On the train yesterday were all the ingredients for a fabulous empanada. By which, I mean a middle-class pie. Although thinking about it, a soufflee is more apt. And more full of hot air. Anyhoo. People.
I still like to think of trains in terms of the slam door compartments of my youth — I shall describe my closest box from last night’s commute, where your hero stood, obsessively trying to go blind while increasing his solitaire score to over 5000. Somehow, pressing tiny buttons for 40 minutes did not make the time fly by quite as quickly as I’d hoped.
Anyway — people. Ok, easy first. Male, blond, sideburns, mid-twenties. He spent most of the journey annotating the score of a cantata or something. He had a silver pencil, but it was a crude instrument compared to my Pentel Zapatero-Castro-Plof tubigrip number. I pwned him! He failed to make anyone smile. But I suspect he can play the organ.
A family were distributed across various seats — mother, grand-mere and three darling little girls (there, I said it, ‘darling little girls’. I have become One-of-Them. I might as well tear out my spleen and serve it on little silver thimbles to the Crows Who Secretly Watch Everything Because They Are Really An Intergalactic Scout Troop For The Coming Invasion). The youngest child sat patiently and calmly in her granny’s lap, communicating in narwhal-octave French and giggling like a… like a… um, GIRL. A girl who would spend the next ten years making yoghurt adverts and being insufferably, unbearably cute. Until a Rottweiler made her drop her ice-cream and she stabbed it’s eyes with a cornetto and went to prison for the rest of her insufferably cute days. Where was I? Oh yes. Opposite her was the obnoxious middle child with the cornflower eyes. She might as well have tattooed ‘I will steal your soul when I’m older’ on her forehead. Instead, she settled for a ‘lucky star’ sticker she had removed from her sister’s magazine. But I knew. And she knew.
Another passenger, sorry, customer, was reading some kind of Idiot’s Guide to Mental Therapy or something. Or was it Heat? Oh no, I remember now, the textbook was quite serious. But she was also reading Heat.
A man from the city stood next to me, in classic navy suit, sky blue shirt and red tie. I imagine he had a spaniel. And 2.4 children. With the missing 0.6 inside the dog. Hmm. Lots of dogs eating children in this post. Not sure why. Anyway, he was a novice commuter. How I laughed at his naive assertion that he was expecting a seat! How I laughed at him reading his Finance journal on the train — does he not know this is a Sudoku only area? Fool! Hmm. This is all turning a bit Herring, so I shall sign off now.
The main thing that caught my eye, other than the ridiculously attractive (in a totally conventional way) student telling tales of college bars to her equally bored companions, was that in the middle of Obnoxious Child’s magazine was a game. Sponsored by Carex. How many germs have you killed today? It was quite, quite, disturbing. I mean, selling kids burgers and barbies is one thing… but Carex???
We’re all going to hell in a handcart. It won’t be on time. But we will have VERY clean hands.
Indeed,it is true, it’s always true. Comments ain’t even necessary.