Iona Iverson's Rules for Commuting

by Clare Pooley

In her experience, most endings turned out to be beginnings in disguise.

Everyone knew the Second Rule of Commuting: you may nod to someone if you’ve seen them on a significant number of occasions, even—in extremis—exchange a wry smile or an eye roll at one of the guard’s announcements over the loudspeaker, but you never, ever talk.

Her editor’s name was Ed. Had he changed his name to match his job? She wouldn’t put it past him.

“Could you possibly babysit for a few minutes?” she asked Ed’s “Executive Assistant,” the modern equivalent of a secretary, but without the shorthand. She looked gratifyingly thrilled. No doubt it would make a nice change from being Ed’s underpaid and undervalued henchwoman. “She loves it if you scratch her in the soft bits, just behind her ears.” Then, because she always overdid it when she was nervous, she added, “Don’t we all?” along with a forced, high-pitched laugh. Ed’s assistant shrank back in her chair, looking startled.

“Anyhow,” he continued in a monotone. He was not a natural raconteur.

advice to clients on dealing with trolls: NEVER ENGAGE.

One of the many things Ed had to learn is that you must never shit on people on your way up the greasy pole, as they will only shit on you on your way back down.

It was never a good idea to brood. Unless, of course, you were a chicken.

They’ve replaced me with an amoeba called Dex.

When the thing you’ve feared for so long actually happens, you have nothing left to be scared of anymore.

“Darling, you know how much I hate surprises!” she said. “I do like to be able to plan my reactions. Nothing worse than being caught on the hop, especially in public.”

One thing Iona had learned from her years in and around show business was that it was impossible to have too big, or too enthusiastic, an audience.

“The only way to be guaranteed of failure, dear boy, is not to try,”