There’s a series of well-publicised national railway strikes happening in Britain at the moment.

The local commuter railway I work for isn’t on strike, but the national infrastructure provider (signals and track maintenance) is, so we’re running a skeleton service of one train an hour between 9:00 am and 6:00 pm; we usually run four trains an hour from 6:00 am to midnight.

I’m closing my local station after the last train has left. It takes about half an hour to do the books, clean the platforms, and lock the waiting rooms and entrances and exits.

Having done all that, I lock the main entrance and walk toward the nearest bus stop — the strike means even I can’t get a train home! Then, I hear several loud bangs and the smashing of glass.

I unlock the main entrance and rush back in to see the fire exit door almost off its hinges, the window glass from it all over the floor, and a woman using a fire extinguisher to try to break the lock off the doors to the platforms.

Me: “What the f***?! What on Earth do you think you’re doing?!”

Woman: “Finally! I thought you were hiding from me. The doors are all stuck and I’m going to miss my train!”

Me: “There are no trains. There’s a strike on. We’ve got posters up. What have you done? You’ve wrecked the joint!”

Woman: “I know there’s a strike! But my train is at 6:30 and the doors were stuck! Why didn’t you come to help me?”

Me: “The trains are off. There’s a strike. The doors were locked, you mad… The doors were locked. What have you done to the place? Look at this mess!”

Woman: “I asked on Facebook, and my friend said she knew there was a secret train at 6:30, so I’m getting that one. Why were the doors stuck?”

Me: “They were locked. The trains are off.”

Woman: “There’s a secret train at 6:30. My friend on Facebook knows about it because her son’s friend is a bus driver. Why were the doors stuck? You just want me to miss your secret train.”

Me: “There’s no secret train. Even the staff are getting buses home. You’ve caused hundreds of pounds of damage to this station. What’s wrong with you?”

Woman: “You just want to stop me from getting your secret train! It’s not my fault the doors were stuck!”

She starts bashing the platform doors with the fire extinguisher again.

Me: “That’s it! I’m calling the police!” 

Woman: “Call them! I’ll tell them that you’re stopping me from getting the secret train. I pay your wages!”

I dial 999 on my mobile phone.

Me: “Police, please.”

Woman: “Wait! Stop!”

She literally ran away through the main entrance, still carrying the fire extinguisher.

I was there for another hour cleaning up the mess, writing reports, getting copies of the CCTV, and dealing with the police. The station will probably be closed for most of tomorrow for repairs… a day when there’s no strike action.

I’m on my way to work this morning on public transport. A woman about my age — I’m in my fifties — boards with TikTok blasting from her phone. My fellow travelers and I tolerate this for a while, but it starts getting on my nerves as I’ve had a bit of a sleepless night and had hoped to get a few minutes of rest while commuting.

Finally, I turn around and ask nicely:

Me: “Would you please lower the volume on your phone?”

Madame TikTok huffs indignantly and appears to comply, but a few minutes later, she’s at it again. I turn around and catch her eye.

Me: “Seriously?”

This seems to offend her to the very core of her being, as in response she gets up, moves to the seat right behind me, and continues blasting TikTok.

Various scenarios play out in my head, including grabbing her phone at the next stop, yelling “Fire in the hole!”, and chucking the offending phone out the door as hard as I can. But I’m not in the mood to deal with the ensuing police involvement.

Finally, she starts some video in which a young-voiced character named Penny is asked to fetch toilet paper for what I guess is her mother. Madame TikTok quickly scrolls past in search of something more interesting… and I seize the moment.

Me: “Hey, I was listening to that!”

I turn around and look her dead in the eye.

Me: “I was invested in that story. I wanted to hear if Penny got the toilet paper. And now I’ll never know. Did Penny get the toilet paper or not? I need to know!”

Madame TikTok freezes like a deer in headlights and murmurs frantically:

Madame TikTok: “I don’t know…”

And the TikTok fell silent. She and I only had one stop to go, but the blessed silence of those three minutes was exquisite.

I am on a busy bus, and I’m sitting on one of the easy-access seats. I’m a youngish man. An older woman gets on and immediately starts poking my leg with her walking stick.

Older Lady: “Oi! Get up! Those seats aren’t for you!”

Me: “There are three empty accessible seats right next to you, and please stop poking me.”

Older Lady: “Young men stand on the bus! And this is my walking stick! I need it to walk, and I also use it to make my point to young ruffians like you!”

I proceed to remove my entire prosthetic leg and aim it at her.

Me: “This is my walking stick. I need it to walk. Shall I also use it to make my point?”

The old lady’s eyes went wide, and she sat down in one of the available seats and muttered an apology.

The best part was that later on the bus journey, a bunch of old ladies boarded at once, and I made a big show of vacating my seat and offering it to them. The flurry of “What a nice young man!”-type comments increased with the redness of the old lady’s face.

I just lost my grandmother this week. While she was ninety-five years old, she had been doing pretty well until a sudden illness. She has been one of the most important people in my life. She has been the purest source of unconditional love, and it is thanks to her total acceptance, support, and love for me that I made it through some of the most challenging times in my life. Needless to say, losing her has been very difficult. I cried plenty the day she died, but for the last several days, it has been difficult even to eat or sleep, much less cry. I’ve felt in a sort of numb haze.

Today, I took the subway home. I walked into the station just as my train was pulling away. Frustrated and cursing my timing, I started to head into the station to await the train when I heard a busker playing a beautiful classical piece on his violin. Realizing I had nothing better to do until the next train came, I stayed and listened. He played beautifully, giving each note soul. When he finished the piece, I applauded.

Busker: “Thank you! Not many people have the opportunity to stay and listen.”

Me: “Thank you. It’s been… a really difficult week. You made it better.”

Busker: “Next week will be better than this one.”

I dropped some bills in his violin case and headed for the train. When I got to the train, I was thinking about his music and how much Grandma would have loved it. She was the daughter of a classical composer, and she adored classical music. The music felt like it had been a warm hug from her. Something eased in me, and I was finally able to cry. My grief feels tinged with warmth and love now, rather than just totally overwhelming.

Thank you, subway busker. Thank you, Grandma.

A Romanian friend of mine has a job selling food on a train. She walks from one end to the other with a trolley, selling hot drinks, sandwiches, chocolate, etc. She passes this man, who, upon seeing her, starts ranting.

Passenger: “Bloody foreigners, taking all our jobs…

Without missing a beat, she turns to him, reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a business card.

Friend: “As it happens, sir, we have some vacancies, so if you’d like to call the number on this card, you could book yourself an interview.”

Passenger: *Stammering* “Oh, err, well… I’m honestly not really fussed about that sort of job. Er, thanks, anyway.”

Friend: “So, why did you complain about foreigners like me?”

He couldn’t answer her at all.