The sheer logistics of moving thousands of visitors around our fair city during the Games was always going to be the biggest challenge.

Which is probably of little comfort to you if you are reading this with your face pressed against a steamy bus window.

The morning commute has temporarily morphed into a giant game of travelling Twister as flag-bearing sports fans tangle with po-faced office workers.

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At each subsequent stop, optimistic travellers attempt to board capacity trains and buses that resemble a claustrophobic's anxiety dream.

At the root of much of the commuter displeasure is the knowledge that these folks in shorts and caps are off to have a good time and potentially bear witness to some great historic sporting moments, while they are off to work.

It's almost as galling as those irritating status updates from peeps who post a holiday selfie from the beach that pops up on your screen just as you arrive at work. And these day-trippers don't know the rules. Those well-worn rules every dead-eyed commuter knows.

Do say: Excuse me. Would you mind awfully removing your elbow from my ear?

Don't say: Yuk! Get your big sweaty arm off of me.

Do say: Excuse me. Could I possibly sit here?

Don't say: Seriously? Your bag is so weary it needs it's own seat? Are you kidding me?

Do say: Your children are delightful. Perhaps the little one could refrain from repeatedly jabbing me in the leg with his with his replica light sabre.

Don't say: Quit it shortie, or I'll snap your stupid toy in half.

Do say: I'd genuinely love to move further inside the train but if I get any closer to this stranger we'd meet the criteria for conjoined twins.

Don't say: Who made you teacher?

Do say: I applaud your desire to keep abreast of current affairs but could you please fold your paper? The front-page splash appears to have imprinted on my moist face.

For me, an extra of frisson of tension is added to journeys with Munchkin. His current favourite pastime is a terrifying game of guess the sex of his fellow passengers. He points a squidgy finger and declares "man" or "lady" at some innocent passenger who is pretending not to notice. Things can take a turn for the tense when he shouts "ladyman". He means a couple, but that's no comfort to the woman with the 'tache in the next seat. Next stop is ours.