We’re all busy people. But, if you’re like me, then any space of time can be used as an excuse to read a few pages. From reading on the loo to spilling my lunchtime soup on a few pages (travesty), there’s always a way to get you ticking through your latest book.
As a Londoner, I spend an inordinate amount of time on public transport. It’s bizarre. If someone had asked me, outside London, if I fancied meeting them somewhere that took me over an hour and involved three different types of transport, I’d tell them I probably wouldn’t bother. Here, we cheerfully hop onto tubes in the full knowledge that we won’t even be close to our destination for at least forty minutes.
However, the beauty of that commute? Reading time. No more passive-aggressive shouting at the Audi driver in front of me on the road, I can dedicate all of those tedious minutes spent swaying along on various modes of transport, reading. What a delight. While others play games (yes, I deleted Candy Crush because it was using up too much of my life) or read the substandard freebies that count as ‘news,’ I get to absorb myself in whatever wonderful universe I’m currently wallowing in.
Despite the bonus reading time, there are a few pitfalls.
Well, Jean-Paul Sartre had a point. Not just when you’re in the queue for a coffee, or when you’re already running a bit late (sorry, everyone I know). Nothing dismays the reader-commuter more than the sight of a packed bus or train. Not that it will stop you reading. No, it will just mean that you spend the rest of your journey wedged up against someone’s armpit with your book jammed between your face and the handbag of the woman that keeps turning round and glaring at you. What? I’m trying to read here!
The last time this happened to me I was heading for a bar near Holborn, reading The Portable Veblen. All I had to do was change at Oxford Circus. No problem. Unfortunately, I got so carried away with the squirrel-related antics I completely missed my stop. The next time I looked up, I was almost at Victoria. I swore, leapt off the train, had to go back two stops in the other direction, before then getting my connection. Needless to say, I was more than late. This is also a problem on the commute to work, but more because I’d much rather sit quietly reading a book than go to work.
This is a tricky one. Obviously, London is a city full of rich and varied people and experiences, and pretty much anything goes, up to a point. I was reading A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing on the bus, just around the time she heads to a new city, and well, it was all a bit graphic. I became very aware that a nice lady (about my mum’s age) was sat next to me, quite possibly reading every word. I’m pretty sure that even if she couldn’t see the print, the horrified rictus of my face probably communicated that the content wasn’t exactly pleasant. Perhaps try something less provocative if you like meeting new people on the way to work.
I wouldn’t usually buy the hardback, but it was a Christmas present. And yes, I could have waited until I got home to read the next bit, but I didn’t want to. Lugging Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life around for the best part of the day was not exactly what my shoulders needed. By the time I got back home, Jude had been through some pretty tough times, but so had my muscles.
So, if you haven’t tried the wonders of being a reader-commuter, trust me, it’s worth it. Soon you’ll find your book pile going down much quicker than when you could only squeeze in a few minutes before bedtime. Sure, you might have sore muscles and people will be less likely to sit next to you, but it’s definitely worth it.