One would think that sitting at a commuter train station, cold and hungry, with no train home in sight would be a pathetic existence. Lord knows I once did. Week in, week out I’d find at least one services subject to delay, outright cancelled, or, most commonly, defeated by the wrong type of rain.

And once again, tonight I’m at Wimbledon, Platform 9. I’ve come back from Sloane Square, hopped off the Tube, and down the platform, up the concourse, along, and down to 9. And there, on the board, blinking at me in taunting day-glow orange LED, **SERVICE CANCELLED**

I should have stayed in bed, this morning. Lord knows I was tempted. In a toss-up between warm soft sheets and a the prospect of a late breakfast, and the cold pavement, a shave and commuting, then bed wins. Every time. Apart from this morning, when I got up, had a shave, and braved the District line yet another time.

Which reminds me. Most commuters, you know, the kid that zip in and out of the Xity? Fine. These people I can happily deal with. But now and then you get the odd person who honestly has no concept of who, what, where, or when they are. Seriously. And they also always seem to be the ones with basic hygiene problems. Getting off one of the trains today I could hardly contain my breakfast; the carriage stank of this one chap and what seemed to be the smell of stale cocoa butter, curry, and dirty hair. Utterly vile. I’m quite certain that these people have no idea of the stench they produce. If they knew, surely they would make some effort to clean themselves… non?