It was worse this morning than last night. Usually after a long, tired day, you can suffer unpleasant odour; forgive the bustling and cede to the righteously seated, but in the morning you just haven't the patience, inclination, or desire to be bothered. Her breath could have killed a man a ten paces. I make no light of this statement. It was as if she had digested the monthly supply of garlic for a small village in rural France and decided to exhale its by-product all over me. I twisted into a subtly more uncomfortable book-reading position, and attempted to use my recently supplied tea cup as some kind of nosebag.
'I say Mr. Conductor', there's always one pompous arsehole, 'why is the train moving so slowly. I've an important meeting to attend.'
'I'm sorry sir but we're in a queue of three trains,' a beleaguered but factual retort, 'there's nothing that we can do.' This would vex the questioner. These self-important men could never accept that you weren't bending over backwards in order to service their every request.
'"Nothing you can do?" Surely you could arrange to have the train transferred to the relief line,' rail track experts as well these chaps, 'or even transfer the train that is having mechanical difficulties over to another track.'
'Alright, I'll call the signal post,' lied the conductor, 'all tickets please.' Amusing how most quickly return to the safe, but perfunctory, to avoid confrontation.
AH! Uh, sorry, must have drifted off, lulled into a slovenly state by the continuous motion. I took me a while to extricate my foot from the lady's handbag, especially wearing a large overcoat. Not that the presence of the overcoat in any way mitigates my action, you understand. I'm not usually so clumsy. Um. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. The lady with the impressive halitosis. She was ugly too. Not that being ugly was her fault. In fact, if the truth be known, she could probably be admonished of her breath as well. But life is unkind. And so am I. In the morning.
Look at that lady over there. No not there, the one with the Nicole Farhi jacket and the tight black trousers. She's probably wearing Chanel and Gucci somewhere too. Don't ask me how I know these things. She's smoking a thin cigarillo, you know, what are they called? It doesn't matter: she lets the butt linger on her lip the way that you'd imagine she'd dwell on your tip whilst looking into your eye. Oh, a wink. I like that, want some more? Oh yes; now if you'd care to get dressed and fuck off, I'd like to continue what was previously an unpleasant morning of banal observation. Why are you so cruel to me after all that I do to try and please you? Of course, you know the answer to that question; indeed, you're supplying those answers constantly by your actions. It's just a shame that I never played any part in this dialogue, the questions were always hypothetical, and mostly rhetorical. But I'm being unfair, again. You always have to find something about someone that they don't like about themselves. I know, you hurt the ones you can, and drink with the ones you can't.
Your subconscious is never a stranger on the train; especially when you consider the times of the day when you travel: early morning; late evening. I'm doing my best to stay awake at midday, usually. I'll tell you a funny story, well it makes me chuckly. Chuckly, what the fuck is that? chuckle. Ok. Right, when I think of it, lots of people rush around only to hasten to the next standing point. I've dedicated my life to laziness; indolence is the one true religion. Unfortunately, not everyone sees my point of view. Have you ever wondered why small children never seem to be fussed? It's because they have no conception of the malady that haunts mankind. Work. Of what benefit is it to a five year old to arrive at school ten minutes early? However the working people that we're forced to be because of our ethical responsibilities, this person in all of us that has the audacity to believe that it's leading a normal life. It devours others in its path, if they so much as hinder by the tiniest fraction of a moment, its rightful passage. So what happened to the anecdote?