So, today I was running late.
This was due to a number of problems, primarily the Today program, which woke me up at 06:30, and then was worth listening to until 08:00, whereupon I leapt out of bed (actually, leapt off of futon. My bed was taken away at the weekend) and turned it off. Then I had breakfast, checked my e-mail, checked my bag, and left.
I left for work. I arrived at the station at 09:00, caught the next train to London a couple of minutes later.
I arrived in Paddington at 11:00.
Normally it’s a half hour journey. This one was delayed because someone decided to throw themselves under the train.
Now, I can sympathise. Life sucks. Everything goes downhill, nothing is given to you unless it’s to cause pain when it’s taken away again. All is blackness, all is darkness, all is hell.
But why destroy my day as well as yours? So you’ll be on the news? Big deal, you aren’t going to be around to see it, and I expect four thousand people cursing your existence is a terribly good way to bolster your options in any afterlife you’ve got planned. I can’t imagine how the driver of the train that killed you feels. It’s such a distressing, pathetic but above all selfish way to end your life. I don’t know your name, I don’t hate you, I – gods willing – never met you, but your decision means that I’m going to be working late tonight – because I’ve got a deadline tomorrow – because I was unacceptably (My standards, not theirs) late for work and I don’t have time to deal with this right now because I have to pack my entire life into little boxes so it can be shipped away at the weekend. When am I going to do this? When I’m at home and not cooking, showering or sleeping, which gives me… ooh, about two hours before Saturday. I have no time as it is, and the fact you are wasting two hours of it with your stupid rebellion against the world at large by taking it out on a few thousand commuters and day-trippers is not going to make it any easier.
If you’re going to commit suicide, do it on your own time. Your time is valuable – so is mine – and I don’t (anymore) believe that anything is worth killing yourself over, but just because I have more faith in your life than you apparently do does not mean I should pay for your inability to count your blessings.