What is it about commuting that we allow ourselves to occupy space – or lack thereof – that we would normally balk at?
A friend commented the other day that riding the bus rather than the tube, because of yet another strike, felt no more safe since she was wedged against the window with all manner of humanity between her and the exit.
Why do we subject ourselves to very very close proximity to strangers; enough sometimes to count hairs in nostrils and measure – with handy calipers – pore size and likelihood of diabetes?
When people travel in the bible there is mention of custom and mores, of social interaction, but these are journeys of days, weeks and months duration, not the hour it takes to traverse the Thames.
At what point did we decide that allowing ourselves no space to breathe was a constant and not a variable?