SQUASHED against the doors of the train, heavily pregnant, I notice the man beside me put his whole hand in his mouth, dig around, and then inspect his food-embedded fingernails — wondering how to get rid of the “matter” he’s just excavated.
Stifling my disgust as the train sways me ever closer to his body, I find myself praying silently …
“Please don’t touch the hand railing, please don’t touch the—”.
Now, let me just clarify — while I’m certainly not a princess who expects public transport to be a glorious experience (my regular train is known for its urine-soaked chairs and floors smeared with mud — or was it fecal matter?), my ability to deal with this shit has become more and more difficult the more pregnant I have become.
Especially when men and non-pregnant women take the priority seats.
People have said that men are often too scared of incorrectly-labelling a woman as pregnant, and so it’s easier to say nothing, (is it a real baby, or a pizza baby?) and I get that. But come on; if you see a petite chick with a basketball belly situation wobbling around in the centre of the carriage, is it that hard to offer her a seat? (By her, I mean me).