Stamp or Throw

I am working at Credit Suisse again. There are many benefits in being back, but one unexpected pleasure is being able once again to join the throngs of commuters. This commute takes me, every morning and evening, through the great halls of Bahnhof Enge (Enge Station, to you Brits).

It is not sufficient in Switzerland to simply build a functional station. Any proper station would have a draughty station waiting room, out-of-action toilets, a buffet that is closed at peak periods, and a ticket attendant who, when asked why the ticket machine won’t print out a ticket previously ordered on Trainline, says that “It is nothing to do with us and anyway, British Rail hasn’t existed for years, so you’ll just have to buy another ticket.”

I have been wanting to get this last point into print for years – two years to be precise – and, in case you were wondering, Walton-on Thames Station (or Bahnhof Walton auf der Themse, because the “Thames” is feminine in German) was the offending station.

Anyway, having got that bit of Grumpiness off my chest, I shall proceed to the main plot of the day.

Recently, when walking through the hallowed halls of Bahnhof Enge, there in front of me, was a decaying cigarette stub, laying on the ground. Notice “decaying”. It was still alight and, perfectly formed, as far as I could tell, and no doubt would continue to smoulder for its allotted time of a further 45 seconds.

In my day (whenever that was, but probably about 40 years ago), it was alright, if not mandatory to smoke. When you wished to discard the cigarette, you would stamp on the cigarette stub. This would not be just any old stamp, in order to gently extinguish the dying embers, and to ensure that no one within 10 yards would have to inhale the smoke. No – it was always something much more personal. It was like crushing the life out of a tribal enemy. More than the disdainful sneer at an inferior, it was a real testosterone loaded attack.

If an ashtray was used, then it was essential that the cigarette stub be severely mutilated, severed, twisted, turned or even broken, until any signs of life had been brutally snubbed out. “That’ll teach it.”

Yes – the way that you put out a cigarette, was a way of telling others what sort of man you were (or woman).

Now all this is in danger. Our society is on the brink. The “Case of the Half Alive Bahnhof Enge Cigarette Butt” had to be followed up. After some further sleuthing, in the following 30 seconds, I saw 5 further instances of cigarette butts, 3 of wimpish delicately or casually dropped on the ground variety, and two of the “I’ve been totally crushed by a Real Smoker” sort.

This brief review will require further analysis and more data (as we Six Sigma Types keep saying). For example, do men and women display different stub handling techniques? Is age a differentiating factor in dealing with the final incendiary embers? Is it a seasonal habit, like migrating? I shall prowl the platform Bahnhof Enge watching for factors which will enable me to discern the important social patterns evolving here.

If you hear of a middle aged man being arrested for suspicious and intimidating behaviour at a station near to the centre of Zurich (“Are you going to drop that fag end or not? I haven’t got all night, you know”), then I shall be relying on my readership to supply character references and bail, if necessary.