**Bridging the great train class divide

I am standing, jammed against the toilets of a packed and sweaty train from London to Bath. It is a Friday evening. There are at least one-million people on this train, only a handful of them sitting.
“Look at them,” I think. “Sitting with their smiles and their laptops and their Guardians. The bourgeoisie. The so-called ‘Elite.’”
I shake my head in disgust. It’s all about who you know on a train like this, I think. And about booking a seat in advance.
Perhaps, though, I am the lucky one. For I am one of a small group of people standing in the cold, jolting section between carriages, and I am part of a brotherhood. We have camaraderie through our suffering. We are the proletariat. We may not have seats, or warmth, but we have spirit.
And then, for the fifth time, a man bats me in the face as he turns the page of his newspaper and I realise that, really, I’d rather have seats and warmth. He doesn’t apologise. His eyes remain fixed on the sports reports. His paper is two inches from his face and one inch from mine. I am in real danger of receiving severe paper cuts every time he finishes another supplement.
Someone opened the window somewhere outside Reading and now it won’t shut. A large man has jostled me into straddling the section of the carriage that twists and gives as the train rounds bends. I am essentially snowboarding.
A feisty young woman barges through my section of the crowd, swearing at us under her breath, as if standing there deafened by the screeches and groans of a too-old train is a lifestyle choice. We look away, ashamed, blaming ourselves for being a burden, sorry to have bothered our masters. Twenty minutes later, she barges back through the other way, holding a can of Foster’s and a baguette, and swearing again.
I try to find someone’s eye. Enough is enough. Perhaps we can start a revolution. Perhaps those seated buffoons are not better than us. Perhaps we can rise up! But no one meets my eye.
“Where’s the camaraderie?” I think, looking around me. “Where’s the spirit of the Blitz? We’re just outside Swindon! Here, if anywhere, we need the spirit of the Blitz!”
But there is nothing. I strain to look down the still-rammed carriage. The feisty woman with the Foster’s has sat down with a grunt. And then I notice…she is alone! The feisty woman is now alone! She wasn’t before! There is a spare seat! Someone must have got off at Reading!
I wonder whether this is my chance to make something more of myself. To do something with my life. To join my betters. To sit down for the last part of the journey!
I cast my eyes around the brotherhood. Their eyes are fixed on the floor, or on their newspapers, or on the ceiling. They have not seen!
“I will do it,” I think, and I break away.
The small automatic door opens, and I can feel the eyes of my former brotherhood fixed on the back of my head, looking at me with hatred and envy. And then there are the surprised and panicked eyes of the already-seated. “What is he doing here?” they seem to be thinking. “Who are you, traveller, who dares enter our world?”
But I press on, exhilarated. I steady myself on the seats as the train judders, taking care not to hold on to them for too long, lest I anger my superiors. And then I am by the feisty woman’s side. Her Foster’s is open and there is a small piece of tuna on her lap. So this is how the other half live!
“Excuse me?” I say, a little too quietly. She does not look up. “Excuse me?”
She is sitting by the window. But I see what she has done. She has placed a small handbag and a light windbreaker on to the seat next to her, as a kind of clever shield. Her plan is impressive. By putting those things there, she thinks I will think they are an actual person. Or a strange shield which means she can’t see me or even hear me. But I will persist!
“Excuse me,” I say, louder, and this time she looks up.
There is no getting out of this one. That’s her lightweight windbreaker. That’s her handbag. It’s the same bag she was carrying when she bought her Foster’s and baguette!
“Is…er…is someone sitting there?” I say.
She looks at me. I look at her. I smile.
“Yes, there is,” she says, and goes back to eating her baguette.
I am stunned. Of course there’s no one sitting there!
“Sorry?” I say.
“No problem,” she says.
No! I was not apologising! And yet somehow I’ve…apologised!
I turn, shamed, and begin the long walk back. Those seated in the warmth look satisfied that my efforts have been rebuffed and go back to their Dan Brown books and style magazines. “No matter,” I think. “I will return to my rightful place, my head held high. I will return to my people!”
But I see that someone has already taken my spot. Now I must stand, embarrassed, next to the automatic door, where I will constantly set it opening and closing.
The man with the sports pages looks at me, smugly. I am an outcast. I have betrayed the brotherhood. I stare at the back of the woman’s head. At Swindon, she gets off, taking her windbreaker and bag with her.
The man with the sports pages waits a moment, and then takes her seat.
I stand all the way to Bath.