Like children with chocolate cake, we are all experts of division. We know in an instant how big something is and how much of that we deserve - or rather, how much is fair.
On trains we are conscious of the space around us. We become experts in estimating the number of travellers in the carriage, dividing by the total number of seats, calculating exactly how much space we are entitled to. Four seats per person. Then, at the next stop, as people get on, two per person, and so on.
We distribute ourselves equally over the given area, like sprinkling hundreds-and-thousands across a birthday cake, careful not to clump too many together. If there is an empty set of seats, we head directly for that, and then as next choice, somewhere where there is an empty spot between the intended seat and the next person. We try to keep our distance. We each parcel out the available space into deserved allocations. We snarl internally when someone invades our space, breaks the rules of division and distribution that exist only in our heads.
This morning, the train from Willesden Junction to Olympia was about half full. The train originates at the Junction and so is always empty when I get on, with a handful of people evenly distributing themselves across the three carriages. Usually, there’s enough room for one block of seats - four or five - per person, which is exactly the amount of personal space you need in the mornings. Occasionally, it gets a bit busier, and that personal space is forced to shrink to two or three seats per person - which still means there’s no-one sitting next to you, so that’s ok.
This morning, however, I took a window seat in a block of five spaces, and after a moment a woman sat down opposite me. And then, weirdly, unthinkably, breaking all the cultural, invented rules of social space and even distribution of bottoms, her boyfriend sat down next to me - diagonal to her, but not next to her, nor in the empty seat to his left, nor in the four empty seats across the aisle from us.
Four glaringly empty seats. Untouched by human bottoms. Empty. Inviting.
I glared at them quietly, unable to concentrate on my book, feeling crowded in. The couple talked loudly in Polish at each other, across my field of vision, and I felt invaded.
At which point, I wondered, would it be ok to get up and move to the empty, inviting seats across the aisle? I only had one stop to go, barely five minutes’ travel, and it would seem churlish. Would it be polite to ask them to move - they, after all, had every right to sit wherever they wanted - and if the train had been full I would barely have noticed. But the emptiness of the train combined meant that my parcel, my allocation of space had been invaded, and it just felt wrong.
I stayed in my seat, boxed in by the window and the loud couple, thinking about space invaders, and waiting for my station.
