It’s a well-known fact that in London you’re never more than 3 feet away from a free newspaper. It’s a thought that causes many a weary night-time street-walker to quake in fear on their journey home – one wrong turn of the head and their eyes might be polluted by the sights of unglamorous photographs of partygoing celebrity wannabes, lazy articles copied word-for-word from last night’s BBC News website, and readers’ letters page rants so poorly constructed as to betray an IQ that could be rolled on a die. The prevalence of the free London paper has in the past been attributed to many potential causes: the national overproduction of wood pulp in the 1970s and the subsequent need to clear it; sentient printing presses that refuse to bow to the human traditions of the red ‘emergency stop’ switch; and a way for unimaginative journalistic rejects to ‘pass the time’, to name but a few. However, to find the real reason behind this glut one has to look no further than the chief indigenous species of the capital’s greenbelt – the commuter.
The commuter (homo antisocialus) is most commonly found on railway station platforms wearing a bad tie, an overpowering brand of aftershave and a facial expression that warns potential conversation-seekers that even the slightest vibration of the vocal cords will be met with a short sharp stab from a sharpened umbrella – especially in the Quiet Zone. Commuters can be identified by their distinctive calls, which commonly include calls that come to an abrupt halt due to sudden lack of signal every time the train enters a tunnel, calls so loud everyone else in the carriage can hear the intimate details, and calls that nobody else cares about and that really could be saved for later. Many biologists argue that the commuter is the perfect example of a species that has evolved to fulfil its primary aim in life: complete obliviousness to the needs of others; achieving this largely through their belief that ‘bags need seats too’ and the acquisition of the aforementioned free newspaper, in which they bury their heads as ostriches in sand to block out the sounds of all except the onboard tannoy system announcing the train’s arrival at its terminus.
Hyperbole aside, even in my so-far brief experience of daily travelling the land on parallel metal bars (just two months since starting my current job as a statistician) the common stereotype of commuters as selfish, dog-eat-dog anti-socialites appears to me completely justified. Each morning and evening as I travel between my home and my London workplace, I feel as if I am in the small minority of passengers who consider fellow travellers as worthy of respect and consideration, rather than as obstacles to be defeated en route. However, I would love for this feeling to be shown to be an illusion, and being a statistician I crave the opportunity to devise a test of the hypothesis that commuters are on the whole utterly selfish…
…which is why I am delighted to find myself in a situation where I am able to do so.
Six weeks ago I broke my arm badly (yup, I was so delighted at the time) by slipping on ice… erm, I mean, in a manly fall off a tall building whilst wrestling wild animals and flexing my well-toned muscles. After a three-day stay in hospital, reconstructive surgery and more X-rays than a child’s learn-the-alphabet picture book (published at a time when xylophones really weren’t cool) I needed a month-and-a-half off work to watch Top Gear repeats on Dave and recover sufficiently to return to my desk. This week heralds my deskcoming (like a homecoming, but more centred on a specific item of furniture) and so I have an opportunity to conduct an experiment to see how commuters view and respond to passengers who need special care and attention.
Although I do not need the support, over the next few weeks I will be travelling with my arm in a sling; mainly this is to provide a very clear indication that I am a passenger with an injury (and I really don’t want to be bashed into and for my recovery to be set back by several weeks) and that ideally I require a seat, since it is difficult to keep my balance when voyaging upright on a high-speed service. Throughout this period I shall be cataloguing the treatment I receive from my fellow rail users. After a month or so I will lose the sling and look for any changes in the behaviour of other commuters towards me.
For what should be both an interesting study of human behaviour and a bit of fun, follow my progress in this blog. You will laugh, you will cry, you will lose control of your bladder, and you will find true love (EDITOR’S NOTE: readers may not experience all of these sensations, although the bladder one is quite likely). Join me as I try to discover whether London’s commuters are as selfish as the stereotype would lead us to believe…
