Just after I got off the train with Ms Squeaky this morning I watched a bicycle courier get hit by a taxi outside my office. I double-checked my calendar to see if perhaps I was actually out of synch and today was Friday the 13th.

Got into work today to find that someone had stolen “my” desk (okay, we all work on hotdesks and they’re technically first-come-first-serve, but there’s a sort of unspoken rule that you don’t nick someone else’s desk if they generally sit there day-in, day-out). So not a good start.

Needed to have a client presentation ready for this afternoon, but my new secretary is still learning the ropes. Handed over the presentation for printing and binding — but didn’t realise that I needed to give her more explicit instructions than that. Fast-forward to an hour before the presentation: total pile of crap comes back from our graphics department (honestly, how hard can it be to print and bind ten copies of a presentation?). Sent a junior consultant off in a frenzy to put right what a secretary couldn’t. Kaizen, my ass. This was just-in-time production at it’s finest.

It was all alright on the night, though. The client came in, rolled over and let us scratch his belly. We gave him exactly what he wanted to hear and it looks highly likely that we’ll get the piece of work that we were bidding for. We saw his back leg jiggling — you know, the way it does when you scratch…just…the..right…spot!

So, for me, it was a pretty good day. Despite the fact that it was clearly a shit day for everyone around me.

And it ended where it started. Jumping on the 18:34 train to Dover Priory, I took my seat and started checking my e-mail. Mr. Self-Important-Banker (*not his real name, I suspect) got onto the train boasting a Bluetooth headset and an attitude. About three minutes into his “Buy! Buy! Sell! Sell!” call, he got the same mobile phone treatment as Ms Squeaky this morning.

Morale of this story: hell hath no wrath like a commuter annoyed.

Anyone who has ever travelled on the Tube will know that the British famously travel in silence. Never mind the fact that the Tube train is absolutely full, you’d be able to hear a pin drop over the soft rustle of the newspapers and hushed shuffling of feet.

Travelling on the train is much the same – the vast majority of people on the train are regular commuters, reading their newspapers, working on documents, or checking their e-mail on their Blackberries. Those who travel together may chat quietly, but they’re always aware of those around them. Occasionally mobile phones ring, met with a roll of the eyes from other passengers, but generally callers have moved beyond shouting “I’M ON THE TRAIN…THE TRAIN!” and keep their conversations quiet and short.

I say “generally” because there’s always an exception to every rule. Avid readers of my blog will have already been introduced to Ms Squeaky, the woman who loves to chat on her mobile phone for the entire commute each day. For those who are interested, it appears that she’s now back with her boyfriend, though they’re on shaky ground. But that’s not important – what’s important is that this woman breaks the unspoken rules of silent travel, day after day.

An Englishman is characterised by his endless patience and his stiff upper lip. He’s raised on a lifetime of “mustn’t grumble” and silently and stoically endures the worst that life throws at him.

But every man, even an Englishman, has his breaking point. And when one of his inviolable rules has been broken, he lashes out.

And so it was on my train this morning.

The tension has been building up for several days. One passenger has been exchanging frustrated glances with another. Comments muttered under one’s breath. A collective sigh of relief as we all stepped off the train.

This morning, though, one of our number snapped. After Ms Squeaky made her third phone call of the morning, the gent sitting next to her pointed out just how inconsiderate her phoning was. This was met with cheers from the other passengers. Backed into a corner, Ms Squeaky became defensive and proceeded to assert her “rights” to telephone, and began to call our chap all manner of colourful names. She threatened to make a complaint to the railways authority. She demanded that he stop taking her seat on the train. And she demanded that he stop taking the train all together, as he was too annoying to bear.

It all got ugly very quickly.

I, on the other hand, reverted to that other stalwart of Englishness. I spent the next 40 minutes studying a Powerpoint slide and avoiding eye contact with anyone else.

I’m no fool. The safest place in any battle is beneath the parapet!

It’s been a very exciting week.

Being back in London means that there are chances to see all sorts of famous people. Well, moderately famous people. Okay, to be honest, there’s a good chance to see D-list celebrities, which is about as unfamous as you can be while still remaining recognisable.

Two D-list sightings this week to note: one of EastEnders’ Big Mo, eating sushi at a restaurant in Borough Market near London Bridge, and one of Richard from this year’s Big Brother, getting off a train at London Bridge station. How about that – rubbing shoulders with the crème-de-la-crème sour cream of the showbiz world. How glamorous is my life?

Also exciting because I’ve had the first proposal I’ve written as part of my new job accepted by a client. It’s a very small piece of work that will hopefully grow into something larger, but it’s important symbolically. It feels like I’m beginning to gain some traction and momentum, which can only be a good thing.

I’m beginning to recognise my regular “seat opponents” on the morning train. Particularly annoying is the woman who tends to sit opposite me each morning. She does her entire make-up routine on the way into the office, after which she telephones all of her friends on her mobile phone to catch up on the gossip. She’s got a squeaky, whiny little voice and high-pitched laugh which grate and annoy in an indescribable way (especially before coffee).

She’s one of those people who mistake the words “specific” and “pacific”. I was very concerned to overhear the other day that her father suffered from “emphysem-i-a” (sic). That sounds much worse than emphysema, which is the more common affliction.

Update: this morning my seat opponent (Ms. Squeaky, described above) decided to break up with her boyfriend over her mobile for the whole train to hear. It really was remarkable.

Apparently, she was upset about him putting provis-i-os (sic) on everything.

It’s my second week in the job, and everyone at work keeps asking me about how I manage the long commute. My answer is that I love it. I’ve traded a long driving commute and horrendous M25 traffic jams for the relatively serene First Class cabin of Southeastern railways. My commute takes me just over an hour-and-a-half from door to door, and I can sit back and relax all the way.

There’s normally plenty of space to spread out and work, if that’s what I want to do. I’ve got my morning routine down pat – grab a latte and a newspaper at 6:50am, jump on the train at 6:56am, read the paper and struggle with the Sudoku, and maybe do a little work if I’m feeling particularly productive. I’m at my desk by 8:30 with absolutely no stress.

How do I deal with the long commute? Easy – it’s the most relaxing part of my day!