The carriage looked reasonably clean, and for once - unlike the usual bouquet of public transportation devices - didn't smell as though a once living organism were rotting somewhere under the seats. I took my regular place, back left by the window, and settled to enjoy the ride to work. Then I stole a glance to my right, looked away, and quickly did a double-take.

I just couldn't look away. Vomit - still wet and gleaming in the pale wash of fluorescent light - was splashed all over the floor.

Fascinated and repulsed simultaneously, I couldn't help but wonder about the person who had the misfortune to be sick in the train. A small child after too many sweets? Someone with a stomach virus? A drug addict in the throes of withdrawl?

In the meanwhile, other passengers make the nauseating discovery. A young man dressed in black crinkles his nose and looks disquieted; a pair of casually attired teenage girls regard it with surprised disgust and quickly move away. I continue to sit here and marvel that the carriage still doesn't smell bad.

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