Crisis in the Quiet Zone

They say people don't change. My mum, in particular, says it frequently - all too often when I'm in tears about a boy. But I have started to disagree with the assertion because I have first hand evidence that she is not strictly come telling the truth. What is this evidence? Readers: it is me. I have changed.

'Impossible!' you cry. But no. Over the past few years, my tastebuds have significantly readjusted: I now like olives, anchovies, sundried tomatoes and assorted nuts. And if my tastebuds can readjust, why not my brain patterns?

I really do think I've changed in the vicinity of the old grey matter, too. Sure, I'll admit that it probably has a tiny bit to do with the medication... but still, I do believe that, even with willpower alone, people can permanently alter their thinking patterns. I am currently reading The Power of Now which encourages us to relinquish the concept of time and instead choose to live in the present. It's a bit weird but it's also interesting and persuasive - and even after only a few pages, I found it was having an effect.

On Friday night, a tad tipsy after Katherine's birthday party, I was on the train, homeward bound. As usual, I had walked to the front carriage to facilitate a speedy exit at my destination station and, also as usual, this carriage had been designated a 'Quiet Zone' where talking to people, either in the flesh or over the phone, is forbidden. I had no one with whom I required an urgent conversation so I sat quietly like a good girl, pretending to read my book but really thinking about mundane issues. After a few minutes of peaceful travel, a kerfuffle erupted at the other end of the car.
'No!' said an irate voice. 'I will NOT keep my voice down. I'm SICK of it, I really am.'
This outburst was greeted with a few shouted questions from other passengers: the situation was not in any sense diffused. Over the next few moments it became clear that the man was upset because some young people sitting opposite him on the train were putting their feet on the seats and, crucially, making phonecalls.
'I walked all the way to the front of this train to get some peace and quiet on my way home,' he continued, his voice increasingly emotional and fraught, 'and you thugs just think you can behave any way you want. Do you do that at home?! I bet you don't!' I think the 'thugs' must have disagreed because at their response, the red-faced man stood up and started being physically threatening.

In previous lifetimes, I would have been prickling with desperation to get involved. As in almost any situation one might care to invent, I was in possession of some very strong opinions concerning the issue and would normally have been dying to share them. But I weighed up the justification for lumbering in with my tuppence-worth, and the scales fell on the side of 'sit still and shut up'. I realised the futility of such behaviour and instead remained in my seat like an average, passive bystander: so much easier and less stressful than the 'contributer' I have been in days of yore.

It's not that I'll never share my opinion again - but sometimes I have to accept that my input, valid and unique and special and gifted and intelligent though it clearly is, will not always be crucial to facilitate a speedy, smooth and friendly communication. I don't have to prove skills as a negotiator or defender of the weak 100% of the time. Thus I am gradually learning to enjoy a new life where I find it easier to drift along and stay out of things and, I must say, it's quite a relief.

Despite all that, I'm aware that the rest of you may be curious to hear what happened on my train. To conclude the tale, the aggressor was calmed down by the train guard, the youths were encouraged to take their phonecalls elsewhere and I achieved my second highest ever score on Puzzle Bobble.

The moral of the story? Old habits die hard, but you can kill them if you try hard enough. And if good ol' fashioned hard work won't do it, pop a few Citaloprim.