at fault?", and at the time it was hard to call.
In fact, it seems, appearances can indeed be deceiving - at first glance one might think us women should "stick together", members of the "sisterhood".
But continued close observation reveals a more sinister being behind the businesswoman.
For she is no normal commuter. With supernatural skills, the Harpy is the wicked witch of the 1733, disguised as a simple worker on her daily travels. Capable of mind-boggling speed, uncanny strength, and the ability to beat a man down with just a look, she is as Voldemort is to Harry Potter, Darth Vader to Luke Skywalker, or Blofeld to Bond.
An "aisle-only" to the core (see previous entry!), the Harpy has secret powers that ensure she ALWAYS gets what she wants.
She may appear a typical businesswoman, sporting a smart black dress and bleach blonde hair. But her trainers bely another purpose - the need for speed to beat any adversary.
Faster than a fatty to a pie-munching contest, with superhuman strength and a shoulder barge to rival any rugby player, she rarely loses the battle for her seat.
Swooping down the platform, unwitting rivals are knocked like skittles from her wake. As she explodes through the door, her eagle-eyes on the seat closest to it, she claims her throne.
It may be marked "available", but it is most definitely not. It is the Harpy's perch, and woe betide anyone who tries to snatch that coveted spot.
A worse fate awaits those foolhardy travellers who dare disturb her to get to the window seat that she cunningly leaves free to avoid sharing her space. For those unlucky enough to try to get to that spot, as politely as they ask, she will huff, and she will puff, and she will blow their house down.
A few escape unscathed, and for most, the look is enough, forced into submission by the withering glare as they search for another seat. A few seconds longer and they could turn to stone, so instead they retreat to the safe haven of another carriage.
The Harpy is a force to be reckoned with - a mystical opponent battled at one's peril.
But the mere mortals among us share the hope that one day, maybe not so far in the distant future, a saviour will come, a fellow commuter capable of taking her on - a David to her Goliath - who will one day bring peace and harmony to the Westcoast Mainline.

The great train race

The observations continue......
We all know us Brits love a queue. But commuters clearly love them more than anyone else.
I've monitored this for several weeks now and noticed a new subspecies. Not sure if there's an inventive name, other than those who like to queue.
I have to say, I don't get it. The aisle-onlys I understand. They want space, they need space, they will do anything to get that spaced.
But the queuers' actions seem nonsensical. At least five minutes, probably closer to ten, they gather up their belongings, speedily stowing away the coffee, phone, laptop., newspaper and coats. The urgent, hushed whisper comes: "can you move please, I need to get out", "excuse me, excuse me", as they hustle down the carriage. The race is on, who can get to the vestibule first, to be the person in poll position at the door, waiting to leap onto the platform the minute it opens? Who can be first?
And the rest of the queuers take their place, lining up one by one on the starting grid. Pawing the ground like keen racehorses, revving their engines like F1 drivers, they're all ready to go.
There's just one problem, the train isn't there yet. It won't be for several minutes. And in fact, for most of them, their queuing hasn't got them any further down the line. The true spirit of British manners means that when those in the seats near the front of the queue stand up, they are allowed in. Of course, it will only be the most churlish of travellers that block one of their fellow commuters out. Nobody wants to be that selfish in such an obvious way - if they're going to do it they'd rather do it on the sly.
So here they are, queuing up, dutifully waiting, to save how much time? Hours? No. Minutes? Not really. Possibly seconds, if they're lucky. So that queuing, that scrabbling and scrambling and standing in the aisle is pretty much unnecessary.
And, irony of all ironies, a brief survey carried out by yours truly suggests that seven out of ten of these people who consistently queue are in fact so slow that it only takes the length of two carriages walk down the platform to overtake them!
Take some advice guys, save yourselves the trouble...