It is probably the speed with which my dark side has been exposed that is most shocking. A few weeks in the ’burbs and I have become mean, selfish and sharp-elbowed. For I am now a commuter. I used to walk to work. Now I fight for a seat on the Tube. What’s the big deal with a seat? Well, it’s a 45-minute ride across the city. A minimum of an hour and a half of my day is now spent on trains and I want to use the time properly. I want to relax (which you can’t when gripping a rail) and disappear into the newspaper. I want to be in a bubble where I don’t have to interact with anyone. I want, I need, I absolutely must have, a seat.

Of course, if somebody more deserving needs my seat I give it up. Sometimes. If I look into my soul, I must admit that sometimes I don’t exactly — how shall I put this? — look around at every stop to check if anyone needs my seat more than me. The other day I gave up my seat to an elderly woman. She vacated it a few stops on and I sat down again. A few moments later, out of the corner of my eye, I detected another woman, aged about 65, standing very close and looking at me. Dear reader, I hope you can forgive me for not springing straight to my feet and for the thoughts that ran through my mind: “Does she really need this seat? She’s not even old. Perhaps she’s not well. OK, I know, I should give up my seat. But I don’t like the way she so clearly expects me to. Oh, for goodness sake, did she just sigh? All these other people have buried their heads deep in their papers. No chance of them risking eye contact with her. I know they all saw me give up my seat last time. Come on, guys, let’s share the chivalry shall we? OK, OK, I’m getting up.”

She barely thanked me. Perhaps she could read my mind. Perhaps she could see what a sad, selfish, seat-obsessed little man I have become. If this was the 7.33 from Tunbridge Wells, rather than the District Line, I’d be fantasising about when I would qualify for my own semi-official seat, one that none of my fellow commuters would ever dare to sit in.

Curiously, I’m more preoccupied by the seat issue than I am by what I had expected to be the greatest frustration of commuting — the delays. Of course, there are infuriating exceptions. One day, during the heat wave, we stopped outside Embankment station for 45 minutes. A ludicrous message about a passenger losing something on a train ahead was followed by claims of a broken-down train. It was stifling in the carriage. A group of teenagers was annoyingly loud. Soon I was drenched in sweat and trying to avoid the slightest movement. The woman next to me lost it with one of the youths when he talked through an announcement. He started to mock her to his mates.

Then he started to complain of feeling weird. He received little sympathy as he sat down and began breathing heavily. I must confess to being annoyed at what I regarded as attention-seeking. “Take your shoes off. I just had a panic attack,” said one man cheerfully, “but I took my shoes off and now I’m fine.” I looked sideways at this self-confessed, panic-stricken individual. I was not the only one looking at him and the teen as if they were idiots. But then the teenager tried to stand up and crashed to the ground, out cold. There was a flurry of activity as previously hidden bottles of water were poured over his head. Someone slapped his face and loosened his clothes. Fortunately, the train suddenly shunted into the station. He was dragged off and came round slowly. As I headed off to find an alternative route home, I felt a little ashamed of my initial scepticism and resentment of his incursion into my bubble.

damian.whitworth@thetimes.co.uk