Commuters are a strange breed. I say that with due humility because I am one, but I like to think I'm not a typical commuter by any means. For one thing I'm just a little under six foot tall which is high for a woman. I'm big built too, muscle not fat, on top of a skeleton that usually earns the descriptor "Big Boned", and with a figure that has been described as "curvaceous". So I stand out regardless. Rather than seeing this as a thing to avoid, I capitalise on it. I'm coffee-skinned and have that tight frizzy hair that goes with having at least one African somewhere in my ancestry. But I bleach it to a sort-of butter yellow and keep it buzzed off to a number 1 length.<br/><br/>This alone gives most people the clues they need. On top of that I tend to wear bright colours, reds, blues, yellows, oranges. I don't wear white much because it's too pure, too virginal. I do wear black, but only if it's skin-tight and shiny or covered in spangles.<br/><br/>Compare this to the average commuter: Grey or dark blue business suits, blow-dried hair, neck ties for the men, often pony-tails for the women. Of course there are exceptions but they are few and far between.<br/><br/>The other thing about commuters is their behaviour. Always polite, always saying pardon or excuse me as they jostle each other and push just those extra few feet into the railway carriage. But the ones sitting down, they have the longest journey and got on when the train was still mostly empty, and they will never surrender their seats, not to an old person, not to a pregnant woman and definitely not to another commuter - old folk and pregnant women and parents with young kids shouldn't be travelling at peak time, is how the commuters see it.<br/><br/>And woe betide anyone who sits in "their" seat! They sit (or stand) in the same place day after day, read their paper or book, or sleep, some eat breakfast (although that is frowned on by the rest). Smoking is a thing of the past of course, but you can always tell the smokers, usually chewing on a pen or something.<br/><br/>And no-one says anything to anyone else. Not a word. Except for the odd "excuse me" as people try to move into the little space that's left. Everyone is pressed up against everyone too. Most people keep their hands to themselves of course, but I did once catch a hand groping my thigh. I may or may not have broken his finger, but he won't do that to me again.<br/><br/>But that was the thing, he didn't even yelp as I twisted his finger all the way back and I said nothing too. I'm certain that, if I were to try groping someone, that nothing would be said and I would probably get away with it. Grope a man? Ugh, no. Didn't the hair tell you? I'm as butch as they come. And there's this cute little brunette who gets on at the stop after me and always tries to stand near me, probably because she thinks she'll be safer that way. She's a bit of a dork to look at, but she's not one of the mindless conformist sheep, at least her clothes are pretty.<br/><br/>So, there I am, back to the far-side doors, that won't open until we get to the terminus, and then only if we're on the wrong platform. I'm wedged nicely into the corner facing the doors that will open, with at the moment enough space around me to move. My back pack is on the floor between my feet, where I can get at it if I need to.<br/><br/>The train slows into the last station before the half-hour long run into the terminus and I look eagerly to see if my intended target is there waiting on the platform as the doors slide open with a soft hiss of compressed air.