Sitting on trains

Only fools take the train home on the last day of Michaelmas term. At one of the country's oldest and most reputable universities, fools, of course, are in abundance. Myself being one of them, I joined the throngs of students crammed sardine-like into carriages, encumbered with fat suitcases stuffed with dirty laundry for mothers to wash or full of books that won't be read for essays that won't be completed. There is something strange and comical about wealthy boys in blazers sqatting in train corridors, chinos hitched up to reveal wool odd socks above loafers or brogues. I settled down amongst them, wedged between bags, skirt pulled over crossed knees for modesty's sake thinking, oh, could I not have seen this coming? Then i smiled at the parallel that sprang to my mind: an Indian passenger train loaded with people, sitting on carriage roofs, hanging onto windows, clutching onto metal rungs for dear life, making no complaints as the train lumbers on over rickety tracks in the swarthy heat.

Of course, they hadn't paid £75 return for their seats. The students bristled and brayed, bemoaning their hangovers, their longing for mother's cooking, the disgraceful nature of the British railway system, the injustice of it all. I settled down and braced myself for three hours of pins and needles, countng my blessings