Between paperwork-laden trips to the management agents – now complete for a few days at least until some other bureaucracy throws papers at us – and embolism inducing demands for money from insane utility companies, the Northern Line continues to entertain.
Last night as we were travelling home to meet the management agents and sign our lives away, Furtle and I were privileged to share a portion of our journey between Charing Cross and Camden Town with a clone of Ronnie Wood circa 1973, complete with mullet, faded red flowery tee shirt, brown faux fur trim jacket, skin tight lycra (or whatever passed for lycra in the early 70s) leggings (I hesitate to call them trousers) over exceptionally thin chicken legs and boots. There was a faint air of patchouli and sweat, too. I imagine that he was the lead guitarist for a serious rock band just moving out of its glam phase.
Creepy Swedish Guy was out and about again this morning and I believe the phase of the moon is close to full. The wheely bag pattern tracers have their work cut out for them over the next few hours.