Hello, my name is Laura, and I am the Post Traumatic Commuter. I live in a lovely little town called Esher in Surrey, England, and I work in the equally lovely South Kensington in London, England. In order however to get to my place of work I must undergo the very unlovely ritual of ‘commuting’, the physical movement of my person by various mechanical methods, none of them pleasant, and none of them cheap. The tiny square of pale yellow card that calls itself my South West Trains Gold Card annual season ticket is the most costly item I own. Replacing it if I was to lose it more than once would bankrupt me. Thus, my friends, one would have to have a heart of stone not to laugh on learning that the word ‘commuter’ comes from the American system of offering reduced or ‘commuted’ tickets to rail passengers travelling from the outskirts of American cities to their place of work in the 1840’s.
Commuting is the bane of my existence, and if it were not for the seven hundred or so pigeons who depend on my commuting and for my overdraft, I’d pack it all in and buy something like the attractive little croft in the Hebrides that I spotted for sale this week.
The picture at the top is not actually of me, but it represents what twenty years of commuting has done to me.