Alight here for the Piccadilly line, other District Line services, or if you’re about to vomit

Hands down, one of the worst experiences ever is being hungover on the tube. No, let me re-phrase that – being hungover on the tube in rush hour. The first mistake is assuming that dragging your bruised and fragile body onto a train, while focusing on “minding the gap”, is going to be the hardest part. Oh no, it’s not until you manage to locate a pole to cling onto that the real struggle begins.

The first thing that hits you is the wall of suffocating heat, inevitably followed by the heart-wrenching realisation that you don’t have any water. And of course at that exact second, about six people around you retrieve hefty bottles of Evian from their bags. It takes every ounce of willpower to drag your gaze away from the taunt of the thirst-quenching goodness, but you eventually manage it by forcing your eyes closed. Mistake number two.

The second your lids close, the potential for just how sick you could be in the next two minutes is suddenly realised. Stomach lurches, heart pace quickens, and perspiration appears on your already glistening brow. Then your eyes start darting around the cabin like someone on E – frantically trying to decide where exactly you could vomit that will cause the least mortification to yourself and the unsuspecting souls around you; Scrunched up newspapers, empty Dr Pepper bottles, coat hoods, handbags, open umbrellas, even someone’s trainer sticking out of a gym bag - but none of them seem up to the task. Then you catch a glimpse of someone comfortably dozing off in one of the few seats available and quite seriously consider directing it their way.

By this time, the nausea begins to ease, returning you to your former state of frailness and self-pity. Until you make mistake number three – glancing up at the advertising billboards - when images of Vodka, an M&S roast dinner and various fungal infections fill your eyes and you go through the whole traumatic ordeal once again. Of course there is one solace to be found in such a situation; when you meet the gaze of someone clinging to an opposite pole, exchange that unique, pained look that says “I want cry” and feel comfort in the knowledge that you’re not alone.

Proof of delivery

I was tasked yesterday with organising a courier to pick up a small package from Central London at 4pm and bring it directly back to our offices in Putney. Now, without sounding self-righteous I don’t think this was a particularly difficult errand, especially for a company who’ve built their business on such an exercise.

But low, 5.15pm arrived and no package, so I gave them a quick call to check how they were getting on. “He hasn’t picked it up yet I’m afraid” was the answer I received. Fine, I thought, stay calm – I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. “Oh, why not?” I asked sweetly. “Well it’s manic out there at the moment” yawned the girl at the end of the phone, at which point my blood began to boil, given that 4pm is not known for being peak rush hour, even in Central London.

I remained silent and prayed for her sake that she’d go on to tell me there’d been some sort of mini tornado terrorising the capital. “It’s the postal strike you see, every courier in London’s out on the road”. I was stunned. How many couriers could there possibly be in London to cause this much of a delay? And on motorbike!? I was suddenly picturing scenes of chaos in Oxford Circus - thousands of men on bikes wearing branded crash helmets, desperately trying to navigate a sea of transit vans while clasping a fold-out street map in one hand, a mobile phone in the other, and shouting the name of every road they came across in sheer blind panic.

“I can see him on my monitor” she said, snapping me out of my daydream, “He’s still about 25 minutes away.” After what seemed like 100 phone calls with updates on his ETA, I resigned myself to the fact that the attempt was fruitless and swiftly negotiated that they pick it up at 9am on Monday free of charge – mainly because the office would likely be closed by the time he arrived, but also because I’d have to hang around for him to deliver it back and I had an important date with my duvet and an X Factor re-run which I simply couldn’t miss.

Gemma Hamill is still at work

Is it just me or is there something a little bit exciting and almost rebellious about being at work after hours? It’s dark outside, you’re ordering pizza, you can sit on Facebook for as long as you want – hell, something WILD is about to happen up in here!

This discussion arose two nights ago when my colleague mentioned that her favourite time to be at work is the evening. Admittedly I was a little taken aback at first, but after examining the facts the evidence was irrefutable - you can work at a human pace, without meeting alerts and emails from tetchy clients popping up every 5 minutes, it’s the only time you can crack open a bottle of wine and nobody bats an eyelid, the people staying with you are the people you actually like being around and you don’t have to worry about the walk home once you’ve ordered a cab and claimed on expenses. Not a bad deal at all.

And probably the best part about it is that you get to update your Facebook status with things like “Gemma Hamill is still at work” or “Gemma Hamill is over it” – outwardly bitching to your peers and getting sympathy in return, while inwardly thinking “Gemma Hamill is still at work, a little bit drunk and getting nowhere, but doesn’t have anything better to do and is actually quite enjoying it!”

Although I suspect this feeling probably wears off at around midnight, when you realise that not only should you be in bed by now, but that it will be at least another hour until you actually are, and another 6 hours until you have to get up and do it all over again. Luckily, I have yet to experience that particular level of delirium, but surely at this point the only solution is a healthy dose of Lionel Ritchie?

No? Anyone?

And a Diet Coke please

You've been asked to design the layout for a shop inside St Pancras station. You know that this station is home to the Eurostar, therefore you also know that most passengers will be accompanied by a suitcase about half their weight and twice their size. Do you think:
a) We should really widen the aisles to allow for people's luggage
b) Let's make the aisles narrower than usual - people like that uncomfortable, suffocated feeling don't they?

Now, don't be fooled readers. Although common sense might lead you naturally to solution A, the correct answer is actually solution B. "But why?!" I hear you cry. Admittedly, the very same thought crossed my mind as I emerged from WH Smith having spent half an hour locating and purchasing a pack of playing cards which turned out to be designed for the visually impared. But on reflection, I have deduced five reasons behind this apparent lapse in judgement:

1. Being a security guard is boring
And I'd imagine that endless hours of entertainment can be had from watching us struggle with suitcases, while attempting to hide the condoms/sanitary towels/porn that we are trying to buy.

2. To create a moral panic
The Government has hatched an initiative to encourage public brawls in stations, in an attempt to distract the press from the worsening economic crisis.

3. Energy expenditure
The Eurostar's finance department have realised that the more energy people spend lugging suitcases around or fighting before departure, the more of their journey they spend asleep, and thus the less complimentary food they consume. Which equals more money for the powers that be to spend creating mass pile-ups at Waterloo by introducing spangly new turnstiles at every exit.

4. Profit
The clever directors of station shops have realised that no self-appreciating person will spend half an hour of their lives buying a pack of cards and will therefore buy something else as well. This might only be a diet Coke or a packet of Wrigley's Extra, but multiply that by a month's footfall and you've got yourself a nice Christmas bonus.

5. Because they can
Times are tough, and widening the aisles would set companies back a sizeable amount. So they don't. And we wouldn't dream of causing a fuss - we are British after all.

A Walk in the Park

In a somewhat delayed attempt to lose our Christmas pounds, my colleagues and I have decided to take up running on our lunch break. Oh naïve enthusiasm. It was such a good idea in theory.

After successfully executing an elegant and seemingly practised 5 minute warm up, we trotted off along the Thames feeling suitably smug and lifting our chins at passers by as if to say “Yes, you’re right. We are fabulous and successful and always have time to fit an effortless jog into our lunch breaks”.

We set ourselves the goal of running to the end of the path. Really quite achievable. But after about 40 seconds of jogging-smugness, the light-hearted conversation subsided, breathing became more strained and the unnerving experience that is jelly-legs began. The unease was palpable, but we battled on. Until the heavenly, shining moment when one of us turned and said “How about just to the green bin?”

Yes, we may have returned to the office as bootroot-coloured shadows of our former selves, but it was an incredibly valiant effort. And we can only get better. First step green bin, second step end of the path…come Summer we will be svelte, toned and ready for the beach. Or perhaps a well-hidden swimming pool.

Train Etiquette

After over five months of discomfort, delays and debris on the line, I am now officially entitled to a Commuter Promotion. Watch out London; I've gained my blackbelt and have entered the heavyweight category. But as we all know, with promotion comes responsibility. Which is why I am now passing on my pearls of tube-riding wisdom to the more amateur contenders.

After my months of experience, I have now perfected the art of identifying a new commuter in under 2 minutes flat. Such an individual is easily distinguishable to even the untrained eye, for being the person that everyone else in the carriage is scowling at. As one of the more hardened tube-riders, I feel it is my duty to save our newcomers from this uncomfortable fate, by offering up basic train etiquette to aid their camouflage. So here they are, my Top 10 Tips Towards Total Train Etiquette:

1. Talking on the train is frowned upon. As a general rule, don’t do it. But if you must, please ensure that your conversation is audible enough for those with duller lives to eavesdrop.

2. Under no circumstances are you to start a conversation with a stranger, unless fate has joined you together by life-threatening circumstances or mutual suppressed laughter at somebody falling over.

3. Always let passengers off the train before embarking. Appropriate practice for this is to stand close to the train on either side of the open doors, thus allowing riders to exit through the centre. If you do not abide by this rule, you have no grounds on which to convict a person for unintentional trampling or a handbag to the face.

4. Leave the carriage exactly as you found it. If you need to open the door to enter the train, it is imperative that you close it again once you have done so. This is particularly important in the Winter months, when a door left open for longer than 32 seconds can cause shaking, frostbite, hypothermia, or all of the above.

5. Know the traffic congestion at your stop. At stations such as Wimbledon, Earls Court or Victoria, where tube lines cross, around 95% of the carriage will be getting off. DO NOT try to anticipate this by pushing your way to the doors before the train has stopped. Wait patiently and silently until the herd begins to move. Don’t worry, you will get off.

6. Accept the fact that some people will happily lodge themselves in between closing doors in order to catch the train. These people are to be congratulated, not questioned.

7. Contrary to instructions signposted around the station, DON’T take your newspaper with you when you leave the train. Place it neatly on the seat behind you, so that somebody else can educate themselves about the best locations for celebrity-spotting.

8. Some women need to do their make up on the train. Accept this. Don’t stare and don’t judge - at least until you have tried applying lip liner at 120mph with a hand-held mirror and someone’s coat sleeve in your face.

9. It is incredibly bad manners to eat a steaming hot, mince meat pasty next to a fellow commuter who does not have one. Especially female riders who are enduring a post-Christmas diet. These women can usually be identified by behaviors such as salivating, biting their bottom lip, or making barely-audible whimpering sounds.

10. Any man who sits in a newly-vacated seat without offering it to a woman first, should be glared at poignantly until he realises the error of his ways.

Honk if you...

After years of dropping my phone, spilling my coffee and (on more than one occasion) actually falling over, I have yet to understand what motivates van drivers to greet their female counterparts with a blaring honk first thing in the morning.

Exactly what message are they trying to get across? Is the aim to embarass? Or to serve as a gentle reminder, just incase a member of the female species happens to have not noticed her ample busom.

Some would tell us that we should be flattered. Which would be easy were it not for the balding, tatooed, Mackenzie-wearing specimens sitting behind the wheel.

Perhaps we should look back for a more Darwinian explanation. Maybe the honking of a horn is an involuntary projection of all the pent-up energy residing in their nether-regions? Or perpaps, on seeing an attractive female, they simply revert back to an ape-like form and, unable to speak, flail their limbs around with their tongues hanging out as a sign of happy appreciation.

But maybe I am being unfair. After all, I have paid no consideration to the time constraint of the situation. Perhaps, given the chance to stop and talk, the van drivers of today would actually be all charm and politeness. Maybe the 'honk' is their very succinct way of saying "My, how radiant you look this morning; all poise and grace. I simply must take you out to dinner."

Or maybe not.