Martin Harbottle's Appreciation of Time Read Online Free Page B

salacious witticisms on the implied indiscretions of the celebrity world. I’m not breaking any laws. I’m not even in a position to break any laws. But I was told to be there. I was told to be there because that’s how it works at my place. You do as you’re told. And turning up late and looking incompetent is generally frowned upon.
    So. Anyway. That was my morning. And I’m guessing this is an email you knew was going to come today, didn’t you, Martin? I’m betting you turned up for work this morning; I’m betting you fired up the Premier Westward Super Mainframe Megacomputer and felt your little heart sink.
    There was an incident this morning. One of your trains, Martin: it broke down! It totally broke down. Like it was too old or poorly maintained or something. As luck would have it, it wasn’t my train, but still. That old or defective or poorly maintained train broke down and snarled up the line for everyone else.
    I wasn’t the only one, of course. It’s not just about me! My train was, as always, packed. (Over-packed, some might say.) And, as always, it held many of the usual suspects, the same faces I see every day. We’re a regular little community – united by habit and circumstance and frustration.
    The thing about commuting is that it’s a shared experience. We’re all in it together, as someone once said. We’re creatures of habit, making for the same spot on the platform, the same seat in the same carriage, every day – and so, naturally, commuting becomes something of a glimpse into the human zoo. It’s like watching a David Attenborough documentary – and you start to recognise your fellow victims by their habits as much as their faces.
    This morning, for example, from my usual spot in Coach C I counted five regulars.
    There was Guilty New Mum, freshly (and early) returned to work after maternity leave, all of a flap, juggling laptop and Filofax and scalding coffee whilst phoning home to check on baby, muslin squares and nipple shields spilling out of her handbag…
    Competitive Tech Nerds – two middle-aged banker types with weak chins and big suits – were arguing loudly about the relative merits of Cloud storage versus external hard drives. Which at least made a change from the interminable mobile phone discussions they seem to endlessly recycle (when the new iPhone came out they almost came to blows, so overcome were they by the excitement of it all).
    On the seat opposite them was Universal Grandpa – wisps of snowy hair, white beard, M&S slacks, smart jacket, the kindest face you ever saw, copy of the Telegraph . No idea where he’s going every day at this time: he looks too old and too nice to be doing this. And next to him was Lego Head: a huge, heavyset man in (I’m guessing) his mid-thirties about whom I know nothing other than that he has got on this train every single time I have, always makes for exactly the same spot, never says a word to anyone, never reads a paper or a book, never plugs himself into a laptop or iPod or mobile phone… and has hair that looks exactly like it’s made out of Lego.
    And down a little, on the opposite side to me, is Train Girl. I don’t know much about her either, other than that she’s easily the best-looking part of my journey to work every morning. Not that I pay too much attention to that kind of thing, obviously.
    So there we all were. Delayed, late, in trouble with our respective bosses, thrown together by habit and circumstance, forced into daily unwarranted intimacy, and (with the exception of Competitive Tech Nerds) never once even acknowledging each other’s presence, despite it all.
    Does that make you feel a little worse, Martin, knowing the human cost of your incompetence? How would you explain such a pitiful service to us all? How do you communicate such failure? Enlighten me! Educate, inform or at least entertain me. Tell me why I’m getting a pasting at work for the bad behaviour of my predecessors, while you seem to be