Chivalry is dead

‘Excuse me please, would you mind moving your bag so I can sit down?’ I asked. He took a slug from his can of lager, looked me in the eye and said no.

Picture the scene: the London Underground, steaming hot, a crowded carriage, a long day spent in heels, and a spot of sciatica. Before me was a muscular, able-bodied man, probably in his twenties. I didn’t ask for his seat – I politely asked for his suitcase’s seat.

I thought he was joking. But he looked at me, unsmiling. ‘What, really?’ I asked. ‘This is a priority seat for luggage,’ he told me. He was on a priority seat for inconsiderate oafs.

Nothing makes you feel more like an old bag than when a man won’t move his bag for you to sit down.