So yesterday I led a popular revolution, albeit only a small one in which no blood was shed and no martyrs were created.
My train into work was packed, standing room only long before it even reached my stop. By Clapham Junction we were squeezed in like the proverbial sardines and I was being pressed hard up against the door into First Class.
So I announced (as I once heard a driver do) that I was decommissioning First Class because of the crush, and I pressed the button for the doors. There was a 'whoosh' as they opened and I was literally propelled into the compartment by the pressure of bodies. Unlike the madness of the main carriage, First Class was quiet, calm, and air conditioned. As I recovered myself and walked further in, several other members of the proletariat followed me while the fat businessmen with their expensive suits glared up at me from their comfy seats as if to say 'how dast you invade our space, peasant – get back out there with the rest of the rabble'.
It was a very English revolution, though – when a seat came free in First Class at Vauxhall, none of us sat in it. We didn't have First Class tickets, did we?
Bookcrossing news: as
So there I was, leaping from my desk and scurrying around Liverpool Street, shivering in the freezing cold, in search of a book that I already owned a copy of, left in a public place by a total stranger. I will admit to wondering whether I was barking mad at one point.
But I found the book, stood up next to the rack of sugar and stirrers in plain view of everyone with a huge note on it saying “I'm free, I'm not lost“.
So that was good.