It was hot .The train from Stansted had been badly named Express. The tube line to Wimbledon was predictably crowded. After graceful, green Umbria, mechanical,airless, competitive big city transit was a bit of a culture shock . As we got on the tube I saw a seat. My hip would not be under pressure. I moved smartly. As I bent to sit a young boy slipped under me and took the place. Yo.
I glowered. He lad looked at his parents, they nodded and smiled, he could do no wrong. I glowered some more. The parents smiled,arched their eyebrows and gave a continental shrug, the boy smirked. It is some decades since indulgent parents taught their children that anyone took precedence and respect for the elderly was part of a civilised code.
However, across the aisle a smart black man in a suit saw the problem, got up and offered me his place, which I took.
So I sat opposite the young boy and I saw above his seat the Priority Sear-Disabled, Elderly, Pregnant-sign. Some of which I qualify. I caught the Tourist Parents eye, pointed to the sign, and they, taught to obey written rules immediately instructed their boy to get up. They offered the seat to my child bride. She hates being more than one centimetre away from her luggage so she declined. The seat was now empty, which it remained for the four stops until Earls Court. Here a bank of tennis fans got on, old and young. It was once again a youngster who got the Priority Seat first.
On leaving the train I thanked by benefactor. I felt a tip would be inappropriate.