The first day back at work after Christmas was never going to be easy but this morning's little venture couldn't have made it any worse had it tried to. My normal train, cancelled. The next train, rammed. I told myself that there was no way I was going to cram myself onto a train and be standing when I'm feeling this ill. Luckily the next one wasn't too bad so I managed to scramble for a seat - even if it was between two men. One of which luckily, was my dad. I'm always grateful of a shoulder to lean on when I fall asleep. Not that I'd be getting any sleep however. I slept a grand total of I'd say around two and a half hours last night and the rest was spent either trying to cool down due to temperature, trying to get warm due to shakes or coughing a ridiculous amount. I'm never appreciative of my mum waking me up at 6am but its safe to say she received my satanic side this morning. Now you all know my hatred of trains but they're quite possibly the worst place to be when you're unwell. You feel rude for coughing too much and so put yourself through the ultimate discomfort of trying to hold them in when you feel that tickle in your throat. My eyes are heavy and watery and I certainly consider myself at death's door. Normally I'd be grateful of a slow moving train after all it produces me with more time to nap, but today, I wish it'd hurry the fuck up so I can get out of this hot sardine can and breath some fresh air.
I used to love the 'London commute'. It had its own special buzz and although millions do it along with me every day, I felt special to be able to be one of them. I was warned that the novelty would soon wear off and sure enough, it did. Quicker than I thought actually. I remember having trates of tomboy in me as a kid and loving trains almost as much as I loved Barbie. Not often would I get to go on one and if I did, it was normally up to, sure enough, London to either go shopping, go to a museum or an exhibit of some kind. Oh the excitement I used to get. How times change.