I’m not normally a mean person. In fact I’m really quite pleasant and mild mannered. No, really I am. What? Do you want to start a fight or somefink?!
Yesterday afternoon I was riding the tube to my gym in Bank. Even though it was a bank holiday and the carriages were fairly busy I did manage to get a seat next to a young woman who was sat next to her husband who in turn was holding their infant sprog on his lap.
After a couple of minutes of my being sat there the mother turned her head towards me. While at this point I wasn’t looking directly at her I could just about see that she gave me the briefest but filthiest of glares. Then she stood up and moved across to the other side of the carriage and sat in one of the empty seats where she did several eyeball rolls and head nods in my direction for the benefit of her husband, who probably hadn’t understood why she had moved.
As soon as she moved I knew that the reason was because the volume on my iPod was up too high. While I like to listen to my music loud I also know how annoying it can be for other passengers on the tube, so usually I’m good about turning it down especially when it’s busy. But yesterday I just forgot. Either way, in this instance I’m sure it suited her just fine to make such a dramatic statement by refusing to sit next to me rather than politely asking me to turn it down, which I would have done. So I didn’t particularly feel the need to do her any favours. And she was kind of ugly, anyway. And her husband was a weed. And he was wearing socks with sandals. I guess you could say that they weren’t exactly commanding my respect.
For the rest of the journey – a good six or seven stations – the bitch literally could not stop staring daggers in my direction. Every now and then she’d stop and turn towards her husband and the two of them would lean in towards each other and mutter something conspiratorially. Then she’d stare at me again.
By this point I wasn’t feeling in the least bit charitable and any tiny notion I may have been toying with, that I may have kindly turned down my music, was thoroughly put to bed. Instead I projected an outward look of complete indifference. I smiled sweetly and looked around the carriage as if I was just a really happy soul, thoroughly jolly from listening to Bruce Springsteen crooning over shattered dreams and the stench of soul destroying failure in the redneck heartland of small town America. Because everyone knows that there is nothing more annoying than being supremely pissed off with someone when that person looks like they couldn’t give a shit.
Now, while all of this was going on I was also munching away on a rather yummy Starbucks Oatmeal and Raisin cookie. When I’d finished the cookie I rolled the wrapper up into a ball and absentmindedly plopped it on top of the air-con vent, behind my seat.
Eventually the train started approaching Bank so I hopped up and made my way past bitch face and her short, painfully thin husband and sprog and continuing with the “I’m a bit vacant” airy expression I waited by the doors.
After a second or two of standing there I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that the husband was mouthing something to me. So I took out my headphones. “Sorry! I couldn’t hear you. My music was too loud!”
“You forgot to pick up your rubbish,” he said, pointing in the direction of the screwed up paper bag.
Before I continue with this story let me explain to you my personal approach to littering. First, I never ever litter in the countryside – not ever. This is, amongst other things, because I worry that a squirrel or an antelope might accidentally choke on my abandoned Coke can and die.
In urban areas I almost always hold onto my litter until I can find a bin to put it in. For a long time there were no bins anywhere on the underground system because of the threat of the IRA hiding bombs in them. But these days there’s not a really legitimate excuse as there is usually a plastic bag tied to a pipe or something (classy).
But occasionally, if it’s something like a small, empty, rolled-up, brown paper bag that has only ever been in contact with a relatively innocuous cookie anyway (i.e. not still containing the carcass of an roasted, seasoned chicken) I won’t really lose any sleep over leaving it behind. Perhaps I should, but when did English Heritage designate the Northern Line an area of outstanding natural beauty?
Back to the father's comment - clearly he didn’t really care about the littering element in this instance but was just making some passive/aggressive statement in relation to my loud music.
I looked down the carriage at the small rolled up brown paper bag and nodded, “Oh yeah!” And then I rolled my eyes as if to say, “I’m such a forgetful clutz!” So I set off back to my seat, retrieved the offending item and walked back toward the door.
And I really was going to take it with me. Really I was. But as the train pulled into the platform and the doors slid open I heard the hateful, evil hag quite audibly say to her husband, “Some people!”
You…fucking…uptight…bitch, I thought to myself. I casually turned around, looked her straight in the eye, held my arm out and dropped the paper bag right at her feet before giving her the most insincere parting smile (think cute Japanese school girl – konitchiwa!). As I finally stepped off the carriage I hear the mother semi-yell “Asshole!” at me.
“No. I’m a clever asshole,” I yelled back through the passengers getting on the train. “You two are just regular assholes.”
I know what you’re thinking – that I was actually a bit of an asshole. But here’s what I say to you ... they pissed me off!!!
However, I learned my lesson. I will never listen to my music loudly on the tube again and from now on I will always take my litter with me.
*sulks*
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