I sat and wondered to myself, was that crayfish and
rocket sandwich a good idea. The deepened regret of not buying gum or even a
pack of polo’s will now completely haunt me for the rest of this journey. If it
wasn’t enough having to sit like a sardine, having to smell a similar stench
that is my own breath is definitely a horrid thought. I can tell already that
this journey is going to be like visiting Satan in hell.
I sat among the hectic commuters as I travelled back
from London; I did the most common thing, people watch. Because who doesn’t
feel better than when they’re mentally picking strangers to pieces? Humans are
really strange species and in this precise moment in time I felt pretty chuffed
to be bloody normal. The train jolted and progressed further into the
colourless autumn night. The train had just pulled away from London Bridge and had
thirty minutes left.
I sunk deeper into my seat and burrowed my
face into my mustard coloured scarf, I wasn’t too sure what I was trying to shy
away from, the lady with long greasy mousy brown hair sitting behind with the
overpowering smell of wet dog that somehow danced in the air. If the smell was
a dance, it would a hundred percent be dad dancing. Complete embarrassment for
all that are involved and no clue, in the dad’s cases, of knowing when those awkward
elbows are going to extend and hit! Jumping out the window and shamefully
falling into the tracks would have been better than smelling that. Or was I
hiding from the embarrassment of One Direction blaring through my ears, which
I’m pretty sure the whole carriage could hear.
The only issue with people watching is getting caught.
The shameful look of regret and the cringed feeling of not turning away faster
is definitely a massive give away for when I’d been staring at peoples
conversations for way too long. Not that I’m a weirdo or anything, but some
passengers conversations just become too passionate! Like this aggravating
couple sitting opposite me, both begging to be right about their debate of
‘Should tomato sauce, be stood up or on its side in the fridge’. It should be
kept in the cupboard and I find that condiment totally repulsive.
Personally I cannot even bare the thought of dipping a
chip into the blood coloured glop. Even the thought of tomato sauce makes me
feel, completely and utterly revolted. Tomato sauce just gives me nauseating
memories of young, grubby children fumbling around with no sense of direction
at family barbeques. The disgusted feeling of having to squirm away, as their
dip painted face and covered hands try to chase you, endlessly.
A middle aged German man decides to sit next to me;
making me feel uncomfortable from the moment his bum hits the stained seat. He
starts to speak to me “Hey lady, let’s go for a drink?” I decided to blank him,
but for some reason he continues. “Lady you give me your number, I give you my
number. Let’s go for a drink.” I’m surprised the lanky lady in the corner,
eating her large glistening green apple hasn’t intervened. It really amazes me
how an old man thinks it’s moderate to speak to an eighteen year old in that
way.
The train pulled into Abbey Wood. Dark surroundings
quickly crept over the window, showing an unpleasant view of graffiti and
broken glass. The train doors soon opened and unraveled a group of drunken polo
shirt wearing men. Singing and staggering across the already unsteady carriage.
Trying to sit on each other’s lap where there were no seats left and seeing who
could down their beers the fastest started to become rather exasperating. I’d
quite like to join them, god, anything would be better than sitting in front of
wet dog Sally. When the fuck is she going to get off this train?
Just as I started to feel content with the journey, a
group of girls started to giggle in the distance. With perfectly curled hair,
and eye catching orange skin tones, that a cast member of The Only Way is Essex would only be seen parading around. Their squeals
and squeaking filled the carriage making me feel more trapped than I had done
before. “Oh my god, his hair is amazing! It’s like, you know, it’s oh my god!”
One girl excitedly screamed. To which her friend replied with “I just want to
cry”. I wonder whose hair they’re talking about? It’s slightly making me want
to call over to Wet Dog Sally and gossip about anything remotely interesting.
Dartford is finally in reach, and after being named
the second most depressing place in Britain, I still wonder why I still live
here. I feel like I’ve been on this train for eternity. It’s come to that part
in the journey where I check I have everything, even though I’ve actually taken
nothing out of my bag. God forbid I lose anything on this shameful, gum-ridden
cave; I’d hate to have to ask those drunken lads to move some of their grubby,
crumpled cans so I can crawl around the floor looking for my ID.
The train starts to make an abrupt stop into Dartford;
I’m up by the door and ready to run. Ladies with hundreds of bags start to
surround the door and make it known that they’ll be the first off this train.
I’ve suddenly, with a massive swipe of a Harrods bag found myself positioned
behind them. I turn to give the ‘what a bunch of stuck up bitches’ look, only
to find Wet Dog Sally standing to my left. Bloody hell, she better not get on
the 96.
No comments:
Post a Comment