Today has been a day of standing, I deliberately take the slow train, avoiding the pushy urgency of the fast one, and looking forward to a gentle rumble into St Pancras, with seat and book. One stop in, and here's a woman with a 'Baby On Board' badge. Goodbye, seat. Hello, standing (which I could have done for half the time, if I'd got on the fast train...).
Standing on the tube. Then work that requires standing. Seven and a half hours of it. Talking and standing. Then some more standing on the train going home. All in all, I do nine hours of standing.
So I am particularly impressed by the man I see on the Piccadilly line this evening. No seats available - no problem. He's brought his own bar stool with him, on which he sits. Self-sufficient, in charge of his own comfort. He's looking nonchalant, and unconcerned at the attention he's getting, but I then catch him having a sneaky smile at his reflection in the carriage window. I don't believe he always travels with his trusty bar stool. But I very much like that he's pretending he does.
'Yeah. Me and mah stool. Mah wing man.' (In my head, he's Texan. I have no idea why.)
Home. My brain is empty. My feet are burning. I will not be speaking or standing any more today.
Me and mah sofa. Shhh.
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