A rail trip to London to indulge my space-fetish. I was off to see the IMAX presentation of Magnificent Desolation. Newly's review: don't bother, aside from watching astronauts falling over its pretty poor. Unless you get your kicks from watching American kids swinging from nauseatingly sugar-sweetness to breathtaking ignorance.
But I digress. As is my way, I paid a visit to the trailer-of-lard conveniently located on the platform (run by Russians, I think. The chap who made my bacon sandwich bore a startling resemblance the Russian billionaire that owns Chelsea Football Club.)
I pottered through the tunnel (holding my breath to avoid the compulsory smell of urine that accompanies all covered areas in British stations) to platform 2 and looked for a place to sit. A woman in a white denim jacket sat one end of a bench. Her luggage was spread out over the rest of it.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked. She rolled her eyes, tutted, and moved a small bag to the ground. I perched on the sliver of clear bench at the end and proceeded to discreetly make my way through my East European bacon sandwich. Having removed excess brown sauce from my hands, I placed the soiled napkin on the bench, weighted down by my mobile phone while I hunted for the can of coke I'd selected to wash down the feast.
I looked up. The napkin had contrived to be picked up by a gust of wind and be swept along the length of the bench. It was affixed, sticky side down, to the back of the woman's white denim jacket.
I had a choice to make.
"Excuse me..." I volunteered.
She turned to face me and snapped: "What? I can't put these suitcases on the floor too, you know. The dirt on the ground will make them messy!"
"...oh, I'm sorry." I finished.
I watched her board the train with napkin affixed to her back. I also watched her disembark at Gatwick Airport, napkin doggedly clinging on. I hope it enjoys its adventure.
