The who-rahs

Two of them. Staking out their territory in the carriage like they would do at Glasters or Glynders or Class WarDers (just a little pun there, mes amis). Overnight bags stuffed full of cosmetics that have Never Knowingly Been Sold to Poor People. You can tell this by the pattern on the front of their bag. Both have bouffant Winehouse hair. Except it is blonde in both cases, and the effect is somewhat lost by them both being sober and indeed, not singing sewer-jazz.

They chit-chat, flick through style mags at a speed that suggests reading may make them incontinent and demolish a small landfill of Marks and Spanks best oral fixations. Or what is commonly known in the trade as Not Very Good Sushi. I am pretending to be a top person and Destined For Great Things. I do this by eating jelly while reading The Economist. In your face, Tory puds!

One of them has fat ankles. Well, in fact I have no idea what a fat ankle looks like. But they sound like a bad thing. And she deserves them. Unless she helps out at a puppy farm. An abandoned puppy farm. That is, the puppies are abandoned, not the farm. Although the farm could have been abandoned at some point in time. Yes, that would be allowed. Also, the puppies must not be experimented upon. Especially not for Fat Ankle Syndrome. Because they were abandoned. It would be all right if they were bred for it and were puppies in name only – in fact being bundles of fur that shit every 23 minutes, yelp and try and fetch a test tube. That would be all right. I think. Well, I don’t know really.

But I digress. Various small groups of men get on the train during the journey. All are magnetically, or perhaps pheronominally (or just plain nominally), drawn to sit in the next set of seats to the girls. Because, ya know, it’s too fetch to actually sit with them, or engage with them in any way but slobber.

I watch their eyes. Three distinct groups, from different ethnic and social backgrounds. And ther eyes betray all of them. Their pupils slide and slither from underneath sunglasses or stoned-lids. The sheer force of will by which they are trying to alter the path of lightwaves so that they Might See a Bt of Muff is incredible. It’s like Lynx for Physics. I begin to wonder if I am being drawn into a blonde continuum where men will lose their dignity for a hint of gusset.

I feel rather sad, and a little angry. I want the boys not to look. To show restraint. Despite the tuts and knowing looks to each other as each group departs, they clearly thrive on attention. And like a fly to a moth, I find myself storing little details away for future use. And slowly, surely, I fall into their whore-hoorah trap.

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