I've self-diagnosed...it's pushedontraintrackophobia

Life of a commuter

It's not unusual to walk head-on in to somebody; or to run down the platform with the train, chasing the nearest train door; or spray deodorant on yourself to cover up somebody's awful body odour at risk of choking your fellow passengers. And it's certainly likely that people will scour at you across the carriage when you land yourself the jackpot...a seat! 

Yes, commuting has a plethora of personal rules, aggravating instances and, more annoying than anything, fellow travellers. I've still not come to grips with the fact people want to travel at the same time as me...it's just rude, right?

Power-walking at 35mph, trying to dodge a speeding ticket (aka collisions with fellow travellers), through the train station you're faced with several problems - the majority down to people who don't know where they're going (they shouldn't even be allowed in the station), dawdlers (who think, when your train is leaving within the next 39 seconds, it's OK to block the escalators) and ticket checkers who decide to interrogate either me or the person before me WITHOUT FAIL every time I'm in a rush. NOT OK. 

With my blood pressure through the roof, every gland on my body swollen with stress, I find myself on a platform with only enough room left to breathe out the carbon dioxide my body's just cleverly converted within. And as we all see the train approaching the platform, our instinct is to step forward towards the edge of the platform. BEYOND THE WHITE LINE. Palpitations. 

AND THATS WHEN I GET THE FEAR. 

Every day, at risk of losing my head, I stand with my toes over the edge of the white line because everybody knows you get nowhere in life holding back. I can't help but imagine, each time the train nears my square metre of the platform, that somebody behind (somebody with fewer loose screws than my neighbours 97-year old, alcoholic gran) is about to push me down on to the track. And in that second I'd be over. My life would be done. Bones spread up Piccadilly and my belongings free to anybody witness. 

It's like a phobia but I'm not sure if it's only me who has sleepless nights over it. It'd probably be called something like pushedontraintrackophobia. Well it probably wouldn't. It'd be called something much more digestible and 'cleverer' than that. If anybody was to write a book on that, you'd need a novel just to write the title out. 

When I'm finally on the train, on my seat which I feel fully deserved of after risking my life like that on the platform, it's often a case of perching and hugging your belongings, taking as few breaths as possible along the way (because people don't understand the concept of showers and deodorant), until you hear the words 'we will shortly be arriving at...'. And that's when you feel ecstasy. I imagine if feels a little like being released from prison. Probably. 

And I forgot to mention, I'm unsure how as I'm currently sat dodging them, the thousands of white fluffy things flying round the carriage. Yes I sound crazy. But I feel like they've got it in for me. As if it's not bad enough they fly in my face at every opportunity, attacking my every body part, but as I lean side to side and forward and back to dodge them, my fellow commuters stare on as if I have a problem..

So with my pushedontraintrackophobia and the problem that all the other passengers go and home tell their families I have, I'm a bit (a lot) of a travel fail. 

I wasn't born to commute. And if it has to be done, I wasn't put on the earth to ride economy. Not even a snob... 

All aboard the peasant wagon. 

We fell in love in a hopeless place

It's going down...I'm yelling TINDER.

You've probably heard of Tinder - or you may have not...in which case I beg you to tell me where you've been hiding the last couple of months. 

For those of you pulling the 'I don't know what you're talking about right now' face, the only way I can describe it is by saying it's not a dating site...a dating app. But it's not your typical Plenty of Fish or match.com type of app. Tinder is set up through Facebook which means it can access all your contacts and their contacts and their contacts. And so on. 

Signing up to Tinder you may be horrified to learn the object of the 'game' is to judge people on their face value. YES...those values which were drilled in to us since we spoke our first word, of not judging books by their covers, are all completely irrelevant when it comes to Tinder. But it's ok. I can assure you. 

So logging on to the game you are presented with the profile photo of your first 'candidate' so to speak and you decide whether to swipe left, for a bit fat nope, or right, for a lovely 'I would'. 

Only when both you and your chosen candidate have agreed to each other - I'm still not 100% sure what were agreeing to, and it's often a pretty controversial agreement - will you show up as a match in each other's side bar. AND then you can speak and start making the agreements and conversation...but often you'll find a sarcastic and un-witty ice breaker which is enough to make you delete the app. 

You can't access anything more than the name they've chosen to display, the profile pictures they've chosen to advertise and their personally written life blurb below. More often than not, in less characters than a tweet. 9/10 times you'll find comments similar to 'because god couldn't be everywhere' or 'swipe right for the best night of your life'. Because all girls enjoy talking to an obnoxious pig...right?

What you can see however, and this is the biggest flaw in the entire thing, is the mutual friends you have. And it doesn't take Einstein to work out if I go on my mutual friend's friend list and type their first name...I'll be presented with their full name, full photo album (providing their privacy settings aren't reflective of the MI5 accounts) and life story across Facebook. And if I really wanted, I could inbox them regardless of which way either of us swiped. 

To go on a dating site at 21 is a bit like putting yourself on the shelf, but not being on Tinder is socially ignorant. It's oh so 2014. Of course, if you're in a long-term relationship it's not advisable. Or short-term, I'm not sure why I only specified it was unacceptable to go hunting talent if you were signed up to somebody on a long-term basis. I'm clearly neither. 

I guess it can be argued that Tinder is only an app, for fun, and focusing on the face value of potential victims (yes, victims) keeps it light hearted as oppose to a dating site which offers in-depth information about a person. But what I did forget to mention is that Tinder tells you exactly how many km you are away from the person at that exact time. Pretty scary stuff if you're sat on a train and it reads 'less than a km'...do look up before you swipe any which way because you could have yourself an awkward moment developing! And there's no quick escape from your carriage. 

I know a lot of people, many of whom wouldn't dare meet somebody off a 'dating site', who've met up with several people from this so called game - Tinder. Apparently the catfish thing isn't a concern, nor is the issue of being kidnapped. The fears of dating sites are absent here - is it something we should be worried about?

Tinder's got a lot to speak for itself...a sex-agreement platform (yep!), dating site, and how-shallow-are-you-game. Maybe you did find love on Tinder - you can fall in love in a hopeless place. But it is only a game for most people...

So I guess I'm on the game...(NO dad, not that type of game). 

The blogging game

While I see blogging as an art of writing, I strongly believe it's passion that's responsible for the words. 

Some weeks, as you may have noticed, I can post a new blog each day, however others I struggle to post any at all. 

When I feel passionate or angry or happy or any kind of emotion for something, my brain comes alive. I can only liken the activity of my brain to a shower head; with ideas spraying from each opening and drowning my mind. 

Actually, my brain is a lot more useful and intellectual (I like to think) than a shower head. But you understand my theory, right?

I suppose what I'm trying to say is, as a hobby, I only write when I feel passion because I find a passionless blog post is as pointless as a perforated umbrella.