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Judging a book by its cover
You shouldn't judge people or things by appearances, I believe. But I shall anyway.
There was a woman on the tube north tonight. Affluent, well-dressed and middle aged. She was, I suspect, a tube novice. She was clutching a single trip ticket (the most expensive way of traveling on the tube) and staring at anybody and everybody with a mixture of disgust, disdain and possibly horror. She was forced to stand for a couple of stops, holding on to a rail; she looked as she might physically implode through the sheer unpleasantness of it all. When she finally managed to sit down, it was on a fold down chair (not the most comfortable in the carriage) and she ensured that she sat as far from the bloke next to her (a perfectly respectable looking chap in a business suit) as she could without falling off and whenever we pulled into a station she clutched her rucksack (!) as if each person who passed her was about to snatch it and run.
I suspect from the look on her face that someone farted, but it can be hard to tell.
Full points for her exit manoeuvre on reaching East Finchley. I swear she managed to stand up and slink through the moving crowd without even her clothes touching someone.
I bet in the next few days those clothes, suitably pressed and laundered, will find themselves offered to a charity shop and the donor will dine out for months to come, regaling her comrades with tales of the day she went underground.
There was a woman on the tube north tonight. Affluent, well-dressed and middle aged. She was, I suspect, a tube novice. She was clutching a single trip ticket (the most expensive way of traveling on the tube) and staring at anybody and everybody with a mixture of disgust, disdain and possibly horror. She was forced to stand for a couple of stops, holding on to a rail; she looked as she might physically implode through the sheer unpleasantness of it all. When she finally managed to sit down, it was on a fold down chair (not the most comfortable in the carriage) and she ensured that she sat as far from the bloke next to her (a perfectly respectable looking chap in a business suit) as she could without falling off and whenever we pulled into a station she clutched her rucksack (!) as if each person who passed her was about to snatch it and run.
I suspect from the look on her face that someone farted, but it can be hard to tell.
Full points for her exit manoeuvre on reaching East Finchley. I swear she managed to stand up and slink through the moving crowd without even her clothes touching someone.
I bet in the next few days those clothes, suitably pressed and laundered, will find themselves offered to a charity shop and the donor will dine out for months to come, regaling her comrades with tales of the day she went underground.
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Seriously, where outside of Texas do citizens brandish firearms at each other at gas stations?
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