Non-interventionalist, non-direct-action revenge is, apparently, sweet

OK, so I wrote my post on Sunday about annoying people and how much I want to rant at them but dont. I focussed particularly on someone who ignored the Correct Way To Queue at the cash machines at Brighton station, among others

On Monday, nothing happened, save the heart-thumpingly loud-ear-budded lady who gets on my train sometimes getting on my train.

I thought the same thing again as I thought the last time. In fact, I thought the same thing again today, as she sat there, oblivious to the dozen people squirming and wincing and wishing she would suddenly fly off her seat and spontaneously fall out of the window.

I thought:

How hateful are you? How oblivious and ignorant and hateful? And also, how careless? That is TOO LOUD, and surely not just for me, or for all these other people, but surely for you too! I hope you do damage your hearing. I hope that you go deaf, and that – no, no, no, I dont. Thats wrong. Im using the notion of deafness in a pejoritive and negative way and I DONT hope you go deaf, because I like the deaf people I know Far, Far more than I like you.

I hope you have a Bad Day. I hope that something Really pisses you off, and it turns an all right day into an at least temporarily crappy one. Because thats what youve done to me. It would be karma.

Of course I thought nothing would come of it, of the post, the curse, the karma.

I was wrong.

This morning, I queued again for the cash machine, as I listened to my train being cancelled over the tannoy, by a mechanical, automated voice who personally apologised for the inconvenience (another bugbear, by the way, elucidated on by My Beloved, here).

Two of the three cash machines were out of order. Seventeen people queued for the other one.

Suddenly, a man, oblivious to the line of grumpy train-people, oblivious to the rest of the world around, strolled past the queue, up to the front, past the front and wandered up directly behind the woman at the cash machine, and waited for his turn.

I said nothing.

Ten people, however, shouted the man down. Nine commuters, and one charity poppy-seller (who frankly I suspect was just up for a fight anyway. His badge said poppy-seller, his demenour said cabbie). I just stood there while they vented around me – THERES A QUEUE! ARE YOU STUPID? Dont you know how a QUEUE works? Eh? EH!?.

The rage he had sparked was amusing to watch, clearly alarming to him, but assured me that people do have exactly the same urge-to-explode expressed in my last post and the comment box adjoining. Which made me feel a bit smug.

Of course, that small-smugness turned out to be nothing, compared to the big smug of the journey home

BACKGROUND

On the train in the morning, the lovely birthday journey of my beloved and me, his birthday companion, was pretty much made grumpsome again by the lady with the STUPID LOUD MUSIC (who was sitting eight seats away) going TSCH-tukka-TSCH-Tk-Tk-TSCH-tukka-TSCH. All the way from Croydon to Mystop. Again.

She gets the same train every morning, on at the same carriage and as much as I have tried I simply cannot remember to avoid that carriage when Im getting on that train. And also dont see why I should.

But my god, its not just me. You cant believe how loud this music is. And how completely oblivious she is to it.

Some people you can shame into fucking-turning-it-down by visibly singing along to what theyre listening to. Not her.

Anyway.

CUTTING BACK TO THE JOURNEY HOME, LATER.

I ran down the stairs, glanced at the board, glanced at the time;

Every thing I saw signified that the train sitting at the platform at the time my train was supposed to be on that particular platform was, in fact, my train. I ran onto it.

Everyone who generally gets on that hometime train got on it too. The man with the nice smile, the kind-looking lady who looks like that actress who was in that thing, and a bunch of other people. And the woman with the STUPID LOUD MUSIC. She got on the train too. We all got on, and sat down.

Then there was an announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, this train is the delayed blah-blah-blah oclock, to Wimbledon, calling at Abunchofplaces, Butnotbrighton, Orcroydoneithernowyoumentionit, and Someotherplaces, terminating at Milesfromyourhouse. Sorry, Wimbledon.

All the people I recognised as needing to get my train (and I) got up and jumped off the train.

Apart from one.

She didnt get off the train. Because, you see, her music was TOO DAMN LOUD, and she couldnt hear that she was on the wrong train.

And she was too oblivious of the other human beings around her to realise the connotations of the fact they were all jumping off the train shed just climbed aboard alongside them. She stayed on the train, looking at us funny, but not moving an inch.

Last time I saw her, she was heading off down the wrong train line, annoying the people of another commuting tribe. And I was standing, smiling on the platform. Quietly enjoying my non-interventionalist revenge.

Im a bad person, I know. But its karma, I tell you, karma.

My name is Earl.