The Priority Seat: A Social Minefield
I've been catching the train into the city a bit more lately.
In theory, this is excellent.
No traffic. No parking. I can sit down, open my laptop and get some work done on the way.
Very efficient.
Very grown-up.
Except getting work done generally requires one fairly important thing.
A seat.
And sometimes the only seat left is that seat.
The priority seat.
It Looks Innocent Enough
You know the one.
Usually near the door.
Often one of those little flip-up seats that snaps back the second you stand up.
So I sit down.
Laptop out.
Emails open.
Productive commuting has commenced.
Until the doors open.
And someone gets on.
Suddenly I'm no longer working.
I'm sitting a live ethics exam I did not study for.
And So Begins the Assessment
A woman gets on.
She looks maybe older than me.
Or is she?
Is she older than me?
Am I older than her?
How old does she think I am?
Should I stand?
Because if I stand, perhaps she'll think:
Oh, that's lovely.
Or perhaps she'll think:
Excuse me. How bloody old do you think I am?
But if I DON'T stand, perhaps she's looking at me thinking:
Wow. She's really going to sit there and make me stand.
Excellent.
There are now two separate ways to offend this woman, and I need to select one without actually speaking to her.
Because remember:
Apparently, we don't do introductions anymore.
I Never Signed Up for This
There was no training module.
Nobody provided a flowchart.
There wasn't an induction where somebody explained:
Priority Seating Decision Matrix
Age differential greater than seven years → offer seat.
Visible mobility issue → offer seat.
Uncertain → initiate silent competition of vibes and risk assessment.
No.
You're simply released into public transport and expected to figure it out.
And I'm trying.
I'm looking.
I'm assessing.
I'm being socially responsible.
I'm also now achieving absolutely none of the work I got on the train to do.
Then There's Option Three
You decide to stand.
Problem solved.
Except sometimes the person says:
“Oh no, I'm fine.”
Shit.
Now what?
Is it still my seat?
Can I sit back down?
Because sitting back down immediately feels weirdly aggressive.
Fine. I DIDN'T WANT TO GIVE IT TO YOU ANYWAY.
So you stay standing.
But then the seat is empty.
Which raises another question:
Do I still own it?
I've offered it.
The offer has been declined.
Have I relinquished my rights?
Can another person now swoop in and take it?
Is the seat officially public domain?
There are simply too many variables.
And That's Before the Seat Attacks You
Remember, it's a flip-up seat.
Which means the second you stand, it makes a run for freedom.
And if you're wearing the wrong outfit, suddenly your social responsibility assessment has expanded to include wardrobe risk management.
So now I'm juggling:
public transport etiquette,
someone's potential age,
accidental offence,
seat ownership legislation,
and whether this bloody chair is about to take my skirt with it.
I just wanted to answer an email.
I Have Developed a Strategy
These days, if things start looking complicated, I simply stand near the door.
Casually.
Like this was always my plan.
Oh yes. My stop is next.
It isn't.
My stop might be another seven stations away.
But nobody knows that.
And standing removes me entirely from the assessment.
No age calculations.
No awkward seat offers.
No wondering whether I've just insulted someone.
No possibility of losing my skirt to an aggressive piece of public infrastructure.
Just me.
Standing near the door.
Living a lie.
Maybe the priority seat isn't really a seat at all.
Maybe it's a social experiment.
There are no instructions, no training module and no possible way to know whether you've passed.
Just vibes.
Risk assessment.
And a flip-up chair quietly waiting to expose your underwear.
Play at your own risk.
