On Saturday morning I had to catch the 7.40 from London to Manchester. The train was cancelled, leaving a lot of annoyed Manchester United fans swearing and threatening to headbutt the next Virgin train.
I hovered behind them while pretending to be foreign, so that if they tried to speak to me I could pretend I couldn't speak English and thus avoid becoming an accessory to their thuggery. When the next train arrived there was a mad scrum of people pushing, shoving, kicking, and trampling over each other. I was bemused: I had been under the impression we were about to board a train to Manchester, not the last space shuttle sent to whisk mankind away from Planet Earth's apocalyptic doom.
I found a seat in the corner and huddled under my coat so that no one would acknowledge or speak to me. The last thing I wanted was a conversation with a stranger at eight in the morning about his kids whom I've never met. It's fine on a ten-minute journey, but you run out of things to say after half an hour, and that is when they start showing you pictures on their mobile. I have no idea why people sit next to me on a train and then open up to me like I'm their official biographer, but I don't like it - and therefore opt for an icy demeanour, and maybe a forced smile as I thrust my way past to the buffet car.
One rowdy football supporter shouted: "I hope they bloody win. The last seven times I've been up here the silly idiots have lost." He was drinking vodka at 8am and his attitude was rather frightening, so I was amazed when his phone rang to the tune of The Sound of Music. He then said: "Yeh mate, I'm on the train, on the train yeh, she was OK, I dunno I used the garden hose on her, she loved it I'll give her a go on the lawnmower next, she wants it."
I could feel the concern rising in the carriage. It sounded like this man had tried to hose down his poor wife to death and had been unsuccessful, so was now resorting to lawn-mowering her. It's always disturbing listening to people's private lives, more so when you don't get the full picture, just a rather bizarre piece of the jigsaw.
I hovered behind them while pretending to be foreign, so that if they tried to speak to me I could pretend I couldn't speak English and thus avoid becoming an accessory to their thuggery. When the next train arrived there was a mad scrum of people pushing, shoving, kicking, and trampling over each other. I was bemused: I had been under the impression we were about to board a train to Manchester, not the last space shuttle sent to whisk mankind away from Planet Earth's apocalyptic doom.
I found a seat in the corner and huddled under my coat so that no one would acknowledge or speak to me. The last thing I wanted was a conversation with a stranger at eight in the morning about his kids whom I've never met. It's fine on a ten-minute journey, but you run out of things to say after half an hour, and that is when they start showing you pictures on their mobile. I have no idea why people sit next to me on a train and then open up to me like I'm their official biographer, but I don't like it - and therefore opt for an icy demeanour, and maybe a forced smile as I thrust my way past to the buffet car.
One rowdy football supporter shouted: "I hope they bloody win. The last seven times I've been up here the silly idiots have lost." He was drinking vodka at 8am and his attitude was rather frightening, so I was amazed when his phone rang to the tune of The Sound of Music. He then said: "Yeh mate, I'm on the train, on the train yeh, she was OK, I dunno I used the garden hose on her, she loved it I'll give her a go on the lawnmower next, she wants it."
I could feel the concern rising in the carriage. It sounded like this man had tried to hose down his poor wife to death and had been unsuccessful, so was now resorting to lawn-mowering her. It's always disturbing listening to people's private lives, more so when you don't get the full picture, just a rather bizarre piece of the jigsaw.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home