What I do for Fashion - The Commute

What feels like not long ago, I wrote a piece about my fear of working out what to do with the rest of my life. Well friends, the rest of my life has arrived, in fact I'm nearly two weeks in. Whilst I was pleasantly sweating by a pool in the South of France it hurtled onto the horizon with alarming speed. I quite literally stepped back on to English soil and into the office.
I've got a job an internship at Rupert Sanderson shoes. It's not a career just yet, but it's in the right neck of the woods: it's fashion and I'm in. I do have a job title though, 'Press Assistant', and I've even been left to man the Press Department alone this week so that must mean either my boss is really stupid or they actually think I can handle it. And she definitely doesn't seem stupid, she's actually very nice. I've been dealing with J-Lo's people, US Vogue, and discreetly fobbing off less reputable looking publications who want to borrow some £&*%$" (very pricey) shoes. So far no major disasters, but I'll keep you updated. At this early stage I don't think I could pass enough comment on the job itself, perhaps I'll save that till after (statistically) the quietest working week of the year is over and I have to deal with some more high octane stuff.
Something I can comment on though is the daily commute from Haslemere to Green Park. I can't afford to move up to London on the £100 a week RS puts into my account, therefore I've moved back into the nest. I want to write backwards, because the other night I had an argument with my mother at 1am over the fact I was still up watching Made In Chelsea (I've tried to stop but it gets me every time), when for the last three years I've lived independently. It felt like I was a moody fourteen year old all over again; that same irritated tone creeping into my voice. I must point out that I'm very grateful that I'm getting paid anything, since in fashion there isn't much money going around at the bottom. I'm also very grateful that my parents live commutable distance from London, as otherwise the big smoke wouldn't necessarily be on the cards at all, but I cannot wait till the day I am earning and living in the city.
Until then, I must grin and bear the commute, which I am already starting to loathe. Every morning is a battle with myself as I struggle not to fall asleep on the 8o'clock to Waterloo. I'm aware that's a civilized hour for most normal working adults, but I've only just stopped being a student who lived by their own personal clock. I suppose I could just let myself fall asleep, but whenever I give in I either find myself with my mouth gaping wide and drooling slightly, or I have accidentally rested my head on the suited man next to me. Yes, this has actually happened and it wasn't romantic at all. He'd clearly just had a morning cigarette and was about a billion years old. At supper my father asked me if I couldn't work out a way to prevent my head lolling or opening my mouth. I whipped out my best fourteen year old death stare to go with my irritable tone of voice, "perhaps if I carpentered a neck splint Dad?"
The other dilemma I'm facing is trying to read on the train. I had thought I might go back and read the Katherine Mansfield short stories I skipped over last year, but I'm embarrassed by the annotations all over my copy; I really don't want anyone to think I'm still a student. Also whenever I start reading I fall asleep, and as advised by my father I am therefore avoiding it. I could find another book...but I'm still finding the idea of reading for fun makes me feel guilty after the last three years. The only reading I can manage is the Metro and The Evening Standard. After living in the student bubble, I'm finally aware of what's going on in the world, reported by these bastions of high quality journalism. My must read so far is the Metro's 'Rush Hour Crush' section, sandwiched between the much less pressing news on terror and international outbreak of ebola. I read it for laughs, obviously, slash in desperate hope for the appearance of my prince charming, everyday. JOKING - they're all geriatric businessmen on my train.
While there are countless things that grate on my nerves (not mentioned thus far are coughers and men who think they deserve all the legroom) there is also plenty of amusement on the Waterloo-Portsmouth Harbour line if you keep your eyes peeled. I got the last train home after drinks with a friend, and my carriage was deserving of a David Attenborough narration. Everyone had clearly had three too many, I'd say I'd had maybe one so I was still able to intelligently observe. The office-wear army were either sleeping heavily, rolling into each other, apologizing down the phone to the lift giver waiting up for them, or making that awkward drunken chat that is full of sarcastic and cringey banter. I got dragged in to taking a photo of a man and woman who realised they had a mutual friend in common and wanted to let him know at 12.30am. Well actually, she was "Dave! I love Dave's!" boss, and he was Dave's housemate from uni. She did that awful, um, poking your tongue through a peace sign pose. I'm not sure how much authority she'll hold over Dave in the office now he's seen that. I suppose it might have traumatised him into submission. There was also the woman who sauced up not only my journey home but the man across the aisle's. As I stood on the 6 o'clock, rammed against the others who'd failed to find a seat, I noticed she was watching something on her iPad. It looked pretty average, until one naked woman approached another naked woman in the shower and it all heated up ten notches. Bravo to this commuter, she's got some balls to watch that kind of thing on a South Eastern, middle-class commuter belt. The man across the way was innocently turning over the page of his paper when said-scene caught his eye, and I do not exaggerate when I say he practically fell into the aisle as his eyes a-gogged at the excitement unfolding before him. I so wanted to embarrass him but then I thought why deny him this small moment of joy on the sweaty, squishy journey of hell?
It's a journey I must continue to make everyday, but hopefully it's helping me go places - not just geographically but career-wise, duh. As I gradually adapt to the routine, and give in to wearing trainers on the tube, I'm hoping I'll manage to go to a clear space in my mind where I can shut everyone else out, and maybe even tuck a few literary classics under my belt once I can stay awake past more than two stops. I just hope that once I adapt, it won't be long until I have to adapt again to something new. Then I can watch tele way into the wee hours to my heart's content.

 Photo - Teen Vogue