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.