Picture the scene…

I’m sat on the end seat by the door on the Vicky Blue, steaming towards Brixton. The train pulls into Victoria station and like all others I share the carriage with, my eyes are fixed to my phone, rows of heads buried in books (or a Kindles these days –  I ask, what is wrong with a book? They still work: Pages, check. Words, check. Cover, half check as sometimes missing or damaged but not essential for reading pleasure, check. (Kindle, I rue the day of your conception.  Amazon, a curse be in both your houses.) Of course not forgetting those looking very intently at the Evening Standard or any of the number of free media  paraphernalia that is thrust in our direction at every opportunity. Arhh, the social etiquette of the underground.

So a guy gets on with what looks like a broken arm, and here’s where the issue arises.

There are no more seats available:

Do I…

a) ignore the fact he has what looks like a broken arm and assume he’s fine?
b) ignore the fact he has what looks like a broken arm and feel terribly guilty that I haven’t asked if he’s okay standing?
c) ignore the fact he has what looks like a broken arm & feel mortified when the train jerks suddenly and he goes hurtling down the centre of the carriage landing face down in another man’s lap?
d) do not ignore the fact that he has what looks like a broken arm and offer my seat and feel utterly humiliated when he declines and everybody in the carriage joins him in giving me that, {head shaking} “tut tut, are you stupid? It’s a broken arm!” look?
e) hope that c happens so I can join the rest of the carriage in doing our best impression of a pack of hyenas?


Chewing over my predicament. Heart wrenched, “what do you do in this situation?” (Answers on a postcard.)

There I was mulling over my answer, beads of sweat running down my forehead and as the train pulled into Green Park, I had made my decision. The train came to a stop. I looked up at the casted commuter only to watch him exit.


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