From A To B Via A Sea Of Neuroses

On the rare occasions that I have a business reason to go into or through Central London these days, I usually do it on my own. In eighteen months of working out in the wilds of Surrey, last Tuesday was the first time that I've commuted with Mrs Hg. It reminded me of how much we're complete opposites when it comes to our attitude to public transport. While I'm not anti-car, I believe that public transport is a very good thing. It needs to be cherished and supported, even if this involves a certain amount of personal inconvenience. Also, I quite like being squeezed in with hundreds of other commuters for the people-watching possibilities that this affords.

Mrs Hg, on the other hand, likes her space and would travel exclusively by taxi if the budget allowed it. I think this comes from our childhoods. I'm from a small, low-key family with no aunts, uncles or cousins. There was little rivalry between my sister and me because of our similar sense of humour but otherwise different outlooks. Mrs Hg is from a huge clan of vibrant extroverts with a labyrinthine assortment of second, third and fourth cousins, multiple times removed. She's the fourth of six fairly competitive siblings, who are collectively much more similar than they'd like to think. Conflict was encouraged by their parents as a way of ironing out differences and thus, predictably, there was much jostling for position.

Jostling for position is pretty much Mrs Hg's approach to public transport. I swear that she sharpens her elbows. Take last week's shared journey, for example. As the train pulls up in the station, she's judging distances and angles, warily eyeing fellow passengers. She wants her seat, she knows that she deserves it and she means to get it. I, on the other hand, am hanging back. Other people are more important, I know this. Who am I to expect anything nice? Comfort is a luxury, standing builds stamina and assertion is anathema. Mustn't grumble.

Once on the train and in my seat (which has usually been held for me by Mrs Hg, who got there minutes earlier and is rolling her eyes at my spineless lack of self-sufficiency), I busy myself with my customary task of occupying as little space as possible. This is an absolute necessity, whether I'm sitting next to friend or foe. I am six-foot-three and painfully aware of the fact that my knees clash with my opposite number and my hulking great frame rubs shoulders with the person next to me. I need to rein myself in, to diminish. It's not that I shrink from human contact, I just don't want to cause anyone else any inconvenience or discomfort. Terribly sorry.

Mrs Hg has no such scruples. Everyone knows that public transport is crowded and uncomfortable, she reasons, so anyone in her vicinity has been pre-warned. She shuffles and rustles, flicking through papers, scribbling with black and red pens alternately and brandishing her highlighter. She constantly returns to her bag on the floor in an invariable pattern of lift, rummage, select and... drop! She's a human dynamo in a carriage of corpses and in this stone-grey crypt I am the most statuesque statue of them all. Turning into the cartoon Englishman, I hiss "Sit still, woman" out of the corner of my mouth, like Basil Fawlty signalling to Sybil that they are in the presence of Someone Better.

We change trains at London Bridge and walking down the platform it becomes clear that my months in Surrey have caused me to forget the basics of public transport etiquette. "Stop talking to me and don't smile," she teases with mock-seriousness, "no one smiles on public transport." I sense a weakness and, feeling bold, spend the next five minutes talking loudly and grinning at her. Platforms might be neutral ground and the carriages are definitely hers, but the escalators and walkways are mine. She strides off and I deliberately follow at snail's pace to see exactly how much of a reaction I'll get when she finally turns round to see me dawdling in the distance.

Within a few minutes, we're on the tube and I'm well aware that my fun is over - Mrs Hg is soon up to her old tricks. She pounces on an empty seat and gestures ostentatiously to me that the one opposite is free. "I'm fine," I murmur. Children are dying in Africa and my taking this seat would be an act of the grossest selfishness. "No, you need to sit down, darling," she insists pointedly. Great, now the whole carriage thinks I have some kind of debilitating illness. She dons her Walkman headphones, pumps up the volume and soon we're all listening to Faithless' Insomnia. He can't get no sleep, you know; I sympathise, because memories of this journey will be keeping me awake too.

What finally brings it home to me that The Most Neurotic Person In The World has married The Least Inhibited is the ghastly hilarity of The Handcream Incident. It emerges during another lift-rummage-select episode. The handcream is in a plastic squeezy bottle and it's almost empty. Lesser women would have given up, but not Mrs Hg. There is lavender goodness in there somewhere and it WILL be hers. She squeezes the tube more and more violently until it becomes obvious that a different approach is required. Arms flailing, she starts banging it against her palm and ten thousand miles away a lone aborigine in the bush pauses for a second, not recognising this strange new vibration. The lavender moves inexorably towards its destiny as Mrs Hg continues her empty ketchup bottle act. Finally, with a "Pfffththt!" of volcanic proportions, it's out. I am on the verge of laughing hysterically, but of course that wouldn't be the done thing. I stifle a barely-controlled giggle and pray for our stop.

Mercifully, we're soon there. We meet up with Mrs Hg's friend and colleague, K, for a brief coffee. I've only ever spoken to K on the phone and I'm pleased to be able to confirm that we do indeed get on like a house on fire. I make a passing quip about our journey and K further endears herself to me by concurring in her delightful Irish brogue that Mrs Hg has "no respect WHAT-SO-EVER for the personal space of anyone around her". The subject in question beams broadly at the success of the friend-husband introduction, though a slight glint of steel in her eyes suggests that I'll be paying for this conversation at some unspecified point in the future.

It's time for them to do the final five minutes' walk to work and I have to find the right platform for my onward intercity journey. The correct train located, I settle myself into my seat, set out my phone, laptop and notepad symmetrically on the table in front of me and sit back contentedly, revelling in the calm, ordered peace of it all. I think back to our parting conversation of a few minutes beforehand. "So, what time does your train get back here?" she asks me. "I'm not sure," I say, "it could be anytime between six and eight this evening." "Well, give me a ring when you're on your way," she replies, "if I'm working late, we can meet up and travel home together." "Mmm," I reply dreamily, "that'd be lovely..."

Posted by Hg on Wednesday 19 March 2003 at 12:38.
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