I travelled to Bristol and back today; no mean feat! I decided not to take work or a book but a pillow so I could sleep on the train. No chance! Between Wolverhampton and Cheltenham even on the way there at not-much-passed-dawn there were blokes drinking and talking loudly on their way either to races or football... I wasn't sure which.
On the way back I did drift off on my pillow for a short time between Bristol and Cheltenham but as we pulled into Cheltenham a thronging mass of shaven headed drunks surged held back by policemen until the train stopped. They flooded the carriage hooting and jeering and singing and leering. I was so pleased when a muslim gentleman sat next to me; a sober buffer and protector, I thought, against the deafening roars of the drunken crowd as the man behind me thumped my seat in rhythm with their chanting.
The chants soon turned nasty. The bitter aftertaste of yesterday's attacks in Paris left opinion on everyone's tongue. Kill them all! One man shouted. Bring back El Cid! The muslim gentleman next to me leaned forward, his right arm (he was on my left) around his head as if protecting himself. My heart thumped in my throat imagining what I might have to do to defend him if the violence became physical. His coat encroached onto my lap and I thought nothing of it.
It took me a little while to realise that it wasn't his coat. His left arm was reached under his right and he was touching and stroking my lap. I could not believe it. Was this really happening?! If I made a scene there and then he would have been lynched. I firmly removed his hand from my lap and blocked him with my bags but he seemed to keep trying, feeling with his fingers to see if he could find a way through my blockade. I coughed, and shifted as far towards the window as I could, turning my body.
His eyes met mine in the reflection of the window and I narrowed my eyes and shook my head (all the time my chair rocking with the thumps on the back of it) and the football crowds cramming the carriage stood over us. His eyes were full of tears. "I'm sorry" he mouthed to me. I closed my eyes.
I stayed like that. Locked, legs jammed together, personal space blocked down, rocking, deafened for another 20 minutes when they all got off at Wolverhampton. I asked the guy to let me out which he did and he apologised again. I gave him a thin smile and sat further up the carriage. He stared at me all the way to Stafford where we both got off. I was prepared for a further advance at which point I would have probably called for help - but there was none - he disappeared.
I got on a train to Crewe. A different sort of man was on that train. Baby boomer golfers, also a bit worse for wear... better spoken than the previous lot but with similar opinions on muslims. I felt unbelievably sad. One of them didn't participate in the islamophobia - but kept saying "we live in a scary world". Bless him.
Changing at Crewe for Chester I, again, attracted the attention of a group of blokes. They gave me drunken compliments and asked me to sit on their laps. They asked me where I had been and I said working. They didn't ask what I do but I was dying to stand up full height shoulders back like Eowyn and declare my priestesshood. Don't fuck with me little men! But I sat down with my pillow and ignored another man staring at me from down the carriage.
They want something lost - womanliness. I look at the waxed, orange, eyebrows on fleek dolly birds screaming with laughter with their bags of shopping and I feel sad. I look around for the good guys; the sober, heart centred, respectful masters of their own urges... and I feel sad.
And I feel desperate longing to be with my man, Robert, a rare and quirky example of what I think a decent man is. Soft hugs, open heart. Although he's watching the Grand Prix tomorrow apparently. Sigh.
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