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—”.

Too late.

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).

Click here to keep reading. 

Even when Jas Rawlinson this obviously pregnant, she didn't get offered a seat on the train.

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