Tag Archives: woman

iSplat

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I’m stuck on a packed train just outside East Croydon with a 3G signal going up and down like a local girl’s knickers.

Luckily I’ve been here about 45mins because apparently someone got hit by a train earlier today.

I’ve got another hour of this at least. Joy joy joy!! (claps hands excitedly until blood is drawn)

I can understand getting hit by a car or a boat because they could come from any direction, but a train is pretty much on rails if I’m not mistaken, and therefore it’s easy to predict where they might be coming from; left, or right.

I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead or the seriously injured, but….

Twat.

In addition to all this, the woman next to me is talking VERY LOUDLY TO HER CHILDREN ON THE PHONE AND SAYING THAT “MUMMY WILL BE HOME SOON” AND THEY NEED TO “STOP BEING SAD”. She’s actually said this about 37 times.

She’s just asked her child where her monkey is, and if they’ve warmed it up.

Strange…when I do that it’s frowned upon.

Now she’s trying to connect to them via facetime on her iPad. That will be amazing; to hear her whiny kids first hand. I mean, she’s talking to them on the phone… so why do it on the iPad for all of us to experience?

Oh, 38 times.

She’s also just told her fucking offspring that she’s going to the dentist to get her gold tooth replaced.

Classy.

The woman opposite me is reading her book, resting her head on her very, very clenched fist.

Oh look, facetime has connected.

Now she’s talking to them on her phone AND waving at them on her iPad.  What is the purpose of that?

39 times.  Right that’s it.

Today there will be more than one train fatality.

iSplat

Pram sham

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This morning at Victoria tube station there seemed to be a bottleneck forming at the top of the escalator. This is usually due to some penis who either has a massive suitcase with no understanding of how to steer it, or an inability to successfully step onto a moving staircase without counting in their head.

One, two, (step forward)

(Falls over)

But not this morning. No, this morning it was a woman with a pushchair.

I won’t lie, my initial thoughts were…

“Get the fuck out of the way you twat! We’re all trying to get to work! I mean who the fuck brings a child onto the underground at rush hour you massive wanker!?”

…but I soon realised that might be a little insensitive, so I didn’t say anything.

This poor struggling mother clearly had to travel at rush hour, otherwise why would she?  And it couldn’t have been easy pushing a small child around; navigating the escalators and trains with hoards of busy and ‘incredibly tolerant’ commuters rushing past her like a torrid river around a stupid fat rock.

She finally managed to count to three and merged with the moving staircase; shuffling to the right (and quite rightly so), to allow other commuters to walk past her on the left.  As I approached her I could see she was hunched over uncomfortably; desperately holding the pushchair and two massive bags in position as the escalator took us deeper into the bowels of London.

I felt for her, I really did. Poor cow.

I suddenly felt a wave of guilt come over me as I got closer to her.  Who was I to judge her for holding us all up? Who the fuck was I to get impatient because she had a pushchair with a small child in it?

Hang on…hold the fucking phone…

As I got level with her I noticed the ‘small child’ was in fact a boy of at least four years old! He was certainly too old and too tall to be pushed around by his mother.  I mean this literally of course; a lot of men are mentally pushed around by their mothers all their lives, or until the cyanide takes effect.

What the fuck is she doing pushing him around?   Lazy little shit.  I did wonder for a second if he was disabled, but he was using his perfectly healthy legs to turn around and talk to mummy; presumably to feed her a lump of sugar or whatever it is you give to a good horse.

Who’s a good horse?  Who’s a good horse?

It pisses me off that this little prick was being shuttled around when he had two perfectly good legs, just like the little two year old girl STOOD on the escalator with her dad a few feet in front.

It makes me so angry that some parents pander to their children a little too much at times. We spend the first year or so encouraging them to walk, so let the fuckers walk.

In India, as soon as children have competent motor skills they start making trainers, presumably for English kids who don’t walk in them.

pushchair

Holy shit

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I tend to avoid certain subjects in my blog because amongst all the talk of mindless idiots, insufferable twats, shit, piss and vomit; I wouldn’t want to offend anyone now would I?

One of these ‘off limit’ subjects has been religion.

If you’re particularly religious or easily offended, I suggest not reading any further. There are some opinions in here that may upset you and it’s probably best to just go about your day and maybe pray for me if that makes you feel better.

However, If you’re reading this sentence you’re either not a religious person or you’re lying about it, in which case you’ve broken the 9th commandment and you’re going to hell.

As you can probably tell, I’m not religious man.

Although I do actually respect others’ rights to believe whatever they want; God, Allah, Buddha, The Wizard of Oz, Aslan the lion etc, but what really pisses me off are those narrow minded types who impose their beliefs onto those who aren’t in their club, er I mean their gang, no, their cult….damn it; religion! I mean their religion!

Sorry, I always get those mixed up.

There are those out there who take their faith to unnecessary levels. These are the deluded fools who stand outside abortion clinics with rosary beads, pictures of sad children and babies, handing out cards to any women walking in, walking by or simply owning a vagina.

I actually see these misguided morons with vacant faced smiles every day between the tube station and the office and every day I’m tempted to say something especially when I see them attempt to ‘help’ a woman walking into the clinic, or some young girl with her mother. Is this right? Is this holy and just?

Is it fuck.

There are a lot of reasons why a woman would choose to terminate a pregnancy; maybe the condom broke, maybe the baby isn’t growing properly and won’t survive full term, maybe she’s too young or not ready. And what if she’s a rape victim? Sorry to be so blunt, but what if?

One thing is for certain, it’s not an easy decision to make and it takes a lot of courage to walk into a clinic like that. It’s likely to be a very emotional time, so the last thing they need is judgement from a wool wearing twat who smells of mothballs and biscuits.

It’s simply not fair.

I’m not a cruel person, but I’d love to walk up to one of these woollen wankers whilst holding an open box full of knitting needles and ask, “Where do you want these medical supplies?”

This is just to see their reaction. I want to see if they lose their (holy) shit!

In fact, thinking about it, let’s look at it from another angle. We don’t see fashionably dressed people stood outside maternity clinics with pictures of happy and childfree couples, complimentary cigarettes and beer and handing out free coat hangers to every pregnant woman going in. So why is this somehow ok?

Although I will say they are stood out there every day. In the morning when I walk to the office, there they are. When I walk to the station in the evening, there they are. They’re doing what they feel is right. They believe they are fighting the good fight and they will never back down or give up.

Except today.

Today was raining.

holyshit

Hot to trots

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Summer is great in London, mostly because the female of the species tend to wear a lot less. I realise how typically male that last sentence is, but it’s true. I love the female form.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a girlfriend and there isn’t a woman who compares, but it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a transparent dress or hotpants here and there. Well, unless it’s on a 300lb munter…..or a man.

I always think it’s a shame that our nation’s weather causes the fairer sex to cover themselves up, usually in multiple layers for a large part of the year.

But in summer it’s a different story and it’s interesting to see the assortment of clothing that emerges from the underused summer wardrobes of England.

As I walked from the station to the office this morning I noticed a girl coming the other way. She was in heels, had toned legs, a short skirt that wasn’t slutty but still drew stares, a very fitted shirt with enough open buttons for ample cleavage, flawless make-up, sumptuous long brown hair and sunglasses…all wrapped up in a little wiggle that made it impossible not to watch her, whether you’re male or female.

In short, she was really quite cute.

I could see she was talking on her phone as she had her head cocked sideways; wedging it between her ear and her shoulder. She was fumbling with something in her hands.

As she got closer I saw that it was a packet of Imodium.

Fail

girl-on-toilet-m

A post post post.

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Tonight I had to collect a package from the post office that couldn’t be delivered to my house.

I can only assume it was too large to fit through my letterbox, or the postman is a complete bastard.

It could go either way.

Anyway, I was stood in line waiting to collect my parcel when a short fat guy in a shirt and tie came in and almost immediately started talking to the slim and pretty girl in the queue behind me.

“Hello stranger!”, he said.

“Oh hi, how are you?”, she replied in a tone that suggested she knew him from work but didn’t really socialise with him, possibly because they’re in different departments, but probably because she just didn’t want to.

“I’m good thanks, how are things?”, he continued.

“Yeah good, good”.
Pause.
“So how’s things?”

Which is pretty much the same question she asked the first time around.

“Yeah,  you know; picking up a parcel”, he said, waving his post office slip.

“Me too” said the girl.

What were the chances they’d both be picking up parcels!? I mean, here; of all places!!?

Anyway, there was a short pause that lasted an eternity before she broke the silence.

“The weather’s been lovely hasn’t it?”

“Yeah it’s been really good”, he said enthusiastically; “really nice”.

And that was it.  They didn’t utter a single word again.

Awkward.

image

By the way, the parcel WAS small enough for my letterbox.

Git.

Triple threat

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Sat on the train and the prick at the next table starts talking into his phone very loudly. In fact it was at such a decibel level he startled the woman sat opposite him.

She actually jumped. Nearly dropped her book.

He was talking some bollocks about “the Siemens innovation contract” and “regarding the agreed SLA following the action points from the meeting”.

What a penis.

Just then the woman sat NEXT to the startled woman fires up a conversation on her phone.

It’s weird to think that 15 years ago seeing two people sat at a table on a train and talking meant they we’re having a conversation with EACH OTHER. In fact the only communication happening between two people in this carriage was between me and the jumpy bookworm who exchanged a look best described as ‘is this really fucking happening?’

Anyway, just as my eyes were starting to ache from all the rolling,  the woman opposite me picked up her phone and joined in! 

Really?

So let me get this right…the ONLY three people talking loudly into their phones in this full and quiet carriage are in fact sat around me?

Brilliant.

I can’t tell you the joy and elation when we entered a tunnel. It was emotional.

I spied a grin from behind a book.

image

I Queue Test

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This morning I woke up at 06:52am.  This is a problem when you need to be out of the house at 07:15am and I still needed to have a shower, shave, brush my teeth, style my hair, get dressed and make myself some lunch.  It’s also a little concerning as my alarm clocks (yes, clocks; plural) go off around 6am.  Oops.

If the house had been on fire and I was under attack from ninjas I still wouldn’t have moved as fast as I did when I realised the time.  I was quick.  Very quick.  At one point I passed a Coyote in a slingshot holding an anvil.

I made it out of the house at 07:18am.  Not bad.

Meep meep!

I then drove at breakneck speed to the station.  Well, it was at a speed that made me want to break the neck of the bell-end driving the car in front of me at 21 miles per hour.

I finally made it to the station with about 3 minutes to spare and I was faced with a decision; buy my weekly ticket now, or at London Victoria.  Hmm….

There was a dithering twat of a woman at the ticket office, laughing that she “simply can’t find my purse in here! Ha ha ha!”

Ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA!!!!  Hilarious.  No really, please continue.  Take your time.  I can’t get enough of your cripplingly funny shit. 

So I thought, fuck it; I’ll buy my ticket at Victoria. 

The train pulled in, I got on, sat down and revelled in watching the dithering twat almost miss the train.  She made it.  Shame.

The journey was the usual social scene; complete silence whilst staring at a small screens and desperately trying to ignore the annoying fucker talking on her phone.  In fact, it was this annoying fucker…..https://headinablender.wordpress.com/2013/05/28/blooble-fabwa-sibbladoo/

I really have to pick a different carriage….or just punch her in the face.

We finally pulled into London Victoria and I made my way to the ‘customers needing to pay additional fares’ desk.  It should be called ‘customers who tried to pull a fast one, realised there were automated gates and now have to reluctantly pay for a ticket which they will say was from the station just before Victoria’.

I shamefully joined the queue of people like we were waiting outside the headmaster’s office, feeling the judging eyes of all the other commuters as they passed by.  The people in front of me were taking forever to buy their tickets which I thought was odd.  It then dawned on me pretty fucking quickly that they weren’t simply buying excess fares.  No, they were haggling for the cheapest way of paying for the journey they’ve just done. 

No rush folks, I don’t have a job to get to.

The woman commuter at the desk had a ticket for off peak travel and hadn’t realised it wouldn’t let her through the barriers at 08:30am in the morning, in central London, on a Monday.  I could see her confusion.  This is the sort of woman who needs to ensure her Vagisil and Colgate are kept in separate rooms.

“I didn’t realise I couldn’t use this ticket”.  Yes you did, now fuck off.

She continued to argue this for a good two or three minutes, as if somehow it would change the circumstances.  At this rate we were going to hit off peak travel times.  This could’ve been incredibly frustrating if you were someone worried about being late for work.  Not me though, I had aaaaaaaaall the time in world.

The guy that followed her wasn’t any better.

“I’ve come from Gatwick, but I’m here to see my brother, so I need to get to Kensington, but my ticket from Gatwick was a staff ticket, so I need the cheapest ticket to see him and then I’ll be coming back, but that will be today, but tomorrow I’m with my brother at his flat, so do I need an oyster card?  I basically need to get back, but the ticket I’ve got isn’t valid on the times I need to be out of my brother’s place”.

I’m sorry, what?

The massive Nigerian train guard behind the glass looked right through this little man with a stare that sat somewhere between utter contempt and not giving a shit.  It was a beautifully crafted look and one I plan to master myself.  He clearly gets this kind of idiocy all the time.

Where’s that dithering twat from earlier?  I’m feeling a bit punchy.

People Waiting In Line

Naughty or nice husband?

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Someone’s phone rang on the train very loudly just now and it was a terrible, terrible ringtone. The guy looked at it and let it ring and ring for ages before figuring out he should maybe divert it to voicemail, mainly because he was getting the meerkat treatment from the rest of us.

The rubbernecking bloke sat opposite me at the table turned back from meerkatting to face me once again. I stupidly made a nanosecond’s eye contact with him which was apparemtly invite enough for him to try and engage me in mutual tutting and rolling of the eyes that says ‘bloody ringtones eh?’

Sorry, I’m not getting involved. You’re on your own twatboy.

The situation was exacerbated by the woman sat next to me across the aisle whose phone then rang and she proceeded to explain to her partner which train she was on and where exactly in the journey it was.

Cue more invites from King Tut.

She then spent several minutes looking out of every window with such exaggerated intensity it looked like she was on a rollercoaster without proper restraints. I guess this was to somehow demonstrate to her partner that she was really keen to explain where she was, despite the fact he can’t see her and It’s pitch black outside so all she actually saw was her stupid face reflected in the glass, jerking all over the place like a pervert with a live chicken up their arse.

Anyway, she managed to tell him which station we were at.

At least he now knows how long he’s got before he has to kick her sister out of bed.

He he…

Too dark?

Possibly…but consider this; he rang her a further 5 times for a location update whilst I was writing this blog.

Fat headed statement

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Sorry, just heard the dumbest comment from a girl on the train talking to her boyfriend about a diet she’s going to go on in which you eat a lot of fat.

Him – “you eat a lot of fat?”
Her – “yeah, apparently it’s really good for you because if you eat a lot of fat your body won’t start eating away at your own fat”.

Oh my good god. What a total twat.

Had to share.

Carriage chav

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A proper fight kicked off on the train between a young 20 something girl and some guy. She was shouting abuse the likes of which would offend anyone with a sensitive disposition.

She then angrily stomped down the carriage towards the end I was sat at and I suddenly realised, there was an empty seat next to me! Oh shit!!

She continued with “you shut the fuck up bruv, you shut up yeah!?” and classics like “you little prick! That’s what you are, a little prick!!”

She got closer….her massive hoop earrings clattering against her numerous necklaces.

Shit shit shit.

Then suddenly she disappeared into a spare seat 3 rows in front of me, still shouting “fucking dickhead”, and “go back to where you got those scars you prick!”, although most of it is to herself as the guy had gone.

I felt sorry for the little timid woman she’d sat next to, whose eyes were firmly fixed, unblinking, to her kindle.

She then picked up her phone to call, who us sniggering commuters can assume was, her ‘home girl’

Here are a few choices from this side of her phone conversation (In a proper rudegirl gangsta girl stylee…at full volume)

“I should’ve put my heels to his knees.”

“Acting like some princess; what a c**t”

“Do you still think of me when you’re on the toilet?”

“He’s all up in my face like ‘oh you pushed me!’ like some chief yeah!”

“I ain’t playin’ man, I ain’t playin’!”

There were more but she was spouting them at such a speed in her gravelly ’40 a day’ voice that I couldn’t catch them all.

Now she’s sat there singing along to her iPod. Yep, singing. And still swearing under her breath.

I think the kindle woman was supposed to get off at the last stop.

Sex change?

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I was all snug and comfy on the train this morning, starting to doze off.

However, two or three stops into my journey, a guy and a girl sat down behind me reeking of cigarettes and talking complete bollocks at a volume suitable enough to keep me and most of the 12 carriage train from sleeping.

Great.

But this isn’t about how loud they were or how pungent their aroma was….no, this is about what made me smirk when we all got off the train.

It seemed the deep, gruff manly voice belonged to the woman, and the higher pitched soft girly voice actually belonged to the guy.

He was also wearing more foundation.

No comment.

Blah blah fucking blah…

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Another incessant talker on the train.

She just…won’t…stop…talking.

It all comes out like one unrelenting sentence without stopping for air or punctuation.

It’s likely this woman never farts as her mouth isn’t closed long enough to build up any pressure

Her friend (I assume; it could be a random passenger who is having just the worst journey into work right now) is simply there to provide the occasional ‘yeah’, ‘oh right’ and ‘oh dear’.

But we know what she really wants to reply with. It’s what we’re all thinking….

“Shut the fuck up love”

Which tube are you headed on?

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The tube door shuts and clouts a woman across the head. She stumbles a bit and tries to style it out by acting unbothered.

Mildly amusing

The door opens again and smacks her a second time across the head in the other direction.

She almost drops her phone. Less styling.

Very amusing.

A guy takes this opportunity to jump on the train just as the driver announces we should ‘mind the closing doors’.

The doors close, twatting him across the head.

Downright hilarious.

Even the woman is smirking.

One sided conversation

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I’m witnessing an awkward conversation between a man and a woman on the train who clearly know each other.

She’s talking non stop at great speed with masses of enthusiasm and no gaps for breathing. He just wants to sit in silence and maybe sleep. It’s so obvious as he’s just giving small unenthused recaps of her paragraphs, followed by brief moments of silence when he closes his eyes, only for her to launch into one again.

For example:

Her – “we’ve just replaced all the radiators in the house because Steve thinks it better that we have new ones ha ha ha ha ha and the new ones are much better but the old ones are quite vintage so Steve think we should sell them ha ha ha ha ha because we can make some extra money ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!”
Him – “yeah, you’ll make some money”

5 seconds of silence. He puts his head back and slowly closes his eyes.

Her – “there are quite a few babies in our family and Steve said its a nightmare ha ha ha ha well they’re not baby babies as a lot of them are a bit older now but you know what I mean ha ha ha ha ha but Steve and I aren’t going to have any yet as we like to relax at home and put our feet up ha ha ha ha”
Him – “yeah because you haven’t got any babies yet”

She’s maintaining eye contact with him at all times which, considering they’re sat side by side across the aisle, means he has to keep his head to the right.

It’s painful to watch.

How is she not seeing it? I mean, in the 20 minutes they’ve been on the train, he’s lost about 2 stone in weight and grown a beard.

Run away Steve. Far, far away.

We’re gonna need a bigger head…

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I pointed out to a lady at work today that her headphones were massive.  And when I say massive, I mean they were akin to strapping two halves of a football to the sides of her noggin.

It was at this point that one of her colleagues proudly announced they were actually his.  I mocked him for a few seconds (included finger waggling and derisive laughter) before he concluded with “well why don’t you just blog about it”.

So I did.

Ha!

And for those of you out there lacking the imagination to picture the sheer enormity of these beasts….here’s an example:

Headphone hell

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I’ve just watched the woman opposite me on the train attempt to take headphones out of her purse.

She sat herself down, settled in, adjusted her scarf and put her immense handbag on her lap.

She then reached, elbow deep, into her handbag and produced a pair of (massive) white Dr.Dre Beats headphones; well half of them…the other half had snagged on something and was as reluctant to get out of the bag as I was out of bed this morning.

Finally she produced the entire monstrosity, and her keys with it. She put the keys back in her bag and started to pull on the headphone cord.

Out came her purse and a pack of chewing gum. Back in they go.

She pulled a bit more; ah her keys again, and what appeared to be another scarf tangled around the cord.

After about a minute of patiently unravelling this evil spaghetti of rubberised cord and scarf, she pulled again but was faced with a knot in the cord, and some sunglasses. Oh, and her keys.

She had the patience of a saint as by now I would’ve thrown the bag across the carriage, spilling its contents all over the place (which would’ve effectively solved the issue, and most likely decapitated a complete stranger)

Finally she found the jack end of the cord and plugged it into her iPhone.

Success!

She then took out a hairband, created some elaborate twisty bun in her hair and held it in place with the band (I assume so she could get the headphones on her head).

Then, and with a noticeably smug smile on her face, she put the mammoth headphones on.

She looked like a Cyberman.

She then sat back to enjoy her music. Alas, she hadn’t emancipated enough cord from the bag and the resulting tension pulled the bastard headphones off her head enough that the hairband came off, her hair went everywhere and the ‘L’ side of the headphones were now sat on her cheek with the ‘R’ on the back of her neck.

She shot me a glance to see if I’d noticed, but I was looking out the window so clearly I hadn’t.

But I had.

Gutted.

Bowling metaphor anyone?

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A woman on the train has just talked loudly on the phone all the way from London.

Strike one.

She’s finally shut the fuck up and now she’s texting with her keyboard clicks on full volume!

Annoying much??

Strike two.

If she picks her nose and eats it I’m gong to punch her.

Blah blah fucking blah

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As many of you may already know, I’m not a fan of two people waffling at full volume on the train about absolutely fuck all, directly opposite me at a table.

Well, this evening is no exception as the two ladies opposite me are gasbagging about absolutely everything from how cute their dogs are, what’s on at the cinema, X-Factor, number plates and how great their fellas are.

I bet their fellas’ opinion differs.

Oh dear lord, they’ve just pulled the “I really must take your number” out of the bag. Kill me, kill me now.

What makes it even worse is that I’ve established from their perpetual drivel (like picking through cow shit with a toothpick) that they live in the same town as me. That means I’ve got this dribbly bollocks for my entire journey.

Joyous.

Oh, here comes the “how’s your mum?”

I’ll tell you how your mum is 😉

I think I might have to beat them to death with their own handbags, although that might be a bit much don’t you think?

So here I sit, listening to these blathering bints relentlessly chinwagging on and on amongst forced laughter and awkwardly checking their phones for messages they just don’t have.

And as yet, no numbers have been exchanged.

So full of shit.

Small talk

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This morning, as I made it onto the train platform, my train pulled in bereft of passengers and filled with row upon row of empty seats.  It’s moments like this that make commuting tolerable; the joy felt when you know you’re about to get another hour of slumber.

And just as my 12 carriage bed came to a stop and the enterprise doors opened I heard a “hello stranger” from behind me.  I turned around and there was one of my neighbours.

“Oh hello, how are you?” I replied, uninterested in her answer.

“I’m fine thanks; are you catching the train?”

– pause –

It’s at this point that you need to understand how my brain works.  There is a scene in ‘The Terminator’ when Mr Schwarzenegger is sitting on a cheap hotel bed doing Terminatory stuff when the hotel manager starts bashing on the door shouting, “hey buddy, you got a dead cat in there or what?” through a chewed up cigar.  We then see Arnie’s viewpoint and he is presented with a choice of the following replies:

Yes/No

Or what?

Go away

Please come back later

Fuck you, asshole

Fuck you

As you’d expect, he chooses the penultimate (and best) response.  It’s a hilarious and memorable scene.  If you haven’t seen it then shame on you.  Rent it, watch it, come back.

Anyway, my brain works in a similar way, especially when faced with a comment or question that is so ballsachingly retarded (right up there with “are you still reading that book?”, “did those tattoos hurt?” and “are you really going to eat that?”).  Often I also go for the penultimate (and best) response.  On this occasion I went for “I am indeed, where are you off to?”

(Please don’t say London, please don’t say London, please don’t say London)

“London”

“Great” (shit)

Don’t get me wrong; she’s a nice enough woman, but I don’t really know her that well.  Plus I really, REALLY wanted to sleep.  Now, instead, we’re sat opposite each other at a table in a confined metal tube going 80mph towards our nation’s capital.  I miss the old slam-door trains….I could’ve just jumped off.

The conversation was painful.  I mean painful.  It consisted mostly of “how’s work?”, “I see you’ve got a new fence”, “what are you up to at the weekend?”, “how’s work?”, “ah, the next stop is….”, “I saw your other half the other day”, “I’m off to London for a training course” and “how’s work?”.

It was exhausting….which isn’t ideal for someone already in desperate need of sleep.

I tried all the tactics in the book to initiate silence, including taking massive interest in the passing scenery, checking my phone for messages, playing with my penis, etc…but it was all fruitless in stopping her relentlessly inane chatter.  We even got onto the subject of how boring my commute must be every day.  If she only knew.

The whole situation worsened when other commuters started filling the carriage.  The suit next to me opened a book, the suit opposite me opened a broadsheet and STILL she continued with awkwardly selected topics of conversation.  The issue now was the fact that I was now becoming ‘those people’ who don’t shut up talking on trains when you want to read (or sleep!).  It’s not like I was doing it on purpose!  I wanted to stop, but I felt that no-one believed me despite the fact that I now had my face fully pushed up against the glass to demonstrate my total and utter interest in the passing scenery….which at this point was the inside of a tunnel.

Fail.

We were starting to get ‘the look’ from those around us.  I know ‘the look’ as I’ve perfected it myself, usually just before the blog that inevitably would follow.

I have, however, learned something new from this morning’s experience.  The face I make when I’m willing someone to shut the fuck up appears to be exactly the same as the one I make when I’m totally and utterly interested in everything they have to say.

I really have to work on that.

Wired for sound…

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Picture the scene.

A curvy young black woman sat next to me on the train, with FAR too much foundation, more extensions than than a call centre and hoop earrings a parrot could sit in.

She has 2 phones that are both on FULL VOLUME which she keeps checking every 3 seconds just in case she’s missed a text; switching them back and forth in her hand like a croupier with a deck of fucking annoying beeping cards. The multitude of messages are coming in thick and fast and here’s nothing like the pop pop pop of the keyboard as she types awkwardly with 2 inch blue fingernails. This is in addition to the click click click of her talons hitting the glass.

Of course, the noise of the phones have to be at FULL VOLUME so she can hear them over her Dr Dre Beats headphones banging out some generic R&B for all of us to enjoy. I mean, shes looking AT these phones without blinking, AND she keeps them from going into standby (the phones are screaming “come on luv, let us rest, we’re knackered!!”), so why the FULL VOLUME?

Also, she MUST be serious about her music. I mean, Dr Dre Beats headphones right? Why else would you spend triple figures on headphones?

THEY’RE FUCKING HEADPHONES!

Ah, she can’t hear me. Maybe I’ll text her….