'Excuse me please, would you mind moving your bag so I can sit down?’ I asked.
He took a slug from his can of lager, looked me in the eye and said no.
Picture the scene: the London Underground, steaming hot, a crowded carriage, a long day spent in heels, and a spot of sciatica. Before me was a muscular, able-bodied man, probably in his twenties. I didn’t ask for his seat. I politely asked for his suitcase’s seat.
I thought he was joking. But he looked at me, unsmiling. ‘What, really?’ I queried. ‘This is a priority seat for luggage,' he told me. He was on a priority seat for inconsiderate oafs.