I’m in carriage two, I need to be in four. I’ve got a minute until my stop. If I get in position, I can get out by the stairs, run to the top, and win commuting.
But my rivals have laid traps.
In front of me is a pool of liquid, I think it’s called Starbucksonium. Do I jump or wade? One risks throwing me off course, the other promises a sticky shoe, a potentially disastrous distraction.
Next, a bagslide. Insurmountable. I scrabble and pull and throw them out of the way, ignoring many a disgruntled cry.
And here’s my stop. But wait, we’re sailing past the stairs. It’s a four carriage train, I thought it was eight. I’ve gone too far. Some smug man summits the stairs first, so arrogant in his victory he doesn’t even acknowledge it.
Tomorrow, I will have my vengeance.