Pass The Fagashtray, I Think I’m Goodkind

Two short things that I’ve combined into one post to save time.

I:

I got on the train this morning, all ready to be smug as I had timed my arrival exactly to coincide with a tube train and I knew when I arrived at my destination I would be lined up exactly for the exit.

There is something very smug-generating about doing that. It’s a bit like when you have a half-day at work and you can slope off when everyone else is merely stepping out for a spot of lunch.

My smugness was short-lived however when I realised there were no seats and I’d have to be wedged in my the door for the duration of the journey.

However there was some intrigue when someone got on the train with a plastic spine and hip combination at Ladbroke Grove. I have no idea what that was all about and I was too scared to go and ask. That just isn’t the done thing on the London Underground you see.

She got off at Paddington, if I recall correctly.

II:

If I move my seat back a little bit from my desk, I have perhaps the most uninspiring sight possible: two grey-looking brick buildings on either side of a narrow road which seldom sees a car driving along it. About the only thing down there of any interest is people smoking.

Take what happened a short while ago as a typical example: a youngish man in a striped polo shirt, running to fat, gesticulating wildly, no doubt coating the pavement near to him with ash. He was free-standing, presumably to allow for greater freedom of movement and I assume bigger and more extreme gestures.

His smoking buddy was a blonde-haired women of a similar age to him. Her general attitude was so laid-back I was actually surprised to discover she was smoking, she seemed to be putting hardly any effort into it whatsoever, which is how it should be. She was leaning against a wall in a supremely casual manner. The only part of her that seemed to move was her right hand, which would occasionally ferry the lit cigarette to her mouth.

They were the perfect combination.