Could this be the most impressive commuter move out there?:

It’s a frosty Wednesday morning in the dead of winter, and I’m on the Northern line stampeding my way southbound towards the Square Mile.
I blow my fingers to warm them up. But it’s out of habit, not necessity. In an age of global warming, winter is on borrowed time, living off its reputation, and wondering if the ice age was just a dream.

After 15 minutes of a 90s Pepsi can full of human beings wondering if we’ve cleaned our teeth, Bank’s gravitational pull is becoming so strong that the tracks begin to screech. T-minus 3 minutes.
Then something catches my eye (or it would have if I could keep them open).
We haven’t yet begun our descent, when the slam of a man getting off a folding seat alerts the carriage that we’re just 10 minutes away from having to say “Hello” to people. He marches confidently to the doors opening on the right hand side and faces them with a wide stance and neither hand holding the rail (a nice trick but a little showy for my liking).

He’s about 33, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit (no tie), and he has bright white blonde hair which he’s dyed black so well that no stranger in the world would know he’s blonde. Even me.
In other words, a dyed in the wool commuter.
He’s now in command of the entire train. The driver reports to him. The less confident, less experienced, call it what you will, commuters follow him like sheep going to have their wool dyed.
T-minus 30 seconds. Six of them are now behind the ram in a V-formation like Canada geese.
But something’s not right in this picture. It’s been troubling me ever since the guy got up. The doors at Bank don’t open on the right… They open on the left!
Oh no! He’s leading the lambs to slaughter!

I stay composed and at no point let him make me doubt myself.
The tannoy sounds and the lady’s voice says “We will shortly be arriving at Bank station. Please mind the opening doors”.
I cry, “But which doors Miss?! Which doors?!”. But she’s gone quicker than my blind date last weekend.

It’s well known that I don’t get up at the tannoy. I wait until I see white tiles through the windows and then I begin my assault.
They arrive (spookily at the exact same time I do). I fly off a non-folding seat and instinctively swing on vines around obstacles including a pink hard shell suitcase, a standing reader, and someone I think was on my course at uni.

What I do next would shock the whole carriage, if only they weren’t all facing the other way. I stand in front of the doors on the left.

The tube eases into the platform and a feeling of vindication rushes over me. The platform is on my side, both physically and metaphorically.
Beyond my wildest imagination, through the doors I can see the mob on the platform have decided to reward my exploits with a guard of honour. I’m humbled to see how many people have turned out to see me. And the fact they’ve taken time off work to be here. I feel like I’m in the World Cup winning side of 1966, getting off the plane at Heathrow and being greeted by a crowd denser (but not thicker) than the Pyramid Stage (assuming the tournament had been abroad and not in England. In which case we probably wouldn’t have won).
They’ve even brought me gifts. Each of them is carrying three bags. One in their hand or on their shoulder, and two under their eyes.

The doors part and there’s a brief moment of serenity. I’m in the eye of the storm.
I can feel an angry ram staring at the back of my head and wanting to charge at me. Fortunately there’s six people in between us.
I break the deadlock and tip my meaty head forward just an inch. That’s all it takes for the weight to slowly lean my body forward until there’s no going back.
In mid air, the gravity of the mission hits me. This is one small step for me… one giant leap for the ram to get off before the doors close again.
I land cleanly. But I don’t celebrate. It’s just another day in the office for The Black Sheep of the Northern Line.