It wasn't often Sally managed to get a seat on the train home. Hers was the semi-fast to Ramsgate, spending forty-five cramped and unpleasant minutes snaking through suburban London and the Kent countryside before the first stop, Sally's home town of Chatham. After Chatham, of course, there would be plenty of room. Ramsgate residents probably spread over several seats, but for her it was standing room only all the way.

Others chose to sit on the carriage floor in the space by the doors, a freebie newspaper making do as rug, but Sally hated that. The floor was grubby, and the newspaper print would mark her skirt, for all they said the print was smudge-free now. Besides, if a man chose to stand in the vestibule, she always felt her head was uncomfortably close to his groin, no matter how far away he stood.

Gone were the days that men would offer their seats to a member of the fairer sex, which was a jolly good thing, too. Women were, at the very least, men's equals. But it wouldn't set the movement back a hundred years if just once some man would move his greedy, fat arse off his seat, would it?

But sometimes, especially on a Friday, there would be a spare seat. Friday was POETS day, when several companies allowed their employees to Piss Off Early, Tomorrow's Saturday. Even more employees sneaked off early in defiance of their firm's wishes. So on a Friday, some of the regular commuters had already left on their sojourn home, leaving Sally a chance, if she used her elbows and dirty looks to effect, to beat her fellow passengers to the luxury of a seat to sit on.

Today was one of those joyous days, when the price of a train ticket entitled her to actually sit down on the journey. But first she had to get to the seat. Why, she asked herself, did some people insist on taking the aisle seat when the window seat was free? Worse, they affected not to notice you when, laden with laptop bag and tottering on heels, you stopped at their seat and looked pointedly at the empty, Sally-shaped void beyond them.

"Excuse me," she said, in her see-how-polite-I'm-being-when-you-deserve-a-good-kicking voice.

The thirty-something office boy opened his eyes and begrudgingly stood. It would have been so much easier for him to shuffle over and let her have the aisle seat, but he had presumably laid claim to the chair in some primitive male ego thing. Sally squeezed across and sat down, arranging her bag in the least uncomfortable position on her lap.

The suited stranger flopped back into his seat, his close proximity to Sally an almost physical pressure. She glanced at him under cover of searching for her trashy paperback. He was sweating slightly, the unhealthy sheen of his skin setting off the wet-look hair that was gelled in a style that would have suited him ten years ago. For a moment his chest rose and his chin dropped, as though he were going to burp, or, more likely, up-chuck.

Wonderful, she thought. The only free seat in the carriage and I'm stuck next to the drunk. She shuffled in her chair, trying to move as close to the window as the cramped conditions allowed, whilst at the same time not appearing to do so.

He must think he's something special in the city, she thought. She could see him in her mind's eye, going down the wine bar with his city mates at lunchtime, all lads together, making inappropriate jokes at the women and throwing glasses of wine down their necks. Why did male bonding consist of seeing who could be the biggest arsehole?

What if he threw up? The thought made Sally nauseous. What if it was worse? What if he wet himself? Drunks did that, sometimes, didn't they? How could she get out of her seat, shuffle over to the aisle, without becoming contaminated?

The train lurched, then pulled away into the evening. Only forty-five minutes, she thought. Forty-five minutes, and then she could get off. Fifteen minutes after that and she would be home, where she could drown the experience in a hot bath. Life shouldn't be like this, wishing the minutes and hours away until you could be alone. Life should be enjoyed, not endured. Sally repeated the phrase to herself. It sounded like one of those things you read on inspirational posters, or at the end of an ad for sanitary towels. She briefly fantasised about a fresh new job as a creative copywriter for a trendy marketing company. But it would still involve the purgatory of the commute. Best the devil you know.

The drunk grunted. Sally glanced at him. His head lolled back, his eyes closed. How many relationships would ever form, she wondered, if they started by seeing your prospective partner asleep? Not the Hollywood, hair halo'd and perfectly made up sleep, but the dribbling, snorting, medusa-haired sleep real people had.

Sally stared at the page in the book, eyes running over the words but not comprehending their meaning, lost in her loathing of the sub-species homo commuticus.

Someone had an MP3 player on full volume. A sibilance with all the annoying qualities of a mosquito whine: incessant, irritating, and impossible to ignore. What was it about public transport that made people's manners disappear? Surely polite, civilized behaviour was even more necessary when people were compressed into so much luncheon meat to be transported? Sally looked around. Half the people in the carriage wore earphones. She couldn't locate the offender, so she settled for giving the carriage in general a dirty look.

The scene outside the window changed to trees and fields. Thirty minutes; she could last that long. Couldn't she? The urge to stand and scream, "We shouldn't have to put up with this!" was almost overpowering.

The drunk's mobile phone rang; an annoying, tinny version of 'I'm too sexy for my shirt.' Oh, puhlease! A blind granny wouldn't find him sexy. The too-sexy drunk slept on. What did she have to do to have some peace and quiet? After ten seconds Sally wanted to rip the phone from his pocket and scream at the caller, "He's not going to answer! Give up!"

Eventually, the mystery caller did give up, drunk office-boy oblivious to the life-changing opportunities that might have awaited him had he not got too wasted to answer his phone. Sally enjoyed a brief malicious fantasy, Mr I'm-too-drunk-for-my-shirt discovering that, if only he had behaved at lunchtime, if only he had stayed sober, he would have been able to accept the job offer he had always dreamed of. Instead, disappointment and his own boorishness resulted in the loss of his job, his friends and all that he held dear. He would die an early death, mourned by no-one.

Fifteen minutes. Dear God, could fifteen minutes pass any slower?

To Sally's horror, he slumped slowly sideways, his arm pressing up against hers. She felt dirty, violated. Slowly, as if she wasn't actually doing anything, she returned the pressure, trying to push him back upright. Instead his head dropped onto her shoulder. She glanced at his slick hair. She would have to wash her coat as soon as she got home. Then disinfect it. Then burn it.

She lifted her shoulder, trying to push his head back. What if his head just rolled off, his body collapsing so his face fell into her boobs? She reached up with the hand furthest from the disgusting man and clutched her coat closed above her cleavage.

She looked across to her fellow passengers, seeking moral support. On the other side of the table they seemed immersed in their newspapers and books. Their faces were a picture of studied disinterest, but Sally could tell that deep inside, where no-one could see, they were smirking at her. Schadenfreude was invented on a train journey like this. The bastards opposite were enjoying her plight, gleefully thankful it wasn't them.

She shoved harder, jerking her shoulder up in an attempt to catapult his head away from her. This time it worked, and his head lolled the other side, towards the aisle.

Sally could feel the sweat-and-gel stain on her shoulder. It seemed to soak through the coat, into her blouse and onto her skin. She shuddered. Would just one bath be enough?

The outskirts of the Medway Towns filed past the window. There was a God in heaven after all. Her nightmare was almost over. She put her unread book back into her bag and performed her twice-daily ritual of checking she had everything: ticket, keys, purse, bag securely zipped shut. As the train rattled over Rochester bridge she coughed loudly. The drunk didn't move.

"Excuse me," she said.

"Excuse me," she repeated, loud enough for other people in the carriage to look up. Entertainment was sparse on the regular journey, and any diversion always attracted a surreptitious but appreciative audience.

Oh-God-Oh-God-Oh-God, she was going to have to touch him. Gingerly, she prodded him with her fingertips, trying to have the most impact with the least physical contact.

"Excuse me, can I get past, please?"

Rochester station rolled past. Two more minutes and it would be Chatham.

People were openly staring at her now. She felt her cheeks burn, though none of this was her doing. She had every right to want to leave. It was him that was the cause of the scene, but he slept through it all in drunken oblivion.

What could she do if he refused to wake up? What if he stayed there until Ramsgate? What if the station staff there thought he was something to do with her, that they were a couple, and could she please take him home?

She grasped his shoulder and shook it. "This is my stop. Can I get past, please?" She phrased it as a question, but the tone was a demand.

The train slowed as it drew into her station. She shook his shoulder hard. "Move!"

He refused.

"Get out of my way, you drunken bastard!" she screamed, and shoved against him with all her strength. He fell forward, his head turning as it came to rest on the table. His sightless eyes stared up at her from a deathly-white face.