Whilst commuting yesterday I spotted several people who might have been lugubrious, a couple of folk who were soporific, still suffering no doubt from the delayed effects of the New Year celebration, and one person who looked a bit peeved, but I completely failed to spot anyone who looked remotely furious.
Keen to establish the extent of the financial ruin that was sure to be mine when my new monthly pass has to be renewed, I stopped at the ticket office in my home station last night.
“How much will my ticket renewal be?” I politely inquired, holding back a flood of righteous outrage.
“Two-hundred and seventy-three pounds,” came the answer. There was a slight pause while my brain stalled the outpouring of vitreol in order for thought processes to engage briefly.
“That’s ten pounds cheaper than last month!” I pointed out.
“That’s right sir,” rejoined the man in the ticket office, “some prices have gone down whilst many have gone up.”
You could clearly hear the hiss of escaping bile from the collapsing balloon of my wrath. One less furious person for the newspaper headlines.