The late Pat Robson wrote a song about his journey to work. I had the words from him at a concertina weekend.

THE COMMUTER.

Commuting to the city, by the early train,
On a weekday morning, what a bloody game.
Every seat is taken, the toilet packed as well,
Standing room is crowded, it’s a sort of mobile hell.

Someone right behind me, another at my side,
They got on at Winchfield, welcome to the ride.
More squeeze in at Brockwood, another comes from Fleet,
He’s standing just in front of me and treading on my feet.

It’s costing me a fortune to join this daily crush.
I stand here uncomplaining, the early morning rush.
Never in my lifetime have I found a vacant seat,
But the train has been repainted and it really looks a treat.

Not much else has altered, the train gives several jerks,
Pulling out of Woking you can almost see in spurts.
Walton, Hersham, Esher, then Suburbiton,
To pick up other suckers for whom life is not much fun.

Then it’s on to Clapham, where more come squeezing in.
Somewhere a kid is yelling and kicking up a din.
In the end we get there and people fall out fast.
Now the toilet’s empty I can have a pee at last.

Down into the subway, standing all the way,
Getting to the office, trying to make it pay.
When the day is over, what a bloody curse,
I’ve got to face it all again, but this time in reverse.