Train Rage

He smelled awful and I immediately felt sick.  I looked around for another seat but he’d got on at Hove and it was standing room only to Victoria now.

Breathing through my mouth, I realised that he was dressed in cycling gear and his helmet was on the table where a book or laptop belonged.

I felt a surge of anger wash over me at his hypocrisy; how dare he cycle to the station, presumably for his health then puff on fags, endangering my health with his second hand nicotine and body odour!

Feeling increasingly desperate I considered standing up and moving carriage  but there was still an uncomfortable hour to Victoria at least.  I’d been so pleased with securing a forward facing, window table seat at Worthing.  A rarity indeed on the popular commuter route.

I’d carved out a little bit of territory on the packed train and now it was all being ruined by this smell.

Not just any smell either.  One I could taste.  A noxious, toxic, poisonous miasma that was filling my lungs and making me feel like I was drowning.

I tried to read, to lose myself in my previously gripping novel, but the smell got everywhere.

Panic that I might feel suddenly sick gripped me along with a terrible rage at the injustice of it all.

Surely he could feel the waves of hostility coming off me?

What was I to do?

It seems Train Rage is a thing now.  I’m feeling it.