Curse of the smelly Indian

I always had this romanticized image of running to catch a train. I blame Hollywood for this, but in my mind it was supposed to go like this:

My hair bounces while I dodge people in a frantic state to catch the train. I just make it as the doors are closing. As I find my seat a smile emerges because now I am able to see my grandma as she lays on her death bed. I find a seat next to a handsome bloke who smells amazing and offers to give me a lift when we both get off at the same stop. We live happily ever after.

Shame how it doesn't work like that. Instead it went like this:

I had 10 min to get from Marble Arch to Paddington. I push - in a nice way - people out of the way because no one cares that I am in a hurry. I frantically run down Edgware road trying to figure out how I get to Paddington. I arrive to find out that the 44 train has been moved to 55, so I didn't need to run all that way. I get on board to find no seats in the hot and overcrowded train. I manged to squeeze next to smelly Indian woman who might not have bathed this week. I contemplate giving the bloke next to me 15 quid for his juice box. I sit sweating and wishing they knew what air conditioning was. There is no good smelling bloke giving me a ride home.

Stupid Hollywood