British people.

We're hilarious. 

As a race, a rule seems to have emerged among us over time that means we're not allowed to talk on public transport. Even when you're not in the quiet carriage on the train, you find yourself giving foul glares to the bloke on his phone at the end of the carriage going on and on and on about what he's having for tea that night. Mate, we don't care that you're having peas with it. Honestly. 

It's the one time we're even close to being rude, in our thoroughly British way of course. Lot's of huffing and puffing and bustling around. 

But I do think the silence rule has gone a bit too far. It means that if you ever are sat next to anyone and you attempt to start conversation in a friendly and neighbourly way, the recipient looks at you as though you are: a) a stalker, or b) about to axe them. 

I mean, I was on the train yesterday on the way back to Newcastle and I was at a table seat with two other people (which is difficult enough, what with the under-the-table foot-placement politics and all...), but then the train jolted forwards and someone's lunch from the overhead locker came flying out and hurtled down on top of us. And even as I made a timid "ooh" as a bottle of Sprite came plummeting down and cracked me soundly on the head, not a word. The bloke next to me calmly retrieved the sandwich from his crotch and put it on the table. Not a single word.

Good grief.