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.