An open letter …

… to the man who sat next to me on the train this morning.

Your bag does not get a seat.
It doesn’t matter if there was a spare seat when you sat down, your bag doesn’t get a seat.
It doesn’t matter if you fully intended to move the bag if someone indicated they wanted to sit where your bag was sitting, your bag still doesn’t get a seat.
It doesn’t matter if your bag was carrying the crown jewels, or if your bag is your best friend and you take it everywhere with you and call it snookums, your bag still doesn’t get a seat.
No matter how many right-on ‘make poverty history’ bangles your bag might have been wearing it still doesn’t get a seat.

It’s a bag. This was rush hour. It has a perfectly nice luggage rack to sit in. Or it can sit at your feet or, if you want it to be really comfy, on your lap. It doesn’t get a seat.

And it especially doesn’t get a seat on the seat opposite me so that it looks as though I was the low grade moron who thought their bag should get a seat.

There. I hope that has cleared up any confusion that may have arisen.

Yours faithfully
Disgruntled Commuter


10 responses to “An open letter …

  1. Excuse me, would you mind moving your bag please?

  2. yeah but that would have involved speaking

  3. No I was asking you to move your bag. It’s very rude of you to leave it on the seat opposite you. Tsk!

  4. Whenever I see a bag on a seat, I simply remove it using a controlled explosion. Perfectly justifiable in this day and age.

  5. it is isn’t it? And the wierd thing was he had to specially lean over to put the bag on that seat. Very odd. Like he was trying to pin the blame on me

  6. sunbeam – but there’s never a controlled explosion around when you want one… sounds fun though

  7. You could also just have been equally rude and put your feet up on it…
    See his face!!!

  8. On the bag I mean, obviously

  9. obviously.

  10. My father travelling as a young man on a train through the black north wishing to sample the locally reared Yorkshire Pudding in the Dining Car left his bag on his seat. On his return to his compartment he found a large Tyke sitting in his seat and the bag tossed onto the luggage rack. Seeing that my father was inching towards disgruntlement the Yorkshireman hastened to eplain ‘ Round Here, me lad, Bums not bags keep seats’

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