(Can't) Light My Fire.
I suspect the woman on the train wasn’t as interested in the subject of flame-retardant materials as the man sitting next to her thought she was.
This didn’t stop him ploughing on. It’s surprising how long someone can talk about non-combustible insulation without pausing for breath; in this instance, the duration of a train journey from King’s Cross to Hitchin, taking the slowest route. We’re talking forty-five minutes – or he was, more like.
That doesn’t take into account when we were held at a signal (the red light being a sign for the driver and not for him). It seems Mr Asbestos was hell-bent on filling every inch of available airspace with fire-resistant drivel; completely oblivious to the monosyllabic interjections from his disinterested companion.
(I've swallowed a dictionary.)
That woman showed patience. It was probably imagining dousing him in petrol and setting him alight that got her through it. It certainly helped me.