ick schmick

When you wrestle your way onto public transport and plonk yourself between a heavyset middle-aged European widow and a bearded man with a questionable smell lingering on the remains of his clothing, you forfeit all rights to personal space and any possible level of comfort. There's little that can be done to avoid the wispy cobweb-esque hair of the foreigner seated next to you brushing your forearm, rocking back and forth racked by silent giggles as you glare at their backpack covered in cupcakes and frogs and wonder what could possibly be funnier than throwing them into quicksand. We are (or at least I am) set an Everest on a daily basis, to push thoughts of contracting skin diseases or gastro out of our minds. I am by no means Emma Pillsbury - I live by the 5 second rule - but CityRail is known as ShittyRail for a very valid reason.