In Transit.


The 1:00pm train from Hitchin to King's Cross reeks of cat food.

I suspect the odour is coming from the pasty-eating man in our carriage. I dread to think what it's filled with, but I doubt that it would technically pass for meat.

This isn’t the only antisocial behaviour within close proximity. I’m sitting next to a man whose legs are spread unhealthily far apart. It’s like sharing a seat with Kenny Everett’s Cupid Stunt.

(He must have supple hip joints.)

He wants me to know that his testicles are vast. It must be a burden, having to carry them about.

I hope the smell isn’t emanating from his trousers.

Popular posts from this blog

Shakerpuppetmaker.

Stevenage: A (Tiny) River Runs Through it.

Hoo-ray and up She Rises.