The Great British Commute
After eight years of working from home and studying, you’d think nothing could faze me. I’ve battled legal textbooks, wrestled with footnotes, and survived caffeine-fuelled deadlines. But nothing, prepared me for the adventure that is…
The Great British Commute.
Starting my new job, I knew the commute was going to be a challenge, four hours a day, including a combination of trains, taxis, and the odd sprint. But what I didn’t expect was just how much material this journey would provide. Forget reality TV, the British commute is where the real entertainment lives.
Let’s start with taxi drivers. I’ve developed a real appreciation for these everyday philosophers. They’re the first human interaction I usually have in the morning, and despite the early hour, and the ever-climbing fare, they often greet me with a warm smile and a simple, “How are you today?” It’s such a small gesture, but after years of working alone, it feels genuinely human and grounding. The conversations are wonderfully unpredictable, some chat freely about everything from football scores to foreign policy, while others ask what I do for a living. Mentioning the word "law" can go one of two ways: either they lean in with interest and start discussing a parking fine they’re disputing, or complete silence as if I’ve just confessed to being a tax inspector. Both responses equally as amusing.
Then there’s the train station , a daily battleground where the lines between chaos and choreography blur depending on how many delays are flashing red on the departure board. It’s an anthropologist’s dream and a rookie commuter’s training ground. There are the regulars, gliding effortlessly between platforms with the calm precision of migrating birds, knowing exactly where to stand before the train even rolls in. Then there’s me , somewhere in the middle of the fray, still figuring out which train I’m meant to be on and wondering why they all appear delayed at once.
Delays, cancellations, platform changes , they’re not really inconveniences anymore. They’re just plot twists in the unfolding drama of public transport. And oddly, there's comfort in it. There’s something deeply British about locking eyes with a stranger across the concourse as the display board flashes Delayed, both of us letting out a silent, synchronised sigh and thinking, “Of course it is.”
In truth, my experience hasn’t been too bad, most of my outward journeys ran relatively smoothly, and if I had to pick one leg to be delayed, I’d rather it be the return. But what’s made it tolerable, even, at times, enjoyable, is the people who keep the whole thing ticking. The station staff have been unfailingly friendly. Whether I’m lost, asking about a sudden platform change, or just checking if the next train’s still running, they always seem happy to help. The ticket checkers, too, especially the morning crew, deserve a special mention for somehow managing to be chirpy before sunrise, a feat I’ve yet to master.
Lessons From the Commute
Through this commuting chaos, a few personal lessons have emerged:
Patience is not optional. You will wait.
Always pack snacks. You never know if the ‘next service’ will arrive in 5 minutes… or 50.
Carry an emergency book or podcast. A four-hour round trip offers plenty of time for unexpected learning, or people-watching, if you forget your headphones.
Closing Thoughts
Despite the early mornings, the delays, and the occasional train seat that feels suspiciously damp, there’s something strangely enjoyable about all this.
My favourite part of the commute, my little ritual upon arriving at the final station. A bacon roll and a latte. Simple, comforting, efficient. Well… at least, that’s what I thought. It turns out, I’ve been living under a rock. Standing in the queue, I’ve heard orders so elaborate they sounded like spells from a fantasy novel, “iced, oat, vanilla-infused, caramel macchiato mocha, extra drizzle.” I mean, what even is that? The order took longer to say than it did to make. And when it arrived? It was the size of a shot glass. Honestly, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Here I was, thinking my latte was indulgent, turns out, I’m practically a minimalist. Welcome back to consumerism, I suppose.
After so many years of studying solo, I guess it’s good to be out there again, experiencing the hum of daily life,
Sure, the commute is expensive (eye-wateringly so), and I’m not planning to do it forever. There are better uses of my time and budget. But for now, it’s been a unique kind of adventure, one filled with odd little rituals, overheard stories, and moments of unexpected kindness that remind me the journey, as much as the destination, has its own merit. And beyond the jokes, there’s a small reminder tucked into every journey: after years of hard work and uncertainty, it feels good to be heading somewhere with purpose.
Until next time, may your trains be on time, your taxis plentiful, and your commute stories even better than mine.
