It’s the small stuff 

Yeah, even just to go home.

I go to the end carriage furthest away as it’s usually quietest and my best chance of a seat. 

Not today, even the ‘priority’ seats taken. I’m worn out, frustrated and I have to stand. 

I can’t risk asking a lone women to move from ‘priority’ seats. I’m six foot tall man with nothing ‘obviously’ wrong with me.

I just gotta stand. The ticket examiner starts in the nearest carriage to Glasgow, which is the busiest and the one I try to avoid. 

It’s rare they make it to me by the time I get to Paisley and if they do, there’s no point. I’m off in a minute.

I’m screaming inside. I’m trying not to melt down. 

It’s my time versus someone else’s I’ve theoretically paid the same as them. They’re double-seating though. 

I’m exhausted, done in. Tired, zapped. No better once off the train either. Sometimes I just need a break. A chance. A once.

Most times I just have to stand.


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