Pregnant pause

One of the biggest worries in my life is giving up my seat on the Tube. It’s something I do regularly, but whenever I have a seat, I’m always looking guiltily around, wondering whether I have missed someone that needs the seat more than I do – and whether everyone else in the carriage is thinking how selfish I am for not having got up.

Pregnant and elderly women are my main targets, followed by elderly men and people on crutches or with walking sticks. Next come parents with young children. It’s a minefield, though. I once offered my seat to a woman who looked as if she was in her late-60s. She glared at me and said at the top of her voice: ‘I’m quite capable of standing.’ I was so embarrassed.

To minimise the number of potentially humiliating situations, I never sit down unless the train is almost empty or I am staying on it for a long while. But as my local station is the first on the line (or the last), I get a seat every morning on the way to work. On Tuesday, everything was great. I had a seat, but within a couple of stops, there were none available. At the next stop, a heavily pregnant woman entered the carriage. Before the doors had even shut, I was up. She thanked me and I took the last remaining seat (one of those that you perch on at the end of Central Line carriages). A couple of stops later, a woman who looked as if she was carrying triplets got on. It was a no-brainer. She was grateful and I was gratified, although spending the next 30 minutes without being able to even turn the page of my magazine because the carriage was so busy, was a little frustrating.

Non-pregnant women do anything they can to avoid me (if you look up ‘fanny magnet’ in a dictionary of antonyms, you would see a picture of me), but for some strange reason, those with child seem drawn to me. As the Tube train passes slowly along the platform, it’s a near certainty that the one pregnant woman will come through the door nearest where I am sitting.

This morning was one of those potentially embarrassing days. I woman got on the train and stood a few feet down from me. There was a discernible bulge in her dress, but it didn’t look baby shaped. I didn’t know what to do. Is she pregnant or does she just have a phobia of exercise and a penchant for doughnuts? I looked at her again. Then I looked at her finger. She wasn’t wearing a wedding or engagement ring – not that that means anything these days, but I can’t help it if I’m a traditionalist. I sneaked another surreptitious look her stomach, which appeared to be growing in size every second. Then horror of horrors, she caught me looking, and pulled her coat shut. If I’m going to be caught perving at a woman, why couldn’t it be one who looked like one of FHM’s cover models, rather than one who looked as if she was starting out a career as a sumo wrestler?

My dilemma – and potential outing – was solved by one of those religious nutters getting on the train. No sooner was he through the doors, than he started shouting about how Jesus can save us all from the credit crunch. The woman quickly moved as far away from him as she could, leaving someone else to enter the ‘is she or isn’t she?’ debate. I don’t ever think I’ve been so pleased to hear someone shouting in my ear for 10 minutes about how bibles are now £2 in Asda. As I got off the train, he said: ‘There’s more to life than going to work, then coming home to watch EastEnders or West Ham United.’ I had to smile.