A few days ago, I took a tumble down the stairs and ended up with a broken arm. The pain was dreadfuleven paracetamol barely took the edge off. But the worst part? Feeling utterly useless.
I thought a stay with my parents in York might helpquieter for them, easier for me. I booked a lower berth on the train since climbing to the top bunk with a busted arm was out of the question. Id just settled in when a woman marched into the compartment. Late fifties, immaculate hair, designer handbagand that look. You know the one. Trouble.
She shot me a glare, checked my ticket, and snapped, Young man, I always take the lower berth. Move.
I held up my cast. Afraid not. Broken arm. Cant exactly hop up there, can I?
She narrowed her eyes. Oh, please! You youngsters have no respect! Im older than youwheres your decency?
By now, a few heads turned in the corridor. Then a bloke in his forties appearedwell-tailored suit, posh watch, the works. Suddenly, it all made sense. She wasnt just after comfort; she was angling for a cosy chat with Mr. Fancy Wrist.
When I didnt budge, she plonked herself next to him, batting her eyelashes like a contestant on *Love Island*. Unbelievable.
Thats when I decided she needed a lessonnot a row, just a gentle nudge toward self-awareness.
I pulled out my phone, hit record, and said, Funny thingIve got all this on video. The shouting, the guilt-tripping, the whole performance. And that badge on your bag? Department for Education, isnt it? Imagine this landing in their inbox with a note about how you treat injured passengers.
Her face went the colour of weak tea.
II didnt mean she spluttered.
The bloke beside her smirked and shuffled away.
Next time, I said, sliding my phone back into my pocket, maybe try asking nicely instead of throwing a tantrum.
She didnt say another word for the rest of the trip. Not to me, not to Mr. Fancy Wrist. Just sat there, thoroughly chastened. Mission accomplished.
