Sweaty Betty

Cycling into Battersea in the morning has opened up a bit of a commuting dilemma for me. Take this morning, when I got into the station to see that the Weybridge train was running late and if I sprinted I could catch it. No matter that the next train was a few minutes behind it and the Weybridge train is short and crowded whereas the next train is long and generally spacious, the first rule of commuting is that if you can catch the train, you do, because it may be the last one you see. Once on, though, I realised I was a little – erm – warm from the 20 minute cycle (enlivened by a lorry deciding that the bit of the roundabout in Battersea that I happened to be cycling on was the very bit of the roundabout that it too wanted to be on, right now, forcing a bit of nifty acceleration from my part) not to mention the sprint up the stairs and I hadn’t had my usual five or so minutes cooling off time on the platform. If it’s true that ladies merely glow, then I was glowing buckets with visible circles of glow under my arms, and even a few droplets of glow across my forehead. Mmm. Bet you all wanted to visualise that of an evening

So I walked up the train looking for a seat but the only seats available were in the middle of the three-by-twos and would have meant wedging myself in between the shower-fresh and dandy looking commuters who were all giving me that fixed look of horror that plainly said ‘Lord, I hope she doesn’t sit next to me’. In the end, someone got off at Clapham and I was able to perch myself on an outer seat and glow away quietly to myself without bothering anyone. But what would you do? It’s not as though they’re going to be installing showers in Queenstown Road station anytime soon – unless, of course, the mysterious Miss Havisham wills it should be so.

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