Do you remember that scene in Sex and the City when Carrie Bradshaw is striding down a New York street and is enraged with the world after being dumped. On a post-it. By Berger?
When she gets bashed into by a rushy,k rude bloke in a suit and screams 'oh you're so busy, you're sooooo busy!', for all of NY to hear while looking furious but fierce in white top, miniskirt and heels?
Current commute. (Sans heels and mini).
This morning I lugged a colleague's birthday present, a gym bag, a parcel to return, a tennis racket and my bulging handbag from East to South London, like an urban donkey.
For any other poor souls being made to traverse Waterloo station each day to atone a former life sin, you'll know too well it is utter bedlam between the hours of open to close.
I got barged into, tutted at, had my handbag knocked off my shoulder at least three times and overtaken by efficient, snippy women who meant business with their minimal totes and distinct lack of sports equipment. I bumbled along and perspired and put one load down at regular intervals to welcome blood once again into my fingers.
It took all my willpower and etiquette not to do a Carrie and stand in the middle of the heaving Waterloo concourse and shout out 'you're so busy, you're sooooooo busy' like a banshee.
Instead I persevered; wiped the perspiration from my brow, picked up my load and soldiered on. And swore at each and every one of the rude f*ckers under my breath.