I was lucky to get a place to stand, let alone sit, on the 16.30 "Black Hole of Calcutta" from Waterloo. But at least I did eventually get home, even though there was no room to read a book, much less work, on the misery express to Portsmouth. Today, I am pathetically grateful to be able to sit and type on the train. This is only possible because the poor sod jammed in beside me is a very slim young person of the female persuasion. The three seat benches employed by South West Trains date to a bygone age, when the average working-class train traveller was a stunted, dwraven creature with ricketts. They are not made for the modern lard arse. As a consequence, when three people do actually sit on them, the experience is horrible for all of them.
[posted with ecto]