So there I am, sat on the train on the way home from work reading and basically minding my own business. A bloke sits down opposite wearing a short sleeved shirt with epaulettes, like an off duty copper although he’s not because of the grey sports socks similar to mine. He’s playing with an international train timetable whilst having what sounds like an interesting phone conversation about trains in Thailand. It transpires that his parents are going on a round the world trip and he’s been left with the task of organising everything from flights to fishing trips in Cambodia.
Everything’s in place, all that’s left is for him to find someone to feed his mum’s Rabbit and Guinea Pig. “If I can’t find anyone else to feed the hairy little fuckers I suppose I’ll have to do it myself?”, he says without a hint of humour and not realising the moment of comic genius.
The on board entertainment was quickly overshadowed by two blokes who sat themselves on the other side of the isle. Their piercing voices sounded like a cross between celebrity archaeologist Tony Robinson and the accomplished kiddie fiddler Jonathon King. Talking loud enough for everyone to hear they set about with their opinions on British design and the area around Blackhourse Road in northeast London.
One of them waves his arms around in a show of quirky intellectualism, aware of his audience but blissfully unaware of how tedious his knowledge of architecture really is. Even the bloke opposite them is getting crotchety, glaring through Armani shades over the top of his Mac. “It’s filthy, full of crime and Turks fighting Turks, there’s nothing there of any note, the buildings are dreadful. Where I live you can buy homemade jam, you know?”.
Great, no kebabs but organic strawberries and pectin, wherever that is sounds like a blinding night out!