Commute - Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015

Chapter One - The First Time

It's half past six. Crazy. Fourth of January, and here I am, awake at half past six. I'm meant to still be recovering from my mega-hangover fresh from New Year's Eve. But no, I watched Jamie leave at seven p.m. on the thirty-first, off to party with his rugby mates, while I sat at home, watching reruns of It's A Wonderful Life. I'd almost come with him, but from experience I know that you don't recover from New Year until at least the tenth, and !$£%" £!&$%$ Miranda French was making me start ON THE FOURTH OF JANUARY.

Jamie's still fast asleep, and I assure you he'll stay that way until ten o'clock. In a different universe, I'd be alongside him, blissfully dreaming of the beach and cocktails and parties and God knows what because from now on I have to wake up at half past six in the morning.

I sigh, and climb out of bed, shivering in the sudden cold. My hate for Miranda French is becoming more and more furious by the second. This is not going to be a good first day, because if it keeps going on like this, I am going to end the day without a job, and Miranda French is going to end the day headless.

Twenty minutes later, I'm dressed. Fifteen of those twenty minutes were spent deliberating over what to wear - it's an office job, right? But I can't wear a suit, I'll look like a man... AAARGH. That sort of thing.

Next up: breakfast. Hello, Cheerios. I hate you almost as much as I hate Miranda French.

Deep breaths.

The house is only five minutes walking distance from Coxbury Station, so I set off. Exactly four and a half minutes later, I'm cursing the existence of high heels, uneven pavements - and, of course, Miranda French. If the woman was to walk around the corner now, I'd gladly sink my teeth into her scalp until she has blood running everywhere all over the pavement and she's screaming for mercy...

I spend thirty seconds happily daydreaming about the sad demise of Little Miss French till I reach the train station. Usually when I'm there, it's with Jamie to go and visit either his or my parents (both of whom live in London), or to go on holiday somewhere (also with Jamie). I've never been here on my own before, and it's definitely different from how I remembered it. For one thing, everyone is quiet. Sitting on benches reading newspapers, or talking to one another in low voices. It's quite unsettling.

The other thing is that the sky is still dark. Coxbury Station, unlike most others, has no roof, and you can just see the salmon-pink of the sunrise near the horizon. The stars are on view, and it's pretty surreal. The moon is just a sliver, so the artificial lights are on full power. It's like being here at two o'clock in the morning. I hate you, England. I hate you, Miranda French.

I go into the WHSmith's to buy a notebook (you know, so I look all professional on the train and it doesn't look like I'm a saddo with no life - I mean, I am a saddo with no life, but it's better not to actually look like a saddo with no life), but end up browsing the Haribo. I mean, I'm only twenty-eight. I'm allowed, right?

There are only two other people in the shop - a fat kid, who is taking up half the sweets aisle, and his tired mum eyeing the gossip magazines. I edge out of the shop without buying anything, just as the speakers announce that the SEVEN A.M. LONDON TRAIN IS ARRIVING.

I join the gaggle of suited businessmen and women boarding the train, and slip into carriage C. On this carriage is:

1. A woman, who looks about my age. She has her earphones plugged into her laptop and looks like she'd kill anyone who dared to disturb her.

2. Three men in suits, who are discussing something. I hear the words economy, interchangeable and ozone, and decide not to listen as I don't want my ears to burn off from boredom.

3. Tired Mum and Fat Kid are sitting together. Fat Kid is playing with his DS, and Tired Mum is on her iPhone.

4. Then there's a guy who looks like he's had one too many Big Macs, fast asleep in the corner, his mouth wide open. He's snoring gently, clutching a newspaper.

5. Lastly, there are twins, who look about fourteen, sitting together and giggling over a magazine.

These are the people I will spend an hour of my day with, watching them change.

These are my fellow commuters.