Commuters are depressed

I read some research today that concluded that people whose daily travel exceeds fifteen minutes are more depressed. I really hope the people who did this research were not paid to reach this conclusion as any one of the millions of people who approach the tube each morning and evening could have worked that one out for free. I won't amplify on the usual stories of rude people, bad mannered people, people who sneeze over you and wipe their snot on their jeans, people who ogle you, people who won't give up their seat for a pregnant woman or maintain a studious obliviousness to a less mobile person who gets on a busy train and clearly needs a seat. Instead I will relate to you what happened one just one commute, my commute home this evening, as a sample of this source of misery. I descend into Charing Cross station. It stinks of pee. Someone walking past the entrance I am descending into, flicks a lit cigarette end down into it, and it hits me on the side of my hair, singeing it slightly. En route into the tube station I pass a man with straggly hair, unkempt clothes and a beer can. Hallo sexy, he mumbles at me, dribbling slightly. I head for the ticket barriers. A man cuts in in front of me. A man behind attempts to tailgate me, thus avoiding having to pay for his fare. I thump him with my elbow (a maneouver I have spent years honing. Plenty of experience. That's the key). I walk down the escalator. Politely, I encourage a tourist to move out of the way so I can complete my walk down. I head through the tunnel.  A registered busker is blasting Phil Collins covers with an untuned electric guitar. I narrowly miss my train, the doors of which shut uncompromisingly on my nose. I walk up the platform to await the next. A mouse scampers over my feet. Then another follows. They disappear under a bench with fragments of crisp packet in their teeth. The next train arrives. I get on it. The only seat available is next to a woman in a mini skirt and boob tube, eating a chilli dog. The man on my right is listening to music with crap headphones so we all get to critique his musical taste. The train crawls from stop to stop without explanation. We get to my station. Hundreds bundle out. People coming down the stairs knock against people going up. It is pouring. I tap my Oyster card against the Reader but it isn't working. I retrace my steps, go to the ticket office, get my card checked. Back to the reader. Tap the card. It works. I walk up the station exit past an unkempt man clutching a beer can. Hallo Sexy, he mumbles. Commuters are depressed. Are you surprised????