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I’ve had the mixed blessing of having to go into work throughout the Covid-19 pandemic. I am obviously luckier than some to have a job but that offered me no protection against the envy I felt towards those working from home. As reduced timetables pushed my daily commute to nearly two-and-a-half hours combined with my pre-existing belief that I am more productive working from home I would trek into work, grumbling about work-life balance, as I passed other people taking advantage of their reclaimed travel travel time by going for a run or a stroll.

It was almost inevitable I would start cycling in. First of all with a borrowed Brompton which I’d use to miss a few stations at the beginning and end of the commute as I built up to using my hefty old bike that would creak and groan as I finessed my form and route to get the daily travel time well under two hours. And I enjoyed it.

Even during this summer’s heatwave I would cycle to and from work, taking it a little easier in the morning to try not to get too sweaty but making it a little more challenging on the way home. I would set little goals. Try to stay in higher gears a bit longer uphill, have secret races with cars that could clearly beat me on the straight but had to slow right down for traffic calming. I’d obsess over segments on Strava, usually wondering why it was so slow when I’d felt so quick. It all added to the enjoyment.

When it wasn’t a fair-weather thing, and I found myself opting for the bike knowing I’d have a headwind the whole way or that I’d get soaked in the rain, I felt I had become a proper cyclist. I was just enjoying it.

And then I stopped enjoying it. I don’t know exactly when. But at some stage I realised I’d not had a moment’s pleasure while cycling for a while. It had changed. No longer free and fun, it had become more stressful. The secret races with cars morphed into constant threat assessment. Do they know I’m here? Are they really going to try to turn left just in front of me? Did they really need to pass so aggressively? And the journey got slower as cars blocked cycle-lanes using them to peek out so they could turn, or drove close to the curb preventing cyclists getting to the head of the line at lights. While I optimistically assume that most of this was unintentional, rather than anti-cyclist, behaviour there isn’t much room for nuance when competing against one-and-a-half tonnes of car.

Looking for an upside I only had one incident of abuse, but that’s probably because that’s mainly reserved for women.

It was also quite notable that it felt distinctly worse cycling in Wandsworth (my commute would take in four boroughs). I don’t know if this was something to do with the nature of Wandsworth drivers or the transport policy in Wandsworth Council. My previous experience suggests the latter, although the recent entitled outcries by drivers aggrieved at cyclist-friendly policies might suggest the former has a part to play as well. It was both sad and sadly predictable that Wandsworth, in so many ways a like a discount version of the current government, would u-turn on its attempts at rebalancing streets in favour of pedestrians and cyclists.

I do, of course, get why people would want to drive. Public transport is filling up and might not feel safe. Time tables are still restricted. Buses a split between schools and everyone else. But the pressures on people to get back to work to save Pret A Manger are there. I get that there are a mix of motivations and that while there are undoubtedly some who fervently believe in their God-given right to drive an over-sized 4×4 on narrow urban stress most are probably just doing what they think is right. And perhaps they are, it’s quite hard to know what is right when the current rules are that you should work from home except that you should go to work but never be with more than six people unless there’s money involved because it’s a shop or a pub when you should wear a face covering apart from when you shouldn’t.

It is just another example of mismanagement, both nationally and locally, the pandemic and its consequences. It just feels a shame that having seen so many benefits of a city with fewer cars bring air and noise pollution we are so desperate lose them all. It does, I suppose, just add one more reason why I rather like home-working.

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I’m not sure if it’s fatherhood or personality or opportunity but I generally think that life is pretty good. I may not have everything, but what I do have fills me with happiness. Whether it was the huge amusement MiniMe found in the game we were playing with his cars yesterday, or being able to type this into a beautiful Apple MacBook (Apple machines give joy in a way that PCs and Windows can’t even imagine) there is so much joy and happiness to be found in any life it’s hard to understand why anyone would be miserable.

But recently I’ve been exposed to mass misery during rush hour commutes.

I’ve been very fortunate in being able to avoid rush hours for most of the past few years. I’ve not had to regularly commute into London by train or tube since 2003. Between 2003 and 2007 my commute was a relatively civilised bus-ride to Westminster and a delightful constitutional from there to St James’. Since 2007 my work has meant that I’ve largely been based at home, or my travel can be timed to avoid rush hours, or at least against the flow. But in the past few weeks I’ve not been able to avoid rush hour, so I’ve found myself crammed into trains, tubes and buses with the rest of humanity far too often for my own liking.

Now this isn’t a complaint about train length, under-investment at Clapham Junction or even 20th century working practices in a 21st century world (how many commuters absolutely need to be in their office rather than working remotely) but about people. About you and me. We are the ones creating rush hour hell twice a day, five days a week.

This morning I just missed a train from Clapham Junction, meaning I was one of a few on a platform and perfectly placed at where the train door would stop. But before the next train arrived the platform filled and by the time the doors opened four or five people managed to get on the train in front of me. Somehow they managed to insert themselves into a gap of just a few feet between me and the train door so they would get on first. In what way is this acceptable? Are there any other situations, like the bank or a post office, in which they would – without a qualm – simply abandon manners and shove in front (there at least they would have the advantage of getting served sooner, there is no advantage in getting on the same train a few seconds earlier, it still reaches the destination at the same time).

And then on the train, we all cram together and share looks of such stoney-faced misery it’s hard to tell if we are victims of Medusa or Medusa herself, forcing everyone else on the train to avert their gaze. From the pushing and shoving, to swearing and cursing, the misery of both the commute to work and the commute to home has left me wondering if people are actually happy about anywhere they are going. And watching young and healthy men sat on the tube studiously looking everywhere but the swollen belly of the obviously pregnant woman just inches in front of their faces makes me realise that if chivalry isn’t dead it most certainly doesn’t have an Oyster card.

What I dislike most of all is that I find myself pontificating on it all, like some sort of awful tabloid columnist. (I’ve even wondered if I should give these musings a title, perhaps make them regular, how about ‘Friday Feorising’, just so we have visual and well as aural alliteration?) In a bid to be positive about it I’ve been trying to think where the switch is that turns people from being ordinarily polite, happy people into the rude and ignorant. Is there some stage in the journey at which a small change would make all the difference? I assume many of these people are perfectly happy beforehand, perhaps enjoying a family breakfast, or a pleasant stroll to the station. But somewhere it all changes. Maybe if we could find that switch we could stop it being flicked. Maybe we should all be a bit more like Winkworth’s and start offering free hugs to prevent that descent into collective depression and low-level sociopathy.

Perhaps Winkworth’s are the people with the answer and in years to come they won’t be remembered for their prowess at marketing property, but their contribution to the nation’s happiness. Realistically, I know that pinning my hopes on an estate agents isn’t sensible (it’s essentially saying that I think Foxton’s are capable of being a force for good). Instead, we have to be the ones who make the difference. This is something over which we all, collectively, have control; we are the ones who get on our trains and look so miserable it becomes contagious. We might not be able to directly influence Network Rail’s spending plans and we may be doomed to suffer the effects of Gordon Brown’s PPP on the tube for decades to come. But we can exercise control over our moods and our manners. I’m not suggesting we commute with manic grins, but if we at least avoided the Gail Mcintyre false imprisonment look it would make all the difference.