Pass the Leggings please.

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Pass the leggings please.

It’s a Thursday and you’ve just been rammed into like you’ve stumbled into a football match and are attacking the defensive line. The tunnel you’re walking down is overcrowded and you have the unfortunate task of walking the entire distance of Clapham Junction or as I like to think of it, the station most likely to suffer a ‘one under’ when you least need it.

One more push by a disgruntled commuter hits as you clench your fists you stop to wonder, all these suicides… are they jumping or were they just pushed?

The tension is rife, you’re one in what feels like ten thousand, you look down, you carefully chose these tights and this dress because really you wanted to wear your new gap swing dress and your workmen boots but figured that would be either too hot or too inappropriate for work. Now however you feel trapped by the static polyester and the brogues you choose because they supported your feet without burning you in the spring commuter heat that permeates once you hit golden hour and are crammed up against six identically dressed business men.

You are tired because you commute four hours a day and explaining that walking one more step is too much falls on deaf ears but as you stand in your static mess wondering, did I put make up on this morning? You can’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe if you had just put on your leggings this morning and called it a day than maybe, all this fluster could have been avoided.

So please, pass the leggings. Commuting’s a bitch.

I listened to Coldplay, Shiver on Spotify when I wrote this, I feel it suits! 

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