If Christmas is the season of goodwill then surely January is all about misanthropy. The buses and tubes are in a perfect fug of rage: quite a contrast to last month's, when people happily chatted to perfect strangers, something that only ever happens on London Underground in the third week of December or during the Blitz. Everyone is miserable about being broke, back at work and off the booze.
I'm no neutral observer: having been clouted in the head for the fifty third time by some bloke's rucksack and shoved out of the way by yet another Middle-aged, middle-class man in his unseemly scramble to get to the seat before me, I'm full of temper too.
My train to work is so quiet that I choose to get it despite it taking 20mins longer than the bus.
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